12

The three of them were sitting at a round table in the Boondoggle. The tavern was crowded, though it wasn’t even that late in the day. The place was bustling and humid as hell. They had a bowl of boiled crawfish appetizers sitting between them.

He was drinking.

When did that start?

He’d never liked the taste of alcohol. Especially when he’d worked at the chemical process plant. He’d taken precautions, but he was pretty sure some of those chemicals had leeched their way under his skin.

Yet here he was downing his second beer, and it wasn’t even late afternoon.

“Y’see… Y’see, I have to prove myself. As a husband, and, and as a father,” he heard himself say. Why in the world would he admit that to these two… hoodlums. Thugs? Why would he be so forthright? Must be the booze. That’s why I shouldn’t drink, he noted, taking another belt. “I mean, I, well, I wouldn’t be doing this thing, if it wasn’t something important.”

“I hear you,” the heavier guy, Joe, said. He was in a suit and bowler hat and, despite the heat, wasn’t sweating. His mustache was heavier, bushier than his skinny partner’s. “You want to provide, and we’re gonna make sure you can do just that, pally.”

“It’s like, I began as a lab assistant, right?” he continued. “Was a good job. Real good job. So what I did, I quit to become a comedian.” Biggest mistake of his life. “I was so sure. So sure I had talent.” He got the notion watching those guys on TV. They had the audience in the palm of their hand when they were on a roll. I mean, I always made Jeannie laugh, so I figured I had a talent for that sort of thing.

“But, ha, well, look at me. I guess my talents didn’t lie in that direction,” he said. “So you see, if I just do this one big crime—”

“Hey, jeez, man,” the skinny guy said. He was rakishly built, with pointy shoulders in his suit, and he wore a slouch-type hat. His mustache was old-fashioned like a matinee idol might have worn in the 1930s. He rolled a cigarette around between his reedy lips. People smoked in the Boondoggle, even though they weren’t supposed to.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” the long-faced man said. “It’s just, if you’re sure we can get away with this thing and that nobody will know I was involved…” He shut up, worried that he was saying too much again.

“Don’t worry, friend,” Joe in the bowler said. “We’ll take care of you.” He picked up a crawfish, plucked off its head, and stuffed it in their guest’s mouth, leaving the tail hanging out. “We need your help getting through that chemical plant where you worked,” the man continued, “to the playing card company next door. We really appreciate your expertise.”

“So, like, to absolutely guarantee nobody connects you with the robbery…” The skinny guy pulled a fancy, old-fashioned carpet bag out from under the table. It looked like something from the 1800s. He opened it and held it up. “…you’ll be wearing this.”

What the hell?

Inside the bag was a bright red, tube-like thing, round on the top. It looked like the sort of domed covering he’d seen on the clock on his grandmother’s mantle. But this was larger, and opaque, and it looked like it would fit over his entire head down to the shoulder blades. The jangled comedian took the dangling crawfish out of his mouth, spitting out pieces of the creature.

“Wearing…?” he said, confused. The thing looked vaguely familiar. “B-but there are no eye slits. I won’t even be able to see.” This had to be a joke. Maybe they’re testing me, to see if I’ll go along with them. To his right side Bowler Hat busied himself tearing apart another crawfish, pulling its spindly legs off one by one.

“There’s these lenses o’ red two-way mirror glass set into it,” the skinny guy said. “Pretty smart stuff, right?” He smiled a thin smile.

“I dunno. That mask…” the long-faced man said. “Isn’t it the one that Red Hood guy wears, who raided that ice company last month?”

“Smarten up.” Skinny closed the bag again and put it on the floor. “There ain’t no ‘Red Hood.’ There’s just a buncha guys, anna mask.”

His heavy associate downed the crawdad and nodded. “Right! It doesn’t matter who’s under the hood. We just sort of let the most valued member of the mob wear it for, uh, additional anonymity.” He made it sound like the most logical thing in the world. Behind him a pro was chatting up a sailor.

“Sure,” the skinny guy said. “The most valued member. That’s you, man.” He picked up a crawfish and started to shuck it. His partner followed suit.

Somewhere in the bar, someone threw up.

The would-be comedian wanted to believe them. This could solve all of his problems, give them a new start.

“Ah, look,” he said, “really, I don’t know… that chemical plant’s so grim and ugly. That’s partly why I quit.” That and what they were making there. Stuff for the military, “worse than Agent Orange,” he told Jeannie. And there were things he couldn’t tell her. Psychoactive drugs. Compounds tested on people without their knowledge. There had been a slip-up, and he’d gotten a dose.

God, he hoped it didn’t affect the baby…

“But you said there’s minimal security, man,” Skinny said.

“Listen, do you want to raise your kid in poverty?” Joe added. They continued to tear the limbs off of crawfish.

He buried his head in his hands.

“No, no, of course not. You’re right,” he said. “I mean, it’s just this once, then I can switch neighborhoods and start a proper life.” With a real home, and a proper school for his son. He’d give Jeannie the sort of existence she deserved.

“That’s the attitude,” Joe said, patting him on the shoulder. Why were people always patting him on the shoulder? “So… next Friday night, at eleven?”

The man who would be funny nodded tentatively, laughing a little as the stress lifted from him. “Sure,” he said. “Sure, why not? Friday it is. And then, starting from Saturday morning, I’ll be rich.” He liked the sound of that. “I can’t imagine it. My life’s going to be completely changed! Nothing’s going to be the same…

“…not ever again.”