of, I would have had to say Dickens’ Mr Pickwick. With the hint of a shaven-headed Shirley Temple and a little too much of a bucktoothed Caligula.
And there was an intensity and a density to this being that I found alarming and I took one pace backaways.
I might add that he wore a dapper black suit and carried a silver-topped cane.
‘Buddy,’ said I, ‘I don’t think we’ve been introduced.’
‘Mayhap not,’ he replied, ‘although you have already felt my power, Mr Woodbine. An uncomfortable sensation, is it not? Trying to define just what you are. Who you are. Whether your existence actually serves any purpose whatsoever.’
‘How do you know my name?’ I enquired. ‘Are you a fan? If so, whip out your pen and I’ll give you an autograph.’
‘Such bravado, Mr Woodbine. You are putting a brave face on it, anyway.’
‘What is going on?’ asked the kid who was my client. ‘Is this the villain, Mr Woodbine? Should you shoot him now?’
‘Priceless,’ said the stumpy fellow with the cane. ‘Absolutely priceless. One of Mr Ishmael’s little puppets. And so far from home. And oh, such thoughts of triumph.’
‘What?’ went the kid and he clutched at his head. ‘You are reading my thoughts. And it hurts. Stop doing it. Please stop doing it.’
And all around and about the kid and myself and the stumpy guy with the seemingly supernatural powers, the clientele of the club just kept on talking with their companions and downing their beers. And the weather girls came and went and Fangio the barman, in his skull make-up, served customers to the right and the left of him, with never a hint of the toot being talked.
And I squared up to the stumpy guy and stared at him eye to eye. ‘Who are you, fella?’ I asked of him.
And the fella laughed. And it was a terrible, terrible laugh and it rolled all about me and all through me and it made me feel sick at heart. ‘I do hate to use such a dreadful cliche,’ said the fella. ‘And as I have already made you aware that you are now a cliche yourself, it does seem such a shame. But as I have no feelings for you, or indeed your race, let it be known to you that I am Papa Crossbar. And I am your worst nightmare.’
‘The Papa Crossbar, High Priest of voodoo?’
‘And so very much more besides. And one by one I take from this world, take life and replace it with death.’
‘It is him,’ cried the kid. ‘Shoot him, Laz. Shoot him now.’
And I reached for my trusty Smith & Wesson. But my trusty Smith & Wesson wasn’t there. The stumpy guy that was Papa Crossbar had it. He had somehow lifted it from my shoulder holster. And he twirled it about him on a stumpy little finger.
‘I can hear you thinking,’ he said, ‘all of you, and the din is deafening. You make so much noise, don’t you? And so much mess, too, and you stink out this part of the universe. But soon I will be done with all of you. With all life on this planet, down to the tiniest noisy little microbe. All will be gone and all that will remain will be a Necrosphere. A planet of the dead – the totally dead. No bacteria rowdily feasting on corpses, no loudly chomping maggots. All will be dead. Each and all. But you will not be here to witness that, I am thinking.’
‘But why?’ I asked. And I took a step back. ‘Why would you want to do such an awful thing?’
‘Awful?’ asked the stumpy Papa Crossbar. ‘Awful in which respect?’
‘To annihilate an entire race. Eradicate life from an entire planet. Why would you want to do such a thing?’
‘ Pest control, if you will. Life is not universal. Death is universal. This little pocket of life is an anomaly. It ruins the perfection that the universe would otherwise attain. Nasty, noisy, smelly little planet. All must be expunged. All must die.’
‘You too?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes, but in my way, not yours. While I am here, upon this world, I am as you are. As mortal as you but so much more than you. I am Papa Crossbar. And when my work here is done, I will ascend into the darkness to enjoy eternal peace.’
‘Might I ask a question?’ asked the kid.
‘You might, but I doubt whether I will feel inclined to answer it.’
‘Well,’ said the kid, ‘I will ask it anyway, if you don’t mind. Because I got involved in all this weird stuff a while back. It was your zombies at the cemetery in Hanwell, I suppose.’
‘There have been many and there will be many more.’
‘And-’
‘And so what does Mr Ishmael have to do with this?’
‘Oh,’ said the kid. ‘You really can read my mind. And it really does hurt.’
‘Indeed. And so I know what you are now thinking. You are thinking that you will try to distract me with some toot so that Mr Woodbine here can strike me down and hopefully kill me by so doing.’
‘Hmph,’ went the kid.
‘No go, I’m afraid. Not that you couldn’t possibly pull off such a scheme, but you would have to guard your thinking so well that I could not penetrate your thoughts. And you do not have that skill. And so goodbye.’
‘Are you off?’ said the kid, with some bravado. ‘Please don’t think that you must hurry back.’
‘It is goodbye to Mr Woodbine,’ said Papa Crossbar. ‘This man could pose a genuine threat to me, and so he must depart now from this plane of existence.’
‘Not quite yet,’ I implored. ‘Lazlo Woodbine’s time has not yet come. I have years left in me. And my adventures might well enjoy a renaissance. There might even be a TV series made of them. With, perhaps, Robert Culp playing me.’
‘Yes,’ the kid agreed. ‘You can’t kill Lazlo Woodbine.’
The being that was Papa Crossbar shrugged. And he did this with a wicked smile upon his face. ‘It is goodbye, Lazlo Woodbine,’ he said. And he raised his hands. And then he projected. As I had projected, me, Tyler, on the Banbury Bloater drug at The Stones in the Park gig. I knew what it was to project. And just how much power it had. And one moment there was Lazlo Woodbine. And the next moment, there wasn’t.
‘Gone into the ether,’ said Papa Crossbar. ‘Will you be next, or will you choose to run?’
And I chose to run and so I ran.
And I ran and I ran and I ran.
43
And I ran back through the streets of New York, to the Pentecost Hotel.
And I felt sick to my very soul and took myself off to the bar therein.
Now, a hotel bar is a hotel bar and they all have points for them and points against. This one had mostly points for. It was not Papa Crossbar’s Voodoo Pushbike Scullery and it did not have Fangio for a barman.
I ordered a Kentucky bourbon, double, on the rocks. And I sat at the bar and I hung my head, feeling very bad indeed.
It occurred to me that it would probably be for the best if I didn’t mention to Andy that I had met Lazlo Woodbine, what with Andy being such a big fan of the great detective and everything. He might just be a bit jealous and perhaps ask me why I hadn’t taken him with me when I went to visit Laz. And then the conversation might turn to what exactly went on when I did meet Laz. And then I might have to explain, just in passing, that Lazlo Woodbine had passed, so to speak. And that, perhaps, I was partially to blame for this passing. And it might all get rather messy and embarrassing and there might be some unpleasantness. And Andy might point accusing fingers at me and maybe knot these into fists and throw them likewise in my direction.
So it would probably be better just to say nothing.
But I still felt sick at heart.
It was my fault. I had got Laz into that fatal situation. I was to blame.
