by Mic Palmer
Between the experience itself and his parents’ hysteria, Jack was pretty shaken up, but before long the feeling subsided, and slowly yet surely a crooked smile crept over his face, almost as if it had a mind of his own. It was a child’s smile, a naughty smile, the type of smile one gets when one does something wrong, but somehow manages to get away with it.
Walking out of Azam’s warehouse, still nervous, still shaken, Jack felt his face contort with the very same expression.
Nevertheless, he wasn’t completely certain that he had made a mistake. Now in the light of day, heading east on Fifty-Fifth Street, to the sight of sun dresses and hotdog venders, he again began going over his checklist and before long was sure that he was right.
So what if he had let him go. For all Azam knew, Jack was a perfectly legitimate, albeit skittish retailer, and murdering men wasn’t part of his game plan.
“No,” Jack thought to himself, as he watched the smoke rise from a falafel stand. “It’s not my imagination. I’m definitely onto something.”
Here we had a monstrous-looking, isolated, socially incompetent cipher, whose doctoral thesis just happened to explore the corrosive effects of modern society on women. How could it not be him?
Recalling his notes from the bookstore, Jack pictured Azam as a solitary child who filled the void with a continuous stream of fanciful, often times self-inflating daydreams.
“What am I talking about?” he chided. Daydreams are normal. The problem rather derived from extended isolation. Without the interaction of others, without the feedback, without the jeers, Azam’s narcissistic fantasies began to seem real, making dissent not only unpleasant, but intolerable.
“Cognitive dissonance,” Jack found himself mouthing. That’s the term the book used to describe when real life doesn’t match a killer’s inflated impression of himself. As a result he lashes out, rationalizes, distorts, but often times that’s not enough. In order to reinforce his all-consuming yet fragile sense of ego, he needs to show reality who’s boss, which in the case of Azam involved violence against women.
“Yes,” Jack intellectualized, “it all adds up.”
Here he had someone with a PhD in literature – which by its very nature would seem to predispose him to fantasy or at the very least romance. Nevertheless, he was forced to resign himself to a life of commodities and invoices, all within the confines of a rundown warehouse. How abhorrent he must have found it, how intolerable. Lacking in friendship, intellectual stimulation, and feminine encouragement, he did what he does best. He created, he imposed, he compensated.
Chapter Thirty-Three
You could tell by the deep crease running down Jack’s cheek that he had slept well that afternoon. In fact it was one of the best naps he ever had. Normally, he had trouble getting comfortable during the day – often times jumping just as he’d begin to doze off – but today he fell right off and didn’t stir for nearly two hours.
Having taken a shower, he felt refreshed and confident. Soon it would all be over, but for now he had about an hour to kill.
Falling backwards onto a rather lumpy cushion, he reached over for the art book he had purchased.
In the past he would have found much of what he was perusing silly, obvious, or just plain bad. Today, however, even the modern works caught his eye – at least some of them. Had he possessed this kind of interest years ago perhaps he would have graduated.
“René Magritte,” he said out loud. He had definitely heard of him, but had somehow forgotten his subject matter, which was hard to believe, considering how bizarre it was. Often consisting of truncated body parts, cookie cutter pieces of the environment, or isolated inanimate objects, they caused Jack to read on.
For centuries, apparently, the goal of art had been to blend its various particulars in order to create a harmonious unity, but Magritte wanted the elements themselves to stand out, and to do this he created works involving insane juxtapositions – like a bird wearing a fur coat, or a lone arm in the middle of a seascape, or a young woman sinking her teeth into a live pigeon.
Each painting contained sparse images within paradoxical contexts with the result being that you actually noticed what was there. Rather than merging into a unified whole, the elements became the subjects. Things formerly ignored became conspicuous, vibrant, charged. Indeed, looking at the bird in the fur coat, Jack couldn’t help but think to himself, “now that’s a pelt,” and yet the importance of this sort of thing continued to elude him.
“So what?” he reflected.
The author’s response was that Magritte was hyper-sensitizing the viewer to his environment, thus making him more observant, more aware, more conscious.
“Hmm,” uttered Jack, as he flicked through the pages. Again he came across The Renaissance, but this time the topic was Raphael, who according to the book died quite young as result of a night of excessive sex with one of his favorite models – a baker’s daughter named Margherita Luti.
“Not a bad way to go,” Jack thought to himself, “but what’s with her arms?” Disproportionately thick and muscular, he wondered whether she had spent a bit too much time kneading dough.
Nevertheless, he found in Raphael an artist he could work with, especially where it came to The School of Athens, with its attention to detail and complicated perspective. Unlike other paintings from the period there was no haziness to it, no shadows, no mist. It possessed clarity and structure, but more than that he liked the quiet way it conveyed the idea of the academy. Depicted in various forms of demonstration, contemplation, and study, the subjects were at once immobile yet engaged.
Jack chuckled for a moment at the idea of a modern book or film focused on something as non-titillating as the act of reading, but what really made the painting interesting to him was the manner in which it portrayed the various philosophers. Paradoxically cast in the role of the dogmatically virginal yet brilliantly mathematical Hypatia was Raphael’s girlfriend, Margherita. Looking a lot like the Mona Lisa, she seems to be the only one aware that she’s being painted, which perhaps is a testament to her genius.
In sharp contrast, however, is the movement obsessed Heraclitus. Played by a rather masculine-looking Michelangelo, he is not only completely static, but oblivious to his surroundings. Lost in his own imagination, he’s resting his head on his hand in the manner of Rodin’s Thinker. Not surprisingly, for Michelangelo, he is completely alone.
Da Vinci, on the other hand, is surrounded by admirers. Standing in for Plato, he is holding his work on creation, while pointing up toward the heavens, which some would say was where he got his ideas, but Jack didn’t see it. As a matter of fact, he never quite cared for Da Vinci – not as an artist at least. Turning the page, however, he came across a crazy, animated, whirling sketch involving a battle between men on horseback. “Wow,” he thought to himself. Although rendered by Rubens, one of his favorites, it was apparently a copy of something Leonardo had done.
Even Jack could see how revolutionary it was, but beyond that, he couldn’t help but notice the way it informed another work by Rubens – no, not one of the chubby nudes he’s unfortunately become associated with, but a similarly vertiginous fight scene involving Hercules.
“Maybe I was a bit hasty,” he thought to himself.
In thumbing through the book as a matter of fact, he soon realized that, like it or not, Da Vinci’s influence was everywhere. The placid, sometimes curious faces, the elegant limbs, the strange backgrounds, the unity of theme, the “Rembrandt lighting” – his ideas, it seemed, were in the air.
“Was anything truly new?” Jack wondered. Everything seemed to have a precursor, including he imagined Da Vinci, but what really got him to thinking was the fact that he had again overlooked something that should have been rather obvious, especially for a former art student. “Think!” he grumbled.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Parked across the street from Azam’s warehouse, Jack glanced at a newspaper and tossed cashews into his mouth. After near
ly two hours of waiting, he was growing bored. All at once, however, he heard the hum of a motor.
Slouching its way into the Jersey City skyline, the sun burned crimson red that evening, making it difficult to visualize who was driving.
“Where the hell are they?” Jack griped, as he rifled through the glove compartment for his sunglasses. “Oh, here they are,” he contritely remarked, having found them in the pocket of the hooded sweatshirt he was wearing.
Now, able to see, he was sure. It was Azam, seated behind the wheel of a white van. Having turned on to 55th Street, he drove with all of the speed and intensity of a new mother with her first child on board.
“Here we go,” Jack thought to himself, and before long he was in Tribeca, where for some reason the merchant began looking for a parking space.
“No garage?” Jack whispered. Perhaps he was visiting someone.
After a few trips around the block, Azam finally got a space right in front of the building, a brick and mortar job with fancy cornices, wide ledges, and obtrusive fire escapes.
Jack checked Azam’s meter, which was only good for two hours. Apparently, he didn’t plan on staying.
Watching the merchant as he waddled his way through the revolving doors, Jack considered how trendy the neighborhood was. Full of cafes, pubs, and even a strip club, it wasn’t exactly the type of environment one would expect to find a reactionary – or maybe it was. With sidewalks full of bustier-clad women, preternaturally hairless men, and a dazzling array of atheistic oddballs, it was just the sort of place that might fuel his righteous indignation. Observing two high school girls as they sashayed their way across the street in low rider jeans and pink and green underwear, Jack considered Azam’s motives.
Could it be that he thought he was helping them, by freeing them of sin? Maybe he felt he was doing it for their families, to spare them the humiliation. He might have even thought that he was doing society a service, by cleansing it of corruption. Or did he just hate them for making him feel small and ineffectual?
The truth is Jack didn’t have the faintest idea, but if he took anything from his limited readings, it was that if you could imagine a pathology – no matter how crazy or esoteric – you could be pretty sure that somehow somewhere someone was walking around with it.
“Can I help you?” asked the doorman, as Jack entered the foyer. He was a solicitous little fellow with grey skin and a five o’clock shadow.
Jack had placed on his head a cap that said, “Parcel Express.” “I have a delivery for an Azam Azziz. I just wanted to confirm that he lives here.”
The doorman’s eyes lit up; they appeared devious, greedy, calculating. “Yes, he does,” he quickly responded. “Where is it?”
“In the truck.”
“Well, go get it,” he told him, already counting his tip.
Jack took out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and pretended to read from it. “I just want to make sure my information is right.”
The doorman was becoming impatient. “Yes, yes, go on.”
“What apartment is he in?”
“6c.”
“That faces the avenue?”
“No, the alley.”
“Near the back?”
“That’s right. What does it matter?”
“You’re asking me? I just work here.”
The doorman straightened his tie and checked his watch. “Where’s your truck? I’m going to be off soon and want to make sure he gets it.”
Seeing through his mercenary intentions, Jack couldn’t help but have a little fun with him. “I have to make a call and fill out some paperwork. It might take me a few minutes.”
“I only have a few minutes.”
“So I’ll give it to the next guy.”
“It’s better if I do it.”
“How’s that?”
The man shot a covetous glance toward the entrance, as if his replacement could be arriving at any second. “Let’s just say I’ll make sure he gets it promptly. Some people can be a bit irresponsible.”
“You mean the guy who’s relieving you.”
“I’m not saying that.”
“Then I can count on him.”
“I’m not saying that either.”
“What are you saying?”
The doorman forced a grin so cheesy you could practically hear the rats clamoring through the walls. “Why don’t you just get the package? We’d have it by now without all this chatter.”
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Jack chuckled, imagining how angry he’d be when he didn’t return.
“I’ll be here,” shouted the doorman after him.
Having parked down the block, Jack waited. If nothing else he was certain that Azam would be leaving his apartment, and when he did, he’d follow him, which at the very least would provide him – even if only momentarily – with the much needed belief that he was on the right track.
Having over the years cultivated a mindset wherein he’d obliviously enjoy these moments right up until the evidence said otherwise, he initially found online dating to be rather rewarding. As opposed to live encounters, which these days usually resulted in a quick “no,” internet propositions usually gave him a day or two to believe that the woman was actually interested in him. As a matter of fact, he applied a kind of mathematics to it, weighing the time spent in blissful ignorance against that recovering from a snub. In any event the result was indisputable. Not counting his time asleep, he would on average net about twenty six hours of positive feelings per overture, but the possibilities of this sort of philosophy were endless and no less applicable to the situation at hand.
Once the merchant reentered his van, Jack would follow him, and for that period of time, regardless of the outcome, he’d be a hero.
The plan, however, was contingent upon Azam’s leaving his apartment, which after about three hours didn’t seem likely, especially when he had already received a ticket.
“Was this planned?” Jack wondered.
Fortunately, he knew where his apartment was located, so he decided to take a look.
Now dark out, he entered a narrow alleyway. Within the foul-smelling dumpster he could hear the wrowwwing of several cats as they rummaged for food. Aside from that, the walkway was completely unoccupied.
“Shit,” he said.
Although the apartment had a light on, the angle was too steep for him to see anything. Luckily he had a rope in his trunk.
“I hope nobody sees me,” he thought to himself, having reentered the alley.
Knotting the line on one end, he tossed it toward the vertical ladder attached to the fire escape and after just two tries managed to get it over one of the rungs. Initially, however, the ladder wouldn’t budge, so he pulled harder, at which point it came shooting down like a guillotine. Just missing his shoulder, it let out a grinding metallic roar that caused him to take cover behind the dumpster. Things, however, remained quiet, leaving him free to do some climbing.
“This is crazy,” he thought to himself, as he mounted the ladder.
Now that the sun had gone down, it was quickly becoming cold, and Jack wished he had brought his jacket, but that was before he made it to the first floor, at which point he began climbing a rather steep flight of wrought iron stairs.
Even with the ten or so pounds he had lost, he was still quite a haul. Before long he had begun to not only sweat, but wheeze.
“He’s going to hear me!” he fretted, having stepped onto Azam’s fire escape. Now letting out a high-pitched whistling sound, he pulled his sweatshirt over his face, but the effect was minimal. Fortunately, there were no people around. Moreover, the window was set off to the side, in some sort of alcove – a perfect vantage point from which to see but not be seen.
Peeking through the venetian blinds, Jack quickly became nauseated. Whether it was the scene itself or the fact that he now had confirmation that Azam was a sick man, he wasn’t sure. What was undeniable, however, was the fact that his prime sus
pect had a disturbingly warped obsession for birds. Numbering in the hundreds, they all appeared to be finches, which somehow made the collection that much more unsettling. Why no parakeets, cockatiels, or canaries? What was it about his twisted background that made finches so special? Did they represent a beloved pet, a special gift, a better time? Or was it that he had used a finch in his first mutilation? Perhaps they had become a fetish of some sort.
While most were predominately grey or brown, others were yellow, green, red, orange, and blue, giving one the sense of a Caribbean parade. Cages, moreover, were everywhere. Hanging from the ceiling, scattered across the floor, and positioned on the tables, they absolutely monopolized the place. Made of gilded stone, wrought iron, wood, and plastic, they were shaped like haciendas, beehives, Victorian mansions, chalets, and even pagodas. It was a separate world, a private universe, a twisted kingdom.
“What a whack job,” Jack thought to himself, but he wasn’t about to get carried away with this one eccentricity, no matter how telling it may have seemed. Although difficult, he had to ignore the birds and find some real evidence.
“Break it down,” he told himself, as he peered into the apartment.
The space was large, at least twenty-five hundred square feet, with a renovated kitchen and expensive-looking tiled floors.
To afford a place like this Azam must have had a pretty good income, causing Jack to reevaluate. Perhaps he wasn’t quite the failure he thought he was.
As to the furnishings, they were sparse but tasteful, and as one would expect, decidedly Moroccan.
“What do we have here?” he whispered.
Underneath a rather elegant-looking cedar coffee table was an earth-toned rug. Full of horizontal lines separated by rows of diamonds, it was not unlike the carpet found at the last crime scene.
“Bingo,” Jack said out loud, more out of a silly sense of drama than accomplishment.
Of course he had a Moroccan carpet. That’s what he sells.
Just then Azam appeared. He was coming out of the kitchen with a glass of water. Taking a sip, he spilled some on his blue satin robe, which loosely closed, revealed a gestational gut that happily cloaked his naked loins.