The Serial Killers Club Part 10

"But she doesn't show. I'm waiting to hear the key in the front door any moment, but there's nothing. Another hour goes by, and by this time, I've counted all the slats in her closet door."

"How many were there?" I think that's a fair question.

"Eighteen million," Chuck responds rather dryly.

I definitely think he's got a case of closet fever. G.o.d help him if the police ever catch him and toss him in a cell. He'll go nuts within seconds.

"So where was she?" Betty's timid voice is barely heard.

"Exactly what I was asking myself," Chuck responds. "So after what must be three hours, I finally come out of the closet."

"Hey everyone, Chuck's gay." I'm always reading how women find men who make them laugh hugely attractive and I can clearly see that Betty is trying her d.a.m.nedest to control her laughter. She's good though, barely a smile creases her lips and I admire that amount of self-control.

"One more interruption and you're going in the f.u.c.king kitchen. To be cooked." Tony leans toward me, his eyes blazing. I immediately sit back in my chair, hunkering a little lower, annoyed that so few people have a sense of humor these days.

Chuck starts again, looking more world-weary by the second. He seems to have lost his enthusiasm and this story is taking its toll on him. His delivery is routine and that wonderful stage presence of his has all but evaporated. Poor guy must be sickening for something.

"Anyway, I'm in her bedroom, I'm looking through her Rolodex, cuz I want to find out where she is. I call her friends, her family. 'Hey there, have you seen Penny tonight?' 'Hi, I'm looking for Penny.' I make about a dozen calls but no one's seen her. Some of her friends sound real nice, and her father is just the greatest guy alive. I talk to him for maybe half an hour, then her mother comes on the line, then her sister, and I gotta tell you, they are some family. When I hang up I feel like I've known them for years. I even got invited to dinner."

No one laughs at this; Chuck has lost his audience and he knows it.

"So did this Penny ever show?" Cher is probably the only one still listening.

"Well, that's the weird thing. She got knocked down by a car. Stepped out into the road without looking. How careless is that? So I guess if your number's up, well, your number's up. Car, serial killer, it doesn't matter which. Least I got a free dinner out of it."

Again no one laughs, despite Chuck's hopeful smile. This is probably the worst story Chuck has told, and when I think about it, what he needed were more jokes and better timing. I tried to help lift the story, but in truth, it was beyond saving.

When I get home I find Agent Wade sitting with his feet up on my bolted-down sofa. He has had house keys cut, and I can smell eggs boiling in the kitchen. He is watching a late night movie and seems to have made himself at home. There is a battered typewriter sitting in his lap, and several typed pages lie on the immovable coffee table. Agent Wade flicks the remote, killing the sound on the television.

"Like the ad?"

"It was you?"

"Who else?"

"Everyone thought it was Cher."

"That should flush KK out."

I try to stifle a yawn; it's been a long day. "It might take some time for him to bite. Could be that we run over the two-month cutoff point."

"He'll come. I know he will. Can almost smell the lemon hand wipe."

Agent Wade takes off his shoes and then brings his feet up on my sofa, stretching out as he does. "I've been doing some thinking, Dougie. . . ."

Agent Wade studies me, and I don't like the way he does this.

"I think I'm gonna stick pretty close to you from now on. You know, move in with you."

He takes off a sock, sniffs it, then tosses it toward his shoes. "My stuff's in the car, if you want to bring it in for me."

I stop. Who does he think he is?

Agent Wade sniffs his other sock and then tosses it toward me. "I've got a ton of laundry in one of the suitcases." He turns the sound back on and concentrates on the television again. "The keys are on the side there."

I don't believe this.

"Lying on the list."

I say nothing as I trudge slowly over to the side and reach for the keys to his sedan. As I take them off the list, I can't help but glance at it again.

It doesn't surprise me to find that he hasn't scored my name off yet, so I reach for a pencil lying in a fruit bowl and quickly draw a line through it.

"What are you doing, Dougie?"

I pause, not believing that Agent Wade could have heard me. I turn to him and see him giving me an unrelenting stare.

"Nothing . . . nothing at all."

"Good, 'cause when you're done with my stuff we can start making another plan."

"Already? But . . ."

"But what?"

"Aren't we going a bit fast? Barely had time to catch my breath."

"Which is exactly what I want, Dougie. If I let up the pressure on you, even for a second, then you're going to blow it-I know it."

I'm outraged. "Hey, I survived this long. That takes great skill and determination."

Agent Wade puts a hand to his mouth and feigns a big yawn. "No need to get so bigheaded."

That remark hurts, and I turn away, not wanting to look at him anymore. He can obviously see that he has upset me and tries to get back in my good books.

"Okay, you were skilled and determined. But we really don't have the time. I want them wiped out ASAP. Who's next on the list?"

"Richard Burton."

"Then Richard Burton it is."

"The Club is going to go crazy when he doesn't show."

"The Club is crazy anyway."

Agent Wade eases back into my sofa, stretches, picks up the remote, and starts watching television.

"By the way, I like my pants pressed with a crease you could cut your wrists on."

RICHARD BURTON.

LIBRARY OF LOVE.

AGENT WADE spent most of last night typing, and the sound of spent most of last night typing, and the sound of clack-clack clack-clacking until four in the morning nearly drove me insane. I tried to ask him to stop, but he claimed the FBI like their reports in triplicate and just kept banging away at the keys. As I lay awake listening to the equivalent of a marching band tramping through my living room, it dawned on me that I needed to talk to someone. And more important, I need a way out.

Betty Grable stamps the book of a nerdy-looking fifteen-year-old, watches him blush as their eyes meet for a moment, and then almost collapses in a heap when I walk up to her with a copy of a book ent.i.tled Paddle Steamers-The Proud Years. Paddle Steamers-The Proud Years. Betty's jaw drops, and she takes an involuntary and nervous step backward. I say nothing, just offer a smile, present my book, and watch as she swipes my library card through her machine. I then walk off to wait for closing time. Betty's jaw drops, and she takes an involuntary and nervous step backward. I say nothing, just offer a smile, present my book, and watch as she swipes my library card through her machine. I then walk off to wait for closing time.

I catch up with Betty as she crosses the street to board a bus and jump on in near perfect synchronization with her. Although she is fl.u.s.tered at the sight of me, I have the feeling she knew I'd be waiting for her.

Her eyes blink up at me from behind her large pink gla.s.ses. For a second, I remember her wiping away tears of laughter with part of a tablecloth, and I know I have chosen to speak to her purely on account of that. I am also experiencing an undeniable feeling of excitement whenever I see her, and this is the first time I have felt this way about anyone in years.

Betty speaks first, looking at me shyly from beneath hooded eyes.

"Douglas."

I smile, trying my best to look warm and approachable.

"Betty."

"Did you, uh . . . Did you come in the library by accident?"

Betty is wary but also reveals an alertness that I didn't know she possessed. She's just been too shy to make much of an impact at the Club.

"Yeah. An accident. Pure and simple." I have to lie because I don't want her panicking. If she does, then I'm not going to get through to her.

"Knew it must've been that. You live round here, then?"

"Pretty close."

We fall silent for a moment, and I want Betty to think that this meeting is definitely an accident by stretching it out to an embarra.s.sed and altogether stupefying silence. Like I haven't got a thought in my head or any talent for conversation. Just a stupid weak grin.

I smile stupidly at her for what seems like hours, and I can see she is uncomfortable with this. It forces her to break the cloying muteness.

"I had to ask . . . just to make sure."

I nod but keep on grinning-playing the "stupid grin ruse" to perfection.

"I'm just a little jumpy right now. Especially since William Holden died. Plus there's still no word on Tallulah." Betty keeps talking, through sheer nerves more than anything else. "I know I'm still new to the Club, but it's kinda scary."

"It's a scary world." I remember the television psychiatrist saying this once, and uttering it works like a magic spell; suddenly I am back in the land of the supreme conversationalist. "Though I'll be the first to admit I never liked her. Do you know, she never paid her full share of the check at the end of the night?" By my calculations, Tallulah owes the Club nearly $90 all told.

Betty seems a little stunned by this, and I quickly try to make up for it by pretending it was a joke and breaking into the sort of laughter you hear in operas. Loud, deep, and tuneful. Ho-ho-ho.

"Joke!"

Though I have to admit, if there's one thing I don't like, it's a tightwad.

I watch Betty smile weakly, and I notice her dimples, big gouges running through what would be a perfect complexion if she bothered to sign up for an intensive facial every second month or so. She looks up at me with timid eyes.

"Tell me if you think I'm crazy, but do you think we're in danger, Douglas?"

I try to look confused, as if I don't follow her. "Danger?"

"Well, it's just that I know a few things. . . ." Betty gets a slight blush in her cheeks.

My veins freeze inside me.

Betty starts to say more but loses her nerve and turns away with a small tut. "Forget it. I'm just being paranoid."

I have to keep her on track.

I play it casual, cool. "Know what things?" My predicament with Agent Wade is suddenly becoming a thing of the past. It's looking as though I might have to kill Betty before I can kill Richard.

She shrugs, thinks things over, then lowers her eyes as she speaks. "It's actually Tony's theory. He said not to tell anyone . . . but G.o.d, Douglas, I am so spooked."

I stop.

Tony?

Did she just say Tony?

I don't want to ask, but I have to.

"Tony as in . . . ?"

"Yeah. Tony Curtis. The Club chairman. My brother."

I could easily fall out of my seat at this point and can't hide my stunned look. Betty offers another nervy little shrug. "We both had the same mother." And I guess that explains what needs to be explained. "You won't tell anyone, will you?"

"Of course not." I know what Tony does, and I am not going to tell anyone a single thing. "What, uh . . . what's his theory?"

"There's a rat in the Club." The phrase doesn't belong to Betty, but I can see it erupting from belching Tony Curtis's big fat mouth.

"A rat?" If Betty can't hear my now thudding heart, or see my stomach flipping over, then she must be both deaf and blind.

"He thinks someone at the Club is out to get us." The words smash against my temples, fall back, then crash again at my now throbbing head. "He's been investigating, and uh . . . well. He told me not to tell a soul, but he's been doing a lot of backtracking and managed to get hold of some details."

I'm being attacked by wave upon wave of nausea. I grip the handrail as tight as I can, hanging on for sweet dear life as the world does backflips in front of me. My voice has become a miserable little William Holden whisper.

"Details? What details?"

"I can't say. Really I can't. Tony was very adamant about keeping it a secret for now."

I'm pretty positive I haven't lost my voice altogether, but the sudden pressure on my larynx is making it a real struggle to get my words out. "Please. I'd like to hear it." I clear my throat, cough up phlegm, and spit it quickly out of the window. I hit a workman. "After all, I am Club secretary . . . and h.e.l.l, Tony does think an awful lot of me."