The Suburban Book of the Dead: Armageddon III: The Remake

  My first three sets speak pretty much for themselves. You gotta work somewhere, drink somewhere and get into sticky situations somewhere. And the roof-top’s pretty obvious too, if you think about it. Your super-villain always has to fall off a roof-top, or somewhere real high at the end. Doesn’t matter who he is, Dick Jones, Darth Vader, the Shredder or the Joker, they each got to take the big plunge in the final showdown.

  Probably started with King Kong, I guess, or when Quasimodo threw Dom Claude Frollo off the bell-tower of Notre Dame. But it’s never been bettered yet when it comes to the spectacular ending. So when you see old Laz climbing over the slates at least you’ll know the end’s in sight. Which should offer some kind of comfort.

  So, all this said, and pretty damn articulately said if you ask me, I tuck the lady’s contrivance into one pocket of my trenchcoat, my trusty Smith and Wesson into another and go off in search of a lead. And if there is one place in this town where I’m likely to find it, that one place is Fangio’s Bar.

  Behind the counter of the Tomorrowman Tavern, the one-eyed barman straightened his spotted cravat and smoothed down the lapels of his quilted smoking jacket. He had built up quite a substantial cult following since his first appearance in Armageddon: The Musical, and he was looking well on it. One literary critic described his performance in They Came and Ate Us as ‘quintessential . . . controlled and deeply felt. . .moving, poignant and about the only near decent thing in an otherwise turgid potboiler’. On the strength of this alone Far Fetched Books had signed him up for The Suburban Book of the Dead and brought in a ghost writer to replace Rankin.

  But making a really decent living as a professional fictitious character is a tricky business, as the barman knew well enough. You generally come up trumps if you can swing the lead in a Jackie Collins or a Katie Price, all baby oil, meat and two veg. But find yourself in a Clive Barker or a Stephen King and like as not you’ll wind up with maggots coming out of your nostrils before you reach chapter five.

  The barman had previously done a Zane Grey where he got dry gulched on page one, and a Sven Hessel where he came to an even bloodier end as a German tank commander. Neither had won him any critical acclaim. This was his first time in a trilogy and he was warming to the challenge of giving his best performance yet.

  And parts, no matter how small, are never easy to come by. Many fictitious characters turn out to be nothing of the sort. They are merely friends, relatives or enemies of the author dressed up a bit and given different names. And many heroes are actually played by the author himself. But although your genuine professional fictitious character knows this goes on, there is very little that he or she can do about it. ‘Speak up in this game and you’re Tipp-Ex’, as they say.

  Of course, the pay’s a flat rate and you don’t get a share of the royalties, but there are perks to the job. If you can work your way into a ‘classic’ then you’ve cracked the secret of immortality. The author may snuff it, but you will go on for ever and ever and ever. Nice work if you can get it, eh?

  Rex looked up at the Tomorrowman’s neon sign. It flashed on and off, the way some of them do and the way this one did all too often. The establishment beneath it appeared, at first sight, an extremely swank affair. A study in cold chrome, cool marble and warm leatherette. Rex examined the floating chairs, perhaps in search of clues. He noticed with no particular surprise that they hung upon cunningly concealed brackets.

  ‘Hmmph,’ went Rex.

  He eyeballed the bar proper. It looked reasonably convincing. The tall glass street-doors were anchored back to reveal a spacious lounge. To the left, numerous, chrome pedestals offered their support to glass table- tops ringed with neon tubes. About these, fashionable folk arrayed themselves and conversed in merry tones.

  To the right, further chrome in the shape of the bar-counter which ran back the length of the room, although from what, was anyone’s guess. The glass counter-top was lit from beneath and behind this the wall was the usual clutter of back-of-bar ephemera. Glittering optics, stacked glasses, cocktail shakers, drink dispensers, row upon row of exotic-looking bottles. And lodged between bar and backdrop stood a lone figure, his single eye fixed upon Rex Mundi. ‘Ah,’ said Rex. ‘Ah indeed.’

  ‘Might I assist you sir?’ the barman enquired in a deep Shakespearean tone.

  Rex strode up to the counter and placed himself upon one of the raised barstools which had somehow failed to get a mention earlier. He faced the famous barman. ‘Why are you wearing that?’ he asked.

  ‘Wearing what?’ The barman made an extravagant gesture.

  ‘That.’ Rex pointed to the barman’s head which, though bald in episodes past, was now lavishly furnished. ‘That.’

  ‘I have no idea what you could possibly mean.’

  “The syrup,’ sighed Rex. ‘The rug, the pompadour, the toup, the Blodwyn Pig. The wig.’

  ‘It’s all my own hair.’

  Rex leant his elbow upon the bar-counter and his chin upon his palm. ‘Shall I come in again?’ he asked. ‘When you have removed the wig, the smoking jacket and the silk cravat?’

  ‘Eyeball the screen station, boy.’ It was the line his fans always wanted him to say when he signed autographs at the London Film and Comic Con. Rex shook his head. ‘Shall I come in again, or is it Tipp-Ex time?’

  The barman now had a definite pout on to go with his wig. ‘My public expect. . .’ he began.

  ‘No, they don’t.’

  The barman got a huff on to go with his pout. ‘But I can keep the cigarette holder?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about the spats?’

  ‘Oh, I hadn’t seen the spats.’ Rex leant across the counter and perused said spats. ‘No spats,’ said he.

  ‘You’re just jealous because I-’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Rex mimed the dread bottle and the little brush going back and forwards across an invisible page.

  ‘I just have to pop out,’ said the barman. ‘Do you want a drink before I go?’

  ‘Yes please. Tomorrowman Brew if you will.’ The grumbling barkeep turned away to do the business.

  ‘And a ham sandwich,’ said Rex loudly.

  ‘Oh cruel, cruel.’

  ‘And an ice bucket.’

  ‘An ice bucket, yes.’

  ‘And barman.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t return dressed as a pirate.’

  Muttering bitterly, the literary legend slung food, drink and bucket before Rex and slouched away.

  ‘Any chance of getting served here?’ a young toff asked. Passing at close quarters, the barman offered him the use of two fingers. ‘Well, really.’

  Rex chuckled, placed the fist which had seen service upon both Samaritan and news vendor in the ice bucket and began what surely was his breakfast.

  ‘Cheek of the fellow,’ said the young toff. Rex shrugged and continued to feed. ‘And that ghastly peruke. I ask you.’

  Rex sipped his Tomorrowman Brew. It tasted as noxious as ever. The young toff was giving him a critical once-over; he didn’t seem too sold on Rex’s footwear. ‘Something wrong?’ Rex asked.

  ‘No, no. Nice jacket.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘A tad pinched beneath the armpits, though. No offence meant.’

  ‘None taken, I assure you.’

  ‘Jolly good.’ The toff peered hard at Rex. ‘Don’t I know you? You look mightily familiar.’

  Rex shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  The toff scratched a pampered chin. He wore a dove-grey triple-breasted suit of immaculate confection. Pale silk shirt, blue suede shoes. His blackly-dyed hair was tortured into a shark’s-fin quiff. Moleskin sideburns showed off his cheekbone implants to good advantage. A wide kipper-tie flashed short-range holographies, all of which were keen to sell Rex something. Rex wasn’t in a buying kind of a mood.

  ‘I do know you. Chap off the telly, isn’t it? Now, what’s your name? Do
n’t tell me, I’ll get it in a mo’. Laura.’

  ‘It’s not Laura.’

  ‘No, Laura.’ The toff called to a young woman seated nearby. ‘Laura, it’s that chap off the telly.’

  ‘Oh.’ Laura rose from her seat.

  ‘Ah.’ Rex rose in his, and beamed at the beauty now heading in his direction. She was tall and tanned and young and lovely. A bit like the girl from Ipecacuanha. Or is that the South American shrub used in the preparation of emetics? She wore the ‘little black dress’ that all men know and drool about.

  ‘This is Laura,’ said the toff. ‘I’m Garth, by the way.’ He dipped a manicured finger into his top pocket and drew out a calling card. Rex didn’t bother with it. He just wiped the crumbs from his mouth, thrust the ice bucket into Garth’s arms and as an afterthought, dried his smiting hand upon the holographic tie.

  ‘No offence meant,’ he said.

  The toff made a pained face. ‘None taken, I assure you.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Laura.’ Rex vacated his stool and steered the young woman on to it. She was indeed a rare orchid. She took his hand in hers. She didn’t release it.

  ‘Hello,’ said Laura.

  ‘Chap off the telly,’ Garth explained. ‘Fancy that, eh?’

  ‘Laura.’ Rex maintained the eye contact. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

  ‘Surely.’ Laura crossed her long slim legs with slow erotic deliberation. Rex bit his lip. Even without the visuals, there are few sounds more delicious than those made by a woman’s stockings when she crosses her legs.

  ‘Shop!’ Rex pounded his fist upon the bar-top. Dominant, thought Laura, I like that in a man.

  As if on cue, the barman reappeared. He was now the grim and scabious fellow that ever he was. Clad once more in the soiled leather apron and gloves, bald of head and wild of single eye. ‘Watcha want?’ he demanded.

  Rex winked at him kindly. ‘That’s the stuff. One more for myself, and whatever the lady’s drinking.’

  The barman gave Rex his finest cyclopean and rubbed thumb and unspeakably-gloved forefinger beneath the hero’s nose. ‘I’ll see your coin if I will. He that has money has what he wants.’

  Rex dug into his purloined pockets and came up with a handful of small change. He dumped it on to the glass bar-top. ‘There you go.’

  Gauging accurately Rex’s current lack of knowledge regarding matters monetary, the barman said ‘good enough’ and swept the entire amount into his apron pocket. ‘Thanks for the tip,’ he muttered as he set about the optics.

  ‘So Laura,’ Rex smiled upon the beautiful woman, ‘exactly what do you do?’ ‘Chap off the telly,’ called Garth, waving to his friends. ‘His ice bucket also.’

  ‘Garth,’ Laura’s eyes never left Rex, ‘Garth, go away and sit down.’

  ‘But I . . .’

  ‘Garth.’ Garth went away and sat down. Dominant, thought Rex, I like that in a woman. Well, some women.

  ‘What do I do?’ Laura ran her tongue lightly about her sensuous lips. Rex wondered if she might feel up to another leg cross. ‘Actually I’m a prostitute.’

  ‘A prostitute?’ Rex swivelled back to the bar. ‘Hurry up with my change, barman,’ he called. The barman pushed two drinks across the counter and short-changed Rex. Rex, for his part, thrust the coins into his pocket without a second glance. Which was a shame really, because he failed once more to take in the significant detail that each and every one of them bore the raised profile of Elvis Presley’s head.

  ‘So,’ Rex passed Laura her drink. It wasn’t Tomorrowman Brew. ‘A prostitute. Interesting work?’

  ‘Hardly as interesting as yours. Have you just come from the studio?’

  ‘The studio?’ Rex went into lying bastard mode. ‘Actually yes. I’m putting together a new show. Perhaps you might be interested.’

  ‘Not if it’s anything like . . .’

  ‘Totally new. It’s called Amnesia. The host pretends he’s from another planet, or say, another time, and he asks the contestants questions to find out where he is.’

  ‘Sounds pretty dull.’

  ‘Big prizes,’ said Rex.

  ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘All right. Pretend you’re a contestant.’

  ‘What, here?’

  ‘Certainly. Call it an audition, if you like.’

  ‘Do you want me to take all my clothes off then?’

  Absolutely, thought Rex. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘Just answer the questions.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘Right, what is your name?’

  ‘Laura Lynch.’

  ‘And where do you live?’

  ‘Right here.’

  ‘Do try harder. Where is right here?’

  ‘Sixth precinct.’

  ‘Could you be a little more exact?’

  ‘1010 Van Vliet Street.’

  ‘And the city?’

  “This one of course. This is some dumb show.’

  ‘What country then?’

  ‘Are you for real? This show will never sell.’

  Not the way you play it, Rex thought. ‘OK. One final question.’

  ‘Go on . . .’

  ‘How much do you charge for a blow-job?’

  ‘Two hundred and fifty dollars. Do I win?’

  ‘You certainly do.’ Rex began to pat once more at his pockets.

  ‘Er chap . . .’ Garth ventured forth. ‘Chap off the telly

  ‘Not now, Garth. I’m very busy.’ Rex found the billfold.

  ‘Chap. The pals just wanted to ask. The contestants on your show. Do they really . . . that is.. do you actually . . . ?’

  ‘No,’ said Rex. ‘Whatever it is.’

  ‘Thought not.’ Garth made a dispirited face. ‘Special effects, I suppose.’

  ‘Something like that.’ Rex flicked through the billfold. ‘Do you take any of these, Laura?’ He forked out what he took to be a credit card. It wasn’t. Laura gaped at it in horror. ‘Repo Man!’ she squawked.

  ‘No,’ said Rex. ‘Great movie, but I wasn’t in it. Harry Dean Stanton. How about this one, then?’

  ‘Repo Man.’ Garth was impressed. ‘Then you do actually . . . you know . . .’

  ‘Garth, I’m a little strapped for cash, lend me two hundred and fifty dollars. I’ll pay you back.’

  ‘Two fifty? No problem. Can you change a five thousand?’

  ‘Garth!’ screamed Laura. ‘He’s a Repo Man for E’s sake.’ She slipped down from the stool and backed away.

  Rex enjoyed the stockings as they crossed. But some sixth sense told him he’d probably heard them do it for the last time.

  ‘I don’t think I quite understand.’ Rex looked around at the suddenly silent crowd. It seemed more than likely that he was all alone in this particular piece of ignorance.

  ‘Chap off the telly,’ said Garth lamely. ‘You know. Does that Nemesis show . . . Rex Mundi, that’s it. Knew I’d get it in the end.’

  If there had been a big silence before, there was an even bigger one now. And much of it was coming from Rex himself.

  Exactly how long the silence might have lasted is anyone’s guess. There was a tension about it which verged upon the awesome. But it was over almost as swiftly as it had begun. Broken by the noisy arrival of a certain news vendor whose mother knew how to sew. And he was flanked by two very large policemen indeed. Rex took no pleasure at all in noticing that they were played by the henchman Cecil and his brother Sandy out of They Came and Ate Us.

  ‘That’s him,’ cried the little man with the big lip. ‘Socked me right in the kisser. The son-of-a-bitch off that crummy gameshow. The guy’s a whacko, better shoot him right now.’

  4

  1. And Elvis said unto Jacob, ‘Where’s your coat of many colours, then?’

  2. And Jacob replied saying, ‘You mean Joseph, he’s the one with the coat. I’m Jacob, the guy with the ladder.’

  3. And Elvis shrugged and asked, ‘Then who’s the guy over there in the denim?’
r />   4. And Jacob answered, ‘That’s my son, Levi.’

  5. And Elvis did smite Jacob upon the chin and go his way from him.

  The Suburban Book of the Dead

  Fangio’s Bar lay over on the East Side beneath some old stock footage of night-time skyscrapers and the Jersey Bridge. In a changing world like this is some things never change, and Fangio’s maintained its old-world charm. It was still a haven of bad breath, worse language, poor pool playing and cheap cigar smoke. The fat boy considered himself a bit of a psychologist and had always fancied writing a book about his colourful career. Like I say, some things never change.

  I might have taken a cab over, or perhaps I had my own car; I’m certain I never took the subway – but when I walked in the door love walked out the window, or so the old song says.

  Fangio’s Bar was cosmopolitan. Which is to say that the fat boy didn’t care which part of the cosmos his clients blew in from. As long as they could speak the King’s English, figure out which end of the bottle to drink from and pay in hard currency, it was fine by him.

  On any given night, except possibly Tuesday, you could lean on Fangio’s bar-counter and exchange small-talk with guys born under any one of a dozen different suns. Fange treated them all with equal grace, which must say something for him. Personally I would have heaved the lot of them out and put up a sign saying NO DOGS OR OFF-WORLDERS, which must say something for me. But nothing favourable. I’ve never been happy working with aliens - messes up the detective genre completely for me. As I entered the bar the fat boy was at the counter parting pastrami with a cleaver. Possibly a father fixation; I didn’t ask. What I did ask was for three fingers of Old Bedwetter. I found my regular stool, upended its squatter and parked my butt. The barman slid my drink across the polished bar-top.

  ‘This on your slate?’ he enquired.

  I nodded, cool as a mountain stream. ‘Have one yourself, Fange.’

  The fat one swung his goitre. ‘You wouldn’t care to settle your tab?’ he enquired further.

  ‘Sure thing.’ I did some pretty professional pocket patting. Such things are expected between old friends and I knew the score. ‘Well, swipe me,’ I declared in a voice of considerable surprise. ‘I seem to have-’