The Charlie Parker Collection 1

  ‘You want I should stop?’ asked Mickey. ‘I got orders, but you want I should stop, I’ll stop.’

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘Help yourself to coffee,’ he said. There was a Mr. Coffee machine on a shelf, beside a bowl filled with nondairy creamer and packets of sugar. The coffee smelled like something had crawled into the pot to die, then spent its final minutes percolating.

  ‘You’re here about Pudd?’ he asked. He seemed intent upon the orchids, but his hands faltered as he said the name.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So it’s time, then,’ he said, more to himself than to me. He continued arranging the flowers in silence for a few minutes, then sighed and abandoned the task. His hands were shaking. He looked at them, held them up so I could see them, then thrust them into his pockets, the orchids now forgotten.

  ‘He’s a foul man, Mr. Parker,’ he began. ‘I have thought much about him in the last five years, about his eyes and his hands. His hands,’ he repeated softly, and shuddered. ‘When I think of him, I imagine his body as a frame, a hollow thing to carry around the evil spirit that resides inside. Maybe this sounds like madness to you?’

  I shook my head and recalled my first impression of Mr. Pudd, the way his eyes peered out from behind their hoods of flesh, the strange, unconnected movements of his fingers, the hair below the joints. I knew exactly what Mickey Shine meant.

  ‘I think, Mr. Parker, he is dybbuk. You know dybbuk?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t.’

  ‘Dybbuk is the spirit of a dead man that enters the body of another living being and possesses it. This Mr. Pudd, he is dybbuk: an evil spirit, base and less than human.’

  ‘How do you know of him?’

  ‘I took a contract, is how I know. It was after I left, when the old ways started to fall apart. I was a Jew, and Jews do not make the book, Mr. Parker. I was not a made man, so I thought I would walk away, let them fight to the death like animals. I did one last favor, then left them to die.’ He risked a glance at me, and I knew that Al Z had been correct; it was Mickey Shine who had pulled the trigger on Barboza in San Francisco in 1976, the last favor that allowed him to walk away.

  ‘I bought my store, and things were good until about eighty-six. Then I got sick and had to close up for a year. New stores opened, I lost customers, and so and so . . .’ He puffed up his cheeks and let his breath out in one loud, long exhalation.

  ‘I heard that there was a paper on a man, a strange, thin man who killed out of some . . . misguided religious purpose, or so they said. Doctors in abortion clinics, homosexuals, even Jews. I don’t believe in abortion, Mr. Parker, and the Old Testament is clear on . . . such men.’

  He tried not to catch my eye, and I guessed that Al Z had told him a little about Angel and Louis, warning him to watch his mouth.

  ‘But killing these people isn’t the answer,’ he resumed, with all the assurance of a man who has killed for a living. ‘I took the paper. I hadn’t fired a gun in many years, but the old instincts, you know, they die hard.’

  He was rubbing at his arm again, I noticed, and his eyes had grown distant, as if he was drawing back from the memory of some ancient hurt.

  ‘And you found him,’ I said.

  ‘No, Mr. Parker, he found me.’ The frequency and force of the rubbing increased, harder and harder, faster and faster. ‘I found out he was based somewhere in Maine, so I traveled up there to look for traces of him. I was in a motel in Bangor. You know the city? It’s a dump. I was asleep and I woke to a noise in the room. I reached for my gun but it wasn’t there, and then something hit me on the head, and when I came to I was in the trunk of a car. My hands and feet were tied with wire, and there was tape on my mouth. I don’t know how long we drove, but it felt like hours. At last the car stopped, and after a time the trunk opened. I was blindfolded, but I could see a little beneath the fold. Mr. Pudd was standing there, in his mismatched, old man’s clothes. There was a light in his eyes, Mr. Parker, like I have never seen. I—’

  He stopped and put his head in his hands, then ran them back over his bald head, as if all he had intended to do in the first place was smooth down whatever straggling hairs remained there. ‘I almost lost control of my bladder, Mr. Parker. I am not ashamed to tell you this. I am not a man who scares easily, and I have faced down death many times, but the look in this man’s eyes, and the feel of his hands on me, his nails, it was more than I could take.

  ‘He lifted me from the car – he is strong, very strong – and dragged me along the ground. We were in dark woods, and there was a shape beyond them, like a tower. I heard a door open, and he pulled me into a shack with two rooms. The first had a table and chairs, nothing more, and there were bloodstains on the floor, dried into the wood. There was a case on the table, with holes in the top, and he picked it up as he passed and carried it with him. The other room was tiled, with an old bathtub and a filthy, busted toilet. He put me in the tub, then hit me again on the head. And while I lay stunned, he cut my clothes with a knife, so that the front of my body, from my neck to my ankles, was exposed. He smelled his fingers, Mr. Parker, and then he spoke to me.

  ‘“You stink of fear, Mr. Sheinberg,” was all he said.’

  The store around us receded and disappeared. The noise of the traffic faded away, and the sunlight shining through the window seemed to dim. Now there was only the sound of Mickey Shine’s voice, the stale, damp smell of the old hut, and the soft exhalations of Mr. Pudd’s breath as he sat on the edge of the toilet bowl, placed the case on his lap and removed the lid.

  ‘There were bottles in the box, some small, some large. He held one up in front of me – it was thin, and the stopper had small holes – and I saw the spider inside. I hate spiders, always have, ever since I was a boy. It was a little brown spider, but to me, lying in that tub and smelling of my own sweat and fear, it looked like an eight-legged monster.

  ‘Mr. Pudd, he said nothing, just shook the jar, then unscrewed the top and dropped the spider on my chest. It caught in the hairs and I tried to shake it off, but it seemed to cling there, and I swear, I felt the thing bite me. I heard glass knocking on glass, and another little spider dropped beside the first, then a third. I could hear myself moaning, but it was like it was coming from somebody else, like I wasn’t making the sound. All I could think of was those spiders.

  ‘Then Mr. Pudd snapped his fingers and made me look up at him. He was choosing containers from the box and holding them up in front of me so I could see what was in them. One had a tarantula squatting on the bottom. There was a widow in a second one, crouched under a leaf. A third had a little red scorpion. Its tail twitched.

  ‘He leaned forward and whispered in my ear: “Which one, Mr. Sheinberg, which one?” But he didn’t release them. He just put them back in the box and took an envelope from inside his jacket. In the envelope were photographs: my ex-wife, my son, my daughters, and my little granddaughter. They were black-and-whites, taken while they were on the street. He showed me each one in turn, then put them back in the envelope.

  ‘“You’re going to be a warning, Mr. Sheinberg,” he said, “a warning to anyone else who thinks he can make some easy money by hunting me down. Perhaps you’ll survive tonight, and perhaps you won’t. If you live, and go back to your flower store and forget about me, then I’ll leave your family alone. But if you ever try to find me again, this little baby girl – Sylvia, isn’t that what they named her? – well, little Sylvia will quickly be lying where you are now, and what’s about to happen to you will happen to her. And I guarantee you, Mr. Sheinberg, that she won’t survive.”

  ‘Then he got up, stood by my legs, and pulled out the plug from the bath. “Get ready to make some new friends, Mr. Sheinberg,” he whispered.

  ‘I looked down and spiders started climbing from the drain. It was like there were hundreds of them, all fighting and twisting against each other. I think some of them were already dead and were just being carried along by the tide, b
ut the rest of them . . .’

  I looked away from him, a memory from my youth flashing briefly in my head. Someone had once done something similar to me when I was a boy: a man named Daddy Helms, who tormented me with fire ants for breaking some windows. Daddy Helms was dead now, but for that fleeting instant his spirit peered malevolently from behind the hoods of Mr. Pudd’s eyes. I think, when I looked back at Mickey, that he must have seen something of that memory in my face, because the tone of his voice changed. It softened, and some of the anger he felt toward me for forcing him, through Al Z, to make this confession seemed to dissipate.

  ‘They were all over me. I screamed and screamed and no-one could hear me. I couldn’t see my skin, there were so many of them. And Pudd, he just stood there and watched while they crawled all over me, biting. I think I must have fainted because, when I came to, the bath was filling with water and the spiders were drowning. It was the only time I saw anything but joy in the sick fuck’s face; he looked regretful, as if the loss of those fucking horrors really troubled him. And when they were all dead, he pulled me from the bath and took me back to the trunk of the car and drove me away from that place. He left me by the side of a street in Bangor. Somebody called an ambulance and they took me to a hospital, but the venom had already started to take effect.’

  Mickey Shine stood up and began to unbutton his shirt, finishing with his cuffs. He looked at me, then opened the shirt and let it fall from his body, his hands holding on to the ends of the sleeves.

  My mouth went dry. There were four chunks of flesh, each about the size of a quarter, missing from his right arm, as if some kind of animal had taken a bite from it. There was another cavity at his chest, where his left nipple had once been. When he turned, there were similar marks on his back and sides, the skin at the edges mottled and gray.

  ‘The flesh rotted away,’ he said softly. ‘Damnedest fucking thing. This is the kind of man you’re dealing with, Mr. Parker. If you decide to go after him, then you make sure you kill him because, if he gets away, you’ll have nobody left. He’ll kill them all, and then he’ll kill you.’

  He pulled his shirt back over his body and began to fix the buttons.

  ‘Do you have any idea where he might have taken you?’ I asked when he had finished.

  Mickey shook his head. ‘I think we went north, and I could hear the sea. That’s all I remember.’ He stopped suddenly, and wrinkled his brow. ‘And there was a light up high, off to my right. I saw it as he pulled me in. It could have been a lighthouse, I guess.

  ‘He said something else. He told me that if I came after him again, all of our names would be written. We would be written, and then we would be damned.’

  I felt my brow furrow.

  ‘What did he mean?’

  Mickey Shine seemed about to answer, but instead he looked down and concentrated on rebuttoning his cuffs. He was embarrassed, I thought, ashamed at what he saw as his weakness in the face of Mr. Pudd’s sadism, but he was also scared.

  ‘I don’t know what he meant,’ he said, and his lips pursed at the taste of the lie in his mouth.

  ‘What did you mean earlier when you said it was time?’ I asked.

  ‘Only Al Z ever heard that story before,’ he answered. ‘You and him, you’re the only ones who know. I was supposed to be a mute witness to what Pudd could do, what he would do, to anyone who came after him. I wasn’t supposed to talk, I was just supposed to be. But I knew that a day would come when it might be possible to make a move against him, to finish him off. I’ve been waiting a long time for it, a long time to tell that story again. So that’s what I know; he’s north of Bangor, on the coast, and there’s a lighthouse close by. It’s not much, but it’s all I can give. Just make sure that it stays between us; between you, me, and Al Z.’

  I wanted to press him on what he was leaving out, on what the threat of a name being ‘written’ might mean, but already I felt him closing up on me.

  ‘I’ll keep it that way,’ I replied.

  He nodded. ‘Because if Pudd finds out that we talked, that we’re moving against him, we’re all dead. He’ll kill us all.’

  He shook my hand and turned from me.

  ‘You going to wish me luck?’ I asked.

  He looked back at me, shaking his head. ‘If you need luck,’ he said softly, ‘you’re already dead.’

  Then he went back to his orchids and said no more.

  Part Two

  Judge not the preacher, for he is thy Judge.

  George Herbert, ‘The Church-Porch’

  The Search for Sanctuary

  Extract from the postgraduate thesis of Grace Peltier

  There are few surviving photographs of Faulkner (certainly none taken after 1963) and few records of his past, so our knowledge of him is largely limited to the evidence of those who heard him speak or encountered him in the course of one of his healing missions.

  He was a tall man with long dark hair and a high forehead, blue eyes beneath dark, straight eyebrows, and pale, almost translucent skin. He dressed in the garb of a working man – jeans, rough cotton shirts, boots – except when he was preaching. At those times he favored a simple black suit with a white collarless shirt buttoned to the neck. He wore no jewelry and his only concession to religious adornment was an ornate gold crucifix that hung around his neck as he spoke. Those who had the opportunity to examine it closely describe it as extremely finely made, with tiny faces and limbs carved into the body of the cross. The face of the Christ figure was almost photographically detailed, with the sufferings of the crucified man so clear and minutely rendered as to be disturbing, his agony beyond doubt.

  I have been able to find no record of Faulkner in any of the established schools of divinity, and inquiries to churches, major and minor, have also failed to yield any clue as to the origins of his religious education, if any. His earlier life is barely documented, although we do know that he was born Aaron David Faulkner, the illegitimate son of Reese Faulkner and Embeth Thule of Montgomery, Alabama, in 1924. He was an undersized child, with seriously impaired sight in his left eye that would later render him unsuitable for military service, but he began to grow quickly in his mid-teens. According to those neighbors who remember him this physical growth was accompanied by a similar development in his personality, from shy and somewhat awkward to dominant and imposing. He lived alone with his mother until her death shortly before his sixteenth birthday. Following her funeral, Aaron Faulkner left Montgomery and never returned.

  The next four years, up to the time of his marriage, are a blank, with some possible exceptions. An Aarn [sic] Faulkner was charged with assault in Columbia, South Carolina in 1941, following an incident in which a prostitute named Elsa Barker was apparently pelted with rocks, sustaining injuries to her head and back. Barker failed to appear in court to give evidence, and her statement to the police being deemed unreliable, the case was dismissed. No trace of Elsa Barker was ever found again.

  One other incident is worthy of note. In 1943, a family of three named Vogel from Liberty, Mississippi, went missing from their farm. They were found, two days after the search began, buried in a shallow grave one mile from their property. Quicklime had been used on the bodies. According to police reports, a young drifter had been staying with them in the days prior to their disappearance. The Vogels had taken him in because he seemed to be a religious man. None of the neighbors ever saw him or met him, but they recalled his name: Aaron. After their deaths, it was found that the Vogels were unmarried and their daughter was illegitimate. Among those questioned in the course of the investigation was Aaron Faulkner, following his apprehension at a motel in Vicksburg. He was released after three days due to lack of evidence.

  (While there is no direct link between the deaths of the Vogels and the attack on, and subsequent disappearance of, the prostitute Elsa Barker, it is my contention that both incidents display signs of a violent response to perceived sexual transgression, possibly linked to sublimated sexual desire: respec
tively, the Vogels’ unmarried relationship and the birth of their illegitimate daughter, with its echoes of Faulkner’s own parentage, and the activities of Barker. I believe that Faulkner’s later attempts to restrain and regulate sexual relationships at the Eagle Lake community represent a similar pattern of behavior.)

  Following his marriage in 1944, Faulkner worked with a printer named George Lemberger in Richmond, Virginia, and remained with him for the next twelve years while earning a reputation as an untrained preacher. A dispute over his preaching activities, combined with allegations that Faulkner had forged Lemberger’s signature on a check, eventually led to his departure from Lemberger’s printing firm in early 1957, and he subsequently went north, accompanied by his wife and two children. For some time between 1958 and 1963, he eked out a living as an itinerant preacher, eventually establishing small congregations of worshipers in the Maine towns from which the original group of sixteen was drawn. He supplemented his income by working, at various times, as a printer, a laborer, and a fisherman.

  Faulkner initially made his headquarters in a rooming house on Montgomery Street in Portland, Maine, owned by a cousin of the Jessops. He conducted services in the dining room, sometimes preaching to as many as thirty people. It was as a result of those first, lengthy, sermons that his reputation spread, leading to Faulkner enjoying a small but extremely devoted following.

  Faulkner was not a preacher in the hellfire-and-brimstone mode. Instead, he drew his listeners to him with a tone of quiet insinuation, gradually worming his way into their consciousness. (If this description appears unnecessarily perjorative, it should be noted that the retrospective recollections of those to whom I spoke are largely negative where Faulkner is concerned. While it is clear that he exerted a great influence while he spoke, and that there were enough people willing to follow him to enable him to establish a much bigger community than the original Eagle Lake settlement, had he chosen to do so, there were still those who felt an uneasiness around him.)