Enemy Within

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  A cloud had passed over his face. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Oh, sorry—a little distracted. Tell me more about this project.”

  “No, really . . . what’s wrong?”

  “Ernie Whalen. I’m starting to get a little concerned about him. Actually a lot concerned.”

  “Jingles? What’s wrong with him?”

  “Nothing, as far as I know. It’s just that I haven’t seen him in three days. He’s not in his usual flops, and people don’t recall having seen him. Not even Airshaft, and they usually hang with the same group. So . . .”

  “You think something might have happened to him?”

  Grale flicked away his cigarette, shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s a dangerous lifestyle. Funny. These guys, our guys—people think they’re all the same, but they’re just as different from each other as straight people. I mean except for the actual crazies. Desmondo’s an entrepreneur. If he were white, and educated, and laid off the crack for a while, he’d be down in the Alley running a dot com.”

  “Ralphie would be vice president for public relations.”

  “Right. Real Ali would be a professor of comp lit at NYU,” said Grale, laughing.

  “What would Canman be? An artist? Or an engineer?”

  Grale frowned. “Oh, Canman. You still hanging around with him?”

  “I saw him today. He seemed worse than usual. Nasty.”

  “He’s always nasty.”

  “Not like this. He’s scared. I think it’s the killer. He’s thinking about leaving, going down to the tunnels.”

  “Is he?” Grale sighed. “Maybe he’ll find peace there.” A thin smile. “Sometimes it’s hard to love them the way I should. I am further from perfection than I would wish.”

  “Oh, stop it! You do more than anyone else.”

  “But it’s never enough. The poor you have always with you, always, always, always.” He lit another cigarette. “Sorry. I’m tired. I just have walked ten miles today. I’m really worried about Jingles.”

  “What, you think . . . ?”

  “It’s a possibility. This guy, whoever’s doing it, he can’t, you know, be a stranger, like those kids a couple of years back who were squirting lighter fluid and setting guys on fire. Nobody’s seen any strangers around and, believe me, I’ve asked. I’m starting to think the worst.”

  “You mean it’s one of the guys?”

  Grale nodded. “It could be. And it can’t be one of the nutcases either. If it were, they’d be walking around with blood all over them, holding the knife and talking to the Martians. No, this bastard is smart, and well-organized, with a grudge against the world and a place to hide. And he gets around, too. There’s been one in Chelsea, one up in Clinton, and one under the old highway near the West Village. You’re shaking your head, but you got to admit it’s a possibility.”

  “It can’t be Canman,” said Lucy vehemently. She thought of the man in the paper house that afternoon, the look of fear and rage on his face, the long, shining, sharp blade in his hands.

  “I know it’s hard to believe someone you like would do horrible stuff like that,” said Grale, “but I mean, face facts. You said yourself he was nervous. Maybe that’s why.”

  She was about to protest, but as she looked in his face, she saw he had that look on, what she secretly called his St. Francis face: guileless, kind, humorous, utterly sweet. Irresistible.

  “What should we do?” she blurted instead. “Not the cops . . .”

  “No, of course not. I’ll go find him and talk to him.”

  He doesn’t like you, Lucy thought, but said only, “What if he goes into the tunnels?”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” said Grale easily. “I know the tunnels. I have lots of pals in the tunnels. And look, don’t worry. I can’t believe he’s the one either. But maybe he’s scared because he saw something. I’ll find out.”

  5

  AS HE HAD PROMISED, KARP WAS WAITING ON THE CORNER OF GRAND AND Crosby at four-thirty when the bus from St. Joe’s pulled up and disgorged his twin sons. He spotted them, they spotted him, and there was that little jolt of love, mixed on this occasion with irritation, which he consciously suppressed. He waved and grinned.

  The Karps had never gone in for stupid twin games, such as identical dressing, but their twins had taken differentiation to an extreme. Isaac, called Zak, the elder by two minutes, had already, at eight years, turned into something of a roughneck, hot-tempered, an athlete, and the self-appointed protector of his gentler brother from all save himself. Giancarlo, called Zik (a name he had borne in the days when they were two indistinguishable lumps) only by his brother, was an artist, a musician, and a diplomat of sunny disposition.

  “Yo, Daddy,” called Giancarlo happily. “Where’s Mom?”

  “At work.”

  “Can we get pizza?”

  “Of course,” said Karp. “How was school?”

  “Okay, except Zak got in a fight.”

  “Shut up, Zik!’ yelled Zak, and stalked away up Grand Street. He had the hood of his parka pulled up, and he was walking hunched like a old monk to keep it covering his face. Karp took a couple of steps, grabbed his son by the shoulder, and tipped the hood back, revealing a magnificent shiner.

  “You’re such a rat, Zik,” snarled the malefactor.

  “Oh, what were you going to say?” Giancarlo responded. “You walked into a doorknob? You know the school’s going to call.”

  This was true, and it would not be the first time. The kid got into fights. The parent-advice columns were unanimous that this was not a good thing. Karp himself had not been much of a fighter beyond the usual school-yard scuffles and arguments around games. He was now at something of a loss. As he recalled, his own father had never been involved in any disciplining of Karp and his brothers. And certainly he had never met a school bus. Raising the kids was Mom’s job. Karp had on this occasion been obliged to cancel a late meeting, one of those affairs that he had arranged and which would take a week and any number of personal calls to reschedule. Marlene did not have to cancel any of her meetings. Marlene was making more money than he did now, by a little. Was that the reason? But he had the more significant career, they both agreed about that, so why wasn’t he getting cut some slack there? He loved his family, but still . . . And did he, in fact, have a career? He wasn’t DA. He wasn’t going to be DA. A couple of years ago he had been DA in all but name, but now there was Norton Fuller snapping at his heels. Fuller was nearly ten years younger and unencumbered by wife and three. Norton was at his desk right this minute, or maneuvering or conniving or cranking out paper, and would be in there long after dark, just as Karp used to. Norton wasn’t halfway down the dreaded mommy-track, sitting in a gritty Original Ray’s settling an argument about pizza toppings. Down in Karp’s subbasement, the Wounded Patriarchy shook off its uneasy sleep and rattled its chains. If you had married someone normal, the beast whispered, someone regular, you wouldn’t have this problem. No one else has this problem. You would have normal children . . .

  Karp took several long, shuddering breaths, as he had learned to do before foul shots, and whipped the beast back into silence—for the moment.

  “So, Zak, you going to tell me what happened?” Karp asked when the pie had been delivered and served out.

  “Nothing happened. Derek Rafferty got in my face.”

  “It was my fault, Daddy,” said Giancarlo. “Derek pushed me down and Zak came over. He wasn’t even playing with us, and he told Derek not to do it, and Derek socked him, and he socked Derek. Twice. And his nose bled all over. It was like ER.”

  “Why did Derek push you?”

  “Oh, well, we had these tubes? Like paper tubes from Christmas paper, and we were playing samurais with them, bopping each other and yelling ‘euuuahggh!’ like they do, and talking pretend Japanese and making karate sounds, and I said some real Japanese, like Lucy taught, and Derek said it wasn’t real, and I said it was, and my sister could speak Japanese perfe
ctly, and he said I was like BSing, and we yelled and then he made his eyes, you know, slanty with his fingers, and he said ‘Karp’s sister is a Jap, Karp’s sister is a Jap.’ And I put my tube down, and I said if he was going to be a racist and insult my family, he could bite it, and he called me a faggot and I walked away, and he came up behind me and pushed me down. And then Zak came over.”

  “He’s the faggot,” added Zak.

  “Let’s not use language like that, Zak,” said Karp, eyeing the crowded restaurant for flapping ears.

  “Well, he is!”

  “Really. Do you happen to know what the word means?”

  A brief look was exchanged between the brothers, a microburst of raw information. Karp simply knew that whatever science might say, these two particular little people communicated telepathically. Giggles first, the pair growing and feeding on each other, then helpless laughter, Coke squirting through nostrils.

  “Homosexual,” Zak got out at length. The boys were leaning against one another in the booth, shaking and blowing bubbles.

  “And what’s a homosexual, hm?” Karp asked.

  Giancarlo said, “It’s a boy”—giggle giggle giggle—“who likes . . . dolls and dresses and stuff.”

  “I see. And do you have any evidence that this Rafferty likes dolls and dresses? And stuff?”

  “He does, but it’s secret,” said Giancarlo, sitting up, with the crazy art-light agleam in his eyes. “He has this secret room, like in his house, that he built into his closet, and he goes in there at night, after dinner, and there are shelves and shelves full of dolls and dollhouses, and he goes in there and takes off his regular clothes and puts on a pink dress and white tights and those little shiny shoes with buckles and a curly blond wig and plays with his dolls, and he has a Quake demo going on his computer so his family won’t know. One day his little sister finds out because so many of her dolls are missing; she sneaks into his room and finds out his secret, and he realizes he will have to kill her . . .”

  More hilarity, and it went on in this vein for the rest of the pizza, with Zak adding particularly gory edits from the side. When the narrative had descended into irretrievable silliness, Karp said, “I appreciate that you want to stick up for your brother, but I think from now on you should let Giancarlo fight his own battles.”

  “He can’t fight,” Zak said.

  “I can, too,” said the other disdainfully. “I just don’t choose to.”

  “You have to fight sometimes,” said Zak.

  “Yeah, but not about brain-dead dumb stuff. Did you fight a lot when you were in school, Daddy?”

  “Oh, I guess the usual amount. Some kid shoves you, so you shove back, and you’re rolling around on the street. But I wasn’t a menace to society like some people I know.”

  “He means you,” said Giancarlo.

  “I know, dummy!”

  “Idiot!”

  “Faggot!”

  After a barely perceptible instant they both burst into laughter. Karp picked up the last slice and thought, there’s too much Marlene in the mix there. He could almost see those sensible, solid, simple Karp genes fighting what had to be a losing battle. Of course his twins would turn out to be like no twins he had ever heard of, unique probably, like his sad and unique little girl. He sighed around the pepperoni and resigned himself yet again to love that passeth mere understanding.

  “How’re the boys?” asked the mother, when she ambled in at seventhirty. Father and daughter were on a disreputable red velvet couch, watching television.

  “They’re killing monsters in their room,” said Karp, looking up. “I was going to put them down after this movie, but now Mommy can do it.”

  She ducked out and returned five minutes later, changed into faded jeans and a cotton sweater, holding a generous tumbler of red wine in her hand.

  “Working late again, dear?” Karp asked sweetly. “Or is it him?”

  “Oh, him! I’m glad you think I have any time for dalliance. Actually, it was a woman. What are you watching? Oh, the end of The Graduate.” Marlene slid into a slot on the couch next to Karp. “Yes, indeed, the dear, dead sixties. Are you sure Lucy should be watching this?”

  “She hates it,” said Karp.

  “Well, yeah,” said the girl. “I can’t believe people liked this garbage. It’s practically a commercial for stalking. I mean the girl finds out he’s having sex with her mother and tells him to get lost, and he keeps coming around, and then he breaks into the church and interrupts the ceremony, and what? She goes away with him? Give me a break!”

  “It’s romance, dear,” said Marlene, although had she been entirely honest with herself, she would have agreed that the film made her feel a little creepy, too.

  “Oh, right! Would you go out with him if he’d slept with your mother?”

  “Well, actually, Dustin and Mom dated for a while, but I don’t think they ever went all the way, so I really can’t judge. How was school?”

  “Mercifully brief. I ditched class after I played ball with Dad.”

  Marlene made a gesture of despair. “Oh, terrific. Fifteen grand a year!”

  “I’ll pay you back every penny.”

  Karp said, “That’s not the point, as you well know. You’re supposed to go to school. You’re a kid. If you’re having trouble, tell us and we’ll try to fix it.”

  “Nothing’s wrong. It’s just boring.”

  “School is supposed to be boring,” said Marlene. “That’s why they call it school.”

  Karp gave his wife a sharp look. “Thank you, dear. That was helpful. Seriously, Luce . . .”

  “Seriously? Seriously, I hate it. I hate the kids. I mean, like I have a lot in common with a bunch of girls who worry about their nails and what clubs they’re going to bust into, and what kind of sex they’re having with whom, and who eat ice cubes for lunch to stay thin. I have no friends. People go out of their way to dis me in the hall. The teachers hate me . . .”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is. They want kiss-butts or girls who are terrifically rich and polite even if they’re totally stupid.”

  “Oh, I think you’re exaggerating, but nevertheless . . .”

  Lucy let out a sharp breath and nodded. “Right. You’re right. I’ll try not to ditch too much anymore. But . . . you know, sometimes the whole thing . . . I just need a break.”

  Karp knew very well, actually. He patted Lucy’s hand and said, “Okay. Sure.”

  Marlene asked, “So where were you all day? You look like you just got in.”

  “Out. Around. I served at Redeemer’s for the dinner. And then I was with David the rest of the time.”

  “Oh, David again? When are we going to get a look at this guy?”

  Lucy shrugged. “He’s real busy.”

  “I’m sure. Meanwhile, I’m having some serious problems with you spending so much time with him, especially when you’re supposed to be in school. I think you should cut down.”

  “Why? You’d be in heaven if I were dating all the time. Then it would be fine. You wouldn’t care what I did if it was with some rich dork from Collegiate or St. X’s.”

  “One, I would care, and that’s insulting. And, two, the point is this guy is what, twenty-eight, twenty-nine?”

  “He’s not that old.”

  “Okay, but he’s a grown man. And despite your talents, you’re only seventeen. You’ve got no business spending all your time with a drifter ten years older than you who you don’t know anything about.”

  “He’s not a drifter. He’s a Catholic aid worker. He lives in the Catholic Worker hostel. He’s been to all the bad places. He was in Bosnia. He was in Sudan and Burundi. He’s just recuperating here so he can go off to some other god-awful place.”

  “So he says. People can say anything about their past.”

  To avert the detonation he could feel approaching, Karp said lightly, “Where I would draw the line is if he had L-O-V-E and H-A-T-E tattooed on the backs of his fingers. An
d of course, if he wasn’t a Yanks fan . . .”

  Both of the females ignored this. Marlene said, “And all this homeless business. Okay, you want to go to a church basement and prepare a meal, that’s one thing. But wandering into God knows what alley with all kinds of deranged people at all hours—I think that’s completely out of line for someone your age. I mean I’ve been concerned, but I haven’t said anything until now, and if you’re starting to cut school to do it, well, I’m sorry. I think it’s starting to be perverse. You have to stop.”

  Lucy shot to her feet. “I’m not going to listen to this . . . wu zhi ji tan! How can you call yourself a Catholic?”

  “Oh, excuse me? I’m going to be told how to practice my religion now?”

  “Girls, girls . . .” said Karp.

  Lucy stalked off, muttering in foreign tongues. It was a peculiarity of hers that she never used bad language in English, although she could, and often did, scorch paint in any number of others.

  Slam!

  “Well, dear, you handled that well,” said Karp after a short interval.

  “She wants to kill me. She won’t be satisfied until she’s dancing the fandango on my grave.”

  “She loves you so much she can’t see straight,” said Karp. Marlene started to say something but stopped and instead finished her glass of wine. Karp muted the television, and they sat for some time in the flickering dark. The film ended and people sold stuff at them, silently mugging the virtues of shining things, and then the news came on.

  “Unmute it,” said Marlene. They watched the lead story. Richard Perry, a wealthy former congressman from New Jersey, had been kidnapped along with his party of six by unknown persons somewhere in the Balkans, where he had been engaged in a humanitarian mission. They showed some film of Perry posing with a famous photographer and a famous writer, a woman long dedicated to lost causes, in front of a white Land Rover on a muddy mountain road. Then the grave faces of the news team, male and female, the male one giving out that no group had claimed credit for the outrage, that the president, a close friend, had expressed shock. Then the human side—Perry’s wife and two young children ducking in the glare of TV lights outside their New York apartment, while a mob shoved little boxes and boom mikes at them.