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Authors: Max Allan Collins
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brazen defiance only ten-year-olds and Nazis can muster. Karen was in the other room making lunch. Jon glanced toward the kitchen to make sure Karen wasn’t looking. He got up and went over and grabbed the. finger in his fist and whispered, “Don’t ever finger me again, you little turd, or I’ll break your goddamn finger off and feed it to you.” Jon let all that sink in, then released Larry’s finger and returned to his position on the couch, proud of himself; he’d handled the situation well. Nolan would’ve approved.
Suddenly Larry began to cry.
Suddenly Larry began to scream.
And Karen came rushing in, saying, what’s the matter, honey? “He hurt me! He hurt me! He hurt my hand and called me a little turd, Mommy! He said he’d break my goddamn arm, Mommy!”
Well, Jon had insisted that he hadn’t said he’d break Larry’s goddamn arm, that he’d said he’d break Larry’s goddamn finger, and he had tried to explain his side of the story, but Karen hadn’t believed him; she’d gotten teary-eyed and indignant and ordered Jon out of the apartment, and that was yesterday and he hadn’t heard from her since. He had tried to call her, but every time he did he got Larry and Larry would hang up on him. So Jon had decided to let the scene cool, and he’d patch things up later.
For right now, he’d decided, the best thing to do was drown his sorrows in the comics. Escape to a brighter, more simple world. And so he found himself floating in a sea of Sunday funnies, his fingers dark with their ink, his butt cramped from sitting so long, his back aching from bending over so much, and it was time to get up and have something to eat and sack out awhile.
He made his way out of the room and into the larger outer room of the antique shop. It was getting dusty out there, and he would have to get around to cleaning up a little. He’d kept the shop closed since his uncle’s death a few months ago, and as he had no intention of maintaining his uncle’s antique-selling front, had been meaning to contact some buyers to sell out his uncle’s stock. But he hadn’t got around to that, either. In time, in time.
He went upstairs, to the remodeled upper floor and its pine-panelled walls and thick carpeting. (“I work all day downstairs with the old,” his Uncle Planner used to say, “so I live at night around the new.” Planner had remodeled the apartment-like upper floor four times in fifteen years.) It had taken Jon a while to be able to get some enjoyment out of the pleasant, all but plush upper floor. These rooms had been his uncle’s living quarters, and ever since his uncle’s murder he’d had a creepy feeling, a ghoulish sort of feeling, whenever he spent any time upstairs. But he was pretty much over that now. He went to the refrigerator, got a Coke and the makings of a boiled-ham sandwich, went into the living room and sat in front of the TV and watched and ate.
But TV was lousy, some phony cop show, so when he finished his sandwich and Coke, he switched off the set and stretched out on the couch and drifted off to sleep in a matter of seconds. He dreamed he was sorting and cutting and stacking comic strips, and pretty soon somebody nudged him awake.
“Uh, Nolan?” he said.
But it wasn’t Nolan.
Jon’s eyes came into slow focus, and he saw a mousy little guy with a mousy little mustache, wearing an expensive dark-blue suit that was a shade too big for him, tailor-made or not. The guy’s eyes were so wide set you had to look at one at a time, and his nose was long, skinny, and slightly off-center. The extensive pockmarks on his ash-colored, sunken cheeks were like craters on the surface of the moon, and his teeth were cigarette-stained and looked like a sloppy shuffle. Jon put that all together and it spelled ugly, but it was more than that. It was frighteningly ugly, a strange, sullen, scary face that more than offset the guy’s lack of size, a face calculated to give a gargoyle the
Suddenly Larry began to cry.
Suddenly Larry began to scream.
And Karen came rushing in, saying, what’s the matter, honey? “He hurt me! He hurt me! He hurt my hand and called me a little turd, Mommy! He said he’d break my goddamn arm, Mommy!”
Well, Jon had insisted that he hadn’t said he’d break Larry’s goddamn arm, that he’d said he’d break Larry’s goddamn finger, and he had tried to explain his side of the story, but Karen hadn’t believed him; she’d gotten teary-eyed and indignant and ordered Jon out of the apartment, and that was yesterday and he hadn’t heard from her since. He had tried to call her, but every time he did he got Larry and Larry would hang up on him. So Jon had decided to let the scene cool, and he’d patch things up later.
For right now, he’d decided, the best thing to do was drown his sorrows in the comics. Escape to a brighter, more simple world. And so he found himself floating in a sea of Sunday funnies, his fingers dark with their ink, his butt cramped from sitting so long, his back aching from bending over so much, and it was time to get up and have something to eat and sack out awhile.
He made his way out of the room and into the larger outer room of the antique shop. It was getting dusty out there, and he would have to get around to cleaning up a little. He’d kept the shop closed since his uncle’s death a few months ago, and as he had no intention of maintaining his uncle’s antique-selling front, had been meaning to contact some buyers to sell out his uncle’s stock. But he hadn’t got around to that, either. In time, in time.
He went upstairs, to the remodeled upper floor and its pine-panelled walls and thick carpeting. (“I work all day downstairs with the old,” his Uncle Planner used to say, “so I live at night around the new.” Planner had remodeled the apartment-like upper floor four times in fifteen years.) It had taken Jon a while to be able to get some enjoyment out of the pleasant, all but plush upper floor. These rooms had been his uncle’s living quarters, and ever since his uncle’s murder he’d had a creepy feeling, a ghoulish sort of feeling, whenever he spent any time upstairs. But he was pretty much over that now. He went to the refrigerator, got a Coke and the makings of a boiled-ham sandwich, went into the living room and sat in front of the TV and watched and ate.
But TV was lousy, some phony cop show, so when he finished his sandwich and Coke, he switched off the set and stretched out on the couch and drifted off to sleep in a matter of seconds. He dreamed he was sorting and cutting and stacking comic strips, and pretty soon somebody nudged him awake.
“Uh, Nolan?” he said.
But it wasn’t Nolan.
Jon’s eyes came into slow focus, and he saw a mousy little guy with a mousy little mustache, wearing an expensive dark-blue suit that was a shade too big for him, tailor-made or not. The guy’s eyes were so wide set you had to look at one at a time, and his nose was long, skinny, and slightly off-center. The extensive pockmarks on his ash-colored, sunken cheeks were like craters on the surface of the moon, and his teeth were cigarette-stained and looked like a sloppy shuffle. Jon put that all together and it spelled ugly, but it was more than that. It was frighteningly ugly, a strange, sullen, scary face that more than offset the guy’s lack of size, a face calculated to give a gargoyle the
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