Fickle Page 25

  There’s an ambulance, rear doors open. There’s an old lady in a shapeless grey dress propped against it, surrounded by a couple of stout cops. She’s frail, with yellow skin that seems to glow with decay even in the fading light, and long tendrils of wispy white hair escaped from some sort of chignon to float round her head. She slaps around herself as if at imaginary gadflies, apparently hostile to the idea of some paramedic forty-five years her junior pushing an oxygen mask against her face. The black kid with the mask seems ready to cram it in place if only to shut her up. It takes a moment for me to recognize her as an old biddy I’d barely registered as existing on my various visits to the house, although I have a general impression of her peeking through a crack in the dining room door at the Colonel once or twice while I’d been visiting, as if seeking some signal before creaking off to roost. The nickname “Chalkie” or some other backstairs affectation comes to mind, but I have no recollection of ever having heard a meaningful exchange between her and the Colonel, so I could be conjuring that up on the basis of how bloodless she looks.

  Next I see the front door of the Colonel’s villa open, and out from its deep shadows emerge three or four men. In the middle is Burly-Bear, looking rather hunky with his almost-spiky hair and small black sunglasses, his Burberry flapping to reveal the signature rumpled suit. These detectives cluster on the lawn as if comparing notes, and then Burly-Bear approaches the old lady as she bitches away at the medics.

  Whatever is going on, I am dying to know, but have no desire whatsoever to become part of the drama being played out up that powdered-rock drive. So I stand there, mesmerized, until suddenly I’m startled by a voice just below me, speaking in one of those querulous English accents—picture one of those silly gits Dame Agatha used to name “Badger” or “Archie.”

  Silly Git: I say, miss, are you quite all right?

  Me: What?

  I look down to see that there’s suddenly a man sitting behind the wheel of the BMW. I mean, he must have been there all along, but now he’s powered down the window and is blinking up at me through round gold-rimmed glasses. He has red hair—but not like Burly-Bear’s; this guy’s a true carrot top. Below this he has one of those long jackrabbit faces and a jaw that only a Brit could cultivate. He’s wearing some sort of belted wool coat, tweedy, and a purple bow tie. I step back from his car.

  Me: Sorry. Was I leaning?

  Silly Git: What’s that? Doesn’t matter. I’m just wondering if you’re…you look a bit unsteady, actually. Someone you know up there?

  Me: No. I mean yes, actually. I know him, the owner, and his wife, of course. I’d forgotten they had a live-in.

  Silly Git: Yes, well, one does forget the help sometimes. Tiresome, remembering absolutely everyone, I always think. But, I say, would you like to hop in, have a sit-down? You seem as if you could use one.

  He gestures behind him, and I hear the ka-chunk as he unlocks the doors. In the back seat lies one of those strappy, worn briefcases that academics carry. It doesn’t score him points insofar as my assessment of him—academics and lechery of the most perverted nature are a highly reliable match-up, in my experience.

  Me: (checking him out afresh now that he seems to be taking a stab at picking me up, or at least kidnapping me for a quick rape before throttling me with his coat belt and dumping my corpse in a leafy patch of woods somewhere near the New Hampshire border. He’s one of those wan, bony types who could be any age from thirty-five to fifty. I shudder at the idea of him holding me down with one hand pressed over my mouth as he pokes his pathetic erection against my locked thighs.) No, I’m good. Do you know what’s going on?

  Silly Git: I don’t, actually. I got the impression from the chit-chat that there’s been some sort of accident, gas fireplace on without a flame, carbon monoxide backup from the furnace exhaust, silent killer and all that, you know. Both master and missus got rushed off quite a little bit ago.

  Me: Both of them in ambulances?

  Silly Git: Well, yes, that does tend to be the vehicle of preference for these incidents, wot? (He smiles hopefully. His teeth are every bit as horrible as expected.)

  I raise my eyes and take in the scene up the driveway. The maid has been hoisted onto the stretcher and has the oxygen mask over her face, but that doesn’t mean she’s settled down. She seems to be clawing at one of the stocky men’s arms and gesticulating. Burly-Bear has walked off and is talking to another man, heads bent together. As if in slow motion, it dawns on me that the old lady is pointing down the winding drive toward the street. I move my eyes back to Burly-Bear to see his companion raise his head to gaze at the old lady, and then he peers down the drive. It’s Escroto, and I realize—suddenly and clearly—that I do not want him to see me.

  Me: (quickly) Maybe I will take that seat. (I duck myself into the back of the Silly Git’s car. Still, I don’t underestimate Escroto. Guy could spot bird turd on a rainbow.) Could you drive me to my car? It’s up there.

  Silly Git: (twisting around to view me. I get a whiff of sourballs, or his natural breath?) Looks like someone’s coming down the drive at a trot. May as well see what that’s about, eh?

  Me: (not looking) I need you to drive me now, actually. I have to get somewhere. I’m very late.

  Silly Git: (giving me a sympathetic pout and at the same time taking in my assets) Are you quite sure you’re up to driving? You look like you could use a stiff one, if I may say so.

  Me: (moving to get out) Look, you said you’d help me, but if you don’t want to, I’ll go.

  Silly Git: (quickly) Right-o. Happy to help.

  He eases off the soft cinders and rolls. I hold my breath, imagining the megaphoned order to stop. None of this happens, and Silly Git rides me around the bend and past my own car. I let him take me beyond some faux mansion with white pillars, then order him to pull over. He seems puzzled afresh, being as we’re not near any parked car, but he does as I ask and, I’m grateful to say, shoves off. I wait until he rounds a bend, then step among the gnarled branches of a little copse of yews that’s spread out of control, backing my way through the soft, prickly needles until I’m about three feet in, then slowly squat down in my evergreen cave. Hands in my pockets, I wait. In less then a half minute a sedan cruises by, silently picking up speed—it’s grey and unwashed and there are two men inside but I do not lean forward to see more. I wait until it is out of sight around the bend, then emerge from my yew hideout and walk, slowly as I dare, back past the hundred windows of the faux mansion to collect my car.

  Then I’m in my car, hands shaking as I fumble the key into the ignition. Then I’m driving, slowly, silently, smoothly away from the scene of the crime. I don’t start breathing regularly until I’m sitting in six miles of bumper-to-bumper traffic on Mem Drive. Finally I’m home. I blog about the fact that I’m not able to blog. Still, I’m with you guys. I’m safe.

  GIVE IT TO ME STRAIGHT

  chinkigirl @ February 4 06:51 pm

  fickel I am starting to worry a great deal. If it wasn’t clear before I think it’s clear now that something awful’s going on—some situation that started with a case of reckless jealousy and is now a murder spree, and though you may believe your involvement to be collateral I’m not so sure. I’m really afraid for you.

  i.went.to.harvard @ February 4 06:53 pm

  Why are you avoiding Burly-Bear? Don’t you get that he’ll help you?

  fickel @ February 4 06:55 pm

  I’m afraid of him. Don’t you get that?

  i.went.to.harvard @ February 4 06:57 pm

  I don’t, frankly. He’s a cop who happened to notice that you’re an attractive woman. He cleared your brother out for his own good—you admitted as much yourself. He’s not the danger here, but someone else is. And it seems to be Mysterious Hottie.

  webmaggot @ February 4 07:00 pm

  She can’t see past his face. We all know that guys will let a pretty chick get away with murder—well, the opposite is true, too. If the M.H. is as hot as fickel�
�s portrayed him, there’s no way she can talk herself into mistrusting him.

  marleybones @ February 4 07:02 pm

  Let’s not get patronizing. fickel is in the situation and we are not. She’s got as good a read on the people she’s dealing with as anyone. And I’ve known a couple of real shits who wore badges. Let’s lay off on second-guessing who’s a black hat and who’s a white hat.

  chinkigirl @ February 4 07:05 pm

  Okay, but another thing I’m starting to pick up that troubles me—it seems, fickel, as if you consider this blog some sort of sanctuary, as if you make the world the way you want it, just by writing it that way, and as if our concern for you affords you some sort of protection. That’s truly understandable, but it’s way, way off. You do need help. Live, flesh-and-blood protection. Pick whatever form you want. Do not mistake this chat group for the very real support you need right now. Is that totally harsh?

  fickel @ February 4 07:11 pm

  No, no it’s not harsh, but I’m not the soul caved in on herself that you seem to think I am. I’ve already called Mr. Groin—from my car, truth be told. He didn’t pick up but I left a message and, in fact, I’m seeing him tonight. I just…I’ve gotten really valuable advice on this blog, whether or not you want to credit yourselves for giving it. I need you guys as much as I need anyone right now. Don’t shove me off.

  i.went.to.harvard @ February 4 07:14 pm

  No shoving from this quarter. And VERY interested in seeing you through this.

  marleybones @ February 4 07:15 pm

  Same here. I think all of us are just airing our concerns. It’s anything but a shove-off.

  hitman @ February 4 07:16 pm

  So, lookit, not to cut off this sensitive moment, but speaking of providing “support” through our conversations—or whatever these are—I got to thinking about like how wazzup brought up the idea of the Mysterious Hottie being E, remember? So I went back and read the parts of the diary that fickel has posted, looking for clues as to whether E was the Mysterious Hottie or maybe not. I decided it was possible. I mean, everything that’s said about E that could apply to a girl could also apply to a guy, and definitely to some self-absorbed bisexual artist. However, all while I’m doing this I’m wondering in the back of my head about how someone whose name is Guy Ferguson could have a nickname starting with E. But then I come across the comment where fickel describes the diary’s handwriting as artistic. And then I have like this amazing brainstorm:

  What if Guy Ferguson wrote the diary? What if “E” is Stephen Pearle?

  So I go back and re-reread the diary excerpts as if they were written by the Mysterious Hottie about Mr. Suicide—Mr. Suicide being “E,” and it works. But don’t take my word for it, folks. Read the thing. And, fickel, you can test this theory on parts we haven’t seen.

  wazzup! @ February 4 07:20 pm

  BOY OH BOY this is like a major plot twist what I love to see!!! Mr. Hitman, YOU ROCK!!! IT’S PRACTICALLY LIKE YOU’RE FICKEL HERSELF!!!

  webmaggot @ February 4 07:24 pm

  Man, this whole thing is getting too sexually convoluted for my brain to take. Could someone just, like, do the deed in the normal way? It’s really not so bad.

  36-D @ February 4 07:25 pm

  I thought the part where fickel had sex on the table was hot. What was abnormal about that?

  webmaggot @ February 4 07:26 pm

  Except the guy is a psycho. Otherwise very normal and hot.

  chinkigirl @ February 4 07:30 pm

  I am once again floored by hitman. You really are faking that Neanderthal thing, aren’t you? I think this is a major step in our analysis. This is something you should take to Mr. G, fickel.

  fickel @ February 4 07:33 pm

  Look, I’ve skimmed some of the diary with this new perspective and I agree that it’s worth a closer look. But you folks have to remember that I don’t see the M.H. the way you do—I must be portraying him a bit off or something. He doesn’t play as a hustler. The guy looks you right in the eye when he talks to you. He was easygoing when I accused him of something and was wrong. He’s very comfortable with himself, very genuine. His clothes are not at all “sexy,” except that he’s the one who’s wearing them. And he’s a serious artist. Having seen his stuff I can’t doubt that he makes a living doing what he does best—does that sound like a jealous guy? Most important, he just doesn’t smell like a weird sex hustler gone psycho who’s watching me for any reason, whether it’s self-protection or sadism.

  Oh, and I should say that this diary is not a key to anything. It’s more of a series of letters. The last one, for those very into interpreting the thing, is a series of E’s, pages of them, all in this style of writing that isn’t like the rest of the handwriting. At the end it says “eats shit.” Makes you think, huh?

  roadrage @ February 4 07:34 pm

  Absolutely. Like I think the writer went totally off the deep end at that point.

  36-D @ February 4 07:37 pm

  I know everyone is going to jump all over me for this, but I just want to say that I have dated a lot of guys and the ones who look you right in the eye and act totally comfortable when you accuse them of something (like screwing your roommate, as a fer-instance) turn out to be the biggest scumbags. Particularly if they have blue eyes—do not ask me why but I suspect it is because they know that chicks cannot stand up against blue eyes that look directly into theirs when the guy is saying something like all he thinks about 24/7 is how many ways he’d like to do her. Guy with steady blue eyes make that sound romantic. Anyone else says it, you mace him.

  fickel @ February 4 07:39 pm

  Sigh. Not jumping on anyone right now. I did enough of that earlier. I just…well, I’ve got to get dressed if I’m going to make my meeting with Mr. Groin. Wish me luck.

  hitman @ February 4 07:40 pm

  Luck? With you, baby, it’s pure talent.

  fickel @ February 4 07:44 pm

  Why is that somehow vaguely insulting, coming from you? :)

  29

  February 4 @ 11:44 pm

  >THE GROIN SHOOTS HIS WAD<

  There’s something about the dead silence of an office building at night. Not quite real. The traffic down below was something that didn’t have anything to do with me…

  —Dick Powell’s opening monolog in Murder, My Sweet

  This you had to be there to experience, so just suspend your propensity for disbelief, friends, and listen along. And, yes, I’m drinking. I don’t know how to react to what I just found out, so a drink seemed appropriate. After that, another seemed like the way to go. Then I logged on.

  First, just to set the tone: I hit the meeting with Mr. Groin, and the man was bawling. I kid ye not, this brass-to-the-ass, leads-with-his-left-hook, shiny-socked “turney’s turney” was, like—well, let’s toss the fellow some dignity and call it “heavy misting.” But that hanky was WET, and not with snot. So I’m beginning to think that the suspicion I tossed off way back about the Groin and the Peacock was correct, but that maybe she wasn’t quite as casual a squeeze as one might have surmised, or perhaps not quite as casual as she herself wanted to be.

  From the top, you say? Well, plenty of Four Roses in the bottle. Warning, though: illegal activities ahead. Proceed prepared to be an accessory after the blog.

  Sooo, while we were speculating earlier about the flip-flop of permutations that may be applied to Mr. Suicide’s diary—an old queen (Mr. S) writing about a young hustler (M.H.) or the other way round—I was dressing for my meeting with Mr. Groin. Not that I was sure I’d find him in—I kind of pictured him clinging to the Peacock’s hospital sheets, considering what it would be worth to prop a pen in her hand, stick a codicil underneath its business end, and move the document this way and that so that the unconscious woman actually “signs” all of her assets over to him—but some sixth sense told me he would make it, and that this would be a serious moment between us, thus warranting some serious apparel.

  I slipped into my
ruby-red crushed velvet knee-length gentle-over-the hips number with gold piping, high collar, and side slits, and scared up a pair of black semisheer denier glossies—and my peeptoe mesh-n-satin ankle strap heels. I gave my hair a spritz and crimped it beddy-heddy with my hands, smeared a shadow of soot-grey makeup around my eyes, and rolled some gloves inside my diamante clutch (with mother o’ pearl clasp). I wanted to look young, jaded and not very happy—fact is, I wanted to look like ME tonight—and I achieved it. Then I slipped my box coat with the rolled lapels over my shoulders and headed for Boston’s bizniz district where the tall buildings hang out like so many taut, silent erections against the star-peppered night sky.

  Mr. Groin’s office is in an old Boston “skyscraper,” the kind built into the contours of the street they face, with a deep, narrow lobby lined with brass elevators and dark-skinned “security” guys in plum uniforms. I stroll in around eight, and, this being Sunday, it is like stepping into a tomb. I expect security to be a high hurdle but apparently 9/11 paranoia’s gone out of fashion. I mention an appointment with Mr. Groin while touching at my hair in the building plaque’s reflection and am ushered along without ceremony. The elevator shoots me up thirteen floors, and the doors fold back to reveal one of those grey-on-grey padded-cell style office corridors. I tread silently until I come across the tinted-glass doorway with the Groin Man’s name painted in black with gold shadowing, along with those of other “name” partners. Inside everything immediately goes to imitation Stickley. There’s no receptionist behind the pegged wood desk, and the glass-walled conference room is dark and becomingly untidy as befits a busy law establishment. Surprisingly (it being the Sabbath) I can hear voices from down one hall, barking in amiable combat, but something tells me that Mr. Groin will be found in the opposite direction, which seems the more exclusive end of the suite. Sure enough, I find him sitting behind a nearly closed door in an office lit more by the twinkle of harbor lights behind him than by the emerald-shaded barrister’s desk lamp, its glow reflecting off the glass-covered surface of his desk to create a sort of footlight effect for the comic opera we are about to play out.