The Resurrection of Mary Mabel McTavish (20 page)

“Dear Miss McTavish,” he wrote, “If they ever make
Sarah Brown
into a picture, you’re my gal. You got a noodle, kiddo. Break a leg. Don’t let ’em break your heart. Your pally, D.R.”

From the depths of despair she filled with joy. Her mama’d arranged to send her luck.

Doyle burst in. “You better sit down. Bad news.”

The
Revelations
of
Brother Percy

A
fter
his opening night humiliation in Flint, Brother Percy had collapsed by his bedside. “Dear Lord,” he’d wept, the crowd’s laughter ringing in his ears. “It’s not that I doubt You. It’s just I’m at the end of my rope. Talk to me. Say something. Please.”

Miraculously, God had obliged. He spoke to Percy that night and every night thereafter. The preacher had to listen very hard, for the Almighty spoke in a strange language, low and rumbling, punctuated by hisses, clanks, and knocking. Fortunately, Percy had been blessed not only with tongues but with the gifts of prophecy and divination.
The Lord moves in mysterious ways
, he thought, as he sat before various hotel radiators, taking dictation in his little black books.

Percy was determined to keep these communications private. The godless would say he was crazy. Small wonder. The first time the radiator spoke, he’d covered his head with a pillow and tried to get back to sleep. But God was insistent, reminding him that He’d appeared to Moses as a burning bush, so what was the big deal?

“You might be Satan come to my room to trick me,” Percy said.

God replied that Satan already came to his room to trick him.

“How does the Fiend get in?”

“Seek and ye shall find,” God rumbled.

Percy went on a tear. He searched for a secret passageway to Hell under the bed, in the closet, and behind the chest of drawers and medicine cabinet. Nothing. He was about to give up when he became aware of a slow drip coming from the bathtub faucet. Percy crawled into the tub and put his ear to the drain. A hollow sound as delicate as breath rose from the pipes. It seemed to be coming from deep in the bowels of the earth. As Percy listened, the sound filled with distant wails of loss and regret. This was no mortal sound. It was the sound of lost souls in Hell.

God was right!
Percy panicked.
Satan’s using the drains to sneak into my hotel rooms and drive me mad.
These drains were surely connected. All over North America. Perhaps all over the world. No wonder the devil moved slick as a gopher. He simply popped down one hole and out another. The money boys who built these drains — the bankers with the funny names — they were in on it. Satan’s minions. He’d always guessed it. Now he had proof.

Percy plugged the tub and turned on the taps. When it was full, he blessed the water, that it provide a holy seal between himself and Hell. He likewise secured the sink, then turned to the W.C. It didn’t seem right to consecrate water in the toilet, but what if the Serpent slithered up through the bowl? Percy had an inspiration. He covered the lid with a towel and put his Gideon Bible on top.

God’s revelation changed Percy’s life. His first order of business on checking into a new room was to secure the drains. The wiring in his mouth had made brushing his teeth impossible. Now he stopped bathing as well; he didn’t want his nether parts to defile the holy water. As for bodily functions, he squatted above the lip of the john and launched his load with a hearty, “Get thee behind me, Satan!”

To further protect the holy water, Percy dry shaved, but he nicked himself so often that his cheeks became dotted with bits of toilet paper applied to staunch the blood. Consequently, on God’s advice, he let his beard grow. His hair, too. This prevented heathen barbers and chambermaids from collecting the clippings for voodoo dolls. In order not to look peculiar, he stuffed his matted locks in a rubber bathing cap covered by a fedora.

After a week or two, Floyd began to leave his car window open: “For Christ’s sake, Perce, you’re high as a cat’s litter box.”

Better the stink of the saved than the stench of the damned
, Percy thought. It thrilled him to know that his whoremonger partner was hell-bound. The Lord had passed word by means of the radiator: It turned out He had intended to fry
Floyd
in London. Unfortunately, He’d been so full of wrath that His lightning bolt had hit the Beeford boy by mistake; when He’d resurrected the kid, You-Know-Who had stolen the glory.

Percy said it wasn’t fair that a stray bolt had left him with a broken jaw, playing second banana to a witch. God told him to buck up, the righteous were destined for affliction, it was part of His grand design. In any event, “Soon the she-devil shall be cast down, and ye shall be raised to glory, a star shining brighter in Mine firmament than all the saints and the apostles.” Since a thousand years is a day unto the Lord, Percy wanted to know how soon was “soon.” “I will come like a thief in the night when ye least expect it,” the Almighty clanked. Then He rattled a bit and shut down.

Every night for two months God made the same promise. Percy got so impatient he almost gave the radiator a kick. Then Whacker Jones hit the headlines, Hearst made his challenge, and the preacher did cartwheels. Yea, the harlot would be exposed and he would be exalted; God’s prophecy would be fulfilled.

Percy rapped on Floyd’s door and demanded to open the show at Radio City.

“Mr. Hearst only invited Mary Mabel,” Floyd scrambled.

“Doo bat,” Percy replied. “Ma invitashun es fwum Gah!”

“Congratulations. Did He mention how you’re supposed to preach with a mouth full of wires?”

“Ee zez dey muz be re-mooft.”

“Fine, we’ll remove them.” The wires had been due for removal weeks ago, but given Percy’s tenuous grip, Floyd had hoped to let sleeping dogs lie. Or rust. Now he had to act.

Percy selected a doctor from the phone book; Floyd arranged for the house call. When the doctor arrived, Floyd slipped him a twenty-dollar bill and a note that read: “Beware. This patient likes to bite people. These wires were installed as a muzzle.”

The doctor found the note questionable, the appearance of a bribe moreso. All the same, the rubber bands dangling from the reverend’s bathing cap were certainly peculiar, and when he tried to wash his hands in the sink, Percy went berserk. Playing it safe, the doctor advised Percy to consult his regular physician in Canada. The radiator hissed and clanked. Percy ranted incoherently and burst into tears. The doctor prescribed sedatives.

Floyd administered the pills in triple doses. For the rest of their stay in Tulsa, Percy slept peacefully. (Floyd was tempted to ease him into the bathtub. Drowning in holy water. What a tragic accident.) He remained drugged on the airplane ride to New York, rousing only to throw up on Floyd’s lap, and to cause a scene when they entered the Belvedere. Not to worry. A few more sedatives from Floyd and the bellhops had been able to tuck him into bed without incident.

But Percy didn’t stay put. When Floyd arrived to spoon-feed him soup, he found the evangelist on the floor. In case the upchuck on the plane had eliminated some medication, Floyd slipped an extra pill in the broth. But when he came by next, Perce was slumped by the radiator. After that, in the bathroom, Floyd took no chances. He emptied half a bottle of pills down Percy’s throat.

The next morning, Hearst’s limousine picked up Mary Mabel for last-minute activities. Floyd tagged along, returning every few hours to check his friend. Relief. Whenever he opened the door, Percy was exactly where he’d left him, out cold under the shower curtain sucking his thumb.

For supper, Floyd gave him an over-the-top-up, then dressed for the show. At 6:30, the phone rang; Hearst’s limo had arrived for the trip to Radio City. Floyd collected Mary Mabel and escorted her to the elevator. But as he was about to step inside, he had a terrible premonition. “See you downstairs,” he said, as the door closed, and raced down the corridor into Percy’s room.

His worst fears were realized. Percy sat at his desk, dressed in his secondhand tux, a top hat on top of his shower cap. Greasy hair billowed from under the cap and flowed into his beard, matted by various soups and stews. “I knew you wouldn’t leave without checking in on me,” Percy said. “Care for a mint?” He offered a bowl of bile-coated sedatives.

Floyd stared blankly. “Your jaw is free. You’re talking.”

“Yes, just out of surgery,” Percy replied. It was then that Floyd noticed the pieces of wire on the desk, the pliers and cutters, and the blood and saliva dribbling from Percy’s mouth, down his beard and onto his clothes.

“We need to get you to a hospital.”

“Nonsense,” Percy said. “We need to get me to Radio City.” He rose gingerly, pliers in one hand, wire cutters in the other. “Tonight God’s prophecy is fulfilled! Tonight I preach glorious hellfire!”

“You’re not stepping out of this room.”

“Stop me!” Percy tottered forward. He swung his bony arm. The pliers grazed Floyd’s temple. Floyd staggered backward. Percy swung again and again. “Stop me, Profligate Beast! Defiler of Virgins! Licker of Toads!”

Floyd scrambled over the bed. He grabbed a pillow for protection. The preacher attacked. “Woe unto thee, Fountain of Iniquity!” Floyd tumbled off the bed as the pillow shredded apart. He retreated on hands and knees over the shower curtain.

“Prepare to meet thy God!” Percy raised his weapons high and bounced from the mattress onto the shower curtain. It slid beneath his feet. He pitched forward. Floyd rolled to the side. Percy’s head cracked against the radiator.

There was a terrible silence.

Best Laid Plans

B
rewster
hadn’t wanted to kidnap his daughter, but Comrade Duddy had insisted. “Religion is the opiate of the masses,” he railed the night Brewster showed him Mary Mabel’s picture in the paper. “It’s pie in the sky when you die. We need salvation here and now. Control of the means of production.”

Whenever Duddy went on about “control of the means of production,” the comrades had a snooze. They could picture owning hammers and saws, maybe even a toolbox, but Duddy always talked about factories. Who the hell wanted a factory? They couldn’t agree on the time of day, much less how to organize shift work. Why not stick to blowing up banks?

Fortunately, on this occasion Comrade Duddy kept the yackety-yack short. He had a plan. If they made tracks they could hit Manhattan in time for Mary Mabel’s big show. Brewster would greet her at the Radio City stage door. After a tearful reunion, he’d lead her to an alley five blocks away where Comrade Duddy would knock her out with a hankie doused in chloroform. Comrade Lapinsky would stuff her in a burlap bag and the three of them would haul her to a hideout on the Lower East Side. Here she’d be indoctrinated into the wonders of Communism, re-emerging to preach the Gospel According to Marx. Her fame would draw converts and contributions. General Secretary Comrade Seamus Duddy would become a leader in the glorious revolutionary struggle and they’d all live happily ever after.

Brewster’s plan was much simpler. He’d show up on Mary Mabel’s doorstep, stake his claim as her father, and his comrades could bugger off. “After all,” he told them, “she’s
my
daughter. Why should I give you a cut of the action?”

Lapinsky picked his nose with the Hand. “Because if you don’t, we’ll kill you.”

Comrade Duddy was more diplomatic. “Right now your kid’s pot of gold goes to the God racket. You won’t get a cent. Help us rescue her and you’ll be rich.”

In that light, kidnapping his daughter was smart thinking: Whoops — kidnapping — wrong word, that could get a guy strung up. He was simply protecting his child’s nest egg from preachers. At least that’s what he told himself as he left the gang’s hideout on Avenue D and headed to Radio City.

When he arrived, he found police barricades from the street to the stage door. Brewster was astonished at the size of the crowd. It would be hard to get close enough for Mary Mabel to see him. Nonetheless, by the time her limo pulled up, he’d groped enough bottoms to get within earshot.

Mary Mabel got out of the back seat, flanked by police. A sea of fans reached over the barricades. Some wanted autographs. Some wanted to be healed.

“Mary Mabel!” Brewster shouted, waving his arms among the sea of other arms. “Yoo-hoo, baby doll! Over here! It’s me!”

For a second he almost caught her eye. Then he felt a golf bag pressed against his back. “If it isn’t the proud pappy,” came a voice from the past. “Marge sends her regards.”

As the mob cheered and waved, Slick Skinner wrapped his free arm under Brewster’s ribs and drew him backwards. “Help me!” Brewster cried to the people around him. “Help me!” Nobody heard. Like quicksand, they filled his space as Slick pulled him backwards. In seconds, Brewster was swallowed by the crowd.

S
lick Skinner had been stalking the tour since Kalamazoo, confident that sooner or later McTavish would show up. After all, pigs know where the truffles are.

Tracking had been a snap. He’d travelled in the expansive trunk of the Olds. Picking the lock was easy; the trick was to squish himself under the back blanket until the bags were unpacked and the car parked. Hunting food was a breeze, too. Towns were well-stocked with raccoon, squirrel and neighbourhood cat. As for the stakeout, it held a bonus attraction: nights when the fire escape passed by Mary Mabel’s window. She was a sweet thing asleep in her nightie. Once he’d killed her pa, he’d jimmy the sash and pay his respects.

Still, time was wasting. After months of rubbing the bullet-etched B.McT., his prey hadn’t shown a whisker. Skinner didn’t know if Brewster was dead or in jail. Either way, he’d decided Radio City would be his last stand. If McTavish didn’t show there, he wouldn’t show anywhere.

Stowing aboard the Hearst plane was impossible. Instead, Slick got to New York courtesy of newlyweds Elmer and Mona Mackenzie. Minutes away from their wedding reception, he used his hunting knife to carve his way from their trunk into their back seat. Mona thought this was another prank of her goddamn alcoholic Uncle Fred till Slick stuck his shotgun in her ear and suggested Manhattan was a better honeymoon destination than Topeka.

The trapper camped out in Central Park to await Mary Mabel. By day, he slept under a bridge near the boat house. By night, he offered not to shoot people in exchange for their wallets, stashing the loot inside the lining of his jacket — his “money coat” he called it. The afternoon of the big show, he stuffed himself on roast pigeon. Then he wrapped his shotgun in a blanket, slipped it into a golf bag he’d scavenged from a Fifth Avenue garbage can and headed to Radio City.

Ah, the thrill of the hunt. Slick loved it. Mostly he loved to hunt humans; unlike cows, they understood death. Why, you could walk right up to a cow, shoot it between the eyes and it wouldn’t even notice. But humans had fear. That’s what he loved most. Watching their fear before he blew them away. It was why he liked to kill them up close. And to let them know death was coming.

That’s why tonight, pulling McTavish from Radio City Music Hall, Slick had the biggest boner of his life. He was about to avenge his manhood — yahoo! — with the victim being the greatest coward he’d ever hunted down. Exactly five blocks from Radio City, Brewster fell to his knees beside an alley and blubbered, “Don’t shoot me in the street.”

“Don’t worry.” Slick laughed. “I aim to shoot you down an alley.”

“Not down
this
alley,” McTavish quivered. “
Please
, Mr. Skinner,
please
don’t shoot me down
this particular
alley.”

Slick hadn’t given the matter much thought, but McTavish’s desperation made this particular alley seem mighty attractive. “Yeah, this particular alley. This here’ll do us just fine,” he grinned. McTavish snivelled to his feet. Slick prodded him forward. “Get moving.”

The alley was too dark for Slick to get a picture for his album. Who cared? The tabloids were sure to have plenty. Headless bodies were a rarity. Especially skinned. Once out of sight, Slick stuck his shotgun at the base of Brewster’s skull. “Say cheese.” That was the last thing Slick remembered before he woke up in the drunk tank at 54th and 8th.

Comrade Duddy dropped the chloroform hankie beside the snoring hunter.

“What took you so long?” Brewster demanded.

“I should have taken longer,” Duddy said.

Comrade Lapinsky stared at Slick. He scratched his head with the Hand. “Gee McTavish, your daughter sure don’t look like her pictures.”