Robert R. McCammon: The Collected Stories Part 6

"Julie!" he shouted. He kicked at the door, and his slipper flew off. Then he threw his shoulder against it, and the door cracked on its hinges but didn't give. Again he rammed into the door, and a third time. On the fourth blow the door's hinges tore away from the wood and it crashed down, sending Cray sprawling into the apartment. He got up on his hands and knees, his shoulder hurting like h.e.l.l. The young man was across the untidy room, still struggling with the reluctant windowsill, and he paid Cray no attention. Cray stood up, and looked at the bed where Julie lay, naked, on her back.

He caught his breath as if he'd been punched in the stomach. The blood was still streaming from the scarlet ma.s.s of Julie Saufley's throat, and it has splattered across the wall like weird calligraphy. Her eyes were wet and aimed up at the ceiling, her hands gripped around the bars of the iron bedframe. Without clothes, her body was white and childlike, and she hardly had any b.r.e.a.s.t.s at all. The blood was everywhere. So red. Cray's heart was laboring. As he stared at the slashed throat he heard the window slide up. He blinked, everything hazy and dreamlike, and watched the young man climb through the window onto the fire escape.

Oh, G.o.d, Cray thought. He wavered on his feet, feared he was about to faint. Oh, my G.o.d... Julie had brought the Fliptop killer home to play.

His first impulse was to shout for help, but he squelched it. He knew the shout would rob his breath and strength, and right now he needed both of them. The LaPrestas were still fighting. What would one more shout be?

He stepped forward. Another step, and a third one followed. With the rusty ability of a champion gymnast, he ran to the open window and slid out to the fire escape.

The Fliptop killer was about to go down the ladder. Cray reached out, grasped the young man's T-shirt in his freckled fist, and said hoa.r.s.ely, "No."

The man twisted toward him. The small black eyes regarded him incuriously: the emotionless gaze of a clinician. There were a few spatters of blood on his face, but not many. Practice had honed his reflexes, and he knew how to avoid the jetting crimson. Cray gripped his shirt; they stared at each other for a few ticks of time, and then the killer's right hand flashed up with an extra finger of metal.

The knife swung at Cray's face, but Cray had already seen the blow coming in the tension of the man's shoulder, and as he let go of the shirt and scrambled backward, the blade hissed past.

And now the Fliptop killer stepped toward him-a long stride, knife upraised, the face cold and without expression, as if he were about to cut a hanging piece of beef. But a woman screamed from an open window, and as the man's head darted to the side, Cray grasped the wrist of his knife hand and shouted, "Call the po-" A fist hit him in the face, crumpling his nose and mashing his lips. He pitched back, stunned-and he fell over the fire escape's railing into empty s.p.a.ce.

3. A Red Matchbook His robe snagged on a jagged edge of metal. The cloth ripped, almost tore off him, and for three awful seconds he was dangling five floors over the alley, but then he reached upward and his fingers closed around the railing. The Fliptop Killer was already scrambling down the fire escape. The woman-Mrs. Sargenza, bless her soul-was still screaming, and now somebody else was hollering from another window and the Fliptop Killer clambered down to the alley with the speed and power of a born survivor.

Cray pulled himself up, his legs kicking and his shoulder muscles standing out in rigid relief. He collapsed onto his knees when he'd made it to the landing's safety. He thought he might have to throw up enchiladas, and his stomach heaved, but mercifully there was no explosion. Blood was in his mouth, and his front teeth felt loose. He stood up, black motes buzzing before his eyes. Looked over the edge, gripping hard to the railing. The Fliptop Killer was gone, back to the shadows.

"Call the police," he said, but he didn't know if Mrs. Sargenza had heard him, though she disappeared from her window and slammed it shut. He was trembling down to his gnarly toes, and after another moment he climbed back into the room where the corpse was.

Cray felt her wrist for a pulse. It seemed the sensible thing to do. But there was no pulse, and Julie's eyes did not move. In the depths of the wound he could see the white bone of her spine. How many times had the killer slashed, and what was it inside him that gave him such a maniacal strength? "Wake up," Cray said. He pulled at her arm.

"Come on Julie. Wake up."

"Oh Jesus!" Mr. Myers from across the hall stood in the doorway. His hand went to his mouth, and he made a retching sound and staggered back to his apartment. Other people were peering in. Cray said, "Julie needs a doctor," though he knew she was dead and all a doctor could do was pull the bloodied sheet over her face. He still had her hand, and he was stroking it. Her fingers were closed around something; it worked loose and fell into Cray's palm. Cray looked at it. A red matchbook. The words "GRINDERSWITCH BAR" printed on its side, and an address just off Hollywood and Vine, three blocks over.

He opened the red matchbook. Two matches were missing. One of them had been used to light the Fliptop Killer's cigarette, out in the hallway. The Fliptop Killer had been to the Grinderswitch, a place Cray had walked past but never entered.

"Cops are on their way!" Mr. Gomez said, coming into the room. His wife stood at the door, her face smeared with blue anti-aging cream. "What happened here, Flint?"

Cray started to speak, but found no words. Others were entering the room, and suddenly the place with its reek of blood and spent pa.s.sions was too tight for him; he had a feeling of suffocation, and a scream flailed behind his teeth. He walked past Mr. Gomez, out the door, and into his own apartment. And there he stood at the window, the brutal neon pulse flashing in his face and a red matchbook clenched in his hand.

The police would come and ask their questions. An ambulance without a siren would come and take Julie's corpse away, to a cold vault. Her picture would be in the Times tomorrow, and the headline would identify her as the Fliptop Killer's ninth victim. Her claim to fame, he thought, and he almost wept. I saw him, he realized. I saw the Fliptop. I had a hold of that b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

And there in his hand was the matchbook Julie had given him. The bartender at the Grinderswitch might know the Fliptop. It was a vital clue, Cray thought, and if he gave it up to the police it might be lost in shufflings of paper, envelopes, and plastic bags that went into what they called their evidence storage. The police didn't care about Julie Saufley, and they hardly cared about the other street victims either. No, Julie was another statistic-a "crazy," the cops would say. The Fliptop Killer loved to kill "Crazies."

Julie had given him a clue. Had, perhaps, fought to keep it with her dying breath. And now what was he going to do with it?

He knew, without fully knowing. It was a thing of instincts, just as his long-ago gymnastic training, track-and-field, and boxing championships were things of instinct. Inner things that, once learned and believed in, could never be fully lost.

He opened the closet door.

A musty, mothball smell rolled out. And there it was, on its wooden hanger, amid the cheap shirts and trousers of an old dreamer.

It had once ben emerald green, but time had faded it to more of a dusky olive. Bleach stains had mottled the flowing green cape, and Cray had forgotten how that had happened. Still, he'd been a good caretaker: various rips had been patched over, the only really noticeable mar a poorly st.i.tched tear across the left leg. The cowl, with its swept-back, crisply winglike folds on either side of the head and its slits for the eyes, was in almost perfect condition. The green boots were there on the floor, both badly scuffed, and the green gloves were up on the shelf. His Green Falcon costume had aged, just like its owner. The studio had let him keep it after he had come out of the sanitorium in 1954. By then serials were dying anyway, and of what use was a green suit with a long cape and wings on the sides of its cowl? In the real world, there was no room for Green Falcons. He touched the material. It was lighter than it appeared, and it made a secret-and dangerous-whispering noise. The Green Falcon had made mincemeat out of a gallery of villains, roughnecks, and killers every Sat.u.r.day afternoon in the cathedrals of light and shadow across North America. Why, then, could the Green Falcon not track down the Fliptop Killer?

Because the Green Falcon is dead, Cray told himself. Forget it. Close the door. Step back. Leave it to the police. But he didn't close the door, nor did he step back. because he knew, deep at his center, that the Green Falcon was not dead. Only sleeping, and yearning to awaken.

He was losing his mind. He knew that clearly enough, as if somebody had thrown ice water in his face and slapped him too. But he reached into the closet, and he brought the costume out.

The siren of a police car was approaching. Cray Flint began to pull the costume over his pajamas. His body had thinned, not thickened, with age; the green tights were loose, and though his legs were knotty with muscles, they looked skinny and ill-nourished. His shoulders and chest still filled out the tunic portion of the costume, though, but his thin, wiry arms had lost the bulky muscularity of their youth. He got the costume zipped up, worked his feet into the scuffed boots, then put on the cape and laced it in place. The dust of a thousand moth wings shimmered gold against the green. He lifted the gloves off the shelf but discovered the moths had enjoyed an orgy in them and they were riddled with holes. The gloves would have to stay behind. His heart was beating very hard now. He took the cowl off its hanger. The police car's siren was nearing the building. Cray ran his fingers over the cowl, which still gleemed with a little iridescence, as it had in the old days.

I shouldn't do this, he told himself. I'm going crazy again, and I'm nothing but an Indiana boy who used to be an actor...

I shouldn't...

He slipped the cowl over his head and drew the drawstring tight. And now he saw the world through cautious slits, the air coming to his nostrils through small holes and smelling of mothb.a.l.l.s and... yes, and something else. Something indefinable: the bra.s.sy oder of a young man's sweat, the sultry heat of daredevilry, maybe the blood of a split lip incurred in a fight scene with an overeager stunt man. Those aromas and more. His stomach tightened under the green skin. "Walk tall and think tall," he remembered a director telling him. His shoulders pulled back. How many times had he donned this costume and gone into battle against hoodlums, thugs, and murderers? How many times had he stared Death in the face through these slits, and walked tall into the maelstrom?

I'm Creighton Flint, he thought. And then he looked at the faded poster that promised a world of thrills and saw STARRING CREIGHTON FLINT, "THE GREEN FALCON."

The one and only.

The police car's siren stopped.

It was time to go if he was going.

The Green Falcon held the matchbook up before his eye slits. The Grinderswitch was a short walk away. If the Fliptop Killer had been there tonight, someone might remember.

He knew he was one stride away from the loony bin, and if he went through that door dressed like this there was no turning back. But if the Green Falcon couldn't track down the Fliptop, n.o.body could. It was worth a try wasn't it?

He took a deep breath, and then the one stride followed. He walked out into the hallway, and the residents gathered around Julie Saufley's saw him and every one of them recoiled as if they'd just seen a man from Mars. He didn't hesitate; he went past them to the elevator. The little numerals above the door were on the upward march. The policemen were coming up, he realized. It would not be wise to let them see the Green Falcon.

"Hey!" Mr. Gomez shouted. "Hey, who the h.e.l.l are you?"

"He must be nuts!" Mrs. LaPresta said, and her husband-in a rare moment-agreed. But Cray was already heading towards the door marked STAIRS. The cape pinched his neck, and the mask was stuffy; he didn't remember the costume being so uncomfortable. But he pulled open the door and started quickly down the stairway, the matchbook clenched in his hand and the smell of Julie's blood up his nostrils. He was puffing by the time he reached the ground floor. But he crossed the cramped little lobby, went out the revolving door and onto Hollywood Boulevard, where the lights and the noise reminded him of a three-ring circus. But he knew full well that shadows lay at the fringes of those lights, and in those shadows it was dangerous to tread. He started walking west, toward Vine street. A couple of kids zipped past him on skateboards, and one of them gave a fierce tug at his cape that almost strangled him. Horns were honking as cars pa.s.sed, and ladies of the night waved and jiggled their wares from the street corner. A punk with his hair in long red spikes peered into Cray's eyeholes and sneered, "Are you for real, man?" The Green Falcon kept going, a man with a mission. A black prost.i.tute jabbed her colleague in the ribs, and both of them hooted and made obscene noises as he pa.s.sed. Here came a group of Hare Krishnas, banging tambourines and chanting, and even their blank eyes widened as they saw him coming. But the Green Falcon, dodging drunks and leather clad hustlers, left them all in the flap of his cape. And then there was the Grinderswitch Bar, jammed between a p.o.r.no theater and a wig shop. Its blinking neon sign was bright scarlet, and out in front of the place were six big Harley-Davidson motorcycles. Cray paused, fear fluttering around in the pit of his stomach. The Grinderswitch was a place of shadows; he could tell that right off. There was a meanness even in the neon's buzz. Go home, he told himself. Forget this. Just go home and- Do what? Vegetate? Sit in a lousy chair, look at clippings, and reflect on how lucky you are to have a job sweeping the floor at a Burger King?

No. He was wearing the armour of the Green Falcon now, and why should he fear? But still he paused. To go into that place would be like walking into a lion's den after rolling around in fresh meat. Who was Julie Saufley, anyway? His friend, yes, but she was dead now, and what did it matter? Go home. Put the costume back on its hanger and forget it. He looked at the door, and knew that beyond it the monsters waited. Go home. Just go home. 4. One-Eyed Skulls He swallowed thickly. Walk tall and think tall, he told himself. If he did not go in, the very name of the Green Falcon would be forever tainted. Pain he could take; shame he could not.

He grasped the door's handle, and he entered the Grinderswitch.

The six motorcycle owners, husky bearded men wearing black jackets that identified them as members of the ONE-EYED SKULLS gang, looked up from their beers. One of them laughed, and the man sitting in the center gave a low whistle.

The Green Falcon paid them no attention. Ba.s.s-heavy music pounded from ceiling-mounted speakers, and on a small upraised stage a thin blonde girl wearing a G-string gyrated to the beat with all the fervor of a zombie. A few other patrons watched the girl, and other topless girls in G-strings wandered around with trays of beers and cheerless smiles. The Green Falcon went to the bar, where a flabby man with many chins had halted in his pouring of a new set of brews. The bartender stared at him, round-eyed, as the Green Falcon slid onto a stool.

"I'm looking for a man," Cray said.

"Wrong joint, Greenie," the bartender answered. "Try the Bra.s.s Screw, over on Selma."

"No, I don't mean that." He flushed red under his mask. Trying to talk over this h.e.l.lacious noise was like screaming into a hurricane. "I'm looking for a man who might have been in here tonight."

"I serve beer and liquor, not lonely-hearts-club news. Take a hike."

Cray glanced to his left. There was a mug on the bar full of GRINDERSWITCH matchbooks. "The man I'm looking for is blonde, maybe in his early or mid-twenties. He's got pale skin and his eyes are very dark-either brown or black. Have you seen anybody who-"

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing walking around in a friggin' green suit?" the bartender asked. "It's not St. Patrick's Day. Did you jump out of the nuthouse wagon?"

"No. Please, try to think. Have you seen the man I just described?"

"Yeah. A hundred of them. Now I said move it, and I'm not going to say it again."

"He took one of those matchbooks," Cray persisted. "He might have been sitting on one of these stools not long ago. Are you sure you-"

A hand grasped his shoulder and swung him around. Three of the bikers had crowded in close, and the other three watched from a distance. A couple of Go-Go dancers rubbernecked at him, giggling. The ba.s.s throbbing was a physical presence, making the gla.s.ses shake on the shelves behind the bar. A broad, brown-bearded face with cruel blue eyes peered into Cray's mask; the biker wore a bandanna wrapped around his skull and a necklace from which rusty razor blades dangled. "G.o.d Almighty, Dogmeat. There's somebody inside it!" The biker called Dogmeat, the one who'd whistled as Cray had entered, stepped forward. He was a burly, grey-bearded hulk with eyes like shotgun barrels and a face like a p.i.s.sed-off pit bull. He thunked Cray on the skull with a thick forefinger. "Hey, man! You got some screws loose or what?"

Cray smelled stale beer and dirty armpits. "I'm all right," he said with just a little quaver in his voice.

"I say you ain't," Dogmeat told him. "What's wrong with you, coming into a respectable joint dressed up like a Halloween fruitcake?"

"Guy was just on his way out," the bartender said. "Let him go." The bikers glared at him, and he smiled weakly and added, "Okay?"

"No, Not okay," Dogmeat answered. He thunked Cray's skull again, harder. "I asked you a question. Let's hear you speak, man."

"I'm... looking for someone," Cray said. "A young man. Blonde, about twenty or twenty-five. Wearing a T-shirt and blue jeans. He's got fair skin and dark eyes. I think he might have been in here not too long ago."

"What're you after this guy for? He steal your s.p.a.ceship?" The others laughed, but Dogmeat's face remained serious. Another thunk of Cray's skull. "Come on, that was a joke. You're supposed to laugh."

"Please," Cray said. "Don't do that anymore."

"Do what? This?" Dogmeat thunked him on the point of his chin.

"Yes. Please don't do that anymore."

"Oh. Okay." Dogmeat smiled. "How about if I do this?" And he flung his half full mug of beer into Cray's face. The liquid blinded Cray for a few seconds, then washed out of his mask and down his neck. The other One-Eyed Skulls howled with laughter and clapped Dogmeat on the back.

"I think I'd better be going." Cray started to get up, but Dogmeat's hand clamped to his shoulder and forced him down with ridiculous ease.

"Who are you supposed to be, man?" Dogmeat asked, feigning real interest. "Like... a big bad superhero or somethin'?"

"I'm n.o.bo-" He stopped himself. They were watching and listening, smiling with gap-toothed smiles. And then Cray straightened up his shoulders, and it came out of him by instinct. "I'm the Green Falcon," he said. There was a moment of stunned silence, except for that thunderous music. Then they laughed again and the laughter swelled. But Dogmeat didn't laugh; his eyes narrowed, and when the laughter had faded he said, "Okay, Mr. Green Falcon, sir. How about takin' that mask off and... like... let's see your secret ident.i.ty." Cray didn't respond. Dogmeat leaned closer. "I said, Mr. Green Falcon, sir, that I want you to take your mask off. Do it. Now." Cray was trembling. He clenched his fists in his lap. "I'm sorry. I can't do that." Dogmeat smiled a savage smile. "If you won't, I will. Hand it over."

Cray shook his head. No matter what happened now, the die was cast. "No. I won't."

"Well," Dogmeat said softly, "I'm really sorry to hear that." And he grasped the front of Cray's tunic, lifted him bodily off the stool, twisted and threw him across a table eight feet away. Cray went over the table, crashed into a couple of chairs, and sprawled to the floor. Stars and rockets fired in his brain. He got up on his knees, aware that Dogmeat was advancing toward him. Dogmeat's booted foot drew back, the kick aimed at the Green Falcon's face. 5. The Star and Question Mark A shriek like the demons of h.e.l.l singing Beastie Boys tunes came from the speakers. "Christ!" Dogmeat shouted, clapping his hands to his ears. He turned, and so did the other One-Eyed Skulls.

A figure stood over at the record's turntable near the stage, calmly scratching the tone arm back and forth across the platter. The Green Falcon pulled himself up to his feet and stood shaking the explosions out of his head. The figure let the tone arm skid across the record with a last fingernails-on-chalkboard skreel, and then the speakers were silent.

"Let him be." she said in a voice like velvet smoke.

The Green Falcon's eyes were clear now, and he could see her as well as the others did. She was tall-maybe six-two or possibly an inch above that-and her amazonian body was pressed into a tigerskin one-piece bathing suit. She wore black high heels, and her hair was dyed orange and cropped close to her head. She smiled a red-lipped smile, her teeth startlingly white against her ebony flesh.

"What'd you say, b.i.t.c.h?" Dogmeat challenged.

"Gracie!" the bartender said. "Keep out of it!"

She ignored him, her amber eyes fixed on Dogmeat. "Let him be," she repeated. "He hasn't done anything to you."

"Lord, Lord." Dogmeat shook his head with sarcastic wonder. "A talkin' female monkey! Hey, I ain't seen you dance yet! Hop up on that stage and shake that black a.s.s!"

"Go play in someone else's sandbox," Gracie told him. "Kiddie time's over."

"d.a.m.ned right it is." Dogmeat's cheeks burned red, and he took a menacing step towards her. "Get up on that stage! Move your b.u.t.t!"

She didn't budge.

Dogmeat was almost upon her. The Green Falcon looked around, said, "Excuse me," and lifted an empty beer mug off a table in front of a pie-eyed drunk. Then he c.o.c.ked his arm back, took aim, and called out, "Hey, Mr. Dogmeat!"

The biker's head swiveled toward him, eyes flashing with anger.

The Green Falcon threw the beer mug, as cleanly as if it were a shotput on an Indiana summer day. It sailed through the air, and Dogmeat lifted his hand to ward it off, but he was way too late. The mug hit him between the eyes, didn't shatter but made a satisfying clunking sound against his skull. He took two steps forward and one step back, his eyes rolled to show the bloodshot whites, and he fell like a chopped-down sequoia.

"Sonofab.i.t.c.h!" the brown-bearded one said, more in surprise than anything else. Then his face darkened like a storm cloud and he started toward the Green Falcon with two other bikers right behind him. The Green Falcon stood his ground. There was no point in running; his old legs would not get him halfway to the door before the bikers pulled him down. No, he had to stand there and take whatever was coming. He let them get within ten feet, and then he said in a calm and steady voice, "Does your mother know where you are, son?" Brown Beard stopped as if he'd run into an invisible wall. One of the others ran into him and bounced off. " Huh? "

"Your mother," the Green Falcon repeated. "Does she know where you are?"

"My... my mother? What's she got to do with this, man?"

"She gave birth to you and raised you, didn't she? Does she know where you are right now?" The Green Falcon waited, his heart hammering, but Brown Beard didn't answer. "How do you think your mother would feel if she could see you?"

"His mother wouldn't feel nothin'," another of them offered. "She's in a home for old sots up in Oxnard."

"You shut up!" Brown Beard said, turning on his companion. "She's not an old sot, man! She's just... like... a little sick. I'm gonna get her out of that place! You'll see!"

"Quit the jawin'!" a third biker said. "We gonna tear this green fruit apart or not?" The Green Falcon stepped forward, and he didn't know what he was about to say, but lines from old scripts were whirling through his recollection like moths through klieg lights. "Any son who loves his mother," he said, "is a true American, and I'm proud to call him friend." He held his hand out toward Brown Beard. The other man stared at it and blinked uncertainly. "Who... who the h.e.l.l are you?"

"I'm the Green Falcon. Defender of the underdog. Righter of wrongs and champion of justice." That's not me talking , he realized. It's from Night Calls The Green Falcon, Chapter Five. But he realized also that his voice sounded different, in a strange way. It was not the voice of an old man anymore. It was a st.u.r.dy, rugged voice, with a ba.s.s undertone as strong as a fist. It was a hero's voice, and it demanded respect.

No one laughed.

And the biker with the brown beard slid his hand into the Green Falcon's, and the Green Falcon gripped it hard and said, "Walk tall and think tall, son."

At least for a few seconds, he had them. They were in a thrall of wonder, just like the little children who'd come to see him during the public-relations tour in the summer of 1951, when he'd shaken their hands and told them to respect their elders, put up their toys, and do right: the simple secret of success. Those children had wanted to believe in him, so badly; and now in this biker's eyes there was that same glimmer-faint and faraway, yes-but as clear as a candle in the darkness. This was a little boy standing here, trapped in a grown-up skin. The Green Falcon nodded recognition and when he relaxed his grip, the biker didn't want to let go.

"I'm looking for a man who I think is the Fliptop Killer," the Green Falcon told them. He described the blonde man who'd escaped from the window of Julie Saufley's apartment. "Have any of you seen a man who fits that description?"

Brown Beard shook his head. None of the others offered information either. Dogmeat moaned, starting to come around. "Where is he?" Dogmeat mumbled. "I'll rip his head off."

"Hey, this joint's about as much fun as a mortician's convention," one of the bikers said. "Women are ugly as h.e.l.l too. Let's. .h.i.t the road."

"Yeah," another agreed. "Ain't nothing happening around here." He bent down to help haul Dogmeat up. Their leader was still dazed, his eyes roaming in circles. The bikers guided Dogmeat towards the door, but the brown-bearded one hesitated.

"I've heard of you before," he said. "Somewhere. Haven't I?"

"Yes," the Green Falcon answered. "I think you probably have." The man nodded. Pitched his voice lower, so the others couldn't hear: "I used to have a big stack of Batman comics. Read 'em all the time. I used to think he was real, and I wanted to grow up just like him. Crazy, huh?"

"Not so crazy," the Green Falcon said.