The Caveman's Valentine (21 page)

Said Jack Cork, “All I want to know is, you going to cut out the shit or what? That’s all I want to know.”

“Who called you?”

“Deputy sheriff of Gideon Manor.”

“Herman.”

“You got it. Says you were trespassing, creating a disturbance, pulling some kind of crazy scam, which he described to me and which I did get a laugh out of—that concert pianist bit, you know? But he says he told you to get out of town and you didn’t, and now there’s a kind of . . . like a
movement,
it’s not quite the size of a lynch mob yet but it’s getting there, and it wants to see you institutionalized before you do further harm.
Deeply
fucking institutionalized.”

“Somebody tried to kill me.”

“You
too?
Jesus, this guy’s gotta be
stopped.
And I bet the police aren’t doing squat. Well, maybe you should stay away from his parties for a while.”

“They tried to run me down. Then they shot at me.”

“Oh yeah? Leppenraub?”

“I didn’t see his face.”

“No of course not. Real dark, huh?”

“He was wearing bandages over his face.”

“Oh sure, of course.
The Mummy’s Curse,
that was a good movie. Any witnesses?”

“Of course not.”

“Of course not. But we just
know
it was Leppenraub, don’t we?”

Romulus brooded. “Well . . . no. No, I’m not sure. I mean . . . my wife doesn’t think Leppenraub’s a killer.”

“Your
wife?
You mean your ex-wife? Your daughter says she won’t talk to you.”

“Right. That’s true. Sort of. But still I know what she thinks.”

“Yeah, so do I. She thinks you’re crazy. So does everybody else on the fucking planet. But since when did that ever make any difference to you? What’s the matter with you, guy? You losing your nerve now?”

Said Romulus, “Listen to me, Lieutenant. I think I know how it was done. How Scotty Gates was killed. Lethal injection. That’s why there were no wounds. There’s this feeble-minded guy up at Leppenraub’s, he showed me the needle.”

“He showed it to you. Well goddamn good for you, Caveman, now we’re talking
evidence.”

“Also I saw traces of whatever the agent was.”

“Agent?”

“You know. The poison.”

“Oh like agent of
death,
I get it. Agent. That’s like a forensic shop talk term huh? This is all over my head, Caveman.”

“Brown stuff. There was a stain of it, still in the needle. Brown, flaky.”

“Brown?”

Said Romulus, “You know what I think it is?”

Cork shrugged. “I know what
I
think it is. I think it’s
shit.
Probably
your
shit. That’d be a highly lethal agent. It’s killing
me,
I know that. Look, Caveman, this has been amusing but now I’m getting tired of it. This is my day off. I’m not supposed to do anything today. I’m supposed to be puttering about, planting my antique roses. But I’m not doing that, am I? No, I’m sitting here trying to talk you out of a trip to the nuthouse. Which is a total fucking waste of time, ’cause that’s where you’re hell-bent on going. Now, why do you think I’m wasting my time? ’Cause I like you? Why do you think?”

Romulus thought. Soon he came up with it.

“Because a fellow officer asked you to go easy on me?”

“There we have it.”

Romulus frowned. “But I just saw Lulu. She didn’t tell me. She didn’t tell me you’d talked to her.”

“I guess she decided it wouldn’t do any fucking good. Of course Papa’s not going to listen to his little baby girl, is he? But
I’m
telling you. You got her very worried. She’s says to me, ‘Detective Cork, do you have to take my father in?’ It’s sad. ‘Cause she’s not going to ask me
not
to—you know? But just the way she puts it, she makes it a real tearjerker. ‘He’s harmless,’ she says. I told her, ‘I know that. I already checked him out.’ She says, ‘He gets these obsessions, but he gets over them. But you put him in a mental hospital, he’ll just shrivel up and die.’ Is that touching, or what?”

Romulus stared down at the steps.

Cork said, “Wait, I didn’t say it right. What she said was, ‘He’ll
fold
up and die.’ And the way she said it, you know? With those big eyes of hers? Hey, I get the feeling she really loves you. True love, oh boy, it gets to me every time. I told her, ‘Look, I’m not sending him to the zoo if I don’t have to. But your daddy keeps screwing around with this witch-hunt of his, hey, what am I supposed to do?’ She says, ‘He’ll stop.’ I say, ‘I doubt it. He’s got these clues now. He’s probably got about fifteen thousand clues. He’s probably got ‘em on three-by-five index cards. He’s probably figured out that Leppenraub’s middle name is an anagram for Cornelius What-the-fuck.’ ”

Romulus looked up. “For Stuyvesant? Is that true?”

“Oh Jesus,” Cork said—then he shrugged. “Oh what the hell.
Real
cops do it—get all wound up in the fucking clues—why shouldn’t you? I told your daughter, I said, ‘Look, I do it. I take some stupid garden-variety spouse killing, and these clues start dancing around in my head and I can’t stop ’em, I gotta work it out that the victim was done in by that scarred man I saw at the funeral. Then the husband confesses, and it breaks my heart. Ah, the clues! The clues’ll make a sane man crazy. God knows what they’d do for somebody who was crazy to begin with.’ ”

“You said all this to my daughter?”

“Nah. But I’m saying it to you. You got clues jumping in your head? Get a doctor to pry ’em out. Do it quick, or you’re a goner.”

“A dead duck?”

“Caveman,
nobody’s
trying to kill you, for Christ’s sake. Oh, this is fun, wasting my breath like this. Don’t you hear
any
of what I’m saying?”

“You’re saying clues are worthless.”

“You want to know something? You want to know the only kind of clue that’s ever worth jack shit? It’s the one that’s not there. Something’s missing, something’s wrong with this picture. Sometimes that’ll give you a jolt. But all the clues that waltz in front of your eyes? I’m telling you, they’re going to waltz you straight to the bughouse. Jesus. If you weren’t such a deadbeat already, I’d tell you to get some rest, take a vacation.”

Romulus mulled this over. “Somewhere warm?”

“Yeah.”

“Warm and restful? Some place that brings back memories of my childhood?”

Cork squinted at him. “Yeah—maybe. Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Romulus. “But maybe you’re onto something there.”

T
hat night he stopped by Bob and Betty’s. The Zouave doorman recognized him right away, and called up to Bob.

“The garbage collection is here.”

“What?” they heard Bob say.

“The homeless guy.”

“Not
homeless,” Romulus muttered.

Said Bob, “Send him up.”

When he got upstairs, Bob fixed him a lime rickey. Betty was clearly dismayed to see him lapsed into his old duds, his old ways, but Bob took it all in stride. Bob seemed to understand that there were often messy knots in the loops of failure and recovery.

“Brought your clothes back,” said Romulus. “In that bag. I’m afraid they got a little torn up though.”

“Oh Romulus,” said Betty. “They’re yours, you’re supposed to keep them.”

“The underwear isn’t in there. I must have misplaced the underwear.”

Bob laughed a sly laugh.

Said Betty, “But tell us, tell us, how did the gig go?”

“I thought it went great. I did very well, and I learned a lot. Problem is, I got a little carried away afterward, a little too much celebration, got in a few scrapes, you know?”

“Sure,” said Bob.

“Got to learn to control that old demon temper.”

“That’s the ticket,” said Bob.

“I’m thinking, if I want to get myself a nice little condo like this someday, I’m going to have to learn to play the part.”

“Keep at it,” said Bob. He handed Romulus his drink.

“I did get a lead on another gig. Down in North Carolina.”

“Romulus!” said Betty. “That’s great!”

They drank a toast to North Carolina.

Then Betty showed him the telescope. She had it set up before the big picture window.

She said, “Bob never uses it. But I’ve been looking at Stuyvesant’s tower. Haven’t seen any Y-rays coming out of it, though. You want to take a peek, Romulus?”

“No, I’d rather . . .”

“All right.”

Romulus told her, “Anyway, Stuyvesant isn’t using Y-rays just now. Last week, though, that would have been a perfect time for a show.”

“Oh.”

And for the Z-rays, Romulus didn’t need a telescope. Z-rays filled the whole sky in the big window. They dallied and sported above Manhattan, and shimmered as Romulus imagined the Northern Lights must shimmer. They put him in a storytelling mood.

At Betty’s wide-eyed urging, he told her all about Stuyvesant. She gave him another shave, and while she did he told her about Lem Mulkhoo, Stuyvesant’s genius-lackey, who was always at Stuyvesant’s side, and who was so old now he had outlived his grandchildren.

But one day he might yet find a way to turn against his master, and this was the great hope for humanity.

Betty said she certainly hoped so.

He had two lime rickeys, which left him feeling drunk and happy. Then Betty brought out a light spring sportcoat and some slacks, for his trip to North Carolina.

The Z-rays romped, and Romulus gave Betty a kiss and Bob a firm “I believe in myself” handshake, and went on his way.

I
t could have been an RV-and-tent campground in West Yellowstone at the season’s height. Campfires blazing, circles of lawn chairs pulled up around the fires. A chilly evening, but convivial. Everywhere folks were chewing the fat. One camper stood and stretched, and cracked a joke to his circle of friends, and while the circle cackled merrily, the camper went back to his tent tarp and fetched a big bottle of beer from the open cooler. He brought it back to the circle. Everyone reached out his plastic cup and the camper shared out the bottle.

The camper’s name was Chore.

It was a night at the brink of spring in a vacant lot, corner of Avenue C and Seventh Street.

After the beer was served they passed around some herb. It had been donated by an angel who lived in the Christadora, the big coop that overlooked Tompkins Square Park. The chunk of herb looked like a dried moth, finely veined. It crumbled in Penny’s fingers as she wedged a chunk of it into the pipe.

She licked the dust off her fingers. She lighted the pipe. It burned voluptuously, with a sparkle. She gave the pipe to Chore, who was now tending the fire barrel.

“This is passable herb,” said Chore.

“Passable” meant that it opened like a beach umbrella inside of his brainpan, and he could bask in the shade of it and watch the waves and the distant dolphins and the girls in maillots.

He sent the pipe over to Mourning Matthew.

Matthew was this nervous white guy who was in mourning for his lover who’d frozen to death. About halfway into his hit his face started to pucker: he was fighting back the tears. Manuel, who had the lawn recliner, leaned over and snapped his fingers in front of Matthew’s eyes.

“
Pass
it, man. You want to mourn, that’s fine, but pass the pipe to the living.”

Penny giggled. She said, “Hey, Matthew. Want me to make you a veil?”

Chore clucked at her. “That’s not a kind thing to say, Penny.”

“Oh fuck you. He’s gotta get over it, Chore.”

Chore was a black man with a polished, strong-boned, faceted face. Firelight shone on the facets. From the pile of wood, he picked up a big piece of wooden floor joist, and he fit it into the fire barrel. He clucked again at Penny, and said:

“Not kind, Penny. Give the man time.”

“Chore, you sound like a chipmunk, you know that? Your voice. Hey Manuel.”

“What?”

“Want me to braid your hair?”

“Sure.”

“For your trial.”

“Sure.”

“When is your trial?”

“This
is
passable. My trial?”

“Yeah, when is it?”

“Sometime. I forget.”

“You better pay attention.”

“Yeah. Penny,
you
better pay attention. The earth is going to crash into the sun.”

“When?”

“Pretty soon. You better start worrying. You better start worrying about anything that might happen, ever anytime, anywhere. You better worry worry worry, fucking worry worry.”

“Yeah? So when’s your trial, Manuel?”

“I don’t know, what’s today?”

“Monday.”

“Oh. Then I think it’s tomorrow.”

Chore was looking at Matthew, who looked unwell. “Matthew, you all right?”

Matthew was staring at something. He held his mouth slack.

Said Chore, “What’s the matter, Matthew? You look like you be seeing a ghost.”

Penny laughed. “Hoo shit. He thinks he sees the ghost of that frozen guy.”

Said Chore, “Penny.”

“
What,
Chore? You
are
a chore, you know that?”

Chore balled up a newspaper and threw it in the fire. “Don’t call him ‘that frozen guy.’ That’s just not kind.”

Then he looked up, and noticed what Matthew was staring at.

They all noticed.

A ghost. Two ghosts.

Two ghosts who walked up into the sphere of firelight. One of them was big, and the other medium height. They wore old baggy clothes, and baseball caps. They had no faces. Their heads were wrapped round and round with gauzy white bandage, and it made them look like ghosts.

The lesser ghost carried a .357, which he held close to the pocket of his windbreaker. The greater ghost carried what looked like a chair leg.

The greater ghost spoke to Chore.

“Sit down, OK?”

Said Chore, “Fuck. Who the fuck are you?”

“Sit down.”

His voice was heavy, slurry. Chore had the idea he was trying to mask his voice. Chore squinted, leaned in, peered at the bandages.

“Who the fuck?”

The greater ghost glanced over at the lesser ghost, as though seeking direction. The lesser ghost nodded. The big ghost snapped the chair leg at Chore’s head. Sounded to Chore like the crack of a bat. What, are they playing baseball on the beach? Chore heard the roar of the crowd, but he couldn’t see anything—the sun was in his eyes.