65 Proof (74 page)

“I want to get a program.”

Frank’s wife led him past the little boy, who held up his Watchman and stuck out his tongue. The little snot was watching the Bulls. Frank squinted but couldn’t make out the score.

They got in line for the programs and Frank momentarily forgot about basketball when he saw the prices.

“For a program?!? Don’t they come free with the show?”

“That’s a Playbill, Frank.”

“What’s the difference?”

The difference, apparently, was forty bucks.

“Do they have a layaway?”

“They have sweatshirts, too, Frank. Would you like one?”

“I don’t want to have to get a second job.”

“Your birthday is coming up.”

Wendy grinned at him. Frank couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. He forked over the money for a program, and then they walked to the mezzanine and an usher took their tickets.

“Row A, seats 14 and 15.”

“Front row center,” his wife beamed. “Happy Anniversary, Frank.”

She kissed his cheek. Then she began pointing out more architecture.

“Look at the balconies.”

“Look at the stage.”

“Look at the plasterwork. Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?”

“Yeah, yeah. Beautiful.”

The usher showed them their seats and Frank frowned.

“I thought we were front row.”

“This is the front row, sir.”

“How about all those guys in front of us?”

“That’s the orchestra pit, sir.”

They took their seats, which were actually pretty nice. Plush red velvet, roomy and comfortable. Too bad they didn’t have seats like this at the United Center, where the Bulls played.

Wendy handed him a Playbill, and Frank squinted at the cover. A man in period clothing stared back at him.

“Who is this guy, anyway? Alexandro Mulchahey?”

“He’s the famous Irish soliloquist.”

“One of those guys who talks with a dummy on his lap?”

“He’s a dramatic actor, Frank. He does Shakespearean sonnets.”

Frank slumped in his chair. This was worse than he’d thought. When Wendy nagged him about this night, during a pivotal regular season game a few months back, he hadn’t heard her mention Shakespeare.

“And this guy’s famous?”

“He’s the hottest thing in Europe right now. He’s in all the papers.”

Frank folded his arms. “If he was in all the papers, I would have heard about him.”

“He wasn’t in the sports section.”

Frank frowned. The most pivotal basketball game of the century was playing right now, and Frank was stuck here watching some fruit in tights talk fancy for three hours.

Maybe he could fake a heart attack. Those ambulance guys have radios. They could tune into the game…

Some people needed to get to their seats, and Frank and Wendy had to stand up to let them by.

It was the kid with the Watchman! He stuck his tongue out at Frank as he passed, and then sat three seats away from them, his TV still tuned to the Bulls game.

Frank glanced at Wendy. She was absorbed in her program, gaping at big, color photos of Alexandro, who appeared to be in the throes of agony or ecstasy or a massive bowel movement.

“Look at how passionate he is,” Wendy beamed.

“Or constipated,” Frank muttered. He turned to look at the kid. The little boy held up the Watchman so Frank could see the game. The screen was tiny, but there was a score in the corner that Frank could almost make out. He leaned closer, straining his eyes.

The little snot switched the channel to Tom and Jerry.

“Goddamn little…”

There was a moaning sound in front of them.

“Orchestra is warming up.” Wendy bounced in her seat like an anxious schoolgirl. “It’s going to start soon.”

The little boy whispered something to his father, and they both got up. Once again Frank and Wendy had to stand. Frank fought the urge to strangle the little monkey as he sashayed past.

The father took the kid by the hand up the aisle.

“Wendy, I have to go to the bathroom.”

“The show’s about to start.”

“It’s an emergency.” Frank made his Emergency face.

“Hurry back.”

Frank stood up and followed the boy into the lobby. As he guessed, his father led him into the bathroom.

The kid’s father was standing by the sink, checking out his hair from three different angles.

“I just joined Hair Club for Men,” he told Frank.

“Looks good,” Frank told him. It looked like a beaver had died on the man’s head.

“Can you see the weave?”

“Hmm? No. Seamless.”

Frank eyed the stalls. Only one door was closed. Had to be the kid.

He walked into the nearby stall and closed the door. Removing twenty dollars from his wallet, he slipped the bill under the partition

“Psst. Kid. Twenty bucks if you can give it to me for an hour.”

There was no answer. Frank added another bill to the offer.

“How about forty?”

The voice that came from the stall was far to low to belong to a child.

“I normally don’t swing that way, man. But for sixty, I’ll rock your world.”

Frank hurried out of the bathroom and into the lobby. The kid and his dad were going back into the theater.

“Hey! Buddy!”

Several people in the crowd turned to stare at him. He pushed through and caught up with Hair Weave and his kid.

“You think I could check out the game on your son’s TV?”

“The game?” Hair Weave scratched his roots.

“Bulls game. Playoffs.”

“Clarence, let this man see your TV for a second.”

“Batteries are dead.”

Clarence switched on the Watchman and nothing happened. He smiled. Malicious little bastard.

“Did you see the score?”

“Yeah—fifty-four to sixty-eight.”

“Who was winning?”

“Sixty-eight.”

“Come on Clarence, Mommy’s waiting.”

Clarence stuck out his tongue and followed his father down the aisle.

Frank felt as if his head were about to blow apart. He almost began crying.

“Are you okay, sir?”

An usher, red vest and bow tie, no more than eighteen. Frank grabbed his arms.

“Is there a TV anywhere in this place?”

The boy scrunched his eyebrows. “TV? No. I don’t think so.”

“How about a radio? It’s the Eastern Conference Finals. I have to know the score.”

“Sorry. There’s a TV in the dressing room, but…”

Frank lit up. “There’s one in Evander Mulrooney’s room?”

“You mean Alexandro Mulchahey?”

“I went to school with Evander, in Italy.”

“Mr. Mulchahey is Irish.”

Frank clapped the usher on the shoulder, grinning broadly.

“I should stop in, say hello to the old hound dog. Where’s his dressing room?”

“I don’t think…”

Frank held the forty dollars under the kid’s nose.

“Just tell me where it is.”

The usher sniffed the money, then nodded. He led Frank through an unmarked door and down a winding hallway that had none of the frill and pizzazz of the lobby. It barely had ample light.

The hall finally ended at a door to the backstage. Frank half expected to see a jungle of sandbags and painted backdrops, but instead it was very orderly. There were several people milling about, but none of them paid Frank any attention.

“He’s the third room on the right. Don’t tell him I let you in. I’ll lose my job.”

Frank didn’t bother thanking him. He ran to the door, flinging it open, seeing Evander Fitzrooney sitting in a make-up chair.

The soliloquist turned to him, venom in his eyes.

“I don’t allow visitors before a performance! Get out!”

Frank ignored the actor, scanning the room, searching frantically for the…

“Television!”

Frank ran to it, arms outstretched, and Evander stood up and punched Frank square in the nose.

“How many times can I say I’m sorry?”

Wendy stared at Frank through the bars. She didn’t seem sympathetic.

“I’ve decided to let you spend the night in jail, Frank. Maybe it will help you prioritize your life.”

“Wendy…please. I need you to bail me out. The game has to be almost over, and I gave my last forty bucks to that pimply usher.”

Wendy darkened, then turned on her heels and walked out.

“Wendy! Will you at least find out the score for me? Please!”

After Wendy left, Frank slumped down on the metal bench, alone. Every second seemed to last an hour. Every minute was an eternity. Are the Bulls winning? Will they move on to the finals? What was the score?

Never a religious man, Frank silently begged the Lord to please send someone to give Frank the score.

When Frank finished the prayer and opened his eyes, he was confronted with a wondrous sight.

The cops were bringing in a man—a large, burly man—wearing a Bulls jersey.

“Is the game over?”

The man squinted at Frank. “Yeah, it’s over. Most amazing ending I’ve ever seen. It’ll be talked about for decades to come.”

“Who won? Who won?”

The door closed, and the cops went away. The burly man looked Frank over, top to bottom.

“You a Bulls fan?”

Frank began to jump up and down.

“Yes, dammit! Who won the game?”

The man smiled. It was an ugly thing.

“How much is it worth to you to know?”

“Name your price. I don’t have any money on me, but I’ll get it to you. My word is good.”

Burly Guy licked his lips. “Don’t want no money.”

“What is it you want, then?”

Fifteen minutes later, Frank learned a valuable lesson: If you dedicate your life to sports, you’ll only get hurt in the end.

Written years ago, this eventually sold to Blood Lite 2 edited by Kevin J. Williamson. It’s a fun piece where things aren’t what they appear to be.

“I
t all goes back to the time I was bitten by that werewolf.”

Dr. Booster’s pencil paused for a moment on his notepad, having only written a ‘w.’

“A werewolf?”

Tyler nodded. Booster appraised the teenager; pimples, lanky, hair a bit too long for the current style. The product of a well-to-do suburban couple.

“This is the reason your grades have gone down?”

“Yeah. Instead of studying at night, I roam the neighborhood, eating squirrels.”

“I see…and how do squirrels taste, Tyler?”

“They go down dry.”

Booster wrote ‘active imagination’ on his pad.

“What makes you say you were bitten by a werewolf?”

“Because I was.”

“When did this happen?”

Tyler scratched at the pubescent hairs on his chin. “Two weeks ago. I was out at night, burying this body…”

“Burying a body?”

The boy nodded.

“Tyler, for therapy to work, we have to be honest with each other.”

“I’m being honest, Dr. Booster.”

Booster made his mouth into a tight line and wrote ‘uncooperative’ on his pad.

“Fine, Tyler. Whose body were you burying?”

“It was Crazy Harold. He was a wino that hung out in the alley behind the liquor store on Kedzie.”

“And why were you burying him?”

Tyler furrowed his brow. “I had to get rid of it. I didn’t think digging a grave would be necessary. I thought they disintegrated after getting a stake in the heart.”

Booster frowned. “Crazy Harold was a vampire?”

Tyler shifted on the couch to look at him. “You knew? Shouldn’t they turn into dust when you kill them?”

Booster glanced the diplomas on his wall. Eight years of education, for this.

“So you’re saying you hammered a stake into Crazy Harold —”

“It was actually a broken broom handle.”

“—and then buried him.”

“In the field behind the house. And just when I finished, that’s when the werewolf got me.” Tyler lifted up his right leg and hiked up his pants. Above the sock was a raised pink scar, squiggly like an earthworm.

“That’s the bite mark?”

Tyler nodded.

“It looks old, Tyler.”

“It healed fast.”

“Your mother told me you got that scar when you were nine-years-old. You fell off your bike.”

Tyler blinked, then rolled his pants leg back down.

“Mom’s full of shit.”

Booster wrote ‘animosity towards mother’ in his pad.

“Why do you say that, Tyler? Your mother is the one who recommended therapy, isn’t she? It seems as if she wants to help.”

“She’s not my real mother. Her and Dad were replaced by aliens.”

“Aliens?”

“They killed my parents, replaced them with duplicates. They look and sound the same, but they’re actually from another planet. I caught them, once, in their bedroom.”

Booster raised an eyebrow. “Making love?”

“Contacting the mother ship. They’re planning a full scale invasion of earth. But I thought you wanted to know about the werewolf.”

Booster pursed his lips. WWSFD? He appealed to the picture of Sigmund hanging above the fireplace. The picture offered no answers.

“Tyler, with your consent, I’d like to try some hypnotherapy. Have you ever been hypnotized?”

“No.”

Booster dimmed the lights and sat alongside the couch. He held his pencil in front of Tyler’s face at eye level.

“Take a deep breath, then let it out. Focus on the pencil…”