The Comedy is Finished

following taped statement at this time.” And then another voice came on, sounding strained and hurried:

“This is Michael Wiskiel of the Los Angeles office of the FBI. I have been involved on the FBI side in the Koo Davis kidnapping. Early this morning, we delivered to the kidnappers medicines necessary to keep Koo Davis alive. Although we had promised not to use this humanitarian act as an opportunity to capture the kidnappers, we felt that certain legal, moral, and medical considerations were more urgent than our promise, and so we inserted a form of tracking device in with the medicine, hoping to follow its transmission and rescue Koo Davis. Unfortunately, the kidnappers found the device and returned it to us with a taped message. Here is part of that tape.”

Now Mark’s cold angry voice pushed itself into the sunny day: “We’ll be listening to the radio news all morning. Until we hear an apology from you, Michael Wiskiel, in your own voice, Koo Davis gets no medicine.”

“Ah, Jesus,” Larry said.

The Michael Wiskiel voice had come back: “The most important consideration, of course, is Koo Davis’ health and safety. I certainly do apologize for my decision to use the tracking device, since it clearly has resulted in increased danger for Koo Davis. I not only apologize, I am voluntarily removing myself from further connection with this case. I can only hope this delay has not caused irretrievable harm to Koo Davis. I beg the kidnappers, please, to give Koo his medicine now.”

Peter had come out during the statement, looking both jubilant and relieved, and when it was over Larry turned on him, angrily saying, “Do you like that victory? Peter? He took it away from us, it’s a triumph for them. They broadcast as much of what Mark said as they wanted—and what a wonderful voice he has to play a villain!—and they made it sound as though it was their idea to turn over the medicine. Are you really pleased with that?”

“Be quiet, Larry,” Peter said. “They apologized, didn’t they? Let’s go downstairs and give the man his medicine.”

13

Koo lies on the couch, his head propped by pillows, and eats spoonfuls of oatmeal fed to him by the woman called Joyce. “After this,” he says, still whispering because of his ragged throat and still gasping with fatigue, “will you—read me a story?” To his complete surprise and embarrassment, she responds with an utterly tragic and despairing expression of face; two large tears ooze from her eyes and roll unhindered down her cheeks. They look hot, and the skin itself looks both hot and dry. All in all, her appearance is in Koo’s eyes unhealthy, as though she doesn’t eat right, doesn’t sleep right, doesn’t have good medical advice. “Hey,” he whispers, lifting one weak hand from his side, “you trying to—break my—self-confidence?—That’s the worst—reaction to a gag—I ever got.”

She turns away, fumbling the oatmeal bowl onto the counter, swabbing at the tears with shaky fingers of her other hand. Then she covers her face with both hands and just sits there, huddled over like a refugee in a bombed bus station.

Koo frowns at her. His strength is slowly returning, and with it the determination somehow to help himself, be of some use to himself.

For instance, he knows where he is. It came to him in one of his deliriums, and now that he’s once again more or less in his right mind he’s convinced he’s right. He’s never been here before, but he definitely knows where he is. Could the knowledge be turned to use?

He also wonders if he could work some sort of deal or something with one of the kidnappers. So far he’s seen five of them, and is beginning to get a sense of each as an individual. There’s the leader, probably the one referred to as Peter; he likes to stay behind the scenes, put in an occasional dramatic or sardonic appearance, and then fade away again. The old eminence grise routine. Along with him there’s Vampira, the naked blonde chickie with the scars; Koo doesn’t know her name, and would be perfectly happy never to see her again, with or without clothing. Another nut is Larry, the lecturer in Advanced Insanity; there’s a weird sort of sympathy inside Larry, but it’s probably useless to Koo, since Larry clearly is a True Believer, one of those intellectual clowns who can’t see the goods for the theories. A completely unsympathetic type is Mark, the tough guy with the chip on his shoulder; Koo knows that fellow is just waiting for an excuse to do something really drastic.

Which leaves this girl here, Joyce, who looks tragic and unhealthy, and who cries at Koo’s jokes. Can he make some sort of useful contact with this one? “Hey,” he whispers. She doesn’t respond, she remains huddled, face covered, shoulders trembling slightly, but Koo knows she’s listening. He licks dry lips and whispers, “Your pal Mark —is gonna kill me—can you help me out of here?”

Her head moves, a quick negative shake.

“Tonight,” he whispers, pressing harder, feeling the urgency as he says it. He reaches out, but she is just too far away to touch, and he isn’t strong enough yet to sit up. “I can hack it—till tonight,” he says, as though she’s already agreed to help and all that’s left to get organized is the details. “I’ll be stronger then—able to walk—just get me away—from the house—it’s my only chance—you don’t want—Mark to get me.”

“But Mark has you,” says the cold voice, from behind Koo, back by the door.

Joyce goes rigid, then lifts her tear-stained face to stare toward the doorway. Koo closes his eyes, sighing, trying not to be afraid. He’s so weak, so goddamn weak. What will the son of a bitch do now?

Talk; for the moment, that’s all, just talk. “Joyce wouldn’t do it,” he says. Koo opens his eyes, and now Mark is standing next to Joyce, his hand on her shoulder, his coldly triumphant eyes on Koo, and in his other hand the cassette recorder. “And if she would do it,” he tells Koo, “she couldn’t. Not a chance. Right, Joyce?”

“I was feeding him,” Joyce says, trying to reach around Mark for the bowl.

“He’s had enough to eat. He shouldn’t get his strength back too fast. Go on, now, he’s about to make another record.”

“I should finish feeding him.”

“Later, Joyce.”

Joyce flashes Koo a quick frightened look, then gets to her feet and leaves the room. Koo isn’t sure about that look: Is she afraid for me or of me? Maybe there’s other stuff inside her, and the sympathy won’t matter.

But now the problem is Mark, who sits where Joyce was sitting and says, “Davis, you’re helpless. I could beat you to death now, if I felt like it. You live or you die according to what we want. You’re healthy or unhealthy according to whether or not we let you have your medicine. You’re in no position to make mistakes. What you were saying to Joyce was a mistake.”

Koo doesn’t speak; he doesn’t want to make another mistake. This guy is a time bomb, and Koo doesn’t want to set him off; but on the other hand Koo himself has always had a certain amount of pride, and he doesn’t want to grovel before the son of a bitch. Unless, of course, it’s necessary; better a living grovel than a dead defiance.

Mark slaps the edge of the cassette recorder almost casually against Koo’s shin. It hurts, like bumping into something in the dark. Koo winces, and Mark says, “Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes. No mistakes.”

“That’s right.” Mark seems to consider more physical stuff, then changes his mind. Instead, he puts the recorder on his lap and takes from his pocket a folded sheet of paper. “Your new script,” he says, opening it and extending it toward Koo.

“I’m sorry—I can’t hold it.”

Mark looks annoyed, but makes no comment. Instead, he holds it up where Koo can look at it.

This one is shorter, typewritten like the last one, and again with the heavy editing and alterations done by several hands. Apparently, script conferences with this crowd are even hairier experiences than in the television industry. Koo reads it over, knowing he isn’t going to like what it says, and not liking it. “Terrific,” he whispers, at the end.

“I’m glad you approve.” Mark unlimbers the microphone, raises the recorder, then puts a small pillow on Koo’s chest and props the sheet of paper against it. “This time,” he says, “you read the script the way it’s written. You don’t add any lines or crack any jokes. If you do, I’ll make you regret it. You follow me?”

“I follow you.”