Crypt orchids, p.13
Crypt Orchids, page 13
Incoming slugs rang more harsh notes on the metal. Mikey ignored them to concentrate on the tubework above. Below. His handkerchief skinned off; he caught a glimpse of the crimsoned loop tumbling into the blackness above. Below. It was swallowed. He wiped his bloody palm across the jacket and got a positive grasp before kicking his leg loose.
He arced free, curling his legs, and won his own body distance in length before he slammed to a stop. A crossbar hit him right in the chin; his brain invented nebulae. His feet bonked and clopped for purchase and finally found some. He was now right-side up, facing the crane arm. He had not done a stunt like this since the fourth grade, on the monkeybars.
But he had done it, and so far—miracle!—he was still alive. Aspirin would have been nice.
Instinctively, he crabbed to the far side of the arm. The shooters below were grouped in one place. If they wanted to pot-shoot, Mikey would at least make them relocate. Two or three halfhearted shots sang off Mikey’s previous position, striking light. Then a pocket cease-fire, as the goons had to recalibrate.
Mikey was ahead of them. He scuttled back around to where the hits had struck hottest. Always spiraling, never frittering his energy in lateral motion. Downward, ever downward.
The pain burning in his feet and hands reminded him that he was still not dead. Against the odds.
More shots. Not even close.
The superstructure vibrated heavily as the steam shovel’s motor came to life. The beast, awakened again.
“Hey, Mikey! Come on down, we got something to show ya! Little gift from the Cherub!”
Mikey recognized Gitano’s pimp snideness. The biggest thing about that pimple-face was the pistol the Cherub had given him. Gift, indeed. Any gift from the Cherub would be something Mikey really needed. Like castration. A double lungful of concrete. A free casket.
“Jasper’s gonna give you a thrill ride on that thing, you don’t drop in on us and talk business!”
Okay. Jasper in the cab. Gitano running his face. Would the Cherub send more than two at this time of night? No. Not on Thursday, not on a collection and counting day.
“C’mon, Mikey, you’re makin’ me waste ammo, man!”
Jasper began to revolve the cab. The arm swung. Air whizzed past as Mikey held on, picking up speed. He could see details of the yard below. Dark excavation pits. Lighter high ground. Parked equipment. Stacks of building materials.
Gitano. Wearing a white suit. Waving his gun, a gangster to the last of his intelligence.
Gitano’s voice dopplered as the scoop swung around, then amplified as Mikey came full circle. Mikey got to the underside of the arm as gracefully as he could manage while in motion.
His rational mind insisted that he should be home, watching a game show rerun. The brain rats, finding no more nerve endings to nibble, sang bawdy Irish wake tunes. They toasted Mikey’s demise with teeny rat mugs of rat beer.
Mikey, moving at least twenty miles per hour on the arm, folded with a woof as he slipped and a crossbar sank into his midsection. He rolled off; got a positive grab as best he could. He dropped to hang by his ravaged hands, his feet blown backward like yacht flags, his grip oozing away.
Like Tarzan, swinging home to Jane.
Even from thirty feet up, Gitano stood out better than a white KICK ME sign. Mikey, dirt-encrusted and blacked out by his own blood, was no longer so visible. All Gitano could see were a pair of insane white eyes, zooming toward him as the crane arm roared overhead with a bomber noise. Its massive shadow darkened the night. Gitano’s piece was a Beretta 92F with a Jarvis compensator, shooting high-grain Federal loads. He yanked it up to fire at the eyes.
Way too late.
Mikey released the bar, flew, and smashed Gitano down, scything him flat as a cornstalk before he could pull the trigger. Mikey heard and felt the double snap of their highspeed collision; the first snap had been his own unsocketed right arm, splintering as it struck Gitano off-center.
Snap number two had been Gitano’s neck. Mikey had capped him in the forehead. Gitano had died without further insult or further inconvenience to anyone, in the two seconds it took Mikey to realize what had transpired.
Frantically, he pawed with his good arm in the dirt for Gitano’s piece.
Gitano had also airbagged Mikey’s landing. Loss of one arm had been a bargain swap. That wacky Gitano—so much more considerate in death.
The Beretta’s heft told Mikey that Gitano had just changed magazines.
“Yo, Git—you nail the little bungworm, or what?” Jasper had stopped the scoop shovel and was leaning out of the cab.
“He fell off.” The chudder of the diesel would mask any imperfections in Mikey’s mimic. “He’s dead as a steak.”
Jasper cut the motor; debarked. “Shoot him back of the head anyhow. And the heart. The bitch’s hits are always execution-style.”
Here he comes, thought Mikey. With no practical cover. “So the Cherub wants it blamed on Wentworth?”
Jasper’s annoyance was so automatic that he was in mid-retort before he recognized the speaker … and the fact that he had no practical cover. “What’re you, an amnesiac? You know goddamn well … oh.”
He tried to draw anyway. Mikey shot him four times and Jasper caved in with his gun hand stalled inside his overcoat.
The Jarvis was a custom add-on that made the Beretta look huge. It reduced muzzle-rise and felt recoil; helped you increase your aimed rate of fire. It seemed to work bloody good, Mikey reflected.
The cold had deadened his sock into a bloody cast for his cold-anesthetized, broken toe. Mikey favored his fractured arm as he worried the coat off Jasper.
Collected firearms.
Found a warm place to wait.
When Mister Bart heard the growl of the steam shovel, he poked Cleo, who had just climbed from the suicide seat of Wentworth’s black Corsair limo.
“A hundred says the Cherub did him and he’s spinning?’
“Fifty says the Cherub made it look like we hit him.”
Mister Bart knew a sucker bet when he smelled one. “You’re on.”
They turned up their parka hoods. Their breath plumed in contrails at five degrees. Wielding a baton flashlight, Mister Bart checked the laser sight on his MAC 10. Cleo did likewise as they made their way to the steam shovel, mazing past the raw construction materials that would soon become Calypso Towers.
They saw the big machine, turning round and round.
“Hijinks,” said Mister Bart, irritated.
It was the last sentiment he ever expressed. While they both watched the turn of the high, revolving scoop, Mikey stepped from behind a banded stack of drainpipe, placed the Beretta’s muzzle two inches from the back of Mister Bart’s collar, and blew whatever else he was thinking all over Cleo like leftover casserole.
“Hi, Cleo.”
Cleo had dropped his weapon and his light. Aghast, he was primarily interested in wiping Mister Bart off his parka. Defense was not even an option for him.
“Always liked you better than Mister Bart. Cleo. I don’t want to kill you. But you will do a couple of things for me. First, you’ll kick that gun over here with the toe of your foot. Slide it. Gently. Next, you’re going to shuck Mister Bart’s parka for me, and stick what’s left of him where I tell you, okay? You have three seconds to agree. Or—”
Mikey pointed the automatic at the macerated wasteland that had been Mister Bart’s head. And counted off.
By two, Cleo was already stripping Mister Bart’s headless corpse. Wentworth, back at the limo, would not run to investigate a gunshot.
When the limo door opened and Mikey showed Wentworth the business end of the Beretta, her mouth popped into a little 0 shape that was priceless, almost worth this entire night. Her fine, china-gray eyes danced time between the bore and Mikey’s new parka. The fur collar was brick red, the strands freezing to scarlet spikes.
Wentworth, to her credit, recovered smoothly. She spoke—rapidly—of how Mikey had proven himself to her. How he was ready for bigger things. Not a goon squad gig, like Cleo and that Neanderthal, Mister Bart. No—better. She could definitely work with a man as bold as Mikey. Why, she could even get to -
“Woof-woof-woof” said Mikey.
Then he ordered her to disrobe. She acted as if she expected this. She got herself ready. Mikey considered leaving her the stockings and the chemise. Then he spotted the feral glint in Cleo’s eye and encouraged Wentworth to give one hundred percent.
She sat there in the back of the limo, waiting for what came next. Mike had always wondered—even fantasized, once or twice—about what Wentworth looked like naked. She was a treat, but for some reason he felt totally unaroused.
When Wentworth realized that Mikey did not intend to draw close enough for her to touch, her last hope fled on bat wings.
The rats of panic took up new residence as Mikey marched Cleo and Wentworth to the scoop shovel at gunpoint. He made Cleo climb aboard and stop the thing from spinning like some low-rent carnival ride.
“Time to play reptile,” he told a shivering Wentworth. “Evolve.”
There ensued much vigorous, last-ditch protest. Ultimately, however, she boarded the lowered scoop, because her nudity and the wind chill factor did not interface well.
“Raise it,” Mikey said.
Cleo worked the controls and put the scoop back where Mikey had begun his own little soul-search.
“I could only figure out how to make the cab turn around,” Mikey told Cleo as he stepped up. He pointed at a lever whose function was labeled plainly. “And that, of course, which I didn’t need. The rest is pretty arcane. I needed you to work this right, and you did good, Cleo.”
Cleo gulped. He stared dead ahead, up at the scoop, so high now, fully expecting to hear a gun go off in his ear. “So … can I go?”
“Sure. Oh—one more thing. Grab the lever.”
Cleo did as he was told. It was what he was best at.
Cleo pulled the lever from CLOSED to OPEN.
Wentworth dangled in the frigid wind for six seconds by Mikey’s count, then screamed all the way down. When she hit the floor of the pit, she blended with Gitano and Jasper and most of Mister Bart. The next day, the Post would print big headlines alongside bigger candids:
NUDE DRUG DUCHESS IN SEX-ECUTION PACT!
HIT MEN HIT WOMEN!
THEY HAD BRAINS, GUTS… AND EACH OTHER!
Mikey’s parka was an arsenal. He knew that the cash Wentworth kept in the limo safe would get him safely doctored by dawn. He had evicted the brain rats.
So he let Cleo go. His impulse was sound. He never saw Cleo again. He dug his watch out of his trouser pocket and checked the time. The phosphorescent hands were frozen at six till midnight.
No matter. He had Wentworth’s Rolex, now.
He could afford a few days off; time for rest and healing. Then, when he felt more social, he could look up the old Mikey’s other best buddy, the Cherub.
FINAL PERFORMANCE
A short one-act play
for Two Men, One Woman
adaptation by
David J. Schow
Based on the short story by Robert Bloch
FINAL PERFORMANCE
CHARACTERS
RUDOLPH BITZNER, aka “RUDOLPH THE GREAT”
A wise assed ex-vaudevillian, 65 at most, who today makes no big secret of his alcoholism. Rudolph was probably born around the turn of the century, breaking into small-time vaude around 1918 or so. He wears an old tank undershirt, cook’s apron, and baggy pants, all equally food-stained by frycookery. He seems slow and dimwitted but is not. He swigs booze periodically, fries up blue plate specials that aren’t, swats flies and otherwise expresses through his manner the oppressive desert heat and loginess of our setting … yet in reality he keeps a weather eye on everything that transpires within his tiny domain—particularly ROSIE. Rudolph is a has-been, pathetic in the true sense of pathos, with a tarnished dignity still hanging on from better days. He’s at his best when rambling about vaude stars he knew—or misremembers knowing—and the venues he played … or didn’t. His voice should have a near-operatic send befitting his stage roots. We should find him quaint at first, amusing with his repertoire of ancient gags, then turning dark and sinister, perhaps at first from drink, but later with the single-minded surety of the possessed and slightly mad.
JIM CHATHAM
A writer, late 20s/early 30s, enroute to better things. White shirt, both sleeves rolled and tie at half-mast in deference to the incredible heat. He writes books and hopes to break TV. For now he’s footloose and open to any perverse notion that might present itself, such as:
ROSIE KEENO
A ponytailed blonde, early 20s, the kind of overactive-hormoned “nice girl” that makes you wonder what she’s doing in a place like this. Waitress blouse, skirt, flats. At first she seems part of Rudolph’s boring firmament. Then she must play quietly desperate, agitated and insistent. Finally she must play utterly robotic, monotone, and puppeteered, as directed. Rosie’s been trapped in Nowheresville for too long … but has a plan, such as it is.
The play takes place inside of Rudolph’s DINER, the Diner’s KITCHEN, and a small, lair-like ROOM off the Kitchen. The vaudeville references necessitate an early-to-mid-1960s timeframe and wardrobe should reflect this period, as should set dressing—Diner hardware, calendars, etc.
SETTING
THE DINER
Stage RIGHT. Lunch counter and stools, end-on (so none of our performers has to turn their back toward the audience). Behind the counter is a hand-through order port and check carousel. Batwing doors lead to the Kitchen. The rear wall features a large, dirty window with venetian blinds; EAT scabbily painted backwards on the glass. Next to the window is an archway presumably leading to an exterior door. A cigarette machine is tucked into the archway. Near the order port hangs a specials chalkboard and a framed vaudeville poster for Rudolph the Great’s appearance at the Palace, mid-1930s.
Diner interior must reflect the idea of incredible desert heat; nearly everything is neutral and colorless EXCEPT for an antique JUKEBOX, prominently placed, the source of our endless period music. A huge, lazily-revolving CEILING FAN hangs over the counter.
THE KITCHEN
Just as dingey as the Diner. A frycook’s Kitchen. It begs for a scrubdown. Large butcher block in the middle. Many cutting implements. The Kitchen exists mostly as a walk-through to:
THE ROOM
Rudolph’s LAIR. As Bloch puts it, “a world of the 20s and early 30s, a world that belonged to the half-forgotten faces that peered out at me from a thousand photographs reaching floor to ceiling. Some of the pictures had peeled and faded … the mementos of what had once been a world called vaudeville.”
DL is a bathroom doorway. Central feature is a large, ratty EASY CHAIR surrounded by yellowed stacks of newspapers, playbills, memorabilia. The entire REAR WALL is plastered head to toe with autographed photos, SOLD OUT banners, posters and flyers, a completely bygone age mummified in decayed sepia, very showbiz, very embalmed. There is a practical EXTERIOR DOOR in the rear wall, also an OPEN WINDOW, curtained, through which we may see the big red neon EAT sign announcing the Diner. DR is a large steamer trunk, pasted with Broadway stickers and opened away from our view. Other trunks and boxes CLUTTER the Room. Next to the chair stands an EASEL loaded with ancient PLACARDS announcing long-dead ACTS; also newspapers and junk as per pp. 126-129. A chair-side table, a junky folding screen near the window, all musty and littered with further overwhelming documentation of vaudeville. This is Rudolph’s sanctum sanctorum, where he comes to drink … and to get drunk on his own past.
NB: The offstage bathroom is completely n.d.
NB: The mad collage of posters, etc., on the rear wall must be chaotic and haphazard, but legible. For our final REVEAL we may need to rig the rear wall to include a poster that can drop or unfurl on cue, or we may need to do a red-to-green reveal with lighting, as needed.
BEFORE CURTAIN RISES
Rudolph ambles on from STAGE RIGHT, wiping his hands on his apron. He carries a spatula and uses it to gesticulate. He doesn’t address the audience so much as soliloquize—
RUDOLPH
Who remembers Williams and Wolfus? (beat)
Not the greatest … just one of the greatest.
(then, more robust)
Mitchell and Durant!
(no recognition from audience. Now he speaks cadenced to make sure it penetrates)
The greatest. Comedy act. In the world.
No response. Nothing. His shoulders sag.
RUDOLPH
Rudolph the Great?
(beat; sighs)
I hate working-in-one.
He slides his chef cap back on his head and EXITS dispiritedly, STAGE LEFT, as Jim ENTERS from STAGE RIGHT and is spotlit. Our period MUSIC PLAYS.
CURTAIN RISES
The stage is dark except for the intense neon lighting of the JUKEBOX, and the slightly more subdued glow of the EAT sign.
FADE the spot on Jim as he turns and ENTERS the diner set. On his entry the LIGHTS COME UP.
Rosie is wiping down the counter.
ROSIE
Evenin’.
JIM
Hi there.
ROSIE
(sizing him up)
See anything you like?
JIM
That’s an old one.
(friendly)
Actually, I was told that someone here might be able to spare a room. For the night.
ROSIE
(automatically)
Dave.
JIM
Beg pardon?
ROSIE
Dave. Guy at the service station? Only thing missing from his hair is the croutons?
Jim laughs. Polite. Interested.
ROSIE
If Dave sent you here for a room then what happened to your car?
Jim takes a stool and sets down his BRIEFCASE.
JIM
Shot a rod.
