Headhunter

who digs in the ground, looking for the garbage left behind by past civilizations to figure out how they lived. To try and figure out who they really were. A bit like an academic garbage collector. Have I got that right, son?'

'Sort of,' Jeff said.

Slim lit a match on the zipper of his crptch and blew out a gray cloud of fog. 'Perfesser says that garbage is the true reflection of life.'

'Ah,garbage!' the Perfesser said wisely, and he took another shot straight from the flask.

'Ever found yourself with a day off, Jeff, and nothing to do? I have. Lots of days since my wife up and left. At first I didn't know what to do with myself — then I struck on this idea. An experiment, so to speak. I got dressed up in a shirt and tie, and walked my garbage route. Only this time, kid, I walked down the front of the street. And I've been doing that once a month ever since, just slowly walking by and taking in the front that people put out, the masks they wear, if you get my drift. 'Cause sometimes their masks get so solid, they think that's who they really are. I go looking in people's windows. Listening to them chat with their neighbors. And then I started keeping track of the garbage that came out the back.'

'We slit two or three bags open every trip,' Slim said. 'Perfesser says a man's trash is the true reflection of his life.' He blew out another billowing cloud of gray smoke.

'So you see, Jeff,' the Perfesser said, standing up and stretching, 'why not use this job to learn a little bit about life? Come on. I'll show you what I mean.'

The Perfesser walked down the alley, and stopped in front of a wooden pen containing two metal garbage cans. Reaching into the pocket of his overalls, he brought out a Swiss Army knife and fingered open one of the blades. As Slim and Jeff joined him he removed the lid from one of the cans and slit open the uppermost black plastic bag inside. With both his hands he ripped the slit wide open.

'Well, kid,' the Perfesser asked. 'What do you see?'

Jeff peered into the rent in the bag and began to list the contents, starting from the top: 'One box of Sheiks, empty. One box of Ramses, lubricated and also empty. Two Swanson TV dinners, eaten. Two Chun King frozen chow mein dinners, also eaten. One copy of Hustler. One copy of Gent. One copy of the Hite Report on Female Sexuality. Several dozen Kleenex, most of them smeared with lipstick and makeup. Two Canadian Pacific Airlines travel folders for tickets. Several pamphlets on Hawaii. Several mimeographed sheets of paper. And I can't see what's below that.'

'Okay,' said the Perfesser. 'Now add this. Those mimeographed sheets are Sunday school papers. These garbage cans belong to the manse of the Baptist Church down the street. In the manse live the minister, his wife — who wears no makeup — and their pious fifteen-year-old son. Put it all together and what have you got…'

'Why that horny little bastard!' Jeff said, and the three of them laughed. Slim flicked the butt of his cigarette into the snow in the alley.

'Okay, you try, Mr. Holmes. Pick any can.'

Jeff looked around pensively. Twenty feet up the lane he saw a burning tin across from the underground parking lot of a West End apartment building. Behind the tin were two garbage cans.

'That one,' Jeff said as he left the two older men. He walked over to it, removed the lid and looked inside. As they both watched him with smiles on their faces Slim and the Perfesser saw the young man lift an Adidas athletic bag out of the can. They saw him look inside the main pouch of the gym case, close it and then unzip the side pocket. After several seconds they saw Jeff shrug and heard him say: 'Beats me, Perfesser. What do you make of this?'

The two older men sauntered over to join him. Together all three examined the object that the youth held in his hand.

The object was made of ebony and it shone dull black in the diffused light that struggled to seep through the fog. It consisted of two small faces, back to back, each one about two inches high, each with a large rounded nose. One of the noses was smooth, but the other was jagged at the end where it had cracked and several small splinters had chipped off. Each miniature face had an open mouth and from each mouth protruded an eight-inch rounded tongue. These tongues curved in a slightly upward arc in opposite directions.

'Well?' Jeff asked, bewildered. 'What do you make of this?'

Slim looked to the Perfesser, a smile upon his lips.

'That, son,' the Perfesser said, 'is what we call a Dyke's Prong. You want another name, call it the Horns of Venus. Call it a Devil's Tongue. That's a pretty fancy one but you can buy a simplified plastic version in any sex shop in this city.'

Jeff stared at the double dildo for several long seconds.

'Down in the Caribbean there's this place called Nick's Nitery. When I was in the merchant marine we shipped into that island port one day and the whole crew went to Nick's. If you got enough of the green stuff that man really puts on a show; in season tourists flock there by the thousands. In one of the shows, two women make the two-back-beast using one of those, matching each other thrust for thrust. The night we were there at least one-third of the audience was female. In the second act, Nick had two men get it on.'

Jeff looked up at the other two and a wordless communication passed among the three of them.

Finally Jeff said: 'Hidden lives, huh? I'm just trying to imagine a woman using one of those things.'

Slim grinned and said, 'Frankenstein's monster was made up from parts of several different human.beings.'

The three of them turned from the garbage cans and walked back to the truck. As they passed the burning tin Jeff glanced inside and saw nothing but yesterday's ashes. The Perfesser climbed in behind the wheel and once more the team was moving. The ebony object went into the collecting trough at the back along with the Adidas bag. Then Jeff pulled on the hydraulic lever and the trough took the refuse away.

It was as Jeff was turning from the rear of the truck that Slim stopped him with a wink of his eye.

'Didn't I tell ya?' Slim said. 'World's foremost authority, for my money, on women, liquor and life.'

'You told me.' Jeff said.

'But what I didn't tell ya — an' ya should know — is the garbageman's lesson of life.'

'And what's that?' Jeff asked, grinning from ear to ear.

'Perfesser says that in this city — in any city — the real garbage ain't what we take outa the cans. It's some of the people that fill 'em.'

Author's Note

This is a work of fiction. The plot, the characters-in-action are a product of the author's imagination. Where real persons, places, or institutions have been used for background to create the illusion of authenticity they are used fictitiously. Facts have been altered if necessary for the purpose of the story.

It would not have been possible to write this novel, however, without the generous help of certain individuals who aided in the research and to whom the author owes a debt of gratitude:

To Dr. James S. Tyhurst of the Department of Psychiatry, University of British Columbia, for directing my reading toward The Psychology of Insanity by Bernard Hart.

To The Clash of London, England — both for their music and for permission to use the lyrics of 'Jimmy Jazz.'

To Earl Hall of the RCMP Crime Detection Lab, Vancouver, BC, who — without knowing the plot or where I was going — helped with the ballistics.

To Gerald Straley of VanDusen Botanical Gardens. Vancouver, BC, for a short course in botany.

To Pacific Press Ltd for the consistent quality of The Sun newspaper, Vancouver, BC.

To Annie Hill, for translation.

To Vicki Murdoch, for her artwork.