Blackburn. Part 22

Blackburn was sickened. He went up the aisle to the wall and followed the wall to the front door. He went out to the February chill and stuck his book into his coat on the right-hand side. The left side was already bulky; his Colt Python was tucked there in a pouch he had sewn in. He zipped up the coat and jammed his hands into its pockets. The sun had set, and the downtown streets held no warmth. He started for the bus stop two blocks down.

On the way to the bus stop he came across a coffee shop, so he went inside and ordered a grilled cheese sandwich and french fries. As he ate, he reread the first two chapters ofThe Guy Who Killed People and began to feel better. Artimus Arthur deserved a second chance to be himself, and Blackburn deserved a chance to meet him. The fact that Arthur understood human folly didn't mean he was immune to it. He was bound to backslide now and then.

Blackburn returned to the bookstore and waited outside, stamping his feet to keep warm. He had decided that he would not meet Artimus Arthur under the artificial conditions of the autograph session.

Not only was Arthur less able to be himself under such conditions, but Blackburn would not be able to reveal his own true self either. There were too many other people around, too many leather yuppies and nouveau beatniks who, Blackburn had realized, were only buying Arthur's book because it was the hip thing to do, because they were intellectual blanks who craved not wisdom but a brush with celebrity.

Most of them wouldn't even read the novel and wouldn't appreciate its truth if they did. Blackburn did not want Arthur to see him as one of them. So he would approach him when the autograph session was over, when the winter air had cleared the writer's head and neither he nor Blackburn would have to behave as anything other than what they were.

But more than a dozen of Arthur's admirers remained when the store closed at seven o'clock, and they all came outside with him, cl.u.s.tering around him like viruses attacking a healthy cell. The cl.u.s.ter moved down the street, and Blackburn followed. He was frustrated and cold.

The entourage swept Arthur into the coffee shop where Blackburn had eaten dinner. Blackburn watched through the window while they shoved tables together. Arthur stood apart, gripping the arm of Attractive Woman Number One. He swayed, looking as if he might fall if he released her. The woman was giving him a fixed smile and nodding at whatever he was saying.

As Arthur and his admirers sat down, Blackburn entered the shop and walked past them, taking a booth in the back. He unzipped his coat, and his copy ofThe Guy Who Killed People fell onto the table. He stared at the book to keep from staring at its author. Now was still not the time for them to meet, and he didn't want to draw Arthur's attention. "Weren't you in a while ago?" a voice asked.

Blackburn looked up. A hairnetted waitress was standing beside the booth.

"Yeah," he said. "Decided I wanted some dessert. Banana cream pie."

The waitress scribbled on her pad. "That a good book?" she asked, nodding atThe Guy Who Killed People.

"It's okay."

The waitress waved a thumb at Artimus Arthur's group. "One of those people writes books. At least, that's what they told me. If you're interested."

"Thanks."

The waitress left. Blackburn opened the novel and reread Chapters Three and Four, and half of Five.

Then he glanced up and saw that his pie was on the table and that Arthur and his entourage were leaving.

He closed the book and wolfed down three bites of pie, then dropped money on the table and went out.

Outside, the entourage was disintegrating. Some of the people were walking toward the bus stop, and others were getting into cars parked along the street. Artimus Arthur was still hanging on to the arm of the attractive woman and was speaking to two young men.

"I appreciate the offer, gentlemen," he said, "but Stephanie has offered to see me safely to my hotel, and I have full confidence in her abilities. Thank you for coming. I enjoyed our conversation." He didn't sound drunk anymore.

The two young men turned and left Arthur with the woman. They pa.s.sed by Blackburn.

"Think she'll f.u.c.k him?" one of them whispered.

Blackburn didn't hear the reply. He followed Artimus Arthur and Stephanie. There weren't many people on the sidewalks tonight, but there were enough that Blackburn didn't think he'd be noticed.

Arthur and the woman walked five blocks east to 4th Street and then down three blocks to the Clarion Hotel. Blackburn had dropped back until he was almost fifty yards behind them, and he ran to catch up when he saw them enter the hotel. If they were going to get on an elevator, he wanted to be sure he was on it with them.

They were still in the lobby, standing between a row of pay phones and the elevators, when Blackburn came inside. Arthur was leaning toward Stephanie and murmuring something, and Stephanie was leaning away, smiling and shaking her head. Blackburn went to the pay phone closest to them and pretended to make a call.

Stephanie kissed Arthur on the cheek, then walked past Blackburn and out of the hotel. "If you change your mind," Arthur shouted, "I'm in Room Twenty-one Fourteen!" But Stephanie was already outside.

Blackburn was glad to see her go.

Arthur stepped into an elevator with three other people, so Blackburn didn't try to get there before the doors closed. He wanted to meet Arthur alone, and now that he knew the writer's room number, hecould be sure that he did. He went to the elevators after Arthur's car had gone and pushed the UP b.u.t.ton.

The door to Room 2114 opened on the fourth knock, and Artimus Arthur stood there grinning. Then he saw Blackburn, and the grin disappeared. He leaned out and looked up and down the empty hallway.

"Oh," he said. "I was expecting someone else."

Blackburn smelled liquor. He didn't like it. "h.e.l.lo, Mr. Arthur," he said. "I can't tell you my name, but I've read your novel,The Guy Who Killed People, and I wondered if you would sign the t.i.tle page for me." He unzipped his coat and pulled out the book. "I'd also like to talk a while, if you have time."

Arthur stepped back. "You have the wrong room," he said, and started to close the door.

Blackburn put a hand on the door to hold it open. "I really think you'll want to talk to me," he said.

Arthur glared at him. "I'm doing a signing tomorrow at a Waldenbooks in St. Charles. Talk to me then."

He tried to shove the door shut, but it didn't move.

Blackburn shook his head. "I was at your signing today," he said. "It was awful. None of those people knew your work, or what it means. And you... were drunk. Probably so you wouldn't have to think about those people."

"If you don't leave right now," Arthur said, "I'll yell for help. There are a lot of people on this floor, and they'll call hotel security. Or the police."

Blackburn held outThe Guy Who Killed People. "This book is about me," he said.

Arthur's eyebrows rose. "Excuse me?"

"The man in the book," Blackburn said. "The guy who kills people, but only when they deserve it. I'm him."

Arthur's hands slid from the door, and he took another step back. "You don't say."

"If you'll give me a few minutes, you'll believe me," Blackburn said. He entered the room and closed the door. "You're the first person I've told about this. You can imagine why."

Arthur's grin was creeping back. "Oh, yes," he said. He went to the nightstand and picked up an open fifth of Jack Daniel's. He grasped the bottle by the neck and took a drink. Then he looked at Blackburn.

"So you've sprung to life from the pages of my book, is that it? Must have been an easy birth. No water breaking, no straining. No blood."

"That's not what I mean, sir," Blackburn said. "I'm not a lunatic."

"I wasn't suggesting you were." Arthur went around the bed to the window, taking the bottle with him.

He opened the drapes. The Gateway Arch was visible on the far side of I-70. "To believe you've been given life by words isn't lunacy. But to try to parachute down to land on top of that thing-" He pointed at the Arch. "Now,that's lunacy."

Blackburn didn't know what Arthur was talking about. "What I meant to say, sir," he continued, "was that I share the values and behavior of your nameless protagonist. I am a real-world a.n.a.log of The GuyWho Killed People."

"Oh," Arthur said. "Well, in that case, youare a lunatic. Go parachute onto the Arch." He took a swig from the bottle.

"Please listen," Blackburn said. "Once I saw a man beating his wife, so I shot him. Another time I saw a man run over a dog on purpose. So I shot him. Another time I caught two mechanics cheating an old lady, so-"

"Let me guess," Arthur said. "You shot them."

"No. I would have, but I didn't have my gun with me. I crushed one of them under a hydraulic lift and blew up the other one with an air compressor."

"That was very resourceful." Arthur took a long drink. The bottle was almost empty. "Now get out of here before I call hotel security."

"You still don't believe me."

Arthur laughed, and it became a cough. He bent over and hacked, then spat and straightened up. His face had turned red. "You want to know the truth?" he asked.

Blackburn stepped toward the writer, holdingThe Guy Who Killed People before him like a holy icon.

"Yes," he said. "I found truth in this book, so I know you're a man who understands what truth is."

"You bet," Arthur said. He drained the bottle and coughed again.

Droplets. .h.i.t Blackburn's face. He breathed bourbon, and his lungs burned. He was glad the bottle was empty. Maybe things would go better now.

Arthur pushed Blackburn aside and returned to the nightstand. He set down the bottle and put his hand on the telephone. "The truth is that I don't care whether you ever killed anybody, or whether you're using my book as an excuse to hallucinate. Either way, you're nothing to me but a pain in the a.s.s. I've met you a thousand times, and I only put up with you for the first hundred. So you can walk out of this room, or I can call someone to drag you out."

Blackburn was beginning to despair, but he had to keep trying. "I'm not like those others," he said, coming around the bed. "They want your fame to rub off on them. I don't. I only want to let you know that your vision isn't in vain."

Arthur looked puzzled. "What vision is that?"

"The vision in this book," Blackburn said, holding outThe Guy Who Killed People again. "The vision of a man who understands the meaning of independence and justice, and who isn't afraid to act on that understanding."

Arthur picked up the empty bottle and tried to take another drink. Then he brought it up to his right eye and peered through the gla.s.s at Blackburn. "You are not only a lunatic," he said, "but a lunatic who can't read his way out of a wet paper bag."

"I don't know what you mean," Blackburn said. "Of course not." Arthur lowered the bottle and shook it at Blackburn. "That's because you're a lunatic.

Just like the man in my book. He's worse than a serial killer, worse than evil. He'sstupid, which is the worst lunacy of all. The reader isn't supposed to sympathize with him. The reader's supposed toloathe him.I sure as h.e.l.l did."

It was as if Blackburn had been slugged. "But the people he killed all deserved it," he said. The words hurt his throat. "They were horrible."

"We're all horrible!" Arthur yelled, waving the bottle. "I'm horrible, you're horrible, the President of the United States is horrible! Mother stinking Teresa is horrible! A newborn baby will be horrible as soon as it gets a chance! Trying to fight that isn't n.o.ble. It'sfutile. Why do you think I killed him off at the end, anyway?"

"To... make him a martyr?"

Arthur came close to Blackburn and bellowed in his ear. "BECAUSE HE WAS A PAIN IN THE a.s.s, THAT'S WHY!".

Blackburn flinched away. He was angry now. "I see," he said. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Arthur."

"Drop dead," Arthur said. "But get out first."

Blackburn went to the door, but then turned back toward the writer. "You know what I think?" he asked.

Arthur stood beside the bed, his shoulders slumped. The Jack Daniel's bottle dangled from his hand.

"Not only do I not know," he said, "but I don't give a s.h.i.t either."

"I think," Blackburn said, "that you've lied to me. I think you know you've written the truth, and you're afraid of it. I think you're so afraid of it that you have to get drunk to be brave. And then you lie to fight off your own truth."

Arthur's eyes opened wide. He raised the whiskey bottle over his head. "I said get-" He lunged forward. "-the f.u.c.k OUT!"

Blackburn dodged, and the bottle clipped his shoulder. He came up against the wall and droppedThe Guy Who Killed People. Arthur swung again, and the bottle bounced off Blackburn's skull. Blackburn saw a white burst like a flashbulb. He dropped to his hands and knees and scrambled. He didn't know which way he was going until he ran into the bed. He turned around and saw Arthur coming at him.

"You're not like the man in my book," Arthur said. His voice was thick with contempt. "ButI am."

Blackburn got onto the bed. "I thought you said that you loathed him."

Arthur grinned. "Sure. Any man who doesn't despise himself hasn't looked close enough." He charged toward the bed and swung the bottle.

Blackburn lurched away, and the bottle missed him. He fell off the bed on the far side, landing on his rump. Arthur bounced on the bed on his knees and glared down at Blackburn. "I've always wanted to kill people," he said. He hefted the bottle. "I've just never had the guts. So I write about it instead. But maybe I can at least hurt you."

Blackburn stood and reached into his coat. He opened the Velcro flap over the Python's pouch, then pulled out the pistol. He didn't point it, but he c.o.c.ked it.

"I can't let you hit me again," he said. "No matter who you are or what you mean to me. n.o.body hurts me."

Arthur lowered the bottle. His face sagged. "All right, then," he said. "Take your blue-metal d.i.c.k and leave me alone."

Blackburn looked at the Python. "This isn't a d.i.c.k," he said. "It's justice. That's in your book. It's what The Guy says about the rifle he uses to kill the school board."

"I know what's in my book," Arthur said. He came off the bed and stood facing Blackburn. "You don't have to tell me what's in my own G.o.dd.a.m.n book."

Blackburn stared into the black depths of Arthur's eyes. "I think I do. I think you've fogged your brain so much that you can't remember your own wisdom."

Arthur sneered. "Screw you," he said. He gripped the neck of the Jack Daniel's bottle with both hands and swung it at Blackburn's face.

Blackburn raised his arm to block it, and the Python fired. The bottle exploded.

Blackburn stumbled backward and slammed against the window so hard that it cracked. He turned toward the gla.s.s and saw two reflections of his face, one on either side of a snaking silver line. Then he noticed that each face had a fragment of whiskey bottle stuck in its cheek. He reached up to brush the fragment away. It stuck to his fingers for a moment before falling.

"My hands," Arthur said.

Blackburn turned toward him. Arthur was lying on his back on the bed, holding his hands above his face.

The fingers were curled into claws. Blood welled out everywhere. It was soaking Arthur's sleeves.

"My hands," Arthur said again.

Blackburn replaced the Python in its pouch and went around the foot of the bed toward the door. The meeting hadn't gone at all the way he had hoped.

"You'll be all right, sir," he said, picking up his copy ofThe Guy Who Killed People from the floor. "If you died, I'd have to count you as one of my victims, and I don't want to." He stared down at the black dust jacket. "You didn't even sign my book."

"Open it."

Blackburn looked up. "What?"

"Open it and bring it here." Blackburn opened the book to the t.i.tle page and took it to the bed.

"Under my hands," Arthur said.