spittle that they looked almost varnished. And while he was of course still fat, he also looked as if he had somehow lost his surface tension — as if the essential Herb Porter had shrunk away from the borders of his skin, leaving that skin to sag in places where it had been previously stretched smooth.
“He’s out,” Porter whispered.
“Who’s dat, Mist Po’tuh?” I asked. I was genuinely curious; I could not imagine what mighty sling or engine could have breached such a gap in Castle Herbert. Although I suppose I should have guessed.
He proffered me the paper — the Post, of course. He’s the only one around here who reads it. Kenton and Wade read the Times, Gelb and Jackson bring the Times but secretly read the Daily News (the hand that rocks the cradle may rule the world, but de han which empty de white folks’ wastebaskets know de secrets of de worl), but the Post was made for fellows such as Herb Porter. He plays Wingo religiously and says if he ever wins a bundle he is going to buy a Winnebago, paint the word WINGOBAGO on the side, and tour the country.
I took it, opened it, and read the headline.
“The General’s escaped,” he whispered. His eyes stopped bouncing back and forth for a moment and he stared at me in dismay and utter horror. “It’s as if that damned Detweiller cursed us. The General’s escaped and I rejected his book!”
“Now, now, Mist Po’tuh,” I said. “Ain’t no need to take on so. Man lak dis prob’ly got fo-five dozen scores to settle befo he git to you.”
“But I could be number one,” he whispered. “After all, I rejected his goddam book.”
It was true, and it is ironic how two such fundamentally different men as Kenton and Porter have managed to get themselves into exactly the same situation this late winter — each the target of a rejected author (Detweiller’s rejection a bit more dramatic than that of the Major-General, granted, but that was indubitably Detweiller’s own fault) who just happens to be insane. The difference — I know it, even if no one else does (and I believe Roger Wade might) — is that, while Kenton thought there might actually be the germ of a book in Detweiller’s obsession, Porter knew better concerning the General’s. But Porter is one of those men who has read omnivorously — and vicariously — about World War II, that Pickett’s Charge of western man (western white man) in the 20th century, and he knew who Hecksler was…in a war filled with military celebrities Hecksler was, granted, of the Hollywood Squares type (if you see what I mean), but to Porter he was somebody. So he asked to see the completed manuscript of Twenty Psychic Garden Flowers in spite of the abysmal outline, thereby encouraging a man who was, by the quality and content of his own written words, a palpable psychotic. I felt that the result and his present terror, although unforeseen, were partly his own fault.
I allowed as how it was true that he could be number one on the General’s hit list (if indeed the poor madman is doing anything other than cowering in drainage ditches or scouring alley garbage cans for offal at this point), but reiterated that I thought it unlikely. I added that he might well be caught before he could get within fifty miles of New York City even if he had decided to come after Porter, and finished by telling him that many psychotics released suddenly into an uncontrolled environment took their own lives…although I did not say so in exactly those words.
Porter regarded me suspiciously for a moment and then said, “Riddley — don’t take offense at this—“
“Nawsah!”
“Have you really been to college?”
“Yassah!”
“And you took psychology courses?”
“Yassah, I sho did.”
“Abnormal psychology?”
“Yassah, and I’se pow’ful familier wid de suicidial syndrome associated wid de paranoid-psychotic personality! Why, dat Gen’l Hecksler could be slittin’ his wrists or garglin’ wid a lightbulb even while we’s heah talkin, Mist Po’tuh!”
He looked at me for a long time and then said, “If you’ve been to college, Riddley, why do you talk that way?”
“What way is dat, Mist Po-tuh?”
He regarded me for a moment longer and then said, “Never mind.” He leaned close — close enough so I could smell cheap cigars, hair tonic, and the graywater stench of fear. “Can you get me a gun?”
For a moment I was literally without a response — which is like saying (Floyd would, anyway) that China was for a moment without manpower. I had an idea that he had changed the subject completely, and that what I had heard as Can you get me a gun? had actually been Can you get me some fun, as in ho. Definition of a ho: dahk-skin woman who do it fo money on account of de food-stamps is gone and de las fix be cookin in de spoon. My response was to either fall down, shrieking wildly with laughter, or to throttle him until his face was as purple as his tie. Then, belatedly, I began to understand he really had said gun…but in the meantime he had taken the overload in my mental switchboard for refusal. His face fell.
“You’re sure?” he asked. “I thought that up there in Harlem—“
“Ah lives in Dobbs Ferry, Mist’ Po’tuh!”
He merely waved this aside, as if we both knew my Dobbs Ferry address was just a convenient fiction I maintained — that I might even actually go there after work, but of course was drawn back to the velvety reaches beyond 110th as soon as the sun went down.
“Ah g’iss I could git you a gun, Mist’ Po’tuh, suh,” I said, “but it wouldn’t be no better or wuss’n one you could git yo’sef — a.32…maybe a.38…” I winked at him. “And a gun you buy under de countuh in a bah, cain’t never tell it ain’t goan blow up in yo face fust time you pulls de triggah!”
“I don’t want anything like that, anyway,” Porter said morosely. “I want something with a laser sight. And exploding bullets. Did you ever see Day of the Jackal, Riddley?”
“Yassah, and it sho was fine!”
“When he shot the watermelon…plowch!” Porter tossed his arms wide to indicate how the watermelon had exploded when the assassin tried an exploding bullet on it in The Day of the Jackal, and one of his hands struck the ivy sent to Kenton by the mysterious Roberta Solrac. I had all but forgotten it, although it’s been less than two weeks since I put it up there. I tried to assure Porter again that he was probably far from the top of Hecksler’s perhaps infinite list of pet paranoias, and that the man was, after all, seventy-two.
“You don’t know some of the stuff he did in Big Two,” Porter said, his eyes beginning to move hauntedly from side to side again. “If those guys who hired the Jackal had hired Hecksler instead, DeGaulle never would have died in the rack.” He wandered off then, and I was glad to see him go. The smell of cigars was beginning to make me feel mildly ill. I took down Zenith the Common Ivy and looked at him (it is ridiculous to assign a male pronoun to an ivy, and yet I did it automatically — I, who usually write with the shrewish care of a French petit bourgeoise housewife picking over fruit in the marketplace). I began this entry by saying what a difference a day makes. In the case of Zenith the Common Ivy, what a difference five days has made. The sagging stem has straightened and thickened, the four yellowish leaves have become almost wholly green, and two new ones have begun to unfurl. All of this with absolutely no help from me at all. I watered it and noticed two other things about my good old buddy Zenith — first, it’s even put out its first tendril — it barely reaches to the lip of the cheap plastic pot, but it’s there — and second, that swampy, unpleasant smell seems to have disappeared. In fact both the plant and the soil in which he is potted smell quite sweet.
Perhaps it’s a psychic ivy. If General Hecksler shows up here at good old 490 Park, I must be sure to ask him, hee-hee! Got twenty pages done on the novel this week — not much, but think (hope!) I am approaching the halfway point. Gelb, who had a modest run of luck yesterday, tried to push it today — this was about an hour before Porter hopped in, looking for armaments. Gelb now owes me $81.50.
March 8, 1981
Dear Ruth,
Just lately you’ve been harder to reach on the phone than the President of the United States — I swear to God I’m getting to hate your answering machine! I must confess that tonight — the third night of “Hi, this is Ruth and I can’t come to the phone right now, but…”—I got a little nervous and called the other number you gave me — the super. If he hadn’t told me he’d seen you going out around five with a big load of books under your arm, I think I might have asked him to check and make sure you were okay. I know, I know, it’s just the time difference, but things have gotten so paranoid here lately that you wouldn’t believe it. Paranoid? Weird is a better word, maybe.
