Lizard World (30 page)

      
’Twas now that I did for the first remark that Fawncey had donned the self-same drab and out-of-fashioned mourning attire the which he had worn so exceeding over-long after the misfortunate lying-in of my little coz Belinda. Perchance I might then have more thought upon this most perplexing circumstance, had I not now seen the maiden and my cousin coming hither. I did ever find Fawncey a most compleat and insufferable asse; but now (as he did grope his way) when I did see the rapturous enthusiam of his blinded face and did hear him crying up the play -- a most entire piece of nauseous frippery-- I did all the more ardently despise him.

      
This scurvy blindman, forsooth, could by no manner of means observe me. But now, at the long last, the maid, Lenore, was pleased to take notice of my person. I was upon the point of telling her, in the most strongest terms, that I was not to be made to wait and trifled with, when she did commence to chatter on about her pleasure at my presence and vouchsafe me a kiss upon the cheek. I must confess that, in despight of my entirely justifiable vexation, I was quite disarmed by this girlish talk and this sudden and unexpected kiss. Of a certainty ’twas the exceeding aromatick extacy of her perfume which did so unnerve me. For tho’ I had long been a votary at the shrine of soveraign smell, yet this epicurism of odour was now become -- since the onset of my reptilian distemper -- a more and more unmanning susceptibility.

      
’Twas directly thereafter, when I had finally quitted the playhouse and was yet somewhat of perturbed in mind, that I did come upon my coachman, Simkyn Potter. This knave was ev’n now a-brushing of the arse-end of a horse, an employment which did seem far more to his liking than to help me into coach or elsewise attend upon the respects and duties of my service. Indeed full soon did I discern that this impertinent rogue -- who of late had been most disagreeably in the sullens -- did have a mind to make me wait.

      
But before I could thrash him with my cane, the blackguard did give me to understand that it would have been far better had I granted him -- and not my doctor -- the bookworm Barnaby’s corse, forasmuch as he would have had the good sense to disfigure it. But now (said he) ’twas much talk’d that some meddlesome do-good of a prentice surgeon, whilst attending the dissection of a carkass, had happed to recognize the dead man’s face. ’Twas therefore my cousin Fawncey was now in mourning and most keen to find out the murtherer of his friend. This scoundrel Potter, to be sure, durst not to threaten me to my teeth: yet full plainly could I see that he did mean to extort some ruffianly payment for his silence.

      
Thus straightways did I grip my silver cane, the which I had no sooner most wrothfully upraised -- than Smedlow saw it smashing down upon the forehead of his captor.

      
“You goddamn piece a shit. I’ll get you for this.
 
And don’t think for one single, fuckin’ minute I don’t know it’s you in there.”

      
Smedlow watched the gnarled hand rise quickly up again -- and then abruptly stop, still gripping its upraised weapon. He tried to tell himself that it was just a tarnished walking-stick. And yet it shocked and revolted him as if it were a large and particularly loathsome snake. Somehow he managed to concentrate, to find the controls to the muscles in the age-browned knuckles and phalanges -- and make those obscene fingers drop it on the floor.

      
Oh, now he realized -- with the sudden lucidity of terror -- how strong his enemy had gotten, how much more often the abominable alien broadcast had been able to break into and contaminate the privacy of his thinking -- and how much less frequently he had been able to tune it out, to take control of his mind and plan. If only he could get back home again. If only he could see his things -- his lawnmower, his gas can, his weed-whacker (but no, they were much more than things now, they were his friends, his only friends), his pruning shears, his hedge-trimmer, his green self-coiling garden hose and pulsating sprinkler -- he was certain that just seeing them would remind him of himself.

      
Maybe he could get the nitwit to take him there. After all, the fellow did seem to have some kind of pathological need to plunder and foul his most personal possessions. Hadn’t he already stolen his wallet, his Italian loafers, his silver lighter, his leg-bone, his dog and all those precious old photos from his basement? So maybe now he might want to take possession of his old shaver, his combs and brushes, his turquoise silk pajamas -- or even Agnes? Yes, and if only -- only -- he could get back home again, then maybe this deviant might also get a hankering for his toothbrush and he himself might manage to take his own dental x-rays out of the filing cabinet near the furnace: and that way no one would ever definitively be able to prove the corpse was his. Then Agnes wouldn’t have the legal right to send it to the crematorium. Because he wouldn’t legally be dead.

      
“Yep, I’m gonna get you good for that.”

      
As he watched his captor shuffling toward him (rubbing his forehead, fingering his ear and chomping on his gum) Smedlow tried -- desperately -- to plead with him to take him home. And yet -- wheezing, gurgling -- he just couldn’t get his larynx to make noise.

      
“Now don’t have a freakin’ conniption: you don’t wanna start up no more bleedin’.”

      
If only, Smedlow thought, he could somehow get back home. If only he could tempt this insect into going there. If only he could explain that there were all kinds of private, desirable things there for him to exude his filth upon and take. If only he could get this corpse they’d put him in to speak. Again he wheezed and gurgled. But now -- as he found himself being wheeled closer to all the staring lords and ladies in the painting -- he definitely heard his throat produce a voice-like, though admittedly feeble, sound.

      
“Well now, that’s real good! Next thing I know, you’ll be singin’ like some kinda bird.”

      
Smedlow watched his captor wipe the back of his hand across his nostrils, reach into his pocket, pull out the silver locket and toss it on his lap.

      
“Okay now, pal, that’s it,” he said, countin’ ’em out real slow on his fingers one by one: “you got yer cane; you got yer mirror; you got yer stink bottle. Yup, and this here’s yer cruddy little locket. And now you can spend the whole damn day right here in this snooty penthouse havin’ a real dandy time lookin’ at all these pretty pictures. And now there just ain’t nothin more I’m goddamn gonna do.”

      
Indeed, Smedlow couldn’t keep himself from staring back at all the ghostly faces in those paintings, nor withstand their growing, disturbing familiarity: that old, bob-wigged coot scowling from his portrait; that simpering, buxom beauty in her dishabille whose name did seem on the very tip of his tongue; that crafty-eyed knave in livery slouching beside a glass-coach in the background of that hunting scene -- a blackguard he did now of a sudden most distinctly recollect to be my malapert manservant Potter, whom I had no sooner thrashed most roundly with my cane, than I did straightways command him to attend me:

      
“Sirrah! Take me home!”

      
“Well, I’ll be damned. Got yer tongue back, didn’t ya? Take you home? Now why ever would I wanna do that?”

      
Hell, the rule a thumb was that you didn’t never ever do nothin’ for a prisoner. Like Floyd always used to say, you shouldn’t never “fraternize” with a prisoner any more than you’d get chummy with a cow or pig you was fattenin’ up to turn into a piece a meat. But, on the other hand, Floyd also did say there was two major exceptions to this rule: one was if you was givin’ the prisoner somethin’ cause you was followin’ orders; and two was if you was givin’ the prisoner somethin’ cause it was somehow good for achievin’ yer military objective. And achievin’ yer military objective wasn’t -- obviously -- never gonna be possible if a soldier didn’t have plenty a bullets and enough food to keep himself alive. And that’s how come Floyd used to say that a soldier, even while he was plannin’ for the big payoff, always had to store up a shitload of ammo and keep himself goin’ by livin off the land.

      
Now of course livin’ off the land (when you was out in the open) meant puttin’ up with eatin’ bugs and berries. But (if you was in an urban enviroment) it meant takin’ stereos and tvs and other kinds a stuff that you could either bring into the pawnshop or sell outright for cash. Now there wasn’t no doubt at all that this prisoner’s house was just chock-full a all kinds a precious junk. And there wasn’t no doubt that he couldn’t pull off his mission if he couldn’t get supplies.
 
So what it all boiled down to was that right now it did seem like a goddamn good idea to get himself a wad a bills -- just in case somethin’ went real, real wrong and he needed to lay low somewheres or maybe even hop a plane.

      
“You wanna go back to yer little home, huh? Why, sure, I’d be goddamn pleased to take you.”

      
Cause the real obvious point was that now that the prisoner’s missus had seen the limo, and now that John Q. Law had dug up the first bag and was more than likely still stickin’ his ugly nose around that junkyard, things was now beginnin’ to get hairy. And what Floyd had always said was that when things was gettin’ hairy, that was when a soldier had to think about forgettin’ about Plan A. Cause the problem with Plan A, see, was that (even if you’d figured out everything almost perfect, the way he’d done when he was settin’ his rat trap for that lady-editor) there wasn’t no way in hell even some kind a military genius could plan ahead for the kinds a future, real-life, unexpected shit that Floyd was always callin’ “the contingencies.” The point about “the contingencies,” Floyd said, was that they was always messin’ up Plan A: cause Plan A was always standin’ still and “the contingencies” was a goddamn movin’ target. So when things was gettin’ hairy on account a “the contingencies,” a soldier had to look real good at the lay of the land and be ready to change things on the ground.

      
So anyhow, that’s what he was thinkin’ (watchin the old boy fiddlin’ with his locket and still feelin’ pissed as hell off about how he’d smashed him on the head with his damn cane) when all of a sudden that piece-a-ass Annabel comes walkin’ in the room. Now it didn’t take no more than two seconds before that horny old geezer’s hand reached out when she walked by and started grabbin’ at her jugs. Hell, it didn’t take no Einstein to see that this little lady looked like she was gonna upchuck every time the old gent gave her a friendly feel.

      
Which is what he was right now takin’ particular notice of -- and mullin’ over how Plan A was messin’ up on account a the contingencies and how maybe he was gonna have to do a serious on-the-ground rethink of his military objectives -- when suddenly it dawned on him that him and this rich publishin’ tycoon’s missus might just do a little business.

      
“Howdy there, Sugar. How ya doin’?”

      
Cause, like his Daddy always told him, all that doin’ business really boiled down to was wipin’ someone else’s can so as you could get them to wipe your can in return. Now the real plain-as-day, strategic point was that this little lady was most definitely gonna be able -- and just maybe willin’ to print up his art and make him heaps a money and get him chewin’ the shit with emcees on TV, if he was to help her to get rid of her goddamn smelly old hubby. Cause, besides the fact that it wasn’t at all outa the question that he just maybe might get himself a little nookie, it stood to reason that if he did this first-class piece-a-ass a little friendly favor, she might just possibly do him a favor back. Of course that don’t mean that it wasn’t his duty as a Frobey to babysit and protect the family’s oldest-livin’ and most important splicer -- but if and only if (like his Aunt Ligeia was damn fool enough to believe) it really was that old-time English fella inside sittin’ in the driver’s seat. But seein’ as how he’d proved that wasn’t so -- proved it real scientific that that fatso prisoner they’d picked up in the swamps was still livin’ in his brain and from inside a there callin’ all the shots: well, then, there just wasn’t no damn call for special treatment.

      
And seein’ as how the prisoner was now most definitely gettin’ stronger -- strong enough to hit him with that fuckin’ cane -- and was gonna be pretty soon enjoyin’ all this fancy shit, doin’ the nasty with this lady and spendin’ all the money, there wasn’t no goddamn time to lose. And besides -- if that wasn’t plenty bad enough -- this throbbin’, stingin’ lump on his forehead was still bleedin’ quite a bit: and, like his daddy always said, a Frobey didn’t never ever take no shit from nobody. Which is why, right at this very minute, he was tryin’ extra hard to do like Floyd had told him. Cause the real point was that, now that things was gettin’ hairy, the time had come to think about Plan B.