A bad thing had happened. No, a “Bad Thing” had happened. A man in
Fremont, Nebraska cheated an honest old lady, and no one seemed able to
make him retract his deed to set things right. It went on helplessly for
the old lady for more than forty years. Then, one day, she told a
friend. Now I will tell you a story. Or a true anecdote. For those who
wish this to be “a story I never wrote,” have at it; for those who
choose to believe that I am recounting a Real Life Anecdote, I’m down
with that, equally: your choice.
Once upon a time, not so long ago…
A man in an 8th floor apartment in New York City lay in his bed,
asleep. The telephone beside him rang. It was a standard 20th Century
instrument, not a hand-held device. It was very late at night, almost
morning, but the sun had not yet risen over the decoupage skyline of
Manhattan. The telephone rang again.
He reached across from under the sheet and picked up the phone. A
deep male voice at the other end said, very slowly and distinctly, “Are
you awake?”
“Huh?”
“Are you awake enough to hear me?”
“Whuh? Whozizz?”
“Are your bedroom windows open…or shut?”
“Whuh?”
“Look at the curtains!”
“Whuh…whaddaya…”
“Sit up and look at the curtains. Are they moving?”
“I…uh…”
“Look!”
The man’s three-room apartment was on an airshaft in mid-Manhattan.
It was in the Fall, and cold. The windows in his bedroom were tightly
closed to shutter out the noises from the lower apartments and the
street below. The curtains were drawn. He slumped up slightly, and
looked at the curtain nearest him. It was swaying slightly. There was no
breeze.
He said nothing into the phone. Silence came across the wire to him. Dark silence.
A man, more a shadow, stepped out from behind the swaying curtain and
moved toward the man in the bed. There was just enough light in the
room for the man holding the phone in his hand to see that the man in
black was holding a large raw potato, with a double-edged razor blade
protruding from its end. He was wearing gloves, and at the end of the
gloves, at the wrists, just slightly outstanding, the man in the bed
could see the slippery shine of thin plastic food-service gloves. The
man in black came to the bed, stood over the half-risen sleeper, and
reached for the phone. Keeping the slicing-edge of the razor blade well
close to the neck of the man imbedded against the pillow, he took the
receiver with his free hand.
From across the line: “Just say yes or no.”
“Yes, okay.”
“Is he sitting up?”
“Yes.”
“Can he see you…and whatever you have at his throat?”
“Yeah.”
“Give him back the phone. Do nothing till I tell you otherwise.”
“Okay.” He handed the receiver back to the man quivering beneath the razor blade. The eyes of the man below were wide and wet.
Across the line: “Do you believe he’s serious?”
“Huh?”
“All I want from you is yes or no.”
“Who’re…”
“Give him the phone.” Pause. Again: “Give him the phone!”
The frightened man handed back the instrument.
“I’ve told him to say yes or no. If he says anything else, any filler, any kind of uh-huh-wha…can you cut him?”
“Yes.”
“Not seriously, the first time. Let him see his own blood. Make it
where he can suck it and taste it.” The man in black said nothing, but
handed the receiver back, laying it tight to the other man’s ear. “Now,”
came the motionless voice out of nowhere, “are you convinced he’s
serious and can do you harm? Yes or no?”
“Listen, whoever the hell you are…”
The potato swept down across the back of the man’s hand, from little
finger to thumb. Blood began to ooze in a neat, slim line, but long,
almost five inches. He dropped the phone on the bed, blood made an
outline on the top sheet. He whined. It may have been the sound of a
stray dog sideswiped by a taxi in the street far below, faint but
plangent. The man with the razor-in-a-potato reached toward the pale
white throbbing throat and nodded at the dropped phone. All else was
silence.
Sucking on his knuckles, he lifted the instrument with a trembling, slightly-bleeding hand; and he listened. Intently.
“Now. Listen carefully. If you say anything but yes or no, if you
alibi or try to drift in anything but a direct, straight answer, I have
told him to get a thick towel, jam it into your mouth so no one will
hear you scream as he slices you up slowly. And your brother Billy. And
your mother. Do you understand?”
He began to say, “…uh…” The potato moved slightly. “Yes,” he said quickly, in a husky voice, “yes. Yes, I understand.”
The level, determined voice off in the distance said, “Very nice. Now we can get down to it.”
The man in the bed, with morning light now glinting through the
curtains and shining off the razor blade poised quivering near his
throat said, “Yes.”
“You hold a painting by a nearly-forgotten pulp magazine artist named
Robert Gibson Jones…” The voice paused, but the man beneath the
razor-blade knew it was merely a lub-dub, a caesura, a space in which,
if he said the no or I don’t know what you’re talking about or it’s at my cousin’s house in Queens or I sold it years ago or I don’t know who bought it or
any other lie, his body would be opened like a lobster and he would lie
in his own entrails, holding his still-beating heart in his
fingertipless hands. Throat cut ear to ear. Immediately.
He said nothing, and in a moment the voice at the other end
continued, “You have been offered three purchase prices by four bidders.
Each of them is eminently fair. You will take the middle bid, take the
painting in perfect condition, and sell it this morning. Is that clear?”
The man holding the phone, whose blood was now pulsing onto the
bedspread, said nothing. The voice from Out There commanded, “Give the
phone to…” He held the instrument out to the dark figure poised above
him. The potato-blade man took the phone and listened for a few seconds.
Then he leaned close enough to the other so the man snugged in his
pillow could see only the slightly less-black line where the knit
watch-cap covering the potato-man’s head gave evidence he had eyes. No
color discernible. “Is that clear?” Then he said into the phone, “Says
he understands,” and he listened for a few more moments. There was
moisture at the temples of one of the men in the bedroom. The connection
was severed; the razor blade sliced through the cord of the telephone
receiver; the man in the bed was swiping at the back of his left hand,
sucking up the slim tracery of blood. The figure all in black said, “Now
close your eyes and don’t open them till I tell you to.”
When the bleeding man finally opened his eyes, a minute or two after
total silence, even though he thought he’d heard a bump of the apartment
door to the hall closing…he was alone.
An haute couture newsletter editor on le Rue Montaigne dans le huite arrondissement, greatly hacked-off at her third Editorial Secretary, demanded an appearance, en masse,
of all her “verticals,” the 21st Century Big Business electronic word
for “serfs,” minions,” “toadies,” “go-fors,” “vassals,”
“water-carriers,” “servants.” Slanguage today. She fired five of them.
The wind blew insanely near the northern summit of Mt. Erebus in
Antarctica.
Within the hour, one of two thin-leather driving gloves, black in
color, had been weighted with stones from the East River and sealed with
a piece of stray wire from a gutter, and had been tossed far out into
the Hudson. Another glove, same color, filled with marbles from a
gimcrack store on Madison Avenue, sealed with duct tape, went into the
Gowanus Canal in Brooklyn. Items were dropped in dumpsters in New
Jersey; a pair of common, everyday, available-everywhere disposable
gloves used by food-handlers were shredded, along with five heads of
cabbage, in an In-Sink-Erater in a private home in Rehoboth,
Massachusetts. One of a pair of undistinguished off-brand sneakers was
thrown from a car on the New Jersey Turnpike into the mucky deep sedge
forty feet from the roadway. The other piece of footwear was buried two
feet under a garbage dump in Saranac Lake, A day and a half later. But
quickly.
But only three hours and twenty-one minutes after the closing of a
door in mid-Manhattan, a man in an 8th floor apartment called a woman in
McLean, Virginia, who said, “It’s a little early to be calling so
unexpectedly after what you said last time we talked, don’t you think?”
The conversation went on for almost forty minutes, with many question
marks hindering its progress to an inevitable conclusion. Finally, the
woman said, “It’s a deal. But you know you can never hang it or
display it, is that okay with you?” The man said he understood, and they
agreed at what time to meet on the third stairwell of the Flatiron
Building to exchange butcher-paper-wrapped parcels.
In a second-floor flat in London, a man removed one of three
hardbacked books from a stylish slipcase. He took the book to a large
Morris chair and sat down beneath the gooseneck reading lamp. He glanced
to the wall where the overflow of light illuminated a large and
detailed painting of a long-extinct prehistoric lepidopteran. He
smiled, addressed his attention back to the book, turned a few pages,
and began reading. In a shipping office in Kowloon, a young woman
badly-trained for her simple tasks placed a sheet of paper from a
contract in the wrong manila folder, and for days, across three
continents, “verticals” raged at one another.
Sixty-five minutes after the exchange of parcels at the Flatiron
Building in New York, a 70 lb. triangular concrete cornice block did not somehow
unpredictably come loose from a construction pile being hoist on
pulleys above Wabash Avenue in Chicago, but a white man whose collar fit
too snugly did not, also, go to his office at the international
corporate office where he was a highly-paid Assessment Officer: instead,
he made a dental appointment, and later in the day he removed his
daughter from the private pre-school she had been attending. Nothing
whatever happened in the Gibson Desert in west central Australia;
nothing out of the ordinary.
In London, a man sat reading under a painting of a butterfly. For every action…
However inconsequential it may seem…
There is an equal and opposite reaction in the River of Time that
flows endlessly through the universe. However unseen and utterly
disconnected it may seem.
Every day, in Rio de Janeiro, late in the afternoon, there occurs a
torrential downpour. It only lasts a few minutes, but the wet, like
bullets, spangs off the tin roofs of the favellas beneath the statue of Christ the Redeemer. Onthis day, at the moment nothing was happening in the Gibson Desert, the rain did not fall, the Avenida Atlantica was dry and reflective. Pernambuco had hail.
Later that day, a trumpet-player in a fusion-rock band in Cleveland,
Ohio heard from a distant cousin in Oberlin, who had borrowed fifty
dollars for a down-payment on a Honda Civic ten years earlier and had
never bothered to repay him. She said she was sending a check
immediately. He was pleased and told the story to his friend, the lead
guitarist in the group. Four hours later, during a break in that night’s
gig, sitting in just a clue y’know, a woman unknown to either of them
drifted up between them, smiled and inquired, “How are ya,” and in the
course of a few minutes’ conversation both the guitarist and the trumpet
player recounted the unexpected windfall of the stale fifty dollar
repayment. They never saw her again. Never.
Even later that day, a hanging ornament from a 4th Century BCE Dagoba
stupa originally from Sri Lanka, missing from a museum in Amsterdam
since 1964, was mailed to a general post office box in Geneva,
Switzerland stamped
STOLEN PROPERTY ADVISE INTERPOL
Stamped in red. Hand-stamped. At the Elephant Bar of the Bangkok
Marriott, a Thai businessman was approached by the bartender, extending a
red telephone. “Are you Mr. Mandapa?” The gentleman looked up from his
Gin Sling, nodded, and took the receiver. “Hello yes; this is Michael
Mandapa…” and he listened for a few seconds, smiling at first. “I don’t
think that’s possible,” he said, softly, no longer smiling. Listened,
then: “Not so soon. I’ll need at least a week, ten days, I have to…” He
went silent, listened, his face drew taut, he ran the back of his free
hand across his lips, then said, “If it’s raining there, and it’s
monsoon, you will do what you have to do. I’ll try my best.”
He listened, sighed deeply, then put the phone back in its cradle on
the bartop. The bartender noticed, came, and picked up the red
telephone. “Everything o-kay?” he said, reading the strictures of Mr.
Mandapa’s face. “Fine, yes, fine,” Mr. Mandapa replied, and left the
Elephant Bar without tipping the man who had unknowingly saved his life.
Somewhere, much earlier, a man stepped on, and crushed beneath his boot, a dragonfly, a Meganeura.
The next morning, at eight AM, four cars pulled up in front of a
badly-tended old house in Fremont, Nebraska. Weeds and saw-grass were
prevalent. The day was heavily overcast, even for a month that usually
shone brightly. From the first car, a Fremont police cruiser, stepped a
man wearing a Borsalino, and from beside and behind him, three uniformed
officers of the local Police Force. The second car bore two Nebraska
State Troopers; and in the third car were a man and a woman in dark
black suits, each carrying an attaché case. The fourth car’s doors
opened quickly, wings spread, and four large men of several colors
emerged, went around and opened the trunk, and took out large spades and
shovels. The group advanced on the house, the Sheriff of Fremont,
Nebraska leading the phalanx.
He knocked on the sagging screen door three times.
No one came to the closed inner door. He knocked again, three times.
An elderly white woman, stooped and halting and gray, and dusted with
the weariness of difficult years, opened the inner door a crack and
peered at the assemblage beyond the screen door. Her tone was mid
between startled and concerned: “Yes?”
“Miz Brahm?”
“Uh, yeah…”
“We’re here with a search warrant and some legal folks, that lady and
gentleman there…” He nodded over his shoulder at the pair of black
suits, “…they’ve been okay’d by the Court to go through your propitty,
lookin’ for some books your son took to sell on ebay or whatever, for a
lady back East in New York. Is Billy here?”
“Billy don’t live here no more.” She started to close the door. The
Sheriff pushed his palm against the screen door, making an oval
depression. “I asked you if Billy was here, Ma’am.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“May we come in, please?”
“You g’wan, get offa my property!”
At the same moment Miz Brahm was ordering the Sheriff of Fremont,
Nebraska off her porch, in Mbuji-Mayi, near the Southern border between
The Democratic Republic of the Congo and Zambia, a representative of
Doctors Without Borders found his way to a small vegetable garden
outside three hut-residences beyond a wan potato field. He carried two
linen-wrapped packages, and when a nut-brown old man appeared at the
entrance to the largest hut, he extended the small parcels, made the
usual obeisance, and backed away quietly. Miz Brahm was still arguing
with the Nebraska State Troopers and the men with shovels, and the duo
in black suits, but mostly with the Sheriff of Fremont, Nebraska,
nowhere near Zambia, There was, however, thunder in the near-distance
and darkening clouds. The air whipped frenziedly. A drop of rain
spattered on a windshield.
The argument would not end. Inevitably, the officers of the law grew
impatient with diversionary answers, and yanked the screen door away
from its rusted latch. It fell on the porch, Mis Brahm tried to push the
front door closed on the men, but they staved her back, and rushed in.
Shouts, screaming ensued.
A hairy, unshaven man with three pot-bellies charged out of a back
hall, a tire iron double-fisted behind his head; he was yowling. One of
the State Troopers clotheslined him, sending him spawling onto his back
in the passageway. Miz Brahm kept up a strident shrieking in the
background; one of the attorneys—when attention was elsewhere—chopped
her across the throat, and she settled lumpily against a baseboard.
“That ain’t Billy,” Miz Brahm managed to gargle, phlegm and spittle serving as consonants. “Thas his broth-er!”
One of the Troopers yelled, “Let’s get ’em both!” He pulled his sidearm and snarled at the downed tri-belly, “Where’s yer brother?”
“You ain’t gonna take neither of ’em!” screamed the old lady: a
foundry noon-whistle shriek; she was pulling a rusty hatchet out from
behind a chifferobe. The Trooper kneecapped her. The hatchet hit the
linoleum.
Four hours later two of the men with shovels, who had been stacking
and restacking magazines, digging out rat nests and spading up rotted
floorboards, found Billy hiding in the back corner of the last storage
quonset behind the property. He tried to break through the wall, and one
of the laborers slammed the spade across the back of his head. The
search went on for the rest of that day, into the next, before the
attorneys were satisfied. The weed-overgrown property was a labyrinth
filled with tumbling-down shelves and closets, bookcases, cardboard
boxes piled so high that the ones on the bottom had been crushed in:
vintage pulp fiction magazines, comic books in Mylar sleeves, corded
sheaves of newspapers, and the forty-seven pieces Billy had cozened out
of the old woman Back East.
The next day, the entire family was in custody, and at the same time,
but eight hours later by the clock, Greenwich Mean Time, the man in
London who had been reading “The Red-Headed League” closed the book,
looked long at the wonderful painting of an ancient butterfly above the
mantel, smiled and said, “Ah, so that’s how it all comes together. ‘Omne ignotum pre magnifico.’ Clever.”
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