Cop cars were tearing up and howling like loons. ‘Hear that?’ said Atom. ‘Blince is a cop flushed down the pan and grown huge in the sewers. His insanity’s a matter of public record. We got only minutes to get set for the yelling cells.’
‘What are you drivin’ at, shamus?’ snapped Thermidor. ‘What are you drivin’ at? What gives you the credentials to take the wheel?’
‘I told you, we’re sitting on dynamite. The one time Blince got near a fact his hair caught fire. Now these fashionable events can be explained in a way which could work in our favour and I believe I can perform the deep stitching required. We can bolster the credence later. You see, it’s the details that lodge in the discriminating mind. It’s true, isn’t it? The easiest way to start out is to make use of a wrong. And don’t go for something lame. Look at your gatman Cortez, flaw drawn, eyes like a surlyguy bust, stubble like a sticklebrick. In four to six years he’ll head the mob, in seven he’ll be crazier than a shithouse rat and the leftovers’ll go to Betty. We can use that. Young blood on the ascendant, lotta stiffs, we need a fall guy.’
‘I don’t like that,’ said Cortez tightly.
‘Neither do I,’ muttered Thermidor slowly, squinting at Cortez. ’Atom, how d’you survive more than a minute crackin’ this wise?’
‘I don’t know,’ Atom conceded. ‘It worries me, actually.’
‘You oughta worry.’
‘Okay, okay. So Cortez doesn’t step off. How ’bout Joanna here?’
‘The lummox? This cornfed waterhead?’
‘Why not? Sure he’s in a biological no-man’s-land but that makes him the perfect blank for the cops’ impression. Look at him. He’s the one for that. Dumb and visible, shaves with a sandblaster - can’t say fairer than that can we? We’ll tell them over and over that he masterminded the whole thing. Then we let the tide come in on him.’
‘Yuh really think this all-terrain moron’s our ticket outta here?’ asked Thermidor. ‘What’s the motive?’
‘Well, let’s see.’
‘I like bunny rabbits,’ offered Joanna.
‘There you go - Joanna wanted to quit the loop to start a rabbit home in the country, and for that he needed money. He attached a limpet mine to his ass and entered the stronghold demanding a substantial sum in return for your survival. You mocked him, called him a clown, threw a sprout at him, even. Joanna pulled the ripcord but the mine flubbed and the entire mob erupted into mocking laughter. Joanna said - remember this, Joanna - “You’ll pay for this”, and fled weeping into the night.’
‘“You’ll pay for this,”’ frowned Joanna. ‘For the rabbits?’
‘Stow it, cracker,’ snapped Thermidor.
‘Let him alone,’ muttered Kafka, then repeated it at a yell.
‘As he passed the Brain Facility the mine went off,’ Atom continued, ‘knocking the building flat but leaving Pro-Magnon Hitman here standing. And who ran by at that moment but Harry Fiasco. Knowing he was a mob boy, Joanna brought him into a scheme to draw the cops down on Thermidor, the man who’d mocked him.’
‘Oh, it’s ridiculous,’ muttered Mr Turow vaguely. ‘Why ever would Fiasco do that?’
‘Because Joanna saw him wearin’ spandex. Spandex which you forced upon him, Turow, having trapped him in a steel corral on the outskirts of the city. With a dozen other unfortunates. Only he escaped, and you couldn’t take that. You chased him in a serrated armoured car like a giant grater. And you kept on pursuing him as Joanna’s plot proceeded. The assigning of value to a random object, something he found on the ground, a brain. Stir a fuss around it - get Thermidor to think it’s the true and only spice. Get Harry sent up with his story, pointing to the mob. And meanwhile folk are goin’ oblong all over town. That was you too, eh Joanna? And you let every tell tale ingredient simmer, till any killing initiated naturally garnered the hell experienced policemen invariably store snug amid their sadness for just such a time.’
‘So what was I doin’ through all this?’ asked Thermidor.
‘Carving tiny little firearms for doll houses. With your one eye you’re a dab hand at that kinda close work. You were seeking a patent for the notion when Fiasco was arrested, breaking your flow. Sam “Sam” Bleaker can attest to the night you dressed up as Santa Claus and wept till your beard dropped away like heated snow, berating aloud the tender complexity of the human heart.’
Sitting on the edge of an armchair, Sam ‘Sam’ Bleaker baby-dandled a gun on his knee. He frowned. ‘Then what did I do?’
‘You gave him a marshmallow. Then you went to Silencer over here and said, “That’ll keep him busy for a while”, and you both went sniggering for a naked midnight swim. That was the real start of your love for eachother. The next day you were married in secret. As the priest mumbled words misleading and sacred, you saw yourselves as dryads of combat, heroes abandoned by moral hurry. Your death-hemmed, bloodshot eyes closed upon eachother that evening in the beauty of dumb luck and exhaustion. You’re closer than heaven and hell, and you’d go to the mat for eachother.’
Sam ‘Sam’ Bleaker looked at Silencer, who moved his mouth silently. Sam turned to Atom. ‘He says he can’t swim.’
‘Let that slide.’
‘What I do after eatin’ the mallow?’ asked Thermidor.
‘You fell into a deep sleep,’ Atom explained. ‘And you dreamt you were being crowned King in some ancient ceremony. Even as the crown descended, a rainbow butterfly flittered across the scene and was trapped between the crown and your undead hair. To remove it would disturb the routine and so the beauty was ignored amid the grey blare to its expiry. Deeply affected, you woke with a plan to have yourself declared an official currency and read your worth every day in the rags. You entered an elevator and told a man reading such a rag that over and above everything, charm was out. “Indeed,” said this guy urbanely, turning a page. “I run a dog pound.” Your stomach turned over as the elevator slowed to a stop, the lights dimming briefly. “Hello,” says the man, “must be pumping out a dungeon.” The man’s taking a watermask and breathing apparatus from his briefcase and strapping it on, adjusting the mouthpiece and bracing himself. “What’s going on,” you shout. The man looks round at you and, surprised, says something incomprehensible, pointing at his aqualung. He’s shaking you by the shoulders when water starts trickling from the doorcrack and dripping from the ceiling. The man points at the door in explanation as the trickle becomes a spray which fans and widens. The man picks up his briefcase and stands in the deepening water. You stand in the corner, sobbing. The newspaper frills and drifts in the tide. The lights go out and the man says something through his mouthpiece. The water’s up to your knees and you wade to another corner, feeling the wall in pitch blackness. You reach up and the ceiling moves easily at your touch - you hear a hatch rattle and bang like the lid of a cookie tin. Punching it open, you jump and clasp onto the edges, hoisting yourself up and gasping with your exertions. The man begins protesting through his mouthpiece and pulling at your legs. Kicking downward and struggling through, you stand and look about you. A dazzling light’s shining in your eyes, and you hear gasps of laughter from somewhere in front of you. You stumble forward and shield your eyes, finding with dismay that you’re standing on a theatre stage before a large audience. Sensing your embarrassment they grow silent and apprehensive - some snigger cruelly. You shuffle forward, your pants sopping wet. “Where’s the hotel?” you demand. To your surprise, the audience roars with laughter, and some of them even applaud. You squint down at the prompter’s box - tears of hilarity stream down the prompter’s face. You look out once again at the auditorium. “I have lost my way,” you state. Shrieks of mirth echo about the theatre - you peer about for the exit as the laughter subsides, and bang on the backdrop with your fists. “Let me out of here,” you shout, furious. The audience roar, and when you go over and kick the prompter in the mug, you get ’em rolling in the aisles. Some are bent into impossible contortions across the backs of chairs, shuddering with hysteria. “What kinda place is this?” you demand. You leap from the stage and grab someone in the audience by the scruff of the shirt, but lower your fist on seeing the man’s so helpless with laughter he couldn’t answer you if he wanted to. You dash up the centre aisle, and a few people try to touch you as you pass - even the doorman chuckles tearfully, expressing his gratitude between gasps. Everyone seems to have nothing but admiration for you. Outside the theatre house there’s posters of you everywhere, grinning and wearing a top hat. It’s night, raining, and you hail a cab. When you’re off and you mention where you wanna go, the driver tells you the hotel was destroyed twenty years ago by Chinamen. “Pardon me?” you ask, leaning forward. The driver tilts around - he’s got the rotten head of a goat. White foam’s about its teeth and its eyes are turned upward in its head. Tires begin squealing and the driver wobbles lifelessly as the car mounts the sidewalk and plunges into a storefront. A burglar alarm’s ringing and distant dogs bark as you stumble out of the wreckage and through a shower of water geysering from a hydrant. Detail, Thermidor, you see what I’m saying?’
‘Wait a minute this is my life we’re talkin’ about here,’ Thermidor protested. ‘I’m awake and what happens?’
Atom ignored him. ‘In all fairness to Joanna he bolstered his hand with Kitty over there, telling her if she gave false data on Harry he’d tell her a foolproof way ahead in life, a way to use the gifts she’s got instead of the gifts she thinks she’s got. Deal’s a deal, as the K-man says.’
‘You sayin’ I got the cops onto Harry?’
‘I’m giving you an out.’
Kitty snorted. ‘Listen buster, I never told a thing, not one thing.’
‘Sure, angel. But what’s more he said if you didn’t shoot your mouth off he’d tear you down like a curtain and leave you face-down in regret. You felt ... how would you feel?’
‘So I’d feel ... I guess I ... felt trapped?’
‘Trapped, sure. Like candy in a store window. Ofcourse you spouted, and got your reward.’
‘Well what kinda big wisdom did this guy give me?’ Kitty challenged him, interested now. Atom came over and leant to her ear, whispered, and moved away again. Kitty’s laughter was cold and happy as a dawn.
‘So what about the fat guy?’ demanded Thermidor.
Kafka, jealously admiring Kitty’s ability to evade the eye, was startled when the mob boss pointed at him.
‘He’s nothing,’ Atom stated, ‘irrelevant - you could shoot a dozen like him in any corner drugstore. His only distinction is his former champion status in the noble art of British gut-barging, in which his ring name was “Bigbelly Head Charge” or “The Fender”. He came to prominence at the turn, and was known for the pre-match taunting of his opponent with the bellowed phrase “I consider that I am significantly better than you at gut-barging”. His victory swan-dives into the audience were legendary in the annals of personal injury litigation. He was network gold until he was kidnapped and placed on an enforced diet, then released slender and fit minutes before a fight. The appearance of this quailing reed in the ring was the beginning of the end in the media’s eyes and now, despite pigging out for years, he’s reduced to opening stores in his old glitter belts. In the wrong place at the wrong time, he found himself being embroiled in dismal conversation with Turow, who was by now hanging onto a frayed rope over a yawning chasm of personal failure. Attempting to escape he dressed up as a woman but just looked like a lamp on steroids. His photograph was taken and used on the cover of a specialist magazine, and for shame he cannot leave this small room. Thermidor forced entry with the crowbar of kindness, searing the sufferer with his charity. Sam “Sam” Bleaker and Silencer danced attendance while Cortez waited in the wings to strike, and Joanna and all his coerced crew descended like a hard rain on the innocent Eddie. Jed’s here as food, Maddy’s here as witness to our folly, and the ghost of George Washington lives in the thermostat. Something for everybody eh, K-man?’
‘So the galoot steps off. What do we do with Turow?’ asked Thermidor.
‘Drown him in rosewater.’
‘Why you -’ Turow tussled with himself, petulant and gasping. ‘You deserve to drown in your own mucus, you ...’
‘You’re a sick little puppy aint you Turow?’ barked Thermidor. ‘I’m kinda reluctant to admit you into my life. What about the polygraph, gumshoe? The third degree?’
‘I got the word on that,’ said Atom, and related the replies for the Wittgenstein control questions. These responses were a valued secret:
‘Is there a rhino in the room?’
‘No.’
‘What evidence do you have?’
‘The evidence of my senses.’ (This last reply was later modified to ‘Eyewitness testimony.’)
The test was intended to establish the subject’s interpretational clarity and eliminate postmodern fuzz. Once the correct responses were recited, the subject was free to spout whichever nonsense he favoured. ‘So there it is,’ said Atom, and turned to DeCrow. ‘Ever seen the read-out needles on a polygraph, Doc? Like the legs of a crushed cranefly, flickering.’
DeCrow advanced from the shadow of a corner and faced Atom across the crowded room. ‘Enough,’ he croaked. ‘Can’t you see what he’s done? He’s brainwashed you all! His mouth is a Mecca for bullshit! How can we be cheerful with the devil among us?’
‘Some people are led by an evil destiny,’ said Maddy.
‘Feeling left out, Doc?’ Atom asked. ‘DeCrow here’s the inventor of the bendy hearse, everyone. Though clearly in or perhaps beyond his declining years, he recently had a moral circuit breaker installed so that -’
‘Enough, I said - if you think you can bring me here at fishpoint to listen to this garbage, you’re just perhaps as mad as you pretend.’
‘Go tell it to the lard mountain.’
‘I intend to. And about you dispensing alibis up here, about the tank monster and that three-ring circus you call a detective agency.’
‘I don’t call it anything.’
‘But you call yourself a detective,’ snarled Turow, taking out Atom’s business card. ‘Or are you the “defective” Joanna said you were?’
‘Take a swatch,’ said Atom. ‘You people came to me.’
Looking at the card, Turow was gaping like an order clown in a drive-through. Thermidor snatched it from him. ‘Defective,’ he read. ‘What’s the big idea?’
‘The Candyman hired you!’ squeaked Turow.
‘Who said I was for hire?’
‘We paid you!’
‘Not me. Tough to see a bulge on Joanna aint it?’
‘You mean ... Joanna kept the money! Joanna!’
‘Where’s the galoot?’ demanded Thermidor, starting about.
Atom gestured at the open door. Joanna had slipped away like a glacier. Squadcar cherrylights pulsed across the ceiling. Atom laughed low.
‘You’re gonna pay for this, Atom,’ growled Thermidor, ‘you and all your brain-eatin’ friends! You used that modality and you know it!’
‘K-man - gimme that little engine in your pocket.’
Kafka fished the Beretta automatic from his jacket pocket and handed it to Atom.
‘The old graphic equaliser,’ Atom said. ‘I took it off DeCrow. But it aint for you people. I’m a fair man.’ Atom went to the drinks cabinet, put the gun on the flip-down table and backed away. ‘You and me are an equal distance from the steamer, Doc - about five feet each way, I think. Take it back - I’ll try to stop you.’
The ghost of a smile passed through DeCrow. ‘These deceptions are perennial.’
‘You don’t need my blessing to think so - why tell me about it?’
‘What is this shit?’ roared Thermidor.
‘Keep out!’ shouted Atom.
A bony branch whipped from DeCrow’s centre to the gun - Atom kicked upward at the fliptable, slamming it on the limb. DeCrow jettisoned the arm, shrieking as he fanned open, dropping his cover and shooting stalks and whiplike wires to the room’s corners. Glimpsing a dark gut of wagging flagella and thoracic spoilers, the assembled crew began to scream like infants. DeCrow’s face bivalved to hatch a wet black beak.
I am the one who is screaming the loudest, thought Sam ‘Sam’ Bleaker, and bolted with the other flunkeys.
Remaining in the room, Madison, Jed and K looked on as Atom retrieved the 62F and kicked aside the ditched palp. ‘Here it is, DeCrow. To adopt your camouflage you had to establish what’s normal around here - you never could.’
DeCrow rattled, fiddling feelers and crouching to spring. ‘What are you.’
‘The bluff-caller.’
Atom fired - DeCrow’s head blew apart like an artillery shell, leaving a broken bowl drifting smoke. His body collapsed like a clothes rack.
The mob were bellowing down the stairwell, punching eachother aside, and exploded onto the street. White light slammed on, halting them. ‘You have the right to remain silent as the grave,’ yelled Chief Blince. The crowd surged forward, scrabbling at Blince’s sleeves and shouting plaintive yarns.
‘Spandex?’ said Blince. Squadlights flared like the coals of hell.