Penny Dreadful

An iron skillet fell from Dizzy’s hand, crashing to the floor. It barely missed her foot. Mingus stared at her, sucking nervously at the ice.

  What? said Dizzy. What did you say?

  There was blood, he said. A lot of blood. I don’t always trust my eyes but I’m sure it was real. The man’s throat was gone and I think Chrome wants to make the game real. Or more so.

  Dizzy put one hand over her mouth. Have you ever seen the future?

  No, he said. Never.

  What about Goo? she said.

  Mingus frowned. What about her?

  Have you told her this? said Dizzy.

  No, he said. Chrome is my friend, my ally.

  The girl should know who she sleeps with.

  The kitchen was shrinking around them. Pots and pans, a dead wandering Jew. A microwave oven she didn’t know how to operate. Crystal champagne glasses that had never once been used. A black-and-white photograph of two strangers, apparently just married. A television that baffled her. She had no idea where it had come from.

  Fuck me, said Mingus. I can’t deal with this, you know.

  And your Glove, she said. Who is your Glove?

  Mingus shook his head. I have a Genetics midterm in one week.

  Who? said Dizzy.

  He sighed. Theseus. You know it’s Theseus.

  Okay, said Dizzy. Tonight we will talk to him, we will tell him about this.

  On the street again, my belly ripe with acid and funk. I hated every bend of light. I pulled off the damned mustache that had been tickling my poor nose like a dead thing. Tossed it in the gutter. Fuck that thing. It had been a mortal struggle not to sneeze every five seconds. I removed the glasses, too, but tucked them into my jacket pocket. You never know, I might want them again.

  I had intended to meet Griffin at the Paramount as Ray Fine, but there was really no point other than to amuse and confuse. And Ray was not such a reliable persona, was he. Too fucking daffy. I was much better off in my own skin. I would wear Ray’s clothes, though. I felt kind of cool in them. I glanced at my new watch, then frowned and plucked off the price tag. It was early and I had plenty of time.

  Ducked into a video store with the idea that I might rent a copy of Shane and put a smile on Moon’s face. We could watch it in the raw sleeping hours past midnight and drink more of that Canadian poison. Funny thing, though. I found the video on the shelf and as my eyes flicked over the credits on the back of the box, I couldn’t help noticing that Lee Marvin did not play the lead. It was Alan Ladd, presumably the father of Cheryl and what was in a name, right? Nothing. But it was weird and I decided not to rent the thing after all.

  Outside, I hailed a passing cab.

  I relaxed in the back and counted my money. I couldn’t be wasting too much of it on luxuries like taxis, at least for a while. Was not sure what I was going to tell Moon. That Jimmy Sky doesn’t exist and maybe the two of us should take a little vacation down to Florida? A little quiet time, that’s all Moon needed. Moon wasn’t going to like it at all. He believed in this shit. He believed that cops were disappearing and coming back like zombies. And one of them Jimmy Sky, his friend. Missing or dead. My stomach hurt. I would have to be careful with the old bear. Remember the coffee table, I thought. And then I saw myself smile in the rearview.

  Very strange.

  Maybe I should take Moon out with me tonight, to see this swing band with Griffin. Those two would get along like a heart attack and a bottle of ether. It would do Moon a world of good, though. Maybe he could hook up with a nice, middle-aged single lady. I would have to keep an eye on him, though, and not let him get so drunk.

  Now I glanced out the cab’s window. Larimer Street. A few blocks from Moon’s place. The cab passed a vacant lot and a length of cyclone fence and then I see a gray Taurus parked crazily on the sidewalk and wedged against a lightpost. Had to be, I said out loud. Had to be Moon’s car.

  Let me out here.

  I passed the cabbie a few bills and walked over to the abandoned Taurus. It wasn’t so badly wrecked. The tires were still sound and the front end was maybe a little wrinkled. Nothing to worry about. I touched the hood and it was pretty cold. Peered through the windows and noticed that the driver’s seat had been gutted like a goddamn big fish. Yellow stuffing everywhere. Now that was odd. I frowned. There was no blood, at least. Maybe it was nothing. I touched the door handle and what was this? The same unsettling wave of warm dizziness that I felt at Eve’s place. Like a plastic bag had been slipped over my head and I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t like this at all and recoiled, flexing my hand. I looked up and down the street and started walking quickly for Moon’s place.

  Goo:

  Something she needed to do, something important but she couldn’t quite remember what because it wasn’t her problem, it was Eve’s. Never mind, never mind. Hum and holler. It would come to her, or it wouldn’t. She sat up and took a good look around. Dizzy Bloom had a nice place. Asian rugs and a thousand books, dried flowers and dark wooden furniture, abstract sculptures and a glowing tank full of exotic fish. How did she maintain all this if she was forever stepping in and out of life? She was a Breather, though. And like Mingus she would be less affected by the Pale, by the lure of tongues. She would have that creepy ability to accept both worlds as real. To let two violent colors merge and become one.

  Goo watched her now, as Dizzy laid out a white tablecloth on the floor and arranged dishes and silverware. Dizzy looked so solid, she looked permanent in her flesh. Graceful, silent. Long dark hair and white, white skin almost pink. Leather jerkin buttoned to the throat. Hard to tell if she had breasts or not. Her skirt was full, swirling. But the leather knee boots made her look tough. Dizzy glanced up, saw her looking and Goo could only smile, unashamed.

  Mingus cleared his throat and Goo was startled. He was so quiet that she forgot about him sometimes.

  What? she said.

  Chrome is still in the shower, he said. It’s been half an hour.

  Goo shrugged. I’ll go check on him, if you want.

  Please.

  Upstairs, she followed the sound of rushing water. Through what appeared to be a guest bedroom with pale green grass cloth on the walls. A queen-sized bed with a puffy white comforter like a small cloud. Roses on the bedside table.

  Can’t we just live here? she thought.

  Eve. That was the sort of thing Eve might wish for. Goo crawled onto the bed, let herself sink into it. She rolled onto her back and felt her body slowly loosen. Her muscles were wound so tight all the time. The shower pounding in the bathroom. His skin would be cold as ice now. Bright with goose bumps. Goo was vaguely aware that Eve hadn’t been so nice to Chrome earlier. She could make up for that, though. She kicked off her boots, slid out of her pants. She dropped the black sweater to the floor and lay back on the bed, naked except for the white bandage taped to her ribs. The sound of water crashing and she touched herself, waiting for him to come out of the bathroom. Two fingers inside her, moving in circles. Okay. She didn’t want to wait. She rolled off the bed, tiptoed to the bathroom and pushed it open.

  Chrome, she said. Come to bed.

  She threw back the shower curtain and no one was there. An empty stall, shower pounding like tiny hammers on porcelain. Goo hesitated, then turned off the water. The bathroom was small, with exposed wooden rafters and a tiny little sink. She felt like she was on a boat. Cold and she wrapped her arms around herself. The window was open and she supposed it was just wide enough for Chrome to wiggle through.

  He often disappears, she said. To no one, to herself. It’s nothing.

  But she remembered the blood in his hair, thick and matted. She looked down and the porcelain tub was white as snow. Goo backed out of the bathroom and dressed quickly.

  Moon’s front door was open just a crack, just enough for a sliver of light to escape down the hall. I saw it as I came around the corner and pretty much shrugged. I relaxed. Because I knew something had happened to my friend. Something bad. Moon was dead, maybe. Or
else he had gone completely mental. Moon was fucked up. I could feel this in my teeth. If it had already happened, then there was nothing I could do about it. There was no reason to feel bad about it.

  My second thought was: I hope Shame hasn’t run off.

  I edged close to the door, my knife in hand and wishing I had a gun. Eased the door open and the smell was dreadful. The smell of copper and salt. I stepped inside and my heart became a fist. There was no doubt, then. None at all. I moved through the kitchen and into the living room and nearly fell to my knees as if slapped in the head by a giant’s meaty hand.

  The room was red, now. Dark with blood.

  I forget sometimes how much blood a single body can hold. It’s astonishing, really. I pinched my nostrils and looked around for the body. Moon must have been bled like a pig. His throat cut, his body hung upside down. But there was no body. As if he had shriveled down to a handful of flesh and the killer just dropped him in his pocket and walked away. I turned in circles, reluctant to walk through Moon’s blood. There was little sign of struggle, aside from the smashed coffee table which Moon himself had smashed. Which could mean everything or nothing. Moon knew the killer. Moon had been asleep at the time, or drunk. Moon had put up no fight. The thud of tiny feet and the cat swished past me.

  Shame, I said.

  The cat was a firecracker of nerves.

  I whispered to him, my hand outstretched. I put the knife back in the sheath under my sleeve. Finally, the cat came to me and allowed himself to be held. I cradled him in one arm and stood up. I turned around once more. My eyes full of blood. I took two steps and a tall, thin man in a white hat came out of Moon’s bedroom holding a gun in one hand, a half-eaten sandwich in the other. I stopped and stood there, still petting the cat.

  Okay, I said. Are you going to shoot me?

  Identify your fucking self, the man said.

  He had an Irish accent and seemed pretty angry. He was about to chew his own tongue off. The man stepped closer now, the gun held chest-high. The gun was black, an automatic. It was not Moon’s gun but that meant nothing. The sandwich looked to be peanut butter and jelly. The hands holding gun and sandwich were gloved in latex and the man’s clothes were not bloody at all. Nobody carried latex gloves but cops and cat burglars and medical examiners, and nobody helped himself to peanut butter and jelly from a dead man’s pantry but a fucking psychopath. I allowed my brain to skate around this unhappy equation for a moment and decided the man was probably a cop, mainly because he walked like a cop. He was even wearing a white hat. He was Irish, for that matter. And if he was a cop, he might have heard a thing or two about me, about Phineas Poe. And not liked what he heard.

  I hesitated, sighed. Ray Fine, I said. My name is Ray Fine.

  And what are you doing here, Mr. Fine?

  I’m a friend of Moon’s.

  The man lowered his gun. Hmm, he said. I believe you.

  Why?

  That cat wouldn’t let me touch him. And he fucking knows me, right. I’ve been here a hundred times. But he seems to love you.

  Yeah, well. I fed him this morning. Who are you?

  Lot McDaniel, Homicide. I was Moon’s partner.

  Really. He’s never mentioned you.

  McDaniel shrugged. I said I was his partner. Not his pal.

  Your name is Lot? I said.

  That’s right, love, Lot. It’s a fine, biblical name. Genesis nineteen.

  The guy who staggered away from Sodom in disgrace, I said.

  McDaniel sniffed. The very same.

  Unlucky, don’t you think?

  How do you mean?

  His wife became a pillar of salt.

  Exactly. She was unlucky, not him.

  Maybe, I said. But your mother must have had a nasty sense of humor.

  My mother was a lovely woman.

  The Bible is a telephone book of suitable names for a boy, I say. Peter and Paul, for instance. Thomas. John and Michael.

  Those fuckers, said McDaniel. They were dreadfully overrated. The apostles in particular. Unemployed fishermen and layabouts, all of them. While poor old Lot never got a fair shake.

  I shrugged. I’m pretty sure he had sex with his own daughters.

  McDaniel was fuming. Those wee bitches, they got him drunk. They ganged up on him in the dark. And the poor fellow was feeble. Blind in one eye, too.

  Whatever, I said. It might explain why the name never caught on.

  Numb and sick. I would really rather be standing somewhere else. Anywhere else. Outside, for instance. My eyes were watering now, from the blood. McDaniel was staring at me, his nostrils flared. And he was toying with the gun.

  The cat twisted away from me and jumped to the ground.

  McDaniel still stared at me.

  Something wrong? I said.

  A word of warning. I hate that little Americanism, that expression: whatever. To my thinking, you may as well just say fuck you and be done with it.

  Brief, awkward silence.

  I couldn’t decide whether I should apologize or run away.

  Okay, I said. The smell is making me faint.

  McDaniel smiled. Soft in the belly, are you?

  I told myself to ignore this. Where’s the body?

  In the bedroom, said McDaniel. And not what you would call a handsome corpse.

  Do you mind if I take a look?

  Detective McDaniel smiled and looked at the sandwich in his left hand, the gun in his right. He took a bite from the sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. He put the gun away, then produced an engraved business card. He offered it like a gift and I had no choice but to hold out my hand.

  As a matter of fact, said McDaniel. I would mind. I would mind very much. I need to preserve the integrity of this scene. Forensics are on their way, and all that. You’ve seen your share of police dramas on television, I suppose.

  Oh, sure. I used to watch Barney Miller all the time.

  Then you understand. I can’t let you blunder about back there.

  No, of course not.

  McDaniel pressed the business card into my palm as if he hoped it would lacerate the flesh. I was feeling ill now, very ill and fucked up. I pocketed the card and backed away, hoping I wasn’t going to throw up. I couldn’t remember ever coming across a cop who carried engraved cards but I would rather not suspect this guy. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask if McDaniel knew anything about Jimmy Sky but now my brain was coughing slowly into action, like a motor with faulty connections. The motherfucker was eating a sandwich. He was a real freak, he was one giant bad vibe and you never saw his badge, never saw his badge. But then you never asked to see it, did you. And so what if the man carried fancy business cards. Maybe he was a little strange. Maybe he came from a snotty family or went to an Ivy League school on a rugby scholarship. Maybe he wasn’t Irish at all. Maybe he was fucking British.

  Why don’t you call me tomorrow, McDaniel said. If you think of anything useful?

  Yeah, I said. I’ll call you tomorrow.

  McDaniel took another bite from his sandwich and stood there chewing and smiling and obviously wishing I would get the hell out. And I didn’t want to hang around. Because I was going to be sick any minute. I hurried back through the kitchen, arms wrapped around my stomach and now I could feel it coming. Eggdrop soup and mu shu pork and Canadian Mist and not much else. I threw up patiently in the kitchen sink and remembered something Moon once said: a gentleman never throws up on his shoes.

  Yeah.

  I bit down on my tongue to stop myself from sobbing and I didn’t think I could stand it if McDaniel came in with his white hat and a mouthful of sandwich and dryly handed me a box of tissues. I stood over the sink, bitterly wiping bile and snot from my lips and wishing I hadn’t given all of that coke to Griffin. I opened the refrigerator, looking for something to drink. There had been a single grape soda on the top shelf this morning and I was glad to see it was still there.

  Next to it, though, was something very odd, something that was no
t there this morning. A used paperback copy of Ulysses.

  Chrome:

  He was hungry and his lips were parched but this was when he felt most alive. Hunting. His face and hands were painted black and as he passed through a black doorway he knew that only his eyes were visible. He slipped through a crowd of theater-goers and none of them noticed him. A woman with bright orange hair and a string of pearls passed two inches from him, her breath mingling with his and he was sure he could poke his tongue in her ear and duck away and she would turn slowly, she would turn like a cow trapped in mud. She would decide she had imagined it. He could cut her throat and disappear.

  The dark was coming on now and this was his favorite time of day, when the sun was nearly gone, when the sun was failing. The sun was too weak to cast shadows and already he could make out faint gaps between the dayworld and the game. He stopped, melted into a doorway. Allowed his eyes to relax so that he might number these gaps: a blurred patch of red bricks, a shimmering pocket of air, a window so purple the glass looked like a pool of spilled ink. If he stepped through any of them, he would likely find a pocket of the game. He was tempted but his intended quarry was out there somewhere, another Fred with a badge. He was perhaps very close. It was a shame he couldn’t have brought Mingus along, but the poor Breather was showing himself to be too stiff, too moral to be good company.

  The obvious suspect is Jimmy Sky, of course. Moon is so hot to find the guy it’s like he’s got a crotch full of spiders and wham, not twelve hours later Moon’s own apartment is washed in blood. A kid could figure it out. So it must not be right.

  Anyway. I have yet to confirm that Jimmy Sky is a real person.

  It happens all the time, this panic. The worst thing is the urge to dart out into the street like a rabbit. I have to push and prod myself along and find a little corner store where I can buy a carton of milk and maybe a pack of bubble gum. Then outside and find a bench, a patch of grass. I sit down and drink the milk slowly and breathe, breathe until the blood slows down and the milk is gone. Then chew my gum and blow a few bubbles and I’m fine.

  On my way to Eve’s place now because my head is full of bad voodoo and I want to be sure that everyone I come in contact with does not wind up dead. Because I am not Clint Eastwood, you know. As much as I might like to walk around town and calmly kill every asshole that has ever done me wrong or looked at me funny. A bullet between the eyes and a face full of black tobacco juice and I’m back on my horse.