Black House (Page 21)

"No? Why not?"

"Man, you’re blind, for one thing!"

Henry says nothing, only stares at the now vastly uneasy Morris with his fiery glass eyes. And Morris thinks: But is he blind? He gets around pretty good for a blind guy . . . and the way he tabbed me as soon as I came out here, how weird was that?

"I’ll keep quiet," he says. "Honest to God."

"That’s all I want," Henry says mildly. "Now that we’ve got that straight, what exactly have you brought me?" He holds up the CD — but not as if he’s looking at it, Morris observes with vast relief.

"It’s, um, this Racine group. Dirtysperm? And they’ve got this cover of ‘Where Did Our Love Go’? The old Supremes thing? Only they do it at like a hundred and fifty beats a minute? It’s f**kin’ hilarious. I mean, it destroys the whole pop thing, man, blitzes it!"

"Dirtysperm," Henry says. "Didn’t they used to be Jane Wyatt’s Clit?"

Morris looks at Henry with awe that could easily become love. "Dirtysperm’s lead guitarist, like, formed JWC, man. Then him and the bass guy had this political falling-out, something about Dean Kissinger and Henry Acheson, and Ucky Ducky — he’s the guitarist — went off to form Dirtysperm."

" ‘Where Did Our Love Go’?" Henry muses, then hands the CD back. And, as if he sees the way Morris’s face falls: "I can’t be seen with something like that — use your head. Stick it in my locker."

Morris’s gloom disappears and he breaks into a sunny smile. "Yeah, okay! You got it, Mr. Leyden!"

"And don’t let anyone see you doing it. Especially not Howie Soule. Howie’s a bit of a snoop. You’d do well not to emulate him."

"No way, baby!" Still smiling, delighted at how all this has gone, Morris reaches for the door handle.

"And Morris?"

"Yeah?"

"Since you know my secret, perhaps you’d better call me Henry."

"Henry! Yeah!" Is this the best morning of the summer for Morris Rosen? You better believe it.

"And something else."

"Yeah? Henry?" Morris dares imagine a day when they will progress to Hank and Morrie.

"Keep your mouth shut about the Rat."

"I already told you — "

"Yes, and I believe you. But temptation comes creeping, Morris; temptation comes creeping like a thief in the night, or like a killer in search of prey. If you give in to temptation, I’ll know. I’ll smell it on your skin like bad cologne. Do you believe me?"

"Uh . . . yeah." And he does. Later, when he has time to kick back and reflect, Morris will think what a ridiculous idea that is, but yes, at the time, he believes it. Believes him. It’s like being hypnotized.

"Very good. Now off you go. I want Ace Hardware, Zaglat Chevy, and Mr. Tastee Ribs all cued up for the first seg."

"Gotcha."

"Also, last night’s game — "

"Wickman striking out the side in the eighth? That was pimp. Totally, like, un-Brewers."

"No, I think we want the Mark Loretta home run in the fifth. Loretta doesn’t hit many, and the fans like him. I can’t think why. Even a blind man can see he has no range, especially from deep in the hole. Go on, son. Put the CD in my locker, and if I see the Rat, I’ll give it to him. I’m sure he’ll give it a spin."

"The track — "

"Seven, seven, rhymes with heaven. I won’t forget and neither will he. Go on, now."

Morris gives him a final grateful look and goes back inside. Henry Leyden, alias George Rathbun, alias the Wisconsin Rat, also alias Henry Shake (we’ll get to that one, but not now; the hour draweth late), lights another cigarette and drags deep. He won’t have time to finish it; the farm report is already in full flight (hog bellies up, wheat futures down, and the corn as high as an elephant’s eye), but he needs a couple of drags just now to steady himself. A long, long day stretches out ahead of him, ending with the Strawberry Fest Hop at Maxton Elder Care, that house of antiquarian horrors. God save him from the clutches of William "Chipper" Maxton, he has often thought. Given a choice between ending his days at MEC and burning his face off with a blowtorch, he would reach for the blowtorch every time. Later, if he’s not totally exhausted, perhaps his friend from up the road will come over and they can begin the long-promised reading of Bleak House. That would be a treat.

How long, he wonders, can Morris Rosen hold on to his momentous secret? Well, Henry supposes he will find that out. He likes the Rat too much to give him up unless he absolutely has to; that much is an undeniable fact.

"Dean Kissinger," he murmurs. "Henry Acheson. Ucky Ducky. God save us."

He takes another drag on his cigarette, then drops it into the bucket of sand. It is time to go back inside, time to replay last night’s Mark Loretta home run, time to start taking more calls from the Coulee Country’s dedicated sports fans.

And time for us to be off. Seven o’clock has rung from the Lutheran church steeple.

In French Landing, things are getting into high gear. No one lies abed long in this part of the world, and we must speed along to the end of our tour. Things are going to start happening soon, and they may happen fast. Still, we have done well, and we have only one more stop to make before arriving at our final destination.

We rise on the warm summer updrafts and hover for a moment by the KDCU tower (we are close enough to hear the tik-tik-tik of the beacon and the low, rather sinister hum of electricity), looking north and taking our bearings. Eight miles upriver is the town of Great Bluff, named for the limestone outcropping that rises there. The outcropping is reputed to be haunted, because in 1888 a chief of the Fox Indian tribe (Far Eyes was his name) assembled all his warriors, shamans, squaws, and children and told them to leap to their deaths, thereby escaping some hideous fate he had glimpsed in his dreams. Far Eyes’s followers, like Jim Jones’s, did as they were bidden.