The Collected Short Fiction, page 133
He says, “The tragedy is that the Renfield figure wants what the master already has. Immortality. After all my searching, all my supplication, all my obeisance, I have found only a slower way of dying.”
The walls of ice molt crimson. They seep and drip.
My grip fails. Parker groans and slides past me, down the bloody ice chute into the shaft that probably goes straight past hell to China. The groan is just a sound he’s making. It doesn’t touch his eyes. I’ll never get to ask him if he’d gone undercover to bust me or to get a line on Smyth, that alleged murderer of starlets.
A moment later I’m gone too and Smyth whistles to mock my departure—
—And then I die—
—Maybe an eon passed in the void. How would I know? Mostly I spent the time falling like a stone into an abyss. There were interludes where I segued from falling into walking through a vast maze, a hedgerow of obsidian. The sky was also obsidian splintered by jags of white light. The light was so dim and so far away it might’ve been the inverse of itself. Figures moved in the distance. Moses and Maddox. I couldn’t quite catch them to see for certain. Parker paced me by trudging backwards. A bit green around the gills and sickly pale. Breathing, though. I cried out to him and he smiled and drifted away.
Sometimes Smyth’s disembodied voice echoed along the twists and turns: “I didn’t travel into the wilderness to find the dark. I brought the dark with me. The seed is inside everybody, waiting for a chance.”
Another occasion he said, “I went out there to be alone. You got what you wanted, you stupid twit?”
I realized I was probably talking to myself and in those moments of clarity the maze disintegrated and I’d be lying in that grave on the ice between my comrades, or plummeting from the sky in the plane, or kissing Conway at the Phoenix Theatre, or transfixed in a study while Ardor squelched and squealed on the wall and stodgy guests gawked at my apparition.
In every case the snow returns, and covers me—
—I wake in the summer to a good-morning blowjob, but the ruined nerves in my leg kill me and the vertigo unmans me and I scream and Conway has to hold me down until I stop. I lie there in a sweat and tell him the fog has lifted. I remember everything in Technicolor.
He cautions that I can’t trust my recollections, claims I returned to Seattle a night before I ever left and then blinks and says he didn’t say anything that crazy. He leaves red marker messages on the mirror: Where’s her body, Sam? I confront him and he kisses my ear and says I didn’t get eaten by the Ouroboros and shit out into an alternate universe. Take your meds and do your physical therapy, Sam. Where’s her body, Sam? Where’s Parker’s body? Where are they, Sam?
If I didn’t die, if this isn’t hell, then what has actually transpired is worse. Always something worse. That first night in the storm does for Moses, his fabulous parka notwithstanding. Maddox may or may not have had life in him. Parker is only strong enough to tow one of us and despite my length, I don’t weigh much. The good cop drags me back to the seashore and we await rescue near the plane’s wreckage. Along the way a diamond-hard sliver of ice or a jagged rock has torn through my overalls and sliced my thigh to the bone. I don’t feel it happen and the blood covers my legs like I’ve a lap full of rubies. We hunker for two days. Parker’s face turns black and his eyes go milky blue. He stays with me a while, and then between buffets from the north wind he’s gone.
The troopers are able to dig Pilot John’s remains from the barbeque pit. They are mystified at the bullet hole in his skull. Bits of glass in there, so the bullet was fired from the ground as he banked the plane for a pass is what they conclude. Helicopter rides, hospital wards, a long white veil over the universe come next. Ice covers the Earth, then recedes and reveals the green. I’ll never walk quite right again. I lose an ear, all my fingernails, my belief in the rational, my sanity.
Night after night I dream of Ardor and Renfield in his cell with worms, lice, and flies for sustenance. He gibbers and hoots until the count slips in and maims him, leaves him paralyzed in the shitty rags of his bedding. I follow the camera into his glazed eyeball and come out on the other side inside a cheap motel room in Van Nuys. I’m a fly on the wall during the encounter between Papa Lindstrom and his private dick and Molly Lindstrom. The shouts and the tears are flowing freely when the pimp walks in. Bullets don’t have names on them. The girl and the pimp get bundled into the dick’s Caddy for a long, lonely ride to the landfill.
I don’t have a shred of proof, but the fucking imagery is so vivid, eventually it eats away at me, plagues my waking hours. Lately, I’m convinced that nothing is real, so the unreality of this scenario assumes the same weight as anything else. Conway helps me into the suit I usually wear to funerals and drives me to the Lindstrom estate. I leave him in the car, tell him it won’t be fifteen minutes, and then I hobble inside to say the awful things I’ve got say.
Here’s the test. Here’s where I receive validation or comeuppance. Maybe it’ll be both. For a moment I hesitate on the steps while a goon named Larry approaches. It is lush and green and sweetly humid. Not a glacier in sight—
—Lindstrom charges me with the knife brandished. I’m a step ahead of the game. I drop my cane and snatch the cavalry saber from its ornamental wall hooks. Coming in I’d expected mockery, perhaps indignant outrage, the threat of arrest, and certainly the risk of getting roughed up by one of the old man’s goons. Hell, if they’d simply laughed and phoned the funny farm, it wouldn’t have surprised me. What I don’t account for is how fast the situation escalates into a killing. In retrospect, I can’t blame myself for not entirely buying that the dreams were bona fide. Crazy people believe their own bullshit and so forth.
The snarl, the savage glint in his eyes, this is the murder in L.A. reprised. Man, it’s not as if I’m a fencer, or anything. I make a haphazard swing when he gets close and there goes the knife and two of his fingers under a table. Unfortunately for both of us he doesn’t take a hint. He leans down and retrieves the knife with his left hand and I hobble forward two steps and swipe at him again, both hands wrapped around the hilt. The sword cleaves through his neck without any trouble and his head plops onto the Persian rug and rolls onto its side so those devil-dog eyes are blinking at me.
“Oh, shit,” I say.
The wife doesn’t return and there’s a hell of a mess in the parlor, so I leave. The goon doesn’t intercept me on my way out the door. I do a spit check of my reflection at the car and don’t see any blood on my suit. My hair is mussed and I’m sweating, but that’s me these days. I smile at Conway and tell him to take us home. He doesn’t suspect anything and I retreat into myself with alacrity. My brain wants to shutter the doors and call it a day. I roll down the window and breathe in the smells of grass and leaves.
A cloud swoops in and paces the car. The breeze gains an edge and snow begins to fall. My heart stops. But it’s not snow, it’s hail, and Conway hits the wipers and in a minute or two we’re through it and gliding beneath glorious blue skies. I place my hand over Conway’s and close my eyes and try not to make that transcendental journey to Alaska, or visualize Lindstrom’s mouth working up a voiceless curse.
I figure if this isn’t a dream, the cops will be waiting at the house. And they are.
Man With No Name
First published in A Mountain Walked, March 2014
Part One
The Night Birds
Nanashi dreamed he lay upon a reed mat in a strange place, dreaming of flying through darkness. Wind pushed in against the walls; it masked the cries of night birds. People had come with him, although he couldn’t remember who. Childhood friends, business associates, it was unclear. He woke within the dream to splashing, the gurgle of water through pipes, and sat upright, convulsed with fear. The others were gone. He walked from the room and along a narrow corridor lit by a yellow glow. A breeze ruffled paper streamers and caught his vaporous breath. He was naked and he carried a revolver in his left hand.
At the end of the hallway was an arch, and through the arch the air dimmed from yellow to an undersea green. The splashing grew loud. He crossed over into a chamber hewn from rock. The chamber oozed steam -- the steam wormed its way into his nose and tasted of copper and smog. Condensation dripped from the rugged ceiling into a large, deep pool. Paper lanterns bobbed on the water. This was an old and sacred place.
An attractive foreign woman, pale and blonde, stood in the way. Her kimono glowed silver and blue and white as the light shifted. Her blue and black flecked eyes were not downcast; they focused sharply upon Nanashi’s face. Her lips were painted red or black. She shook her head once in warning and stepped aside, was absorbed by the shadows of the cave.
A thick, powerful man squatted at the edge of the pool, his hairy back to Nanashi. His shoulders bunched and flexed, deformed in their pronounced development, and Nanashi thought for a moment of a washerwoman he’d seen at a riverbank, patiently wringing her laundry. Clothes had been flung everywhere, cast off with apparent abandon. He recognized the fancy jackets and designer shoes. They belonged to his brothers in arms, the members of his clan.
The man began to whistle. His position concealed his work, but there was no mistaking the fact he gripped someone’s jittering ankle, inverting it above the water while pressing down with his opposite hand. The splashing and thrashing weakened. Nanashi swung his head to the left, and saw then a sodden white mound of disjointed limbs, still quivering. He raised the pistol with impossible slowness, as though gravity had tripled.
The man looked over his shoulder. His face was the Devil’s. “You’re awake.”
Nanashi pulled the trigger again and again. Impotent sparks shot from the barrel. The revolver didn’t kick; it made no sound. Of course it had no effect.
Nanashi never made it home from closing down the disco with clan brothers Amida and Haru. He wasn’t drinking anything stronger than coffee; his chore for the evening being that of watchdog and shepherd to his comrades. A waiter hurried to their table and informed them of a call, carefully ignoring the unconscious party girls, the wasteland of overturned bottles and shot glasses. Nanashi made his way to the house phone. Older Brother Koma was on the other end. He said they were to meet at The Palace of the Sunfish in an hour. He hung up.
"Screw him," said Amida upon hearing of the summons. He spoke without opening his eyes.
"I need another drink. Nanashi, ask the guy to bring me a beer, okay?" Haru slumped on a couch, a snoring girl in a wrinkled dress flopped across his chest. Haru did not sound as if he needed another beer.
Nanashi wanted to call Yuki, but was afraid to wake her. She worked the nightshift as a cocktail waitress at another club. He imagined her fumbling around the apartment, sluggish with exhaustion, leaving a trail of shoes, hose, her skirt and panties hanging from a chair; he saw her through the frosted glass of the shower, lathering herself, then in bed, damp hair over her cheek as daylight crept through the blinds. She slept naked.
He sighed and herded his associates out of the club, ignoring their clamoring and protestations. Long ago, Nanashi learned to "do as Family say." It was that simple. He’d only argued against the wisdom of his elders once. They made Nanashi chop off his little finger at the second knuckle as a reminder. One down, one to go, joked Uncle Kojima. He had kept Nanashi's pinky in a jar of formaldehyde with those of other transgressors. A floating white garden.
And as for Nanashi, the boys hustled him across town to Doctor Yee's office and had him fitted for a nice, snug prosthetic. He tapped his fake pinky against the rim of his glass of tea, dropped it in the pocket of his nightshirt when he slept. Chewed it when he was bored.
Sworn Father Kojima was dead and Nanashi couldn’t bring himself to wax sentimental. Too bad new boss, Uncle Yutaka, was an even bigger prick than the old boss.
While their fellow gangsters waited around the lobby of The Palace of the Sunfish, Koma took Nanashi and Amida to meet with Uncle Yutaka in the Gold Room. It was evidently a momentous occasion for Koma. He'd been surlier than normal. Sweat poured from him and a blister swelled on his lip; a sure sign of nerves. Everyone must be on their best behavior when Father arrived! Uncle Yutaka was number three in the Heron syndicate. Only the Chairman, their esteemed Father Akima, and his major domo were more powerful and they left everything up to Yutaka these days. Nanashi once heard Koma was afraid Uncle Yutaka didn't like him. From what Nanashi knew of Uncle Yutaka, he figured Koma's fear was reasonable.
Uncle Yutaka was old and fat. He wore amber-tinted shooting glasses and an ice water-blue suit from the 1960s. Heavily influenced by the James Bond movies of that era, he'd bankrolled a series of straight to video Tokyo and Hong Kong spy flicks, had established himself as a poor man's Albert Broccoli. His teeth were made of porcelain and his shaky hands were spackled with liver spots. He'd been to the hospital for three heart operations in the past five years. Haru claimed their uncle's heart was monitored by a pacemaker, but nobody knew for certain.
Uncle Yutaka enjoyed foreign cigarettes. He especially preferred Camels and Pall Malls, Benson & Hedges, and vintage brands like Lucky Strike. Everybody brought him cigarettes when they returned from travels abroad; it had become a minor contest between the brothers of the Heron to see whose exotic smokes Uncle would favor during his weekly audiences at the Palace of the Sunfish. Uncle smoked palm out and vented the exhaust from the sides of his mouth. Yutaka's tinted glasses pointed dead ahead and fooled most of the gang, but Nanashi caught Uncle watching him from the corners of his eyes. Uncle's eyes were yellow and pink and small like the eyes of a Komodo.
Nanashi hadn't been following the conversation, he never did; instead, he'd rolled up his sleeve and stuck his arm into the fish tank, patiently attempting to snag one of the snappers creeping in its depths. The weight of Uncle Yutaka's cold, reptilian appraisal made him nervous and fidgety. He churned the water and the fish scattered.
"No, no, Uncle. He's just a bit…distractible, is all." Koma stood at Uncle Yutaka's shoulder. His head was large and it sat directly on the wide collar of his canary-yellow suit. Uncle Yutaka was seated at his customary table with his cronies Ichiban and Akio, both of whom were old and withered, too shrunken for their antique suits and fedoras. They were sipping scotch and smoking lots of cigarettes. The air around them was blue and foul and made them seem to float. "He's an orphan. Uncle Kojima got him from -- Brother Amida, where did we find Nanashi?
"Kyoto," Amida said. "Drunk behind a garbage can." He casually guarded the entrance to the Gold Room. He was tall and lean and dressed in a sharp red blazer with cool black shades hanging from the breast pocket.
Koma said, "He used to drink a lot. A lot, a lot. He's much better now."
“Nanashi? What the shit kind of name is that?”
“It’s just what everyone calls him,” Koma said.
Nanashi’s photo identification and birth certificate called him something else. However, those papers had been forged by yakuza agents in the government. Nanashi himself had purposefully buried his true name. His memories of childhood and youth prior to the blurred darkness of a years-long drunk were fragmentary and best forgotten.
Uncle Yutaka grunted. Smoke curled from his nostrils. "Kojima recruited him? Why on earth?" he said, as if it had never occurred to him before that moment.
"Who knows?" Koma said. "Uncle Kojima was inscrutable."
"Huh," Uncle Yutaka said. “Koma, I need to speak with you.” That was the hint to clear out, so everyone except for Koma immediately filed from the room.
They stood around smoking and comparing cell phones until Koma rejoined them a few minutes later. He said, "We've been ordered to pick up Muzaki. We'll do it tomorrow at the Fighting Dog."
“THE Muzaki? The wrestler?” Haru’s eyes bulged.
“Don’t get so excited. He’s a has-been.”
“Muzaki belongs to the Dragon. Why are we screwing with him?”
“Because Uncle says so, that’s why.”
“Yeah, but what for?”
“The guns we lost. The truck hijackings in the north. The plunger up that one brother’s ass at the train station last year.”
“The Dragons were behind all that? So, we take their mascot for revenge.”
“Not revenge,” Koma said. “Leverage. The Dragon repays us, or else. I think those assholes value him a great deal.”
“Well, he’s famous,” Amida said, not that it needed saying. “And his nightclubs are excellent. Muzaki is a very respectable businessman. The Americans love him.”
“He’s American as far as I’m concerned,” Haru said.
“Fuck them. I don’t care. I’ll pick you up in the morning.”
"Does the Chairman know about this?" Nanashi had his suspicions on that score. The Yokohama bosses weren’t supposed to do anything on this kind of scale the old men in Tokyo didn’t approve first.
"It's between Heron and Dragon. Nobody in Tokyo needs to know nothing."
Koma swung by Nanashi's place the next morning in the long cobalt Cadillac his father shipped from Detroit as a coming of age present. Koma wore a lemon suit and a fancy wide-brimmed lemon hat that scraped the roof of the cab. Amida and Haru were in the backseat looking bored. As Koma drove, he mentioned a couple of brothers would meet them at the gym in a second car. Nanashi asked who Koma had called in. Koma said he hadn't called anybody, it was Uncle Nobukazu's order. Mizo and Jiki would be waiting at the gym in the second car was all Koma knew.
Mizo and Jiki? Nanashi shook his head in disgust. The Terrible Two were crazy. They were liable to do anything and answered to no one except Uncle Yutaka or Uncle Nobukazu, the latter of whom had rescued the men from an institution for the criminally deranged. Nanashi didn't trust Uncle Nobukazu's judgment. It was commonly known he’d acquired syphilis from some party girl and it was busily eating his brain.
