Laughing Man

by Wright, T. M.

  "Sorry?" Patricia said. And added, "Please slow down, Jack."

  Erthmun said, "'Unable, Unlike Anyone.' It's the alliterative title of one of her poems. Three 'un' sounds. And the poem goes:

  I, unable, unlike

  anyone,

  release, not recapture

  a past that is

  too present,

  living the lie

  of hegemony."

  He smiled broadly. "Do you like it, Patricia?"

  "It's a lovely poem," she said.

  "And very meaningful," Erthmun said.

  "Yes," Patricia said, "I'm sure that it is."

  "It means that she saw herself as outside the natural order of things."

  Patricia nodded. "Yes, that's clear to me."

  A siren wailed behind them.

  "Enough about the cat!" Grigoli screamed.

  And Vetris shot back, "Listen, you don't know this cat. He's not like any other cat. He's . . . unique! He's got a mind of his own, and if he doesn't get fed . . ."

  "I don't give two snails in a peach pit what your cat does if he doesn't get fed. I simply want you to—"

  "Shit," Christmas cut in, "go home, Detective Gambol, and feed him, for Christ's sake."

  Vetris stood at once, said, "If you have any other questions, you know where I am."

  "No, we don't, but we'll find out," Christmas said. "You can count on it," Grigoli said.

  Vetris left the room, told Myrna Guffy he'd be back soon. "I'll see if I can get them to lay off, okay?" she said. Vetris shook his head. "They're just doing their damned job. I'd be the same way." Then he drove home. Villain was waiting for him, and he was pissed.

  Williamson the Loon felt sated. It was such a happy feeling—sated and warm and at peace within himself, with the universe and with the earth. The sky was never so blue as when he was sated, and the grass never quite so vibrantly green, and the great ocean never greater. The wind itself caressed him as a lover might, as the outstretched branches of a magnificent oak might, or the living tendrils of a catfish.

  And all that inner beauty, peace, and strength came to him merely through the necessary and passionate act of eating Lewis the pawnbroker, and in finding a watch that pleased him. Life was surely no grander than at such times as this.

  Williamson was walking. He walked vigorously. His arms swung in a wide arc, his long legs produced very long strides, and his torso remained ramrod straight. People asked him from time to time if he was "power walking," and he answered that of course he was, that walking itself was power, that every step produced a gram of muscle, and every mile a new caress of mother earth. People usually smiled politely at this and went on their way.

  He was near a restaurant ten miles from Manhattan. The restaurant was called "Sim's Eats," and because the name appealed to him—terse, no shit—he went in and sat at the counter.

  The counter was full, and he found himself between a beefy man in khaki and a beefy woman in a blue dress. These beefy people looked askance at him, as if he were taking someone's seat, so he asked, "Was someone sitting here?"

  The beefy woman in the blue dress shrugged, said, "Who knows?" though it was clear from her tone and expression that she knew, and the beefy man, whom Williamson turned to after the woman had spoken, said, "It's all right, I guess. That was Balloo's seat, but he's dead."

  Williamson loved this. He said, "You save a seat at the counter in a restaurant for a dead man named Balloo?" He gave them a grin that was big and full of happiness: he was tickled.

  The beefy woman said, "If you're making fun of us, or Balloo, then I think you can move off."

  "Yeah," said the man, "you can move off."

  Williamson shook his head enthusiastically. "I'm sorry, no, I really don't want to move off. I want to hear about your friend, Balloo. I'm quite interested."

  "Huh?" said the man, as if Williamson had spoken to him in another language.

  "Tell me about Balloo," Williamson said. "And why he had that name. It's a funny name. It's the name of an elephant."

  "What elephant?" said the beefy woman.

  "Well," Williamson answered, "the elephant in Dumbo, I think. In the movie Dumbo. Certainly you've seen it."

  The waitress came up and asked what Williamson wanted. He answered, "Do you have any Mocha Frappucino?"

  "What's that?" the waitress asked.

  "It's a Starbucks product," Williamson answered. "It's milk, coffee, and chocolate in a creamy blend."

  "You're shittin' me!" said the waitress.

  "He ain't," said the beefy woman. "I drink it. Mocha Frappucino. I love it. Try it sometime, Gwen."

  "Hey," said Gwen, "I'm up all night with the goddamned kids! I don't need no more caffeine or nothin' keepin' me awake."

  "It's made with low-fat milk and decaffeinated coffee," Williamson said. "So its caloric content is quite low."

  "Caloric content?" said the beefy man.

  "The number of calories," said the beefy woman.

  "Whatever," said Gwen, "we ain't got it. We got coffee, high test and decaf, and we got breakfast, if you want."

  "I don't want breakfast," Williamson said. "I want Mocha Frappucino. And I want my new friends here to tell me about Balloo." He frowned at the beefy man, first, then at the beefy woman. Then he looked earnestly at Gwen. "But my interest in Balloo has faded, I'm afraid, because you have no Mocha Frappucino."

  Gwen gave him a suspicious look. "Mister," she said, "I think you ain't playing cards with all your ducks lined up in a row."

  He gave her a wan smile. "Ah, a mixed metaphor. How delightful."

  "Jesus," breathed the beefy man.

  The beefy woman said, "I can tell you where there's some Mocha Frappucino, mister. Right across the road there"—she turned on her stool and pointed out the restaurant's big windows—"at the SaveRite. But they get almost two bucks for it, when you can get it anywhere else for like a buck-fifty—"

  Williamson reached out as quickly as a cobra, a cat, a mongoose, and tore her beefy throat out before she could finish her sentence.

  Chapter Eleven

  Erthmun felt foolish explaining to the local cop that he, Erthmun, was a Manhattan Homicide detective, and could the local cop please give him a break and forget the damned speeding ticket.

  Patricia had already offered her two cents worth: "Listen, Barney, we're on an investigation. We're with NYPD, do you understand that?"

  But the cop was not to be swayed. "Mr. Erthmun," he said in a parental tone that was ludicrous from one so young, "we get people from the city coming through here all the time. And you know what? They always speed, like we don't have any laws, or like there aren't any kids playing, or like we don't care. And I made up my mind a long time ago that it doesn't matter who's doing the speeding—it doesn't matter if it's the mayor himself—he gets a speeding ticket. I'm sorry, but that's the law."

  And he gave Erthmun a speeding ticket, said, "Have a nice day, now, watch your speed," and walked back to his car.

  Erthmun stuffed the ticket into his shirt pocket, pulled away from the curb, and said, "Who's Barney?"

  "No one," Patricia answered. "A TV character. What's the matter—you didn't watch TV when you were growing up?"

  "We didn't have a TV," Erthmun said. "My father wouldn't let us have one. He said that TV was a reprehensible spawn of the Devil." Erthmun smiled a little. "That's what he said. Those words exactly."

  "Oh," Patricia said. "One of those."

  "Those?"

  "Yeah. A Jesus freak." She sighed. "I'm sorry. That was pretty damned stupid of me. My sister . . ."

  "No, he wasn't a Jesus freak, Patricia," Erthmun cut in. "I don't know. I don't remember him reading the Bible or going to church. But I remember him saying that TV was a reprehensible spawn of the Devil. I guess he knew about devils. I think he knew about devils. He said he saw them everywhere. He said he saw them running around the house. He said he even saw them in the house."

  Patricia glanced nervously at E
rthmun, out the window, then at Erthmun again. "I'm sorry, Jack, but the man sounds like a nut." She paused very briefly, then hurried on. "I'm sorry. That was stupid, too."

  Erthmun shrugged. "My father was a nutty man. He was crazy. He did crazy things and said crazy things. He beat my mother. She forgave him. So he beat her again. And she forgave him again. He said that she was a devil. He said that the devils around the house had made her into a devil. So he beat her to beat the devils out of her."

  "And you saw all of this, Jack?"

  "Sometimes. Yes. I saw it happen sometimes." He frowned. "And I wanted to do something about it. I wanted to help her." His hands gripped the steering wheel hard. "But, shit, how could I help her, Patricia? I was as small as a pebble." He had begun to breathe heavily; his tone had become clipped, harsh. "I yelled at him, once. When he was beating her. I yelled, 'Stop it, you!' Those words exactly. 'Stop it, you!' So stupid! So weak! He ignored me. He beat her and ignored me!" He had begun to speed again.

  Patricia said, "Jack, watch your speed."

  He looked quickly left and right, as if she had told him to watch something at the side of the road. "He was no monster, my father," he said as his speed crept up, his words barely intelligible through his clenched teeth. "He was no monster. He was human. My father was human! And that is monster enough!"

  "Jack, you're going too fast. We're going to get another ticket. Please slow down!"

  He looked at her. His eyes were wide, his jaw set; she thought he was going to hit her. He looked at the road again. He sighed, let off on the accelerator.

  Patricia glanced behind them. No Barney. "Jesus!" she breathed. "I had no idea how much you hated your father."

  He was near the speed limit now. "No. That's wrong," he said. "I didn't hate him. I wanted to kill him. I should have. But how could I hate him?" His voice was less strident. "How could I hate the man who might have given me life?"

  "Sorry?" Patricia said. "The man who might have given you life?"

  "Yes," Erthmun said.

  Villain was as fast as the tongue of an auctioneer, and Vetris realized he had no hope of catching him. And even if he did catch him, he wouldn't dare hold him for even a second. He—Vetris—would be a bloody mess afterward.

  "Good Lord," Vetris whispered, "I've got to get rid of this animal!"

  Vetris' hands and ankles were alive with scratches and bites. Even his nose had a scratch on it, which had resulted when Vetris had peered under the couch while looking for Villain. He'd found him, but Villain's claws had found Vetris.

  Vetris was in the small narrow kitchen. Villain's food bowl sat on the floor at the opposite end of the kitchen. It was empty. An opened can of Friskies tuna fish sat on the counter above it. Every time Vetris had attempted to pick up Villain's bowl to put food in it, Villain had appeared—as if out of nowhere—and lashed out at Vetris. This, Vetris thought, was completely irrational. If Villain was angry because he hadn't been fed at the proper time, then why in the hell was he preventing him—Vetris from feeding him? But what was he thinking? There had never been anything rational in Villain's behavior or, for that matter, in the behavior of any cat, beyond the rationality of eating, sleeping, fucking, and hunting. Vetris had called out to Villain often, this night, though calling to the animal had never had much effect before. Vetris felt certain that Villain knew his name; Villain wasn't stupid. Villain was a cat—he answered to his name when it was in his best interests, usually when food was being made available.

  But not tonight.

  Vetris wondered then if Villain might be sick. If Villain might have distemper. He'd seen distemper in cats, when he was growing up. It was an awful disease. It made a cat completely unpredictable. Then it killed the cat. Jesus, that would be an awful (if poetic) way for Villain to die. But what if Villain didn't have distemper? What if it were something far worse? Like rabies. Though, on second thought, how would Villain have contracted rabies? He never went outside. He was oddly afraid of going outside. And all his shots were up to date.

  "Villain," Vetris said in a small voice.

  Erthmun said, without looking at Patricia as he drove, "I can quote my mother's suicide note. I would like to quote it for you."

  Patricia said nothing. Erthmun looked at her, said, "May I quote it for you?"

  She nodded solemnly. Erthmun look at the road again and said, "'The element of truth in all this is the rape, of course. The rape is not a kernel of truth. The rape is a hard and grim truth, with which I have tried to live peacefully within myself for a very long time. But the hard truth of the rape has jumped on me like an animal, and I cannot rid myself of it." He glanced at Patricia again. She was looking straight ahead. They were on a stretch of rural road. Erthmun went on. "'Because I wonder, of course, what the rape has produced.'" He stopped.

  After a few moments, Patricia said, "Jesus, you think you were the product of that rape, don't you, Jack?"

  He said, "I know that I am."

  "How do you know?" she asked.

  "The same way I know that when I dream," he answered, "it's my dream. The same way I know that when I feel pain, it's my pain."

  She said nothing.

  "Sometimes," he said, "I'm as poetic as my mother was. I'm her son. I know that. But I'm not my father's son." He glanced quickly at her again, then at the road. "I'm one of those," he said.

  She looked at him. "One of those, Jack? I don't understand. What are you saying?"

  "Patricia," he told her, his gaze on the road ahead, "I'm one of those who stuffs chocolate in the mouths of people they murder. I'm one of those."

  "Oh, Christ!" Patricia whispered.

  "Except," Jack said, and there was the ghost of a smile on his lips, "I don't murder anyone. And I do like chocolate, yes, but I don't believe that I've stuffed it in anyone else's mouth but my own."

  Williamson the Loon was very confused. He thought he had never been more confused—even when he had applied for a job as a shoe salesman several years earlier, and, Lord, that had been confusing! Being asked all kinds of stupid questions about his attitudes toward people—"Do you enjoy dealing with the public?" "Do you enjoy being of service to people?" "Do you work well with others?" Because what in the hell did all those questions mean, for God's sake? Being of service to people? Dealing with the public? It was like asking him if he enjoyed cleaning windows or smiling or waiting for an elevator. Who enjoyed such things? And why would they?

  But this was even more confusing. After all, what had he done but responded to his inner self? What had he done but been true to his inner self? And wasn't that something that people harped on all the time—being a true and good and loyal representative of one's own self and of doing what nature, mother, and father intended and required!Responding to impulses as if they were desires, and responding to desires as if they were necessary to survival? If anyone was human, it was he! As human as the insidious predator, as human as any hunter of the weak and deformed, as human as the faithless deranged involved in the debauchery of Mother herself! And didn't they—the people who needed shoes—applaud all of that? Didn't they require it?

  But here they were, in pursuit of him yet again, as if his inner self were somehow less important than their own inner selves, as if his needs and desires were somehow different from their own?

  Didn't they know that the woman had been unnecessary to the earth, their mother, a burden to the air itself, and beneath it all, untidy and dying, as well? So it had been his clear duty to rip her throat out, just as it had been his duty to eat the pawnbroker.

  "Jack," Patricia said, "I need you to stop the car. Now!"

  He glanced at her. He thought that she looked incredibly earnest, even a little frightened. But why would she be frightened? He was merely telling her the truth, and wasn't that part of his job (and hers)—to ferret out the truth, to learn the truth and deal with it in the way it demanded? He said, "I'm sorry, Patricia, if I've upset you. . . ."

  "Upset me! Oh, for the love of Christ, it goes b
eyond that! It goes way, way beyond that!"

  "I don't understand." He looked at the road again. They were in a very rural area, now; high, tree-covered hills lay ahead.

  "No, I imagine that you don't understand," she said. "It's suddenly too damned easy to realize that you don't understand. Please stop the car, Jack!"

  He looked at her. She had her .38 pointed at him.

  He reached out, as fast as a cobra, or a mongoose, and snatched the gun from her.

  She screamed.

  He brought the car to a screeching halt.

  She threw her door open and ran into a field choked with tall summer grasses and dogwoods.

  What in the hell is going on? Erthmun wondered.

  Vetris knew that he could not go to bed until he found Villain. He wasn't at all sure what he'd do with him if and when he did find him, but if he simply went to bed, he knew with near certainty he'd wake up to find the cat tearing at his jugular. He was convinced that Villain was possessed by the spirits of its feline ancestry—the lynx, the ocelot. And these were beasts that no thinking person toyed with (and, he realized, which no thinking person took as a pet either).

  He called the cat's name. It sounded foolish. He'd named the cat Villain because it was a playfully evil name—the same reason people named their large dogs Killer. But he was not a dog person (as the state police investigator had pointed out), he was a cat person; he was interested in covert displays of evil, which described this cat, any cat.

  "Villain?" he called again. It was a futile gesture, Vetris knew, because the animal had never responded to his name, although Vetris was certain he knew it. "I know you're hungry," Vetris called. "And I know you're upset with me, but I was delayed by unusual circumstances." He felt very foolish, now—trying to explain himself to the cat.

  He saw a flash of black fur at the far end of the kitchen. "Villain?"

  The phone rang.

  As she ran through the fields of tall summer grass, Patricia thought (though not in so many words) that certainly it mattered how Jack Erthmun saw himself, and it mattered very much that he saw himself as someone aligned in an odd way with murderers, and it mattered just as much that he allowed for distance between himself and these same murderers, but it mattered most of all that she had never really known him.