Chapter 82
Letter To The Editor
The following letter was sent to the police and appeared on the front page of the Sick City Herald on December 23, 1957:
to the news[papers and police men:
I am the man they call the lipstick Killer you need to understand my side of things the story because it is my story after all. I am am the star of the show.
People are afraid I’m glad they should be afraid. Of me and my others. I am the reason this is happening and I can take it or leave it whenever I want. The girls- before I meet them would not know my my name but after I do what I do they love me now. I don’t want to be called Lipstick Killer I never kill with lipstick. I want you to call me the Killjoy because that is what I am. You made up that name up to make a story, but I am the story so work for me. Otherwise.
They nevr know what I do, how I could do it. They never evem ask why. I know why. The police men don’t know me. I am immortal. I can't be stopped I am the disease. HATE. If you kill me another will my place. No cop police or private detective can ever take me out alive. alive
Let’s get one thing straight here: I never touch Juno Rosa. She is not part of this so don’t give me credit wear credit is not due. Meybe Mayor Cryer has to anser some questions about Juno Rosa but not me not me on that one I am a good boy. I know it and now you know it. Too,
When I give it to the girl they are gething what they deserve. It is inevitable I am the new justice. It make me feel alive when they are dead and every living thing deserves to be alive. Don’t even try to finx my method I am undetectable. No man is smart enough to catch me its a pity there is no one brave enough either.
I’m going to keep going doing what I doing for as long as I need to do it. this sick city belong to me and my forces. So no questions or interviews let’s just do it all right. play your part enjoy the show.
And I'm sorry.
But I'm not. Sorry.
I have to go now there is another girl calling my name and tonight I will be having my fun.
I am laughing at you.
.
Chapter 210
The Gift
“Do you believe in Satan?”
The question hung, long. Too long. Tom turned on the carpet. This was a yes or a no.
Melvyn Boyle- President of Star Oil, self-control, redundancy- bubble in his seat like a volcano shy of overflow. He was behind the desk in the building’s visitor center, a small conference room off the lobby. Tom, standing, take a breath.
“Do you believe in sacrifice, Mr. Boyle? Have you ever smeared the blood of an animal on your naked body? The blood of a virgin? Have you ever taken part in ritualistic sacrifice?”
Worse crimes- and their criminals- were rolling through Atari’s mind: Standard Oil, US Steel, AT&T & IBM... but he had to take his time, had to take the kids to school the long way. He hated this man sitting at the table in the visitor’s center, this Melvyn Boyle, insulated and contained, a basket of fruit on the wood between them. Boyle’s fat face sat smooth as a grapefruit.
“Why don’t we talk brass tacks? I know about mind control. I know about Von Braun and Operation Paperclip.” Tom leaned down. “I know about Project Geronimo.”
A drop of sweat fell down Melvyn’s face, irresistible, undeniable. Tom would consider it his first real victory.
Boyle shook it off, sitting back in the comfortable chair, Meredith Daily still howling outside, her arm like a boa after breakfast, purple lump making its way to her elbow, her glossy lips vowing revenge as she was loaded into ambulance.
Philanthropy [fi-lan-thruh-pee] (n.) penance for financial, cultural and agricultural devastation
Melvyn Boyle swallowed the sweat, savoring the taste, cannibalistic, his days spent handing out checks to help wallpaper the city he had almost single-handedly destroyed. He was a good man- now- giving back, after taking steps to enslave every man, woman and child in town. He had sold humanity's future for a chance to build a pyramid... and the presidents of oil corporations were not used to this level of honesty.
Tom Atari, you’re in too deep.
The two men standing behind Boyle- twins? clones?- were not bothered by any conversation thus far. They stood in blank faces, matching suits, weapons evident, at attention and ready to kill, which was just fine with Tom: he was ready to die.
Melvyn smiled, wasting an inhale, “Mr. Atari, do you really think-”
“Let's go to the photographs.” Tom went to his breast pocket, tossing an envelope onto the desk. Boyle took it, opened, shuffled the snapshots left and right, a mixture of pride and shame, a flipbook of him fucking a five year-old, drinking the blood of a goat, and some truly disturbing images as well. He closed the envelope, hadn’t seen a thing.
Melvyn, surprising, confirming his acquaintance with the Dark Lord by asking Tom, “What do you want?”
Tom picked up the present he'd brought- wrapped pretty. “I'm here as a messenger: Your little parties are over. Your lock on this city and the people that live here... that's all over, too. I'll fight you to the last beat of my heart... and I'll win. If you think the Devil is powerful then you’ve never dealt with God.”
Melvyn, flat as horizon: "Is that so?"
Tom, warm, placed the gift on the table. Boyle looked up, confused, then began to unwrap, pudgy kid at a birthday party bored.
The rattlesnake sprung out of the box and uncoiled on the desk, knocking the can of pencils onto the floor.
Boyle kicked back, the wheels of the chair buckling as he rolled back, one of them popping off and sending him tumble him to the carpeted floor.
The bodyguards didn’t move a muscle as the rattlesnake made maraca- inches from one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the world.
Tom laughed, uncommon sweet in Sick City, plucking a green apple from the basket of fruit and taking a bite. Boyle eyed the viper, paralyzed.
Tom left the office, chewing, "Tell your friends," Melvyn Boyle on the floor, face to face with the serpent.
.
Chapter 67
Man Vs. Panther
Tony Dare had twenty minutes left to live, was just about to lose his life on a bet so ridiculous that Tom Atari would have laughed if he found it funny. He didn’t find it funny.
Tonight Tom stood on rare earth, under a red circus tent behind the baseball stadium, where the cockfights went off every Friday night: noisy, the crowd filthy with angry brown Mexicans, gnats at the lights, feathers floating in the air, defying time while jalapeno-powered roosters poke, hack & slash.
This was the Cowboy’s counter to having his balls cut off: he’d fight a panther to the death. Or die trying. Tony had boasted, started to motormouth, plea bargain in public, and when Tom heard the offer aloud he cautioned: “That’s tequila talking.” It only made the Cowboy more insistent. Besides, Big Gook could do the math: he could book a fortune on a black man and a leopard, no matter the victor.
For the last two weeks the Cowboy had been in training, or so go the rumors. There were stories of Tony paying neighborhood kids to round up stray dogs so he could wrestle them to death in his basement, getting a feel for the force of an animal in combat. Atari had called his house, a last-ditch attempt at logic, even to offer to get Tony out of town until the sound faded away... all he got was the Cowboy’s housekeeper claiming that a Doberman cut Tony so bad he needed sixteen stitches and couldn’t come to the phone.
Was it possible: was a man so stupid as to fight a panther in order to save his balls in a gambling debt? With Tony the answer was unfortunately yes. Big Gook had arrived, escorting Ed Goffrey into the crowd, Goffrey in his glasses and his good suit, dressed like a TV reporter. Atari scanned the faces in the unholy arena: Detective Brian Cahill made his way down into the crowd, smoking a fat cigar and looking pleased, Mayor Cryer beside him in dark glasses that didn’t hide a thing. Isaac Lerner stood with an unknown male assistant and Melvyn Boyle brought a bag of popcorn.
Tom watched the cocks in the center stage thrashing, lashing at one another, tasting bloodlust for the first time and loving it. Big Gook made his way beside while the owner of the winning bird raised it up above his head before the crowd; they showed their appreciation by yelping: clapping and spitting liquor.
“Where is you Negro buddy? He better show up.”
Atari was not in the mood. “I’m just a spectator, chop suey... get yourself lost.”
Big Gook, baffled by the disrespect, dissolved into the crowd as it suddenly went quiet, a strange sound: the absence. Tom couldn’t understand.
Four Mexicans entered the tent from the left field entrance, solemn expressions, their eyes ahead and darting downward. The mob around them seemed magically to melt away, parting, receding with ease. Atari spotted the panther- hulking crude- leash around its neck, four chains connected, each held by a different man.
The panther was prancing, warming up, and Tom could almost picture it in a fighter’s robe, silk sleeves and towel around his neck. This cat was ready for action.
The Mexicans led him into the cage in the corner of the tent- 20 x 20- and as the de facto wranglers unchained the jungle beast Tom spotted Tony Dare beside him.
The Cowboy was shirtless, scar on his chest, oil on his chest- glistening- in wrestling pants with a red bandana on his head. His girlfriend Tuesday Jackson just a step behind, a hooker from the boulevard, pocket-size & foul-mouth.
Tom, to the challenger: “You can’t be serious.”
“This is another part of me, Tom Atari... or maybe you don’t know me so well. I always pay my debts. I never lose a fight.”
Tony was drunk. Or stoned on something powerful, more powerful than Tom had ever known. His eyes were wild.
“This is an animal, Tony, not a Filipino street-fighter-”
“This is something I gotta do!” Tony Dare looked Atari straight in the eye, gave him a wink and-
“Now for the title fight of this evening’s entertainment!” Some Mexican, mouth on the microphone, the crowd stomping their feet, salt and cinnamon anticipation.
“In this corner... all the way from Asia... at five-hundred twenty pounds... the Panther!”
There was laughter from the crowd, and applause, and the beast was held by just one chain, prowling impatient and thirsty for blood.
Crackle static on the bum speakers: “And in this corner, weighing in at 185 pound is Tony Dare: the COWBOY!”
The crowd, frenzied, furied, cheering for Tony as he limbered, loosened... Tom, turning, “Don’t do this.”
Tuesday’s swollen lips, smiling at the Cowboy, mouthing ‘Fuck You,’ to Tom, and then Tony Dare turned to them both, broad smile overtaking his face. He looked at Tuesday and then Atari: “Stay gold.”
With that he stepped into the cage. The handlers let the panther off the leash.
“All bets are final.”
One member of the Mexican swing gang swung the door shut and it was on: Tony went into his stance, bent at the waist, back arched, hands in claw formation, licking his lips.
The black panther, shuffling, testing his shoulders, growled loud- a final warning.
Tony leapt to meet the beast but it was too late: the panther struck, removing most of Tony’s face in a single swipe of his claw. Tony’s body- on its back- continued to fight, his nose and mouth in the dirt a few feet away, and the jungle cat ate his face with patience and dedication, Tony’s body making spasm at regular intervals, his fists swinging at empty, the crowd hysterical, fights breaking out, women vomiting down their dresses and men blacking out completely. They had not been prepared for the anticlimax.
At some point during the festivities Tony Dare the Cowboy became just another piece of meat, and Tom, having lost a friend, turned to Tuesday in the hopes of finding a new one. He took her hand, chocolate breasts spilling from her top, and with a comforting smile, “Let’s get some waffles.”
.
Chapter 209
The Walk
Tom Atari, stepping down the sidewalk, as Sweet Tina the prostitute spots him and approaches- purple- puts her lips on his cheek to press, soft, and Tom say, “Sorry, doll. I don’t have time for that today.”
Tina take the sting like a lady.
Tom, against the wind, taking the walk, downtown, cruel shoes on the pavement making echo, wrapped package in hand, across the boulevard, past the church and the newspaper, past city hall, past the movie theater. He walked past the library, past the Army recruitment center, he walked past the record store. He walked past the schools, past the pet stores, past the crumbling factories, he walked from the past and into the future: construction sites, boys on the corner singing that crazy doo-wop, and he walked across town: building & block, his spine aligned, ready to fight fire with the heaviest of metal, to do whatever it takes to get the job done. Star Oil was a great place to start.
This day, this day didn’t count, was a gap in the work week, the skip on a record album, an extra hour of daylight to play with and shape his own way. Tom Atari was taking full advantage, was gonna do his best to level the playing field while he was still bright with the white light. The faces of the departed, the abused, on the headlines in his mind: Anna Magenta, Paula Trimmer, Heather Jasmine, Sandy Cole...
Building with the five points, and into the lobby, where extraneous secretaries made buzz for junior execs, angling for pole position, papers out of alignment, tight nylons and broken promises, telephones ringing: the urgency of the machine. Tom was not impressed. Some girl looks up from her desk, intaking Atari, and then looked away, over, at the Queen Bee, the head of the secretarial pool: Meredith Daily, her hair in a Biblical hive.
Meredith, whose vagina had lost its voice, redhead and cunning, the door to the Men’s Room. She flew from her chair like an umbrella on payday, polite smile and the understanding that Tom came armed with a little more than most. Her black business dress could have stood up without her, and she took two wet steps toward him that would have the janitor buying a new sponge. Her hair tower, combed in symmetrical strands, “And who might you be?’
“Honey, I’m Tom Atari and I don’t have an appointment.”
This Meredith Daily, somehow prepared for this, the woman ever-ready for every possible reality: a golden gatekeeper. She pulled on her ear to pull the focus from her breasts so she could blink her eyes twice to dazzle Tom blind. It’s an old magician's trick, it's called misdirection, and it's used all the time.
Meredith was good.
Tom was gooder.
“Mr. Tom Atari...” she sang it like she wanted him back, like he was a lover from last week.
He nodded.
“Who is it that you wish to see?”
Tom took a deep breath, took her hand in his, snapped her wrist and broke it, bending it the wrong way, before bringing his face in close, “I wanna see God.”
