Black House (Page 185)

"I want to meet the Crimson King," Burny says. A rope of drool sags from his mouth, and for an instant his eyes gleam in the darkness. "I’m gonna give the Marshall brat to the Crimson King, and the Crimson King is gonna love me, because all I’m gonna eat is like one little ass cheek, one little hand, something like that."

"Hee vill lahhv you fuhr my zake, Burn-Burn, fuhr de Ging lahhvs mee bezzd, mee, mee, mee, Mizz-durr Munn-shunn! End venn de Ging roolz sooprumm, fogzes down fogzhulls veep and veep, dey gryy, gryy, gryy dere lid-dul hardz utt, on-cuzz you end mee, mee, mee, vee vull eed end eed end eed, eed, eed undill de vurrldz on all zydes are nudding bahd embdy bee-nudd shillz!"

"Empty peanut shells." Burny chuckles, and noisily retracts another rope of slobber. "That’s a hell of a lot of eatin’."

Any second now, Henry thinks, horrible old Burn-Burn is going to fork over a substantial down payment on the Brooklyn Bridge.

"Gumm."

"I’m coming," says Burnside. "First I want to leave a message."

There is a silence.

The next thing Henry hears is a curious whooshing sound and the joined smack-smacks of sodden footwear parting from a sticky floor. The door to the closet beneath the stairs bangs open; the studio door bangs shut. A smell of ozone comes and goes. They have gone; Henry does not know how it happened, but he feels certain that he is alone. Who cares how it happened? Henry has more important matters to think about. "Murr impurdund vurk," he says aloud. "That guy’s a German like I’m a speckled hen."

He crawls out from beneath the long table and uses its surface to lever himself up on his feet. When he straightens his back, his mind wobbles and goes gray, and he grasps a lampstand to stay upright. "Don’t pass out," he says. "Passing out is not allowed, nope."

Henry can walk, he is sure of it. He’s been walking most of his life, after all. Come to that, he can drive a car, too; driving is even easier than walking, only no one ever had the cojones to let him demonstrate his talents behind the wheel. Hell, if Ray Charles could drive — and he could, he can, Ray Charles is probably spinning into a left turn off the highway at this moment — why not Henry Leyden? Well, Henry does not happen to have an automobile available to him right now, so Henry is going to have to settle for taking a brisk walk. Well, as brisk as possible anyhow.

And where is Henry going on this delightful stroll through the blood-soaked living room? "Why," he answers himself, "the answer is obvious. I am going to my studio. I feel like taking a stroll into my lovely little studio."

His mind slides into gray once more, and gray is to be avoided. We have an antidote for the gray feeling, don’t we? Yes, we do: the antidote is a good sharp taste of pain. Henry slaps his good hand against the stumps of his severed fingers — whoo boy, yes indeed, whole arm sort of went up in flames there. Flaming arm, that will work. Sparks shooting white hot from burning fingers will get us to the studio.

Let those tears flow. Dead folks don’t cry.

"The smell of blood is like laughter," Henry says. "Who said that? Somebody. It’s in a book. ‘The smell of blood was like laughter.’ Great line. Now put one foot in front of the other."

When he reaches the short hallway to the studio, he leans against the wall for a moment. A wave of luxurious weariness begins at the center of his chest and laps through his body. He snaps his head up, blood from his torn cheek spattering the wall. "Keep talking, you dope. Talking to yourself isn’t crazy. It’s a wonderful thing to do. And guess what? It’s how you make your living — you talk to yourself all day long!"

Henry pushes himself off the wall, steps forward, and George Rath-bun speaks through his vocal cords. "Friends, and you ARE my friends, let me be clear about that, we here at KDCU-AM seem to be experiencing some technical difficulties. The power levels are sinking, and brownouts have been recorded, yes they have. Fear not, my dear ones. Fear not! Even as I speak, we are but four paltry feet from the studio door, and in no time at all, we shall be up and running, yessir. No ancient cannibal and his space-alien sidekick can put this station out of business, uh-UHH, not before we make our last and final broadcast."

It is as if George Rathbun gives life to Henry Leyden, instead of the other way around. His back is straighter, and he holds his head upright. Two steps bring him to the closed studio door. "It’s a tough catch, my friends, and if Pokey Reese is going to snag that ball, his mitt had better be clean as a whistle. What is he doing out there, folks? Can we believe our eyes? Can he be shoving one hand into his pants pocket? Is he pulling something out? Man oh man, it causes the mind to reel Pokey is using THE OLD HANDKERCHIEF PLOY! That’s right! He is WIPING his mitt, WIPING his throwing hand, DROPPING the snotrag, GRABBING the handle And the door is OPEN! Pokey Reese has done it again, he is IN THE STUDIO!"

Henry winds the handkerchief around the ends of his fingers and fumbles for the chair. "And Rafael Furcal seems lost out there, the man is GROPING for the ball Wait, wait, does he have it? Has he caught an edge? YES! He has the ARM of the ball, he has the BACK of the ball, and he pulls it UP, ladies and gents, the ball is UP on its WHEELS! Furcal sits down, he pushes himself toward the console. We’re facing a lot of blood here, but baseball is a bloody game when they come at you with their CLEATS up."

With the fingers of his left hand, from which most of the blood has been cleaned, Henry punches the ON switch for the big tape recorder and pulls the microphone close. He is sitting in the dark listening to the sound of tape hissing from reel to reel, and he feels oddly satisfied to be here, doing what he has done night after night for thousands of nights. Velvety exhaustion swims through his body and his mind, darkening whatever it touches. It is too early to yield. He will surrender soon, but first he must do his job. He must talk to Jack Sawyer by talking to himself, and to do that he calls upon the familiar spirits that give him voice.