Squid Pulp Blues (17 page)

The psychiatrist said, “No problem, man, go ahead.”

“Thanks,” Harry said. Then he waited for the guy to come back.

When he finally did, Harry relished the look on his face. It was priceless.

I love that look. The “Oh fuck, I’m in deep shit” look.

Harry said, “Hey asshole,” and proceeded to ask for his property back. He had to admit, though, that he was only half serious in his tough-guy attitude. He especially enjoyed the “Fuck your promises” bit. That was great. Straight out of a movie.

The guy wouldn’t budge and that pissed him off even more than him having taken it in the first place. Harry always believed that if confronted with a mistake, one should at least have the balls to admit to it and try to correct the problem.

Goddamn, the guy was spineless. I hate guys like this. Always a coward no matter what.

Finally, the fat guy who worked at the shop came up to Harry so he decided to avoid any trouble in front of the crowd and just leave. He’d figure something out later. As he walked out, he read the flyer that announced the comic book signing.

Simon Palmer, huh? Well, Palmer, you are in deep shit indeed.

He could just imagine the fear that was going through that asshole’s mind. He probably had expected Harry to go ballistic right there in the store. Then the cops would’ve come and taken him away. That coward could sit back and be satisfied that he did the right thing even though it was the pussy thing to do, the weakling’s way out.

As he walked out the door, Harry started to think of various ways to go about screwing with Palmer. Then someone came up from the side and tapped him on the shoulder.

“
Heyo
, buddy boy, thought that was you.”

Harry said, “Oh, hi Dave, what’s up?” It already turned out to be a pretty shitty day as it was but running into Dave Carteret made it even worse. The dickhead never shut up.

“So hey, listen. I hear you’re not really digging Terry’s vibe, the
Kabbalah
situation and all that jazz. What’s going on with that, man? You can talk to me.”

Yeah, I’m sure I can talk to you. And then you’ll talk to every goddamn person you know.

Harry started walking to his car, hoping that Dave would take the hint. He didn’t. He followed Harry and kept talking.

“Seriously, Harry, give it a chance. I mean, when we’re talking about God, it’s not the typical shit, you know, that bullshit they teach you in church. You don’t have to be a Jew to get the benefits of
Kabbalah
. I mean, it’s something universal. Really helps out with the business, too, puts things into perspective.”

He just wouldn’t shut up.

Harry grunted in response and opened his car door. As Dave went on about the Tree of Life and the ten divine powers, Harry rummaged through the backseat.

He came up in one motion, sending a six-inch blade into Dave’s neck. He got in close, bringing his body close to Dave’s.

Harry said, “Take it easy, Dave. Don’t fight it and you’ll do fine, easy, easy. Don’t breathe too fast. Relax.”

Dave’s neck bled profusely and his body trembled, his teeth shivering. He grabbed onto Harry’s jacket but let go after a few seconds, realizing he didn’t have enough strength to do anything anyway.

Harry hadn’t planned it. He knew what he did was partly as a result of the bad day he was having and partly because he wanted Dave to shut the fuck up. The fact that the dickhead wouldn’t stop pressuring him about the
Kabbalah
probably factored into it, too.

Goddamn guy’s worse than the Jehovah’s Witnesses.

“Sorry, Dave,” he said, easing the body into the backseat of his car. Now there was the problem of what to do with the body. If it was just any old fucker, Harry had a whole myriad of people he could ask for help from but since this was Dave Carteret, a guy closely associated with Terry Silver, it wouldn’t be so easy. Harry would have a lot of explaining to do.

Harry sat in his car with Dave’s body next to him. He thought about his limited options. Then he thought about that Palmer guy and how he could perhaps solve two problems at once.

He got out of the car and looked around the parking lot. It was a small enough lot and he thought he could probably figure out which car was Simon’s. He thought that the guy was probably not from New Jersey so if there was an out-of-state license plate, it might just be him. He searched around and looked at both the plates and the bumper stickers to see if there was any indication which was Palmer’s car.

After five minutes of looking, he got lucky. There was a Pennsylvania license plate and in the backseat, Harry saw a cardboard box full of comics.

That’s probably him. If it
ain’t
, who gives a fuck? Another poor sucker will have to deal with Dave, then.

Harry went back to his car, started it, and parked it close to the one from
Pennsylvania
. He got his tools out from under the front seat. Though he hadn’t had to do it for a while, he was adept at picking any lock. He brought his gear to the other car and within thirty seconds, got the driver’s side door opened and then popped the trunk.

He quickly and successfully brought Dave’s body out of his car and into the trunk of the other one. It was a good fit. The driver of the other vehicle didn’t seem to have a need for keeping any extra supplies in his trunk.

Guy should bring something along, shit. Extra oil, antifreeze, jumper cables, something. Christ, typical pussy who can’t do shit for himself.

After closing the trunk, he went back to his car and drove to his original parking spot. He just had to wait and see the guy come out and get into his car, unknowingly driving away with a stiff in the trunk. Whether or not it was that Palmer asshole, Harry didn’t care. Just to see some innocent fuck cart away the evidence was pure entertainment.

While he waited, Harry saw someone walk behind his car. He looked in the mirrors but when he couldn’t see anything, he turned around. Standing in the rearview blind spot was a longhead.

Harry said, “What the fuck is that guy doing?” If it was anyone else, he would’ve been out of the car and in the guy’s face, asking why the hell he was standing there staring. But the longheads had always grossed him out. He wasn’t totally insensitive to their predicament. Harry had a friend who had come back from the war with no legs and no right arm. Those things happen and it always tragic. But in Harry’s opinion, the longheads were creepy as hell and ever since the massacre at
Laruso’s
restaurant, he had been more than a little fearful at what those freaks could do.

Shit, the guy looks like he just lifted weights or something.

The longhead’s face was deep red, his neck muscles pulsating and his arms flexing. His elongated head was bald except for a tiny sprout of blond hair at the top. He tapped Harry’s car with his knuckles.

Harry said, “Seriously, of all the goddamn things I had to deal with today, really, I
gotta
deal with this, too?” He opened the door and but didn’t stand up; the longhead was short and Harry didn’t want to intimidate him by his height. Instead he just leaned out and said, “Hey buddy, can I help you with something?”

The longhead smiled and stepped closer. His hand reached into his camouflaged jacket and brought out a straight razor. Harry’s eyes widened and he shut the door and started the car. There was no way he was getting into a fight with a longhead. Even if you win, you lose. You’ll have fifty of them coming to your house to avenge their fallen comrade.

Harry drove away, circling the strip mall until he saw the longhead get distracted by a small, one-legged seagull. The animal was hopping around, tearing off pieces of a Twinkie while the longhead watched in obvious delight. Then he put the razor away and got down on his knees. He grabbed the Twinkie away from the bird and started eating it. Stale cream soon streaked his face and Harry looked away in disgust.

Fucking freak.

Chapter Eight

Simon wasn’t about to explain the whole situation to Peter and Scott even though he knew they were curious as to what the tall guy was talking to him about. He didn’t want to discuss it, though, at least not with them.

Toward the end of the signing, the crowd dwindled and Simon managed to leave a few minutes early.

“I hope you don’t mind, guys,” he said, hoping that they wouldn’t ask him to stay to watch a movie or read some more Turkish comics.

Scott said, “No, it’s okay, man but you sure you don’t want to stay, hang out a bit or something?”

“I really
gotta
go,
I’m supposed to meet somebody.”

Peter came up from behind him and said, “Before you go, you
gotta
see this.” He shoved a statuette in Simon’s face.

“What is it?” Simon said. The statuette was a half a foot tall and looked like a cross between a squid and a donkey.

“It’s my version of Little Bing Bong from issue number sixty-three. I had it custom made. You like it? I saved this for last. Scott said I should show it to you right away but I wanted to make it a surprise.”

“Wow,” Simon said. “It’s pretty cool.” He actually sort of liked it but was feeling uncomfortable with the two of them grinning like horny freshmen.

“You can have it if you want. I was thinking about asking you to sign it so I can sell it in the store but I thought you might not be cool with that. So you can have it if you want.”

What the hell am I supposed to say? If I say no I look like a dick and they tell all their comic friends and then it’s “Simon Palmer is a big, stuck-up asshole who doesn’t appreciate the fans.” Yeah, that’s all I need.

Simon said, “Sure, that’s awesome. I’d love to have this. Thanks a lot.” He took the statuette, looking at it again to appease Scott and Peter. It was extremely heavy and that surprised Simon who thought it looked hollow.

The two of them kept smiling and looked pleased that Simon had accepted their gift. Then he took them up on their offer to help load the extra comics into his car.

“Just put them in the backseat, guys,” Simon said when they outside. They loaded the boxes and said their goodbyes.

Simon started his car and leaned his head back. He was more than simply relieved that the day was over but now he had to deal with the whole envelope business.

What’re the chances that the guy’s
gonna
spot me in my car? No way. He doesn’t know what car I drive.

He pulled out of the parking lot, intent on driving around town. Though he had only been the Thompson once before, Simon felt a connection with it. The town was a relic and he felt at home in its sleazy arms. As he drove he kept seeing signs for St. Stanley’s Carnival.

There’s a church named after a saint named
Stanley
? Are they kidding?

Considering that the plans with Chaps had gone down the drain, Simon decided to follow the signs to the carnival.

Ah, what the hell.

Then maybe, just maybe, he’d go to the police and tell them the envelope story though he wasn’t too sure they’d believe him.

*
                     
*
                     
*

Liam had one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the radio when Henry pointed to the sign and said, “Hey, the carnival. Let’s go.”

Liam turned down the music. “What?”

“Let’s go to the carnival, I heard there’s some fucked up shit goes on there.” Henry bobbed his head and thought of the stories he had heard about St. Stanley’s annual carnival. The clandestine booths that weren’t visible to the casual attendee.

Liam said, “I thought you didn’t have any money.”

“I don’t but I still
wanna
take a look.”

“Let me guess; you’re going to ask me for cash. Am I right?”

“Oh, come on, don’t be a dick.” Henry saw another sign for the carnival and noticed a longhead standing at a bus stop holding a turtle.

Liam said, “We’ll stop by but I don’t want to stay long, okay?”

“Dude, listen,” Henry said. “I heard there’s a woman behind the hot dog stand who’ll blow you for five bucks and get this, she doesn’t have any teeth. You believe that? But she’s hot, I mean, not like she’s old or a junkie or anything. She’s fucking hot but has no teeth.”

“And apparently no idea what a blowjob is worth nowadays.”

Henry laughed. “Someone also told me, wait, yeah I think it was Billy Roanoke, he told me that there’s this black girl with the biggest ass you’ve ever seen who sits on you face and if you can stand it for more than three minutes, you win a prize. Thing is, get this, she’ll only sit on a white guy’s face. I think she wants to show all the white boys what a strong black woman can do.”

“What the fuck kind of carnival is this, anyway?”

“Nah, the shit I’m telling you only happens in the back, behind the regular booths and tents and shit. You
gotta
know the right people, grease some palms and then you get access.”

“So I
gotta
pay a bunch of people to have a black girl sit on my face? I can get that for free, you know.”

Henry said, “Okay, you’re missing the point. It’s the atmosphere, the excitement, the whole carnival environment. I think they also have a booth where you can throw pies at longheads.”

“That’s fucked up, Hank, I wouldn’t do that.”

“Yeah, I know, I’m just telling you the shit that’s there.”

Liam said, “Wait. You
are
going to ask me for money, aren’t you? You’re
gonna
see that big black girl and you’re
gonna
tell me how she’s waving you over and taunting you and shit and you’re
gonna
beg me for money, just admit it.”

“What?” Henry said, trying to sound insulted. Then he said, “Okay, fine, yeah, I’ll admit it, okay, I’m getting down on my knees, dear old pal, and asking will you please lend me some money when we get the carnival?”