The Serial Killers Club Part 13

"Because I like to make things interesting."

I pause, see a glint in Agent Wade's eye.

"Discussion over."

I sit in numb silence, watching the television for a couple of hours until I look over and see that Agent Wade has fallen asleep, using his thick report as a pillow. It occurs to me that if I'm to make good my escape, I should try to find the photo he has of me. But despite searching all over, I can't locate it anywhere.

Even a search of Agent Wade's car brings nothing. Apart from a strong lemon odor that not even a full blast of air-conditioning can get rid of.

BURT LANCASTER.

RECAP ON DECAP.

I ARGUED LONG AND HARD ARGUED LONG AND HARD with Agent Wade about the fact that I thought we were doing this alphabetically, but he eventually confided in me that that was just a big ruse of his. Someone might figure out what was happening, and then realize it was alphabetical as well, so now was the time to toss in a wild card and not go for the obvious. with Agent Wade about the fact that I thought we were doing this alphabetically, but he eventually confided in me that that was just a big ruse of his. Someone might figure out what was happening, and then realize it was alphabetical as well, so now was the time to toss in a wild card and not go for the obvious.

Despite my growing reservations, I continue to have nothing but admiration for the first-cla.s.s training the FBI has given Agent Wade. I was then only too eager to listen to what he called "the alphabet ploy," which he said would hopefully keep me alive and active at least a little while longer. That's so rea.s.suring.

At the next hastily arranged Club meeting, Betty and I pretend not to know each other and nod very formally and correctly in each other's direction. As I glance around the bar and grill, I note that the quiz team is now down to two members. They look forlorn and sad, and I think about sending them a secret message telling the surviving two to go and eat somewhere else. I have my arm in a sling and have been told by my doctor not to do anything energetic for a while, which pretty much rules out murder, I guess.

Earlier on in the evening, it almost came to blows when the management tried to get the Club to move to a smaller corner of the bar and grill. That would have meant we wouldn't have been able to watch the television, and the psychiatrist was scheduled to speak on 60 Minutes 60 Minutes later. As I watched the manager and his headwaiter arguing with Tony and Cher, I could feel the bloodl.u.s.t in the others boiling nicely into a murderous rage. Vultures one and all. Apart from Betty, of course, who happened to be in the ladies' room when the worst of the argument took place. later. As I watched the manager and his headwaiter arguing with Tony and Cher, I could feel the bloodl.u.s.t in the others boiling nicely into a murderous rage. Vultures one and all. Apart from Betty, of course, who happened to be in the ladies' room when the worst of the argument took place.

Burt takes a look at his watch, then states the obvious. "Richard's not coming, is he."

"Sure don't look that way," Tony grumbles as he and Betty share a furtive look.

"Where the h.e.l.l is he?" Chuck tenders this in a slightly nervous manner, and I am surprised because Chuck is usually the epitome of cool.

"Good question, Mr. Norris. Any ideas?" Cher gives up on her lamb cutlet, which I note is bleeding all over her mashed potatoes.

"Why would I have ideas? What's that supposed to mean?" Chuck lights a cigarette, takes a huge drag on it, and it is many seconds before he eventually exhales a huge plume of smoke. He then looks at me, and for a moment his eyes rest on my sling. He studies it and then raises his eyes to meet mine. "What's with the arm?"

Agent Wade has already briefed me on how I should respond. How he knew the question was coming, I don't know, but he sure is a terrific federal agent. They should be proud to have a man like that wearing their s.h.i.+eld.

"One of the animals in the zoo bit me."

"The zoo?"

"I work there. Senior cage cleaner." I'm pretty proud of myself for staying so calm. None of the Club members are meant to know too much about one another's private lives, but Agent Wade figured it would help show them how deeply honest I was.

"What a s.h.i.+t job." Tony belches.

"It's not so bad," I offer calmly. "Lots of perks."

"What? Like getting bitten by a lion? Or having a snake slither up your a.s.s?" Everyone laughs at Chuck's joke, but I ride it out. I am very proud of what I do, and I can tell that the animals truly appreciate my sterling efforts.

Burt's eyes narrow as he squints over at me. "Anyway, lion bite notwithstanding, you any idea why Richard's not here?"

"Me? Why would I have any ideas?" I offer a wide-eyed, innocent look, knowing for sure that they will buy it.

"Yeah, what's your reason this time, Mr. Fairbanks?" Cher eyeb.a.l.l.s me.

"You've always got a theory." Tony looms over, and as I realize that they are all studying me intently now, I can't get this image of hungry animals out of my head.

"C'mon, Dougie, spill." Chuck's earlier nerves have been replaced by a more determined, almost accusative look.

I don't like the way they are all homing in on me.

"We'd sure like to hear it, Gob. . . ." As James adds his unnerving presence to the proceedings, I realize I have just bitten my tongue.

I can't speak. Agent Wade never gave me any more than the animal bite theory. I'm floundering.

"Uh . . ."

"Uh? What's 'uh'?" Tony's face seems to be pressing closer to mine, his eyes bulging, and I can see his cheeks are flushed with the beginnings of rage.

"Um . . ."

"He's umming now." Chuck also leans forward.

I swallow, heartbeat quickening. "Well, uh, um, uh . . ."

"Maybe Richard was the one who ran that ad asking the Kentucky Killer to join and felt too guilty to come in." I look over at Betty.

My savior!

She gives me a half-smile, and I feel like kissing her full on her thin-lipped mouth.

The others immediately look her way. She gives them her beautiful shrug. "It kinda makes sense, doesn't it?"

"Richard couldn't spell VD, let alone write an ad." Burt is quickly in with this, and I look back to Betty. She stalls, loses her way, falls silent.

"You don't need to be able to spell to dictate something over the phone." Nice going, Chuck. Nice going.

"So that's how you run these ads, is it?" Cher leaps in.

Chuck faces her off. "What are you trying to say here?"

"You seem to be a bit of an authority on ads, Chuck."

This comes from me and is out before I even know I'm ganging up on my all-time favorite member.

"An authority? What are you talking about, you runt?" Chuck looks questioningly at the rest of the group. I can't help but shake my head somberly. I then give a big and unqualified shrug of the shoulders.

"Just seems like you're the expert on posting ads."

"You little s.h.i.+t." Chuck gives me a seriously unsavory look.

Tony belches as he speaks. "Look, forget the f.u.c.king ad."

"What about Richard, though?" Burt pushes his plate of fried fish away from him and instead reaches for a strong-looking cup of coffee. "Are we just going to write him off? Like the others?"

Tony takes a long moment, rubs his face with his hands, and then yawns, revealing some fairly gruesome-looking teeth. "I'm looking into it, okay?"

"'Fraid that's not good enough, Mr. Curtis. We have a right to know what's going on here."

"And when I know, I will freakin' tell you. Okay?"

Tony absentmindedly blows his nose in part of the tablecloth. He finishes, lets the tablecloth drop, and then looks at the anxious faces of the Club members. He plays it calm, keeping whatever clever scheme he has devised under wraps. "Let's just ease off the throttle. Everyone's getting a little jumpy."

"What'd you expect?" Again Chuck reveals more of this previously unknown jittery side of his. "Where have they gone? I mean, someone must know something. We know William was killed, maybe the others were, too."

I'm starting to wonder if maybe Chuck isn't a bit of a coward underneath it all.

Tony gives him a dark look. "Listen, worrywarts, I said I'm lookin' into it."

Chuck gives a sour look in return and then takes a monumental toke on his cigarette. "Who else knows about this Club? I figure someone musta said something to someone, maybe a friend in pa.s.sing. That's what I figure. That someone got wind of these meetings and decided they don't like it. Not one bit. Someone's blabbed. Who was it?"

"I'm gonna slap you across the lips if you don't shut up." Tony belches this out, then yawns again, and before he closes his mouth he crams half a lettuce from Betty's plate into it.

Chuck turns away, looks entirely p.i.s.sed off. "Something ain't right. Truth is, everything's starting to stink."

Chuck's somber dark words hang in the air for the rest of the evening, and not even Burt Lancaster telling a funny story makes anyone feel any better. The Club is dying, and inside I feel like crying.

Sure, I want to be a hero, but there's still a big part of me that will forever be the Club.

I catch sight of Betty's profile. She must be aware of my looking at her because she turns and our eyes meet. We stay that way-looking at each other silently-for what seems like eternity. I am drowning in her gray blue eyes and want never to come up for air.

Later, in the men's room, I am relieved to relieve myself. The awkward darkening atmosphere of the Club is weighing down on me and giving me a migraine. Tony Curtis walks in, midbelch, and stands right next to me. He is surly, and I know his blood pressure is rocketing.

"Burt's about as funny as a pulled sphincter muscle."

I stick to my gambit of immediately agreeing with any viewpoint Tony has.

"Absolutely. He peaked the other night, you ask me."

Tony lets rip with a hot and hard torrent of urine.

"Of course, you know why he's not so funny tonight."

Tony looks across at me, raises a querying eyebrow. I have said this on purpose, because I intend to stay alive despite everything.

"Whyssat?"

"Well, I don't want to say anything . . ."

"Yeah, you do." Tony crashes through life in a spectacularly blunt and tactless way. I really admire that about him.

"Well . . . and this is between me and you, okay? But I think we've got a rat in the Club."

The washroom goes deadly quiet. Tony pauses an awful long while before he shakes himself, then zips up. He wipes his hands on the front of his s.h.i.+rt. He looks at me, runs a hand over his mouth and chin as he contemplates words that he himself originated. "A rat, huh?"

"Yeah. A rat."

Tony looks around suspiciously. He is weighing me up, and I know he is connecting with me.

"You finished?" He motions to the urinal.

"Uh, yeah . . . yeah. . . ." I zip up. I turn and walk past Tony to the sinks. I start was.h.i.+ng my hands, all the time feeling his eyes boring into the back of my head.

"And you think this rat is affecting Burt's performance tonight?"

I look up, and in the washroom mirror I can see Tony looming over me, staring straight into my eyes. I blink, feel the beginnings of an anxiety attack. But I hold it all in as I nod, slowly and quite purposefully. "It has to be."

"How come?"

I pause, blink again. "Burt is the rat."

As soon as I've said it, I feel a slow release of tension. Five seconds after that, I want to hang myself. The repercussions of what I have just said may well signal the end of me. I have no proof, no FBI pictures, nothing. It's my word against Burt's.

Tony remains calm. He then takes two steps over to the cubicles, pushes open one of the doors. He looks at me, starts to belch.

"Step into my office a moment."

I truly don't believe I can move a muscle. The cubicle door seems to open into complete darkness, a never-ending night. Tony steps aside to make way for me.

I wish this were on tape and I could press rewind.

Somehow or other, I manage to get my legs to move. I am very stiff, though, labored, and the floor seems to be made of mola.s.ses. The cubicle door awaits me, the darkness calls to me, and I know there is no way back.

"Take a seat." Tony bolts the cubicle door behind us and then turns to face me. The cubicle is half the size I remember it, and his huge, ga.s.sy body looms over me, his giant thick head bending forward, his dark, soulless eyes staring deeply into me.

"Go on. Siddown." Tony lifts a giant foot and knocks the lid down. It bangs hard behind me, and I realize he wants me to sit on it. I do so and find that even though I'm probably a dead man, I feel just a tad silly.

"You a f.a.ggot, Junior?" I don't know why he asks this; surely it's obvious to anyone that I'm not. "Coming into the john with a stranger. . . ." He makes a big fist, raises it, and then laughs and knocks my shoulder playfully with his fist. "Joke."

I laugh my hyena laugh. And this is a star turn. This laugh is so big and enthusiastic and false, even I recoil at the horrendous depths of fawning I am plumbing. But Tony laughs heartily as well, enjoying his joke so much that he farts. I pretend not to hear it but do close my laughing mouth in case I end up eating the fart.

Tony leans back against the bolted cubicle door. "So . . ." He lets the laughter settle.

"So . . . ," I echo, but not with half as much resonance.

"Burt's a rat."

"Total vermin."