Authors: Carol Muske-Dukes
“Iris,” I said,
“is
beautiful. Personally, I find her one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. I believe everything she says. I honor it.” I pulled open the cab door, threw my bag inside, and looked back. “What do
you
honor?”
He smirked again and put on a “naughty-boy” look. “Oh-
oh.
I seem to have touched a nerve.”
I got in and slammed the door shut. “If you’re a
good
guy, I can’t wait to see what they put behind bars. Thanks to
Iris.”
The cab shuddered off, with a spray of gravel. The good doctor stood smirking on the curb.
THE TRAIN WAS
late; the train was hot. At Grand Central I decided not to bother putting an appearance in at work at all; I’d go home. Whatever happened happened. I would call Terence and invite him over after the show. If he couldn’t come, I’d stay there alone.
I found a bank of pay phones and actually located one that
worked
—next to a woman dressed like Chiquita Banana. She wore leopard skin toreador pants, a gold reflecting bolero, Carmen Miranda makeup, and a bunch of bright yellow plastic bananas on her head. She smiled over at me, and as she continued speaking into the phone, passed me a card that read:
MEXICALI MAMMA
She
dances,
tells you your fortune, (who will you marry? will you or others be rich or dead?) and
sings
the most big walloping hits from South of the Border!
Telephone (any hour) 111-5522
I smiled and nodded, pocketing the card.
She
smiled and nodded, shaking her bananas.
I got Terence at home.
“Listen, Willis,” he said. “I’ve had it. You can’t live like this anymore.
I
can’t live like this—worrying about you all the time! The play gets out at ten twelve. I’ll be showered and out of the dressing room and at your place by ten-thirty. Meet me there and we’ll face this psycho together.”
“I
can’t.
I’ve been out of town and I’m at Grand Central. I’m not going in to work, it’s already almost five. I’m going to grab something to eat and go home
now.
I’m
tired.”
“Okay. Go home,
drop your stuff off, say hello to your walls, and then get out of there again. Go to a movie—come up here, sleep in my dressing room,
something
—till I get there.
Please.
Let me protect you from this.”
A pause.
“Willis?”
I was thinking. I was experiencing reaffirmation (in the parlance of my age) about this guy: I was thinking,
he’s a hero, Terence. He’s a goddamn hero after all.
(The snag was, I had to rearrange my schedule to allow him to be one. But there it was.)
“Okay,” I said meekly. “Okay. I’ll just drop some things off and I’ll go take in a movie somewhere. I’ll meet you at my place at ten-thirty.”
“Sharp.”
“Sharp.”
“And, Willis?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t worry about
anything,
I can handle this guy. Okay?”
“Okay, Terence. Thanks.”
I hung up. I took the local home. When I got there, Whizzer opened the door and shook a gloved finger at me. He was the world’s slowest talker. I waited for him to glance right and left, wet his lips, push back his visored hat, run a hand through his great white pompadour. Finally he was ready.
“Will … is. You’re … late.” He sighed and wet his lips again. “There’s a … mag … a … zine … PA … PA … RA … ZZ … I … wait … ing … up …”
I couldn’t wait for the gumball.
“Goddamnit!”
I threw my bag down. Whizzer, who’d still been forming words, jumped. His gloved hand fluttered to his lips, as if to block the assembly line of slow-moving words.
I’d forgotten all about the interview Minnie had set up for me.
“Whizzer,
c’mon.
You know you’re not supposed to let anyone upstairs without telling me first.”
He started to gear up again. “Will … is?” He caressed his amazing white hair again and nodded several times, as if he’d begun receiving messages through a hidden earpiece.
“I …
told
… them … ab … so … lute … ly …
no,”
he began. Several eternities later, he’d managed to explain that Minnie had arrived in a cab from SIS with PAPARAZZI in tow. She’d told Whizzer that I’d approved everything—he also made sure, he told me proudly, that he was shown an official press I.D. (
I
…
D
…)
“Will … is.” A long pause. “Did … I … do … wrong?”
I sighed. “It’s okay, Whizzer. It’s not really your fault. I just don’t feel like doing this today. Is Minnie still up there?”
He looked right and left, pushed back his visor, wet his lips.
“Wait,”
I cried, “she got mad and left, right? She told me to call her at the magazine, right?
Try
not to
talk,
Whizzer. Just nod yes or no.”
He made a sound somewhere between a belch and a muted scream as he cut off the goose-stepping syllables. Then he looked right and left, pushed back his visor, wet his lips, and nodded yes.
Sitting on the floor outside my apartment, collapsed next to a pyramid of cameras and lighting equipment, was a good-looking, very tired young man with a laminated PAPARAZZI press card clipped to his leather jacket. He was half-dozing, his long legs in jeans stretched out into the hall, his dark hair falling into his eyes.
I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I’m late. I forgot about this interview.”
He jumped so violently that he popped the lens cover off the camera he was holding in his hands—it went crazily rolling into the door. He shook his head and pulled himself up to a sitting position. “Christ!” he said. “Christ.” Then he grinned up at me good-naturedly. “You really sent me. I was just nodding out a little here.” He stood up and offered his hand.
“Perry Tate.”
“Willis Digby—I’m sorry to have kept you waiting so long.”
He grinned again. “Beats chasing Liza around Studio 54.”
“It
does?
Sleeping in an apartment hallway? She must be
something.”
He laughed, then noticed me looking at his press card. “My writer went out for coffee. She got a little impatient. Oh, yeah, and your friend Minnie got pretty pissed off after an hour or so. She took off.”
“We can manage without Minnie.” I unlocked the door and he hoisted the cameras and the jumble of lenses and light meters over his shoulder, ducked his head at the door. I switched on the lights.
“Would you like some coffee or something?” I threw down my bag with an ominous
chunk,
remembering, too late, my Crafts Fair purchases. I pulled them out—the ashtray was broken, but the other stuff looked okay. I pulled out the tea cozy and the wire Empire State Building and took them out to the kitchen with me.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t listening. What did you say you wanted?”
“Well, maybe a Diet Pepsi—if you have it.” He was kneeling near a window, unpacking his lighting equipment.
“Lemme check.” I put the stuff down and opened the refrigerator. Amazingly, I had a diet soda of some sort and a cream soda for me.
“I’m really kind of relieved you’re here,” I called, opening the can. “I’m being harassed by this weird guy, a Peeping Tom who’s gotten very aggressive lately.”
“Dammit,” I heard him curse softly as he dropped a piece of equipment. “Oh, yeah?” he called. “How does he get up high enough to see in the windows?”
I brought him the diet soda. “I think he stands on the sidewalk when he looks in here. You can see lights go on and off from down there. It turns out, though, that he can see
right into
my office at work—
he
works in some office building that’s right across from SIS, or really close by.” I peered out the window at Third Avenue below. It was starting to get dark.
“How do you know?” He drank some soda, pushed his hair back.
“The guy writes to me. He writes me these weird letters—God, you should see them!” I laughed, though I was shocked that I could make light of the whole thing. “I mean
weird.
Like he’s some cross between J. D. Salinger and Norman Bates. A literary killer.”
A phone in the kitchen rang. “That might be my writer,” he said. “Oh, yeah, wait, I almost forgot. There was this letter for you at SIS—I thought I should bring it down to you.” He pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket.
“There are
always
letters for me at SIS,” I said. I took the envelope without looking and sprinted for the phone.
“Hello?”
“Willis, if you think just because you’re getting some
media
attention right now, it’s okay to make people wait for hours on end for you, you better think—”
“Minnie, I’m sorry. But you know, you really can’t go ahead and schedule things for me without confirming them. Anyway, I’m busy right now, the photographer is here setting up, and the writer is coming over in a minute.”
“What writer?”
“The
writer,
Minnie! They always travel in twos, photographer and writer.”
I was slouched in the kitchen doorway, looking into the living room at Perry Tate. He stood up and faced me, a camera in front of his face. He turned the rings, focusing.
“Well,
this
guy didn’t. He told me,
he
was the writer
and
the photographer. There wasn’t any writer with him.” She paused. “Anyway, they can always send a writer over
later.
I never knew this—Did you know this? There’s a branch of PAPARAZZI
right across
from us. I could throw a stone out these windows and hit …”
I turned away from the living room, twisting the phone cord around my waist. I felt very calm, eerily calm.
“Minnie,” I said softly. I heard my own voice talking, from far far away.
“Listen to me.
This is life and death, Minnie. Tell Page that PAPARAZZI is here, in my apartment. And then tell her that their offices are
right across from us …
”
“What? I can’t hear you so well, Willis, you sound weird. What are you saying?” He was crossing the room, the camera still held up before his face, moving toward me. Somehow, without realizing what I was doing, I’d opened the letter—before I looked down at it, I knew what it would say. The famous handwriting. Three words.
LOOK AT ME.
“Willis? I’m going to hang up now. Betty Friedan just walked in. I
never
get over her presence! I’ll call you back.” She hung up.
I replaced the receiver. I turned and looked at The Watcher. The split second I turned, the flash went off and I was blinded. I heard him crossing the room swiftly.
I saw black and red circles before my eyes. I groped along the counter for a weapon,
any
weapon! A knife, a frying pan. My hand fell on something hard and cold.
When he grabbed me from behind, I turned and stabbed him in the neck with the Empire State Building. He cried out and grabbed at his throat. I saw blood. I came at him again, slashing with the spire, aiming for the jugular. I was sobbing. He made no sound, but his face was savage, canine. He grabbed for the Empire State Building and tried to twist it out of my grasp.
One of his fingernails ripped across my hand. I stabbed wildly with my weapon; he put his hands up against my attack. He fell backward against the kitchen door and I started kicking, in the general area of his crotch. I hit.
He fell to the floor, holding himself. I fell on top of him; I heard the wind go out of him. The Empire State Building cut through his shirt, his undershirt, the skin of his neck.
“You son of a bitch. You son of a bitch!” I gasped. “You wanna hurt me? You wanna hurt me?” I stabbed his arm. Blood welled up. “You bastard!” I was screaming so loud I couldn’t hear myself. I stabbed his hands, held up against his chest and neck.
He grabbed at the Empire State Building. He fended it off, once, twice. “What are you doing?” he yelled. “What are you doing? You want to kill
me?
The way you killed Matthew Kallam?”
The name stood in the air. I hit him again, this time in the chest. Then the name took hold. I pulled myself off him, pushing a hand, bloody, against the wall.
“Who the hell are you?” At last I heard my own voice—it sounded like an animal trying to speak. “WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?? How do you know these things about me?”
He sat up suddenly and hit the Empire State Building out of my hand. It skittered across the linoleum floor. He fell back, exhausted. “I’m Danny,” he groaned. “I’m Danny.”
“The name means nothing to me, fuckhead.” I looked at the Empire State Building lying propped against the refrigerator. I began crawling toward it. I looked back. “You’ll have to do better than that.”
He touched his hand to his face and looked at it. He was covered with bloody cuts, and blood had welled up in the hollow of his neck. “Danny Hayburn,” he said in a tight small voice. “I was in the tent the night you shot Matthew Kallam.”
For one wild second I believed him. I believed that he was the ghost who’d been following, just a little bit behind me, since the night Matthew died. He was Justice—now he would stand up in armor made of flames and hold out the sword. I would be judged and released into Hell. I would be freed at last. Unequivocally damned.
Then I returned to myself. I rested my hand on the Empire State Building. He and I stared at each other. He looked like an actor in a horror movie; blood had run in rivulets down his face and neck and had soiled his collar and shirtfront. Abruptly he pulled himself up to a sitting position. I brandished my weapon like a switchblade. He eased back against the wall.
“You say you were in the tent.
What
tent are you talking about? Where? And what was your father’s name?”
“The
tent,”
he said in a surprised, vaguely hostile tone. “The tent in the countryside”—he looked at his bloody hands—“about … fifteen miles outside Carlisle, Pennsylvania. Where
my
father, Colonel Martin Hayburn, and
your
father”—he bowed sarcastically—“Colonel Homer Digby, went pheasant hunting.” He rubbed at his eyes, unconsciously smearing blood around them. “At the time they were attending the War College.” He bowed again. “The War College at Carlisle.”