Dead Voices, page 3
“What the fuck!” Jamie said.
“That’s beautiful,” Brianne said. “Though I don’t understand half of it.”
Marty raised his hand. “Is that love or death?”
“You guys don’t have a poetic bone in your body.”
“We got boners instead,” Wally said.
“Look, I gotta go, guys,” Brianne said. “It’s been a slice.”
“I’m in a place where I’m restricted in using the words, and even if I used the words they’d be meaningless.”
“I understand your predicament, Professor,” Mike said.
Mark shook his head. “If I ever got serious in this school I’d choke on my words and asphyxiate myself.”
“We’ve gotten too serious as it is,” Marty said.
“Look,” Brianne said with a big smile. “I’ll put you guys out of your misery, OK. Love is not biology or religion or poetry. Love is love.”
“Beautiful,” Jamie said. “Finally we have the female POV, the point of vacancy.”
“Not so,” Mike said, twirling his cigar. “She’s right, boys. Love is goodness itself. It’s how we transcend ourselves and play for the Big Guy.”
“You mean the Big Boss?” Jamie said.
“Haven’t you guys heard?” Marty said. “The Big Guy is the Dead Guy.”
“To some, sure,” Mike said. “But the believers far outnumber the non-believers.”
Marty shook his head, his face grim. “All right, we’ve gone into uncharted territory of bullshit much too long. We’re Hot Stove, guys, aren’t we? We tell it like it is. Anything that happens in Hot Stove stays in Hot Stove, right?”
“Well, we have to respect the chaplain’s office as well,” Mike said.
“All right, with all due respect, let’s cut through the bullshit. If this is truly Hot Stove, let’s be Hot Stove, all right?”
“You start,” Mark said.
Wally gave out a few groans. Jamie hung his head. Mike put on his game face.
Marty nodded with his wry smile, ready for some premium baloney-cutting. He told them he didn’t care how many teams there were in Christianity, Judaism, or Islam. Science had defeated all of them. Science had facts as forwards and theories as defencemen. All were solid. And when they faltered or were proven inadequate they were replaced by new players. The organized religions, on the other hand, had these old farts that were on their last legs. Why, the pope was a goalie with such a holey team in front of him he couldn’t stop a puck if he tried.
He paused and asked if they were following him.
“You’re getting too personal,” Mike said. “But go on.”
The Abrahamic religions were theories, Marty said. They had been good teams in the past, but that was all over. Superior theories had defeated them too often. Anyone who faced the facts would know there was no Big Boss intervening in the game. And while the moral teachings of said religions were perhaps necessary for most people off the ice, on the ice it was Science and Reason that would win out all the time.
“Listen, boys,” Brianne said. “I’d like to stay, but I gotta move. I’m on a mission for the curling team.”
“Look at what you did, Mr. Biology,” Jamie said. “You scared her off. And she’s supposed to be the vulnerable carrier of important genes.”
“Not if she’s throwing the rocks,” Wally said.
“I’ll throw a few more rocks,” Marty said. “I’ve done some part-time teaching at a Jewish private school and it’s a whole different ball game there, boys. At least they’re deadly serious about what they teach. Here we only cherry pick. The students know it more than anyone. We teachers are all hypocrites in this so-called Separate School Board, with our little rituals and lip service to educating the minds of Christian kids.”
Mike’s face tightened, as if all his defencemen had deserted him and he was facing a breakaway. He came out of the crease and stood his ground, trying to cut all the angles.
Faith still put out a good team, he said. It wasn’t just running on theory. It was a living reality. Mother Teresa and the thousands of others like her who unconditionally cared for the poor was a fact, not a theory. But you couldn’t run a team on facts and theory only. You needed inspiration, something to play for, a few great goals, he laughed. As teachers, they were there for the kids, weren’t they? And the kids needed their guidance more than ever these days, what with the influences of the secular world.
“Be that as it may,” Mark said, “we’re operating under an umbrella of lies. Marty’s right. Most of the older students don’t even believe in the Big Boss anymore. I doubt that even most of the teachers give a flying fadoodle, right, Wally?”
“It’s borrring. I couldn’t care less.”
“The God-question is the dead question,” Mark said. “What about you, Brianne?”
“As long as you try to live a good life, it doesn’t matter what you believe.”
“But who determines what the good life is?” Mark said.
“Who gives a shit?” Jamie said. “What the fuck! We’re in Hot Stove. Let’s get solid, eh. We believe in beer and hockey, fuck the rest.”
It took a few minutes, but they got back on the rails, breathing a sigh of relief. It had been close. They had lost their minds for a few minutes there. Jamie blamed Marty, Mr. Gravitas. Marty blamed Mike, who had brought in a theologian. Mike blamed Brianne. Brianne blamed Mark, the Professor, who was only playing at being a professor.
Mark remained silent.
Shortly afterwards Brianne left, followed by Jamie and Wally, who had things to do, they said. Mark could clearly see, however, they were anxious to leave a room where someone had laid a big fart, the stink of which wouldn’t soon blow away.
Mark, Marty, and Mike went through some tense minutes, joking around and trying to talk hockey, but their hearts weren’t in it. Mark could see that Mike had more things to say to defend his position. In order to get back on the right track with him, Mark asked him why he disagreed with Marty.
Mike just started to talk about the sacraments, the importance of ritual for the kids, when they saw a kid come to the door and peek in with a big bashful grin.
“Hi-ya, Mike.”
“Hey, Colin, how-do. Com’on in.”
It was one of the Spec Ed kids, a short squat guy with a flat fleshy face, mongoloid eyes, and a big toothy grin. He was in the school uniform of grey dress pants and blue school sweater. Mark recognized him as being a happy-golucky kid whom all the teachers were friendly with. He’d see him in the hallway in the mornings being greeted from their bus by Spec Ed teachers.
“Colin, you know Mr. Trecroci and Mr. Andrews here, don’t you?”
“Yeah . . . Hey, Mike, I gotta talk to you.”
“Sure thing, Colin. Have a seat. Excuse me, guys. What’s on your mind, Colin?”
Colin sat down. “I don’t know, Mike.” The guy looked over at him and Marty, his face blank.
“We’re in Hot Stove here, Colin. You can talk. You’re one of the boys.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah, you can feel free to say anything. The guys here were just raking me over the coals. They were questioning my ability to be a good goalie. They said I couldn’t stop a puck if I even tried.”
“Oh, no, Mike, you’re a good goalie. I seen you play. You’re like . . . like . . .
“Like a door closed shut,” Mark said.
“Oh, no, Mr. Trecroci. Mike’s door is always open.”
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?”
“Mike’s my friend.”
“He’s our friend, too,” Mark said.
“Even if we clash on theological matters, right, Professor?” Mike said, his face beaming.
“Last week Mike took us to the Playdium. He showed us how play all the games. I went on the go-carts with him. It was so fun, eh, Mike?”
“Right-ho, Colin.”
“We crashed a few times, eh, Mike?”
“We sure did.”
“That’s how you spend your afternoons, huh?” Marty said. “I wish I had your job.”
“Yeah, we should switch some time. I’ll take the Bunsen burners and you take the cross.”
Marty narrowed his eyes and smiled, remaining silent.
“And this week,” Colin said, “we’re going to St. Francis Table, right, Mike?”
“That we are. We’re going to help feed the homeless.”
“But Mike . . .” Colin stopped.
“What’s the problem, Colin?”
“My mom won’t let me go.”
“Oh, yeah, why not?”
“She wants to talk to you, Mike. You gotta talk to her.”
Mark looked at the kid. “What’s she afraid of?”
“I don’t know. You gotta talk to her, Mike, OK?”
“Will do, Colin.”
The kid looked around the room, his face getting blank again. He seemed to have something else on his mind. Mark felt it was time to go. He got up. Marty got up with him.
“We better go,” Marty said.
“See you,” Mark said. “So long, Colin.”
“Yeah, bye. Mike, I gotta talk to you.”
“What’s up?” Mark heard Mike say as he headed out the door and onto the long hallway to the gym and caf.
The long lunch was almost over. Students were milling around in the hallway, spilling out from the cafeteria down the hall, some going outside to the smoking area, some to the back lot to laze in the sun on mild autumn afternoon. They were in bunches, in twos or threes, or larger, talking and horsing around, having some peace and fun, before having to go back into the classroom and having to play their roles and jump through their hoops.
Bookman Goes Batty
When we heard the latest at the Gazette, we were flabbergasted. No one in their right mind would ever have predicted it. The City Room went into a frenzy of damage control. People held their smartphones and eye-balled their computers, stuck in some time-warp, putting everything else on hold. The buzz went silent. Sarcasm was just around the corner.
Thursby, the city editor, called me into his office. He was in his blue shirt and suspenders, his white hair sticking out as if he had just taken his finger from the plug. I was to track this story to its roots and hair balls. Confirm it with a fine tooth comb. Do all the interviews and legwork. Dig it and bag it. Time was of the essence, he said. Crime would not stand still.
“Why me?” I said.
“You’re the only one with the moxie.”
The first person I saw was Commissioner Geiko at police headquarters. I was ushered into his small unpretentious office, with the official documents on the walls, the photos of friends and family, the windows overlooking Main Street. The Commissioner was at his nondescript best for a person who kept out of the limelight. He had a moustache, was in his late fifties, square and compact in his spanking blue uniform, with a minimum of ostentation.
I asked him immediately how he discovered the news.
“Well,” he said, giving the question some time to digest, “I knew that something was amiss after two weeks of not seeing the Book Signal on my computer. Bibliopolis has had its share of petty crimes, of course, but there were rumblings of something big happening. My undercover men couldn’t give us the details, but it could’ve been the Antiquarian or the Jester. Someone was planning to blow up the electronic grid in the city, send it into a dark informational tailspin, the like of which we’ve never seen before. Bookman must’ve known about it. He has better Intel than we do. But no Book Signal for weeks. So I became suspicious that something was afoot. Was the man sick? Was he reading the Decline and Fall?”
The Commissioner, at this point, paused and licked his moustache. I had seen this mannerism before, especially during tense moments, when his incredulity or his patience was stretched to the limit.
“Yeah, go on, Commissioner,” I said, not to belabour the point.
“Well, I did what I usually do when I’m curious about the man,” he went on. “I called my liaison, the person who knows the man better than anyone else.”
“Who’s that?”
“Sorry, that stays in the vault.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me that Bookman had gone through some sort of crisis. He was reconsidering his role as a crime fighter. He would be indisposed for a certain length of time.”
“Indisposed? What the hell does that mean?”
“You have to understand my liaison. He’s a bit of a cynic. Even though he’s been with him for a long time, he doesn’t take all the intellectual shit and high falutin’ language too seriously. He’s been around the block more than a few times, you might say. I’m not into the lexicon too well, but I’d say indisposed means no longer available.”
“Yeah, but for how long?”
“He didn’t say.”
I shook my head, put the info down on my pad, thought maybe I should embellish it, but thought the better of it. I knew who the liaison guy might be, of course, but I wanted to hear it from his own mouth. Suspicions as to Bookman’s true identity had led the paper to delve into the matter in the past. Though no one had seen the guy behind the mask, we were pretty sure of our leads. We just couldn’t publish the story. Call it community interest or home city security. We couldn’t compromise the Bookman’s camouflage, his modus operandi, his double life. Or Bibliopolis would lose the greatest crime fighter it ever had.
“Did he elaborate on the nature of this crisis?” I asked the Commissioner.
Then he gave me his little smile — or should I say half smile, half sneer, as if it was too incredible or too stupid, I couldn’t tell which.
“He just said that Bookman had had a change of heart.”
“Is he retiring, you mean?”
“Who knows?”
“What’re you going to do, Commissioner? Once the book haters and crime mongers of Bibliopolis find out what’s going on there’ll be bedlam.”
Here was where he gave me his serious look, peering at me as if I were vermin.
“The Gazette has to be with us on this,” he said. “You have to publish a fake story, Bobby Joe. The hoods and gangsters can’t know what’s going on or we’ll be in deep shit.”
“C’mon, Commish, this is our mandate. The people have to be informed. A people uninformed is more dangerous than not. You guys will eventually have to do your job without the Bookman’s help. You won’t have him forever, you know. Everything ends, Commish.”
I was feeling a little contemplative at that point and thought it better to stop my train of thought. Who was I to tell him his job? He knew his job — and I knew mine. I also knew I wouldn’t get anything else about the Bookman from him. So I asked him a few questions on how the police department would meet the challenge of fighting crime without help from a superhero. The Commish was quite matter of fact about it. One thing he said, however, piqued my interest. And I wrote it down word for word. Sometimes, he said, even super heroes can be brought to their knees by ordinary life.
The next person I saw was Domina, aka Kitty Kat.
The paper arranged a place and time, in a dingy alley in the middle of the city. As I stood in the smelly alley feeling quite stupid, she came out of the dark like a leopard, dressed in her familiar black spandex that hugged her curvaceous form like skin on a skillet. She was endowed, she was lithe, and she was lethal. Though the Comics Code Authority had forbidden the cat-o-nine, she had it fastened to her hip, ready to wield it at the least provocation. I had to be careful.
“OK, what do you want, reporter-man?” she said with a few interspersed hisses, which were hardly felicitous or feminine, though her curves put a dent in my equanimity.
“I just want to ask you a few things about Bookman.”
She gave out a sarcastic laugh. “You mean Ratman.”
“I thought you two were close.”
“Let’s just say we’ve had a parting of the ways.”
“What happened?’
She pursed her lips, touched her whip, and shook her head. The topic was still delicate, I could see.
“He thinks he’s better than me, that’s what happened.”
“Could you elaborate, please.”
Conflicting emotions played across her face, what the Romance books would call love-hate, perhaps, or even affection-disgust.
“He thinks he’s intellectually and morally superior, you moron. As if I’m beneath him or something. When it’s clearly the other way around, reporter-man. They don’t call me the Domina for nothing.”
I couldn’t corroborate this first-hand, of course, but word had it that Domina could go from tender romance to seething meowtic rage in a heartbeat. She could seduce a guy with her purrs and chirps one moment and then put the whip to him the next. Which provoked a few jokes in the City Room, I might add. She was definitely a study in contrast, if not in paradox. That a woman could be so tender in romance and so vengeful as a dominatrix made her an arch villainess to contend with. If you got on her wrong side, she could stalk you, lure you, and punish you to within an inch of your manhood. It wasn’t S & M. She had invented a whole new category in the cutting edge.
I didn’t know all the background info between her and the Bookman, but as an avid reader myself, I could imagine some of the sparks between them.
“Look, Kitty — ”
“Don’t call me that!”
“All right, Domina,” I said, taking out my pad. “Can you give me any info as to why the Bookman is indisposed, as the Commish told me?”
“He’s a coward, pure and simple,” she said. “He’s lost all his seminal fortitude. And I use my words as I use my whip. It takes more than intellectual acumen and moral turpitude to fight crime in Bibliopolis, as you well know. It takes staying power, robust vitality, courage, honour, and fearlessness in the face of crime and non-reading, what the Romans of old would call virtu. And the Bookman hasn’t got it anymore. It’s as simple as that. He’s gotten old and flaccid, reporter-man. Just hasn’t got the balls to mix with the books. Print that.”
