Huckleberry Fiend (8 page)

Without argument, I followed him to teddy bear heaven. It was there or nowhere— a guinea pig couldn’t have wedged itself into Beverly’s closet. Without the slightest hesitation, Booker took the trunk, leaving me no option but the closet. It was probably better that way, I thought. He was smaller, and we might have to spend the night there. Squeezing myself into a corner, the horror of it hit me: Spend the night there! Standing up, trying not to breathe too loud, or sneeze.

I tried to steel myself. Human beings had gone through worse, though usually only in wartime. I thought of some of the tiny cars I’d slept in on cross-country trips in my student days. I’d been a lot thinner then, but even so, my recollections were of a particularly virulent hell. Oh, well. Maybe I should think of the Warsaw Ghetto.

Light steps and heavy ones came into the room. “Oh, Looney, Mommy’s bitty kitty. Itty bitty bad kitty, staying out like that.”

“Ohhh, Isami Wommy’s daddy’s little bad girl, said the Papa Bear.” I practiced deep breathing, mostly to keep my gorge down, but partly to calm myself down— I figured there was about a 90 percent chance Booker was going to rise up screaming, a maverick pair of Isami’s undies perched rakishly on his head.

Instead, there was only a long pause, with heavy breathing. Then the Papa Bear spoke again. “Wouldn’t Isami Wommy like to get out of these troublesome old clothes?”

“Papa Bear first.”

“Isami first.”

They were speaking in the most nauseating baby voices. But suddenly Isami turned into a human being again. “Catch me!” she said, all full of fun and good cheer. She exited, pursued by a bear. She must have been fast. There was a great trampling and thumping that seemed to go on for hours. I took advantage of the noise to stretch a little. There wasn’t a peep out of the trunk. Finally I whispered: “Booker?”

Nothing. I figured he’d gone catatonic.

Then the two merry chasers clattered back into the room. There was a great whumpf and squeak, as Isami jumped on the bed and Booker’s dad jumped on her.
Dear God
, I thought,
please don’t let him say he’s going to eat her all up.
But magically, the Papa Bear had metamorphosed into a pirate. “Arrrrh,” he said. “Now the Gypsy girl will do the captain’s bidding.”

“Noooo!” shrieked Isami. I could hear her struggling.

“Yes! Yes. Now!”

“Nooo!”

“Yes!”

“No, Jack. I can’t.” She was sobbing. This was for real. They weren’t playing games any longer. Was Booker’s dad going to rape her? Would his only son and the son’s loyal companion have to save the fair damsel? Not a cheering prospect so far as I was concerned, but I thought Booker would rather relish it. What a splendid castrating revenge! He might never burgle again.

However, now we had neither Papa Bear nor pirate, but concerned swain. “Isami, what is it, darling?”

“Not here.”

“But you have to come home sometime. You can’t stay with me forever.”

“I know. I’ll be fine when we get back from Hawaii— I just need a few days away from here.”

“Honey, I need to talk to you seriously. Like a psychologist, okay? The longer you stay away from here, the scarier it’ll be to come back. I agree you need a few days away. That’s why I’m taking you, isn’t it? But, please. Let’s stay here tonight.”
Big bully!
I thought.
You just don’t want to be stuck with her. All you ever think about is yourself. If only I were telepathic. Get out of here! Not tonight, Isami Wommy. Pretty please.

She said: “You really think we should?”

“It’s best for you, honey. When we leave tomorrow, you’ll feel much better about yourself, and your house will be yours again. You won’t have to dread coming back all the time we’re in Hawaii.”

She laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“I’ve been dreading going to Hawaii. Because I’ve been worried that I’ll just worry all the time we’re there. About coming back.”

“You see? Is Papa Bear right?”

“Um-hmm.” There was a rustle, as of a large bear enfolding Goldilocks in his masculine embrace. Then there were squeaks and things. Then someone walked a few steps and the room went dark.

And then passed several eventful centuries, during which every muscle I owned put up a protest that made the anti-Vietnam movement seem insignificant. After that, light breathing and heavy snoring.

Looking at it logically, Booker’s father was well into his fifties and therefore surely wasn’t capable of making love for more than a couple of hours maximum. That meant there were still five or six hours till dawn and no telling how long before Isami and Papa Bear would get up to catch their plane. I simply was not going to make it. If I woke them up trying to leave, at least they’d be distracted and maybe Booker could get away. I’d save him from the horror of getting caught spying on his father’s leisure-time activities. I was a pal when you thought about it. Holding my breath, I reached for the closet door. It wasn’t there.

A hand grabbed mine and Booker whispered, “Paul, it’s me.” By the time I’d stifled the automatic gasp, he was already padding soundlessly toward the kitchen. I followed, thanking God for professional help. I had no idea if I could have gotten the door open without a telltale snick. As it was, I rustled a few of Isami’s frocks, but she and Kessler Senior were apparently too exhausted to stir. Getting out of the pitch-dark bedroom was the worst, but once in the hall, I turned on my pen-light and was out of there in two shakes, through the open back door, stopping only to close it. By the time I got to the car, Booker was already warming it up.

I had to drive, though. A more unnerved human being I have rarely seen than the scrawny, sweat-soaked redhead who beckoned me into the driver’s seat and seemed to need all his remaining strength to slide over the gear shift to shotgun. Neither of us spoke for a few blocks. Finally I ventured, “You okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Shall I drop you at Langley-Porter?” (As this was the local mental hospital, I was making a feeble joke.)

“Take me to Perry’s.”

“Listen, buddy, I know you need a drink, but Perry’s is too damn noisy.”

“I’ve got to get laid.”

“You mean you were excited by what we— uh— witnessed?” But that wasn’t it— I could tell by the look of him. He wanted human warmth and comfort.

“Back off, Mcdonald.”

“Sorry. But—”

“Shut up, will you? Just take me to goddam Perry’s!” Very well then. He could just wait till morning to find out that the mission hadn’t failed after all. If he was going to talk to me like that, I certainly wasn’t going to bother trying to cheer him up.

“Your trouble,” said Sardis later, “is you get your feelings hurt too easily.”

“Hurt, hell! I was mad.”

“Same thing.”

“It certainly isn’t.”

“Not for everybody. For you it is. Some people just go lick their wounds— you attack.”

“That is far and away the most unfair thing I ever heard in my life. I most assuredly did not attack.”

“Not directly, maybe.”

“Oh, go shrink your head.” I stalked out of her apartment, seething. There might have been something in what she said, though. I felt less like a raging bull than one pierced by picadors. As soon as that thought entered my head another one did:
Goddam
, she makes me mad!

Well, the hell with her. I stepped in the shower.

And because I still hadn’t given her the damn key, had to get out when she came down and knocked on the door.

She’d changed into a caftan sort of thing— kind of azure and mesmerizing— and she had a bottle of wine. “Go dry off and I’ll open this.”

I hate being easy. But I confess that a sudden desire for a couple of drinks and a talk overwhelmed all inner resolution to get back at her by withdrawing my incredibly sterling self. Anyway, it wouldn’t have worked. Sardis just laughed when I got tough with her.

“So tell me,” she said, as if nothing had happened, “what was the big deal about the Post-It?”

Striving for maximum drama, I’d told her the whole yarn except for that. I produced the yellow note: “Just have a look at it.”

“Pamela Temby. You could get saccharin poisoning just from the name.”

“Look at the other names. Carefully.”

“I never heard of Wolf and Kittrell. Sarah Mary Williams could be anybody.”

“Listen to this.” I got my new copy of Huck and turned to the relevant passage.

* * *

“What did you say your name was, honey?”

“M-Mary Williams.”

Somehow it didn’t seem to me I said it was Mary before, so I didn’t look up; seemed to me I said it was Sarah; so I felt sort of cornered, and was afeared maybe I was looking it, too. I wished the woman would say something more; the longer she set still, the uneasier
I
was. But now she says:

“Honey, I thought you said it was Sarah when you first come in?”

“Oh, yes’m, I did. Sarah Mary Williams. Some calls me Sarah, some calls me Mary.”

* * *

It sent Sardis to Memory Lane. “That’s when he disguises himself as a girl,” she said. “But then he gives himself away because he can’t thread a needle, right?”

“Or throw or catch like a girl.”

“So, really, when you get right down to it, it’s another name for
Huckleberry Finn
. Like a code name.”

“That’s what I think. Beverly wasn’t any fluffbrain— or if she was, at least she was one who’d almost certainly read a major work like Huck. I think she picked the name to appeal to Twain collectors. Look here.” I pointed to the way she’d repeated variations of it on the Post-It. “I think she was doodling while she made her phone calls, trying to figure out which version would go down better.”

“Ah. And you think the people on the list are collectors— potential buyers for the manuscript.”

“That’s right.”

“But—
Pamela Temby?
”

I shrugged. “Just because she can’t write doesn’t mean she can’t read. Anyway, I shouldn’t say she can’t write. I’ve never read a word of hers.”

“Lifestyles,” said Sardis, making a face, “of the rich, famous, dissolute, and revolting. But anyway— assuming she’s a collector— what about the other two? Have you ever heard of them?”

“No, but I’m an ace reporter, remember?”

“Just for the sake of interest— how does an ace reporter track down a name out of the blue?”

“Easy. Gets someone else to do it.”

The someone I had in mind was Debbie Hofer, who really was an ace, and more important, was currently employed, with access to clips. If Wolf and Kittrell were rich enough to buy the Huck Finn holograph, they’d probably made news at one time or another. I had a lot more confidence that I’d find them than that I’d find the manuscript.

Sardis was still with me when Blick turned up the next morning. It would have been a good excuse not to invite him in, but she threw on her caftan and fled. Stepping over my threshold, Blick let his potato face take on a sneer. “Nice place.”

Dammit, it was a nice place, but the words didn’t go with the sneer. Was he actually trying to be polite (and failing), or was he being sarcastic about my furniture? “Can I make you some coffee, Howard?”

“You can tell me what you know about Beverly Alexander.”

“I already told you. Nothing and zero. Zip and doodley-squat.”

“What’s this?” He picked up the Post-It from the coffee table.

“None of your damn business.”

“Pretty fast company you’re keeping. Pamela Temby a friend of yours?”

“Howard, would you mind stating your business? I’ve got things to do.”

“Yeah? Like knocking out one of those blockbusters? I guess your public’s waiting, huh?”

“Did I ever tell you you look like a potato?”

“Somebody hit Isami Nakamura last night.”

“Excuse me?” For a minute I thought he meant Isami’d been in an accident. But that couldn’t be because I’d left her asleep. If he was trying to gauge my reactions, it was a good thing I was slow on the uptake.

“A burglar hit her— for the third time this week.” (Technically the second, but I didn’t feel like correcting him.)

I said, “That seems like too many coincidences.”

“There’s another interesting little coincidence.” Blick walked into the dining room, got himself a chair, brought it back, and sat down.

“Make yourself at home, dildo.” I sat on the rumpled bed.

“Listen up, douchebag. Miss Nakamura thought she heard a noise. When she got up to investigate, she found her back door unlocked. Nobody was in the house, but she had this weird feeling somebody had been. See, she could especially remember locking the door— on account of the two other burglaries, one of which, if you’ll recall, resulted in the murder of her roommate. And she happened to remember something— know what that was, jerkoff?”

“Haven’t the foggiest.”

“When she came in last night, she saw a light-colored Toyota parked down the street. She couldn’t help noticing it was just like yours.”

“Mine? But how could she know mine?”

“That little call you paid on her. Don’t you remember how you parked across the street? She and I were talking in the living room at the time— and she happened to look out the window and notice you getting out and walking up to her door.”

“Howard, for Christ’s sake! How many light-colored Toyotas are there in the world?”

“It’s kind of coincidental, don’t you think? This mysterious stranger shows up for no explainable reason, with a pillow in his jacket, like some kind of half-assed disguise, and a few days later she sees his car and she gets burglarized.”

Now he had me going. Not because there was any chance in hell he could connect me with the burglary, but because he’d said “mysterious stranger.” Surely that couldn’t be a coincidence.

“Did you know,” I said, “that Mark Twain wrote a story named that?”

He looked as confused as a potato can. “Named what, asshole?”

“ ‘The Mysterious Stranger.’ Several stories, actually. Don’t you think it’s kind of coincidental you should use that phrase?”

“Mcdonald, you want to spend a few hours at the Hall?”

“Just pointing out that life is full of coincidences.” (He didn’t, I was now convinced, know the half of it.)