Penny Dreadful

  Moon glanced sideways. Get away from me, Poe.

  Put them on, I said. You will feel better with pants on.

  Bright cold air. The tops of trees against blue. The side of Moon’s unsmiling face.

  What did you do with that kid’s body? he said.

  Nothing. I just relocated it.

  Why?

  Why not?

  He was killing cops, said Moon.

  I shrugged the artificial cool. Part of the game, wasn’t it.

  He worked in a video store, said Moon. I knew him. I knew him. I probably had fifty conversations with him. The kid knew a lot about movies.

  Moon made no movement to put his pants on but he did straighten his legs briefly as he scratched an itch and I saw the barrel of his big .45 clutched between his thighs.

  Hey, I said. You want to give me the gun?

  The coo of stupid pigeons.

  No, said Moon.

  Who am I speaking to, by the way?

  Moon hesitated, smiled. It was a wide, shit-eating smile that I didn’t recognize or like.

  Jimmy? I said.

  Moon shrugged. Yeah. We’re both here, I guess.

  I found you.

  I didn’t want to be found.

  It wasn’t hard, I said. Half the city can see your white ass.

  What were you going to do when you found Jimmy Sky?

  I don’t know. I thought you wanted me to kill him.

  Yeah.

  Long cold breath and my lungs hurt. My ass was going to sleep and I really didn’t want to wrestle Moon for the gun, not on this roof. I took a small sip of the Pale and offered it to Moon, who took it and held it up against the sky. He gazed at the liquid behind glass for a few heartbeats and I relaxed, reached for a cigarette, thinking: if Jimmy was high, he might be easier to deal with. But Moon upended the bottle and poured it out and I saw that his doglike brown eyes had become black in the last of the winter sun. The Pale was so thick it seemed to bead up and dart down the roof like a pack of silverfish.

  Fuck, I said.

  You’re better off, said Moon.

  For a moment, I saw myself scrambling down to the roof’s edge. I saw myself trying to scoop up the disappearing Pale with my bare hands and I blinked as Moon smiled and swung the bottle at me in a slow flashing arc and I just managed to jerk my head down like a turtle and the bottle glanced off the top of my head and shattered against the chimney with a sudden white sparkle of raining glass and my eyes flickered shut again, involuntarily. I opened them and now had a good close look at Moon’s big gun.

  What are you doing, Moon? What are you doing? I said.

  There was glass in my hair, down my shirt.

  Moon sighed. I’ve been watching the birds. It’s what rooftops are for, right. And these birds, they’re just shitty brown city birds, sparrows or starlings or who the fuck knows and I keep hearing these doves but I can’t see them. Anyway, I love the way these brown birds seem to vibrate, like their hearts are beating so hard and fast they might explode. And they don’t even know it. They don’t realize, they have no concept of self-destruction.

  I nodded because I wanted to be friendly. I didn’t much want to hear a schizophrenic birdman rant on the subject of what separates us from the beasts but Moon had the terrible glow in his eyes that said there was no stopping him.

  The coolest thing, said Moon. The coolest thing is flight of course. To fly, right. Everyone wants to fly and I’m not going to jump if that’s what you’re thinking. I don’t want two shattered legs, okay. I want to sleep. If anything, I want to sleep alone. But it’s the way they float, they ride the currents. The thermals. They catch an updraft of warm air and just coast up to the sky and it’s so effortless it’s like they coexist with the fucking air. Can you imagine?

  Meaning what? I said. That you want to coexist with yourself?

  Moon swore softly and adjusted his crotch and I wished he would put his pants on. It would make this whole scene a little easier to take, I was sure.

  I tried that, said Moon. I tried and tried.

  Listen, I said. Let’s go. Let’s get off this roof, okay. Have some breakfast. Let’s get out the yellow pages and find someone you can talk to, a private shrink or someone. Someone you can trust.

  Is there some reason I shouldn’t trust you?

  No. I didn’t say that.

  Whatever. Do you like birds?

  Whatever, I said. You know, I met someone yesterday who just about bit my head off for saying that word to him. Your partner, Lot McDaniel.

  Moon clenched his fists. My partner.

  Yeah. A dapper English guy.

  You don’t have a clue, do you.

  What?

  That fucker is running the game. He’s the man behind the curtain.

  Really. I swiped at my forehead, amazed that I was sweating in the cold.

  Yeah, really. His name is Theseus the Glove.

  I did think he was a trifle strange.

  I’ve been meaning to kill him, said Moon. Or at least scare him. But he’s evasive. He’s smarter than me, he’s smarter than Jimmy and what can I do. I’m just a Fred.

  Let’s go talk to him, I said. Fix his wagon.

  Fuck you. You just want me down off this roof.

  I shrugged.

  And why? Why do you want me down and don’t say it’s because you care about me.

  I worked my jaw, took a long look at the trees and sky. Okay, I said.

  Thank you, said Moon. Because we both know it’s bullshit. No one saves anyone else because they care so much. It’s all about avoiding a mess.

  Yes, I said. Your dead fat naked body would be a big mess in Dizzy’s yard and I already dumped one body behind the Burger King so I can’t go back there.

  Dizzy, said Moon dreamily. He sighed. She’s a peach, isn’t she? She inspired me to buy a book, if you can believe that. A fat book with no guns or horses and so far I have only read a few pages. It’s not something you can skate through while sitting on the toilet. I mean, it’s not exactly a western even though Buck Mulligan sounds like the name of a deputy marshall.

  Ulysses, I said.

  You know it?

  Vaguely.

  Her great-grandmother is the main character, or something.

  Not exactly, I said. But she does have a sexy monologue in the end.

  Moon nodded. I met Dizzy Bloom yesterday and she looked right through me. She’s a real honey.

  A honey, I said. And she’s in the kitchen right now, she’s cleaning up blood.

  I saw her last night, said Moon. She didn’t recognize me and besides, she seemed pretty sweet on that little elfboy, that Breather.

  Let’s go inside, I said. Inside, okay.

  Hey, fuck you. I saw you last night, said Moon. You were slipping it to that other little chick, that torturer. Did you tell her your real name?

  I nodded. That was Eve, I said. She knows me.

  Remember when you were a kid, said Moon. You always wished you were someone else: Tom Sawyer or Billy the Kid or Pistol Pete Maravich or even some cooler smarter faster kid you knew in school.

  Yeah. I wanted to be Han Solo.

  It’s fun to be someone else, said Moon. Until you can’t stop being them.

  I held my breath and released it slowly through my teeth and I don’t know. I think what I felt was sympathy. It was all I had.

  I know, I said. Everything gets fucked up in the end.

  Fucked up. Moon laughed.

  Uh-huh. Why don’t you give me the gun?

  Moon shook his head. Get off this roof, Poe. Unless you want to get shot.

  Nobody broke your heart, I said.

  He smiled. I know. I broke it myself so why don’t you fuck off. Disappear.

  What are you going to do?

  I don’t know. I’m gonna have a little heart to heart with myself, I guess.

  Moon or Jimmy laughed and rolled his eyes, rubbing his belly with the free hand. I felt like my eyeballs were sweating. I was st
aring at Moon’s unsteady trigger finger. His whole hand seemed to be vibrating and the gun was going to go off, soon. I backed away as carefully as I had come.

  Okay, I said. Do you mind if I call for an ambulance?

  Moon shrugged. Go ahead.

  I continued to edge backward, dropping to my belly now.

  Do me a favor, I said.

  What’s that, said Moon.

  Put your pants on, please.

  Moon grinned and fired a single shot into the air. I bit the side of my cheek and tasted blood. If one of the neighbors hadn’t called the cops already, they would surely do so now. I slithered wormlike down the other side of the roof and back through the window. Breathing, I counted to ten. I sat on the edge of Dizzy Bloom’s big cozy guest bed and put my boots back on. I sniffed the air. It did smell like Eve had taken a shower. Her clothes were gone and the bed was made. I couldn’t remember if it had still been disheveled before I went out to talk to the mad birdman and I just wished she was near me. Really the worst thing about being alone was that there was never anyone to turn to and say: hey that was fucking weird, wasn’t it? I took out Moon’s cell phone and turned it on.

  Wonders never ceased for the battery still held a charge.

  I found the cream-colored and very nicely engraved business card that McDaniel had given me the day before. The snotty bastard answered on the tenth ring, his voice dry and very British.

  Cough. McDaniel.

  Hello, sir. Detective McDaniel?

  Yes.

  This is Ray Fine. We met yesterday.

  Forced warmth. I remember.

  You said for me to call you tomorrow and here it is, tomorrow.

  Pause. Crackle and hum.

  Indeed, it does look like tomorrow. What can I do for you Mr. Fine?

  I have some information for you about Moon, or about who might have killed him. I guess there’s a nut running around out there killing cops.

  Oh, well. Yawn. Anything you can tell me would help.

  The killer’s name is Theseus, I said. I don’t know if that’s his first name or last name or what but I figure he’s a Greek guy. Doesn’t that sound Greek to you?

  I suppose so, said McDaniel.

  Is there a Greek Mafia in this town, that you know of?

  No, he said.

  His voice was getting pretty frosty and I smiled.

  Whatever, I said. He’s definitely your guy.

  Hmmm. Where did you come by this information?

  Very reliable source. A fellow named Jimmy Sky.

  McDaniel snorted. Jimmy Sky, did you say?

  That’s right.

  And where is this person? I might like to ask him a few questions.

  He’s outside. Having a smoke.

  Do you think you could entice him to come downtown?

  Maybe. Will you buy us breakfast?

  But of course.

  You might regret that, I said. I can eat a stack of pancakes the size of your head.

  I’m sure you can.

  Do you have an expense account?

  No, I don’t.

  Are you dirty? I said. Because dirty cops on TV always get free breakfast.

  Mr. Fine, please. Let me give you an address. Do you have something to write on?

  I have the back of my hand, I said.

  And I managed not to flinch when McDaniel gave me the address. I didn’t have to write it down. I knew it already. Griffin’s office.

  Have you got that, then?

  Perfectly, I said.

  Very good. I shall see you in oh, a half-hour or so.

  Cheerio.

  McDaniel grunted and hung up. I exhaled. There was something wrong with me and I couldn’t seem to stop smiling. Maybe the universe was okay. I hesitated, then reluctantly dialed 911. Again, I identified myself as Ray Fine. I told the female operator that I had a friend on the roof suffering a psychotic episode. Dangerous to himself and others. The operator said not to worry, they had already received three reports of a naked sniper and the cops were on their way. I choked back an obscenity and told her calmly that he was no sniper. I told her the cops would only spook him and asked her to send an ambulance, a fire truck.

  I knew they would send a carload of cops, no matter what I said.

  But I told the operator five times that the subject was a cop, that he was armed and he would very likely resist. I suggested that they bring a net, maybe a tranquilizer gun. The operator told me not to worry and I said I would give it a try. I hung up and glanced at the clock by the bed. The average response time was nine minutes but it was early. It was Saturday morning. I would give them six and I hoped to god I was gone before they showed.

  Moon, I said. I’m sorry about this.

  Downstairs and I barely recognized anyone. It was like the mothership had touched down in my absence and reclaimed the pods. Dizzy Bloom had tangled her hair into a complicated bun. Her face was different, too. Dark lipstick and round little steel-framed glasses. They were much nicer than Ray’s glasses. She wore jeans and a black cardigan sweater and she was reading a newspaper, a cup of tea or coffee in her left hand. The swirl of steam around her face. There was a plate of bagels on the table and now she put down her coffee and reached for the cream cheese. A young man with a very serious posture sat across from her, smoking an unfiltered cigarette and staring intently at the screen of a laptop computer. Thin blond hair pulled into a severe ponytail and no jewelry. Expensive white dress shirt with cuffs buttoned, dark green twill pants and black shoes. If I was not mistaken, this was Mingus. His eyes were bright and not the least bit psychotic as he smiled and held out his hand.

  Hello, said Mingus. I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Matthew Roar.

  Okay, I said. I’m Phineas.

  We shook hands and I looked as far as I could into the man’s face, his mouth and eyes. There was no hint that this was part of the game.

  And you know my wife, I believe. Dizzy Bloom, he said.

  You two are married, I said.

  Dizzy smiled, a cruel flash. I kept my maiden name, she said.

  Uh-huh.

  I looked sideways and saw Eve. And I knew her, I recognized her. I had seen her in multiple incarnations and this was but another one. She wore black boots and white stockings and a silky black skirt with a thin blue sweater that she must have borrowed from Dizzy because the skirt was sexy but much too collegiate and the sweater was a little too small. There was a white line of flesh at her hips between sweater and skirt and the sleeves were too short. Her hair was tucked behind her ears and she held a coffee mug in both hands. She was blowing on it with pale puckered lips, staring at me.

  You look nice, I said.

  She flinched. Thanks.

  I went to the stove and poured myself a cup of coffee that was hot and black as death and smelled of cinnamon and chicory. I sipped it carefully as Dizzy picked up a pencil and began to examine the crossword. Matthew was bent over his laptop, which now made a happy chirping sound to indicate that he had mail. I nodded. Dizzy and Matthew were not fucking kidding about this game of tongues. Their characters were so divorced from their real identities that they were probably going slowly but surely clinical. But I had a feeling they knew it was over. They must. Their friend had died in their kitchen last night and they were calmly eating bagels and cream cheese and they were probably sorry they had no smoked salmon to offer us but their worlds were going to crash soon. The cops were coming and I was tempted not to warn them. Eve came over to stand next to me.

  Do you have a cigarette, she said.

  I gave her one. I want you to come downtown with me, I said.

  Okay. Why?

  I have an errand to run. And I don’t think you want to be here.

  She lit her cigarette at the stove, careful not to set her hair on fire.

  Why? she said.

  Because the cops are coming.

  Dizzy Bloom looked up. Do you know a six-letter word for “dark”?

  Opaque, I said.

>   Thank you.

  Did you hear me?

  What? she said.

  The cops are on the way. Two minutes, maybe three and they’re in your living room.

  What do they want?

  I shrugged. Madman on your roof.

  Dizzy smiled and nodded. Of course.

  I felt hot, irritable. I poured the rest of my coffee down the sink and yes, I wished there was more of the Pale. The others were so fucking unflustered, like robots. Something was very wrong with them. They were all supposed to be junkies, right. Confused. Out of touch with reality. I looked at them and thought maybe they weren’t real, maybe they were only pretending to be normal people for my benefit. I wiped at my face and told myself I had one minute left.

  Eve and I are going, I said.

  Will you be back for lunch?

  No. I don’t think so.

  Matthew looked up and there was a trace of something like sadness around his mouth. I hesitated. The sun was coming through the windows and I could hear sirens in the distance and I realized I was going to miss the little Breather. I bit at my tongue and wondered when Chrome would walk in wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants, hungover and slack-jawed with ordinary life and carrying a basketball under one arm.

  Do you want to shoot some hoops, he would say.

  Dear Jude.

  I have no soul inside, only gray matter.

  I think Ulysses is finally getting to me. I jumped ahead to the end, to Molly Bloom’s melancholy monologue and after two pages of somber cocksucking and the philosophy behind the mixing of urine and menstrual blood, I was freaking out. The physical details are heavy of course but pretty casual by modern standards. The consumptive nature of her voice, though. It’s like cancer. Her voice is relentless and unwavering as a slow-burning fire. I can’t read that shit anymore. Okay. I understand that Joyce was trying to re-create the random sound and fury of a human mind at work but I’m not sure why he would want to.

  Painful and blinding. Trapped in the wheels of another’s thoughts.

  And moreover I’m not sure why Dizzy would choose such a tragic character to be her number one ancestor. Molly Bloom suffers a lot of weird and profound indignities as the object of her husband’s whim. Leopold asks her to walk barefoot in horseshit as a kind of demented foreplay and when she is fat with milk he begs her to let him squeeze a few drops into his tea. And he torments her in the end with the seemingly innocent request for breakfast in bed which now strikes me as a truly frightening though nonaggresive act of marital sadism and I wonder if Dizzy truly hates Matthew Roar for being weak and virtuous and kind to her and maybe she wishes for a physically grotesque man like Leopold Bloom. If she wishes for someone like Moon, like Jimmy Sky.