Penny Dreadful (17 page)

That’s me, sometimes. That’s your Phineas.

And sometimes I think my heart will give out on me. Everything tastes strange and there’s a faraway muffled thumping in my ears and I keep looking at the sky, thinking it’s thunder. There’s a storm coming. But it’s not thunder. It’s my own stupid blood hammering away and I’m just having a panic attack.

Oh, yeah. You might think you’re cool and confident but you live on the narrow, on the hot edge of metal in the sun and you’re walking down the street in these clothes that you bought for someone else and you catch a glimpse of yourself in the black windows of a parked car, your reflection is suddenly kicked back in your face and it’s not you at all. You’re lost, you’re lost and here comes the panic.

Here it comes.

Ray Fine:

Don’t fucking worry. Stay in character and don’t piss anyone off and you will be right as rain. Phineas whispered these last unheard words of advice to his new parallel ego and retreated safely into the shadows to watch and listen. I’m not here, he said. You are on your own.

Ray Fine smiled wetly at everyone he passed. Ray is one of those sad guys who can’t quite keep his mouth closed. His lips were forever parted, as if he had a problem with his sinus, as if he were simple. And he limped, as expected. Not terribly, but with enough hobbling and spastic shuffling that he might well crash into a mailbox at any moment. His clothes were very bad. The clothes of someone who might be seen howling prophesies at traffic. He wore a charcoal fedora with a diseased sparrow’s feather tucked into the brim. He wore a pea-green jacket and a brown, hooded sweatshirt. A white polyester shirt under this, untucked. Outlandish blue-and-black bell-bottoms that people actually stopped to stare at. He had a ragged mustache that burrowed between his mouth and nose like a pet mouse, and he wore glasses with yellow lenses and black frames held together by a piece of wire. A brand new digital watch with a price tag still dangling that he had purchased for five dollars at a drug store. Ray Fine was another rambling, harmless freak. And he knew it. He limped up the steps to the Ninth Precinct, loudly saying hello and good morning to everyone he saw. A few people even said hello back to him.

Once inside, Ray Fine became mysteriously unobtrusive. He lost the limp for a moment and walked briskly past the desk sergeant, who was busy with someone else and who, if he noticed Ray at all, might have assumed he was an eccentric lawyer. Two rookie uniforms turned to stare at him and he winked at them. Ray Fine knew where he was going. Ray continued down the hallway largely uncontested. Now he muttered to himself and allowed his head to wobble on his shoulders. He was a delirious monkey. He placed one hand over his mouth as if he might vomit. This seemed to help a lot. Now everyone ducked out of his way. Ray turned a corner and resumed his limp.

He smacked his lips and worked his tongue around his mouth, perhaps fishing for debris left over from his lunch. He passed a pretty assistant DA and gave her a friendly thumbs-up, then came to an elevator and merrily pushed the already glowing Up button.

He pushed it five or six times, to be sure.

Two detectives, fat and thin, and a brightly colored secretary stood waiting for the same elevator, and now they turned to peer at him and politely look away. Ray Fine took this opportunity to fart silently and step to one side, his nose twitching. The secretary wrinkled her upper lip and glanced with disapproval at the fat detective. The elevator arrived and Ray graciously climbed aboard last.

Three please, he said loudly. I’m going up to Homicide, you know.

Ray extended his hand. Ray Fine, Special Adjuster #616.

The what?

That’s right. There’s a problem with the conglomerate eleven two tone appropriation policy. Big problem, big as a fucking house.

The secretary cocked one eyebrow in disbelief. I don’t think…

Ray hooted at her. Easy now, little Debbie. You don’t want your face to get stuck that way, do you?

The fat detective grinned as the doors opened on the third floor. No one moved a muscle as Ray Fine darted through and turned to give them all a two-fisted thumbs-up just as the doors hissed shut.

Moon:

He was not crazy, not crazy. Sometimes he wanted to get away, sure. To take off his shirt and sprout wings from his humped and painful shoulder blades. His wings would at least be white, he thought. His wings would be deceptively pretty. He wanted to fly high and wide, out across the plains where the high yellow grass would bend and dip in the wind. Moon sucked in his breath, confused. Brief shudder and thump as his head smacked against the roof of his car. He had jumped a fucking curb. Nearly crushed a lightpost. Oh, boy. That’s right. He was temporarily without a seat belt. Tufts of yellow stuffing floated up to his face and he tried to grab them with a clumsy paw. He had to get a hold of himself. Maybe he would drop in on the department shrink. The idea made him want to choke up his lunch but what else could he do? He was trashing doughnut shops and making sad eyes at hippie girls in the street and disemboweling his own car. He was killing himself, which he might not mind so much but it could take a while to actually finish himself off. Moon opened the car door, inspected himself for injuries. Nothing to speak of, really. An egg-sized lump on his forehead that would likely be colorful tomorrow, but he could always wear a hat. He stepped back to survey the car. Three wheels on the sidewalk, nose shoved into a wooden post. It was possibly an acceptable parking job, though it might impede pedestrian traffic. He considered moving it, straightening it out a bit, but his throat tightened up at the idea and he had to flail his arms for balance. Fucking wings, for god’s sake. He looked up and down the street for moral support and while his might have been the only car on the sidewalk, it did have unexpired tags and a decent paint job and well, fuck it. Moon was a half-block from his building. He would go home, have a cold shower. He would pluck the clumps of dead hair from his bathtub drain. He would brush his teeth and wash his face with witch hazel. Then he would drink a single beer and have a grilled cheese sandwich, with bacon and onions. Maybe Phineas would be there. They could have a good laugh about the lettuce incident and then walk down the street to move his beached car. Right, then. He made sure his doors were locked and turned to go home.

But he hadn’t gone ten feet when a shadow fell across his path.

Good day, said the shadow.

A tall man in an overcoat, the sun behind him. Not a breathing shadow. Moon wrenched himself sideways and got a look at the guy’s face. Long, wet lips. Fucked-up looking hair, like it was cut by a drunk with a kitchen knife. But at least the guy had some hair to speak of. The guy was about his age, maybe older. Wearing a black raincoat. For about two seconds, Moon thought he was maybe going to flash him.

But the guy just looked at him, his head crooked.

Do I know you? said Moon.

I don’t think so, the guy said. My name is Gulliver.

Well, then. What the fuck do you want.

Nothing at all. I was passing by and couldn’t help noticing that your head is bleeding.

Moon blinked. There did seem to be a slow leak just north of his left eye, a warm trickle. He grabbed at his skull with one hand and it came away red.

Huh, he said. That little chicken wasn’t crazy, I guess.

Excuse me?

Oh, said Moon. I met a very strange girl, earlier today. She said she smelled blood on me.

Interesting.

Anyway. I wrecked my car just now. Must have cracked my nut on the windshield.

The man leaned close, sniffing. I smell nothing, he said.

Moon jerked his face away. Who asked you?

The man shrugged. The girl was a Breather, perhaps.

What?

Don’t be thick, man. I can see you’re in the game.

Moon took a step back.

It’s okay, said the man. I don’t want your tongue. But I’m very good with a needle and thread, if you want to stitch that cut.

It’s a scratch, said Moon. It needs a Band-Aid, maybe.

I might help you become self-aware.

You’re some kind of pervert, right?

The man shook his head. He smiled and his teeth were like bones in the sun, cracked and yellow. Moon was disgusted. He was offended. He didn’t feel sorry for people who couldn’t take care of their teeth. Maybe it was just a desperate response to the loss of his hair or the foot odor problem but he seemed to brush his teeth about five times a day, lately.

The queers don’t usually go for me, said Moon. I’m too butch, or something.

Or something, said the man.

Yeah, said Moon. Thanks, though.

The man sighed. You won’t last, he said.

Ray Fine:

They ducked into a restroom, hissing at each other. Pushed and shoved to the sink and ran cold water over their hands, eyeballing the mirror all the while. You want to settle down, or what? You’re a maniac, you’re out of control. The idea was to be foolish but inoffensive so just settle the fuck down, okay. If you can’t be half normal then you’re toast. This is my body, right. What’s left of it. And if you get the shit kicked out of it then you can go back to living in a cigar box under Moon’s sink.

Fucking right.

Then to the urinal for a nervous pee. Ray Fine and Phineas shared a laugh, then Phineas backed off. He gave Ray a final dirty look and let him leave the bathroom in peace to try his own luck with the desk clerk.

She looked like an unforgiving hag. Face like a slab of ham, bright pink and bloated with fat. Thick burgundy hair piled on her head in the shape of a barrel. Ray Fine gritted his teeth and put on a happy face. Behind the hag was a steady hum and bustle of typewriters and telephones and cops going about their business. Phineas felt cold, watching from a distance. He was in the nerve center, such as it was. A trickle of sweat down his back and jangling nerves from skull to fingertips. He hadn’t been this close to so many cops in over a year. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all.

Ray tipped the fedora. Hello, Ma’am.

Flicker of suspicious eyes and a mouthful of gum. Yes?

Yes, well. I need to see Captain Honey right away, posthaste and tout de suite. Life or death and he’s expecting me. Ray Fine, from the mayor’s office.

The hag shrugged, pushed an intercom button. She bent over it with her pink face. Ray Fine to see you, sir. From the mayor’s office.

Long pause, crackling silence.

Phineas squirmed in the dark. Ray Fine grinned confidently.

Nadine, what? The mayor, did you say? Christ on a pony. By all means, send him in. Wait, wait. Ask the poor fellow if he wants a cup of coffee, or a nice danish. Then send him along.

Nadine rolled her eyes. Would you care for a danish? Apple or cream cheese.

Is that real cream cheese?

Hardly.

Ray Fine smiled. Tempting, but no. And don’t get up, please. I know the way.

He looked straight ahead as he made his way through an orgy of closely confined odors, of contorted faces. Past the squeals of swiveling chairs, the hiss and purr of fax machines and the groans of his own nervous belly to Honey’s office. He looked directly at nothing and no one. Phineas couldn’t handle the eye contact and Ray didn’t much like it, either.

Captain Honey sat behind his desk in a handsome black wool overcoat. He looked pretty coherent. Freshly shaved, with a single dot of blood on his left cheek. What remained of his hair was combed smartly over his naked scalp. His eyes were blue and clear. He had one foot up on his desk, though, and he seemed to be wearing tennis shorts with no socks. And upon closer inspection, it looked like he was wearing a plaid bathrobe under the wool overcoat. Moon had not lied about the coupons, by the way. The man’s desk was littered with coupons. The walls were wildly decorated with old comic strips. Marmaduke. Beetle Bailey. Ziggy. And scarily prominent was the insidious Family Circus. Phineas closed his eyes, wished he could go to sleep. Ray Fine smiled and sat down.

Good morning and what can we do for you, private? said Honey.

Ray glanced at his watch, it was nearly five in the evening. Honey was staring at him pretty intently for a confused old guy. Ray Fine stuttered. Oh, well. It’s a question of human interest.

How’s that? said Honey.

Ray took one rattling breath, smiled, then commenced to babble. The mayor wants to improve the police department image, you know. He wants the people of Denver to feel safe and happy. He wants them to say hello and good morning and God bless you when they pass a cop on the street.