Quick Fixes: Tales of Repairman Jack (29 page)

Perry saw a blur of motion and then pain exploded on the left side of his head as Jack’s pistol smashed against his skull. His knees went Jell-O. A second blow left him face first in the dirt, the world tilting.

Then he felt himself lifted, carried toward the barrier overhanging the highway.

On, no! Oh-no-oh-no-oh-no!

“
But . . .” His lips wouldn’t move right. “But you’re a do-gooder.”

“
Wrong, Perry. I’m more into doing the right thing. And when I see myself and my two ladies threatened, the right thing to do is eliminate the threat.”

Perry felt himself hoisted atop the railing. When a break in the traffic came, Jack pushed him over.

All the way down his mind screamed that this couldn’t be happening. This self-styled, bullshit do-gooder had –

introduction to “Recalled”

In the summer of 2006, Christopher Conlon emailed me, wondering if I’d be interested in writing a story for a Richard Matheson tribute anthology. Of course I would, but only if I could do a sequel to one of my all-time favorite stories, “The Distributor.”

About “The Distributor”…it's rare that a story won't go away. Most are forgotten as soon as you turn the page; some linger for a while, then join their brethren in the void. But every so often you encounter one with a special, mysterious quality that encodes it into your synapses, making it a part of you. We all have our own set of special stories. “The Distributor” is one of mine.

But first, a little background. I was thirteen when I decided to write horror fiction. That was in 1959 – a banner year for me. I discovered Lovecraft in Donald A. Wolheim's
The Macabre Reader
, and then went out and bought everything good ol' H.P. had in print. When I exhausted him, I started in on the rest of the old masters: Bloch, Howard, Derleth, Long, Hodgson, Leiber, and whoever else I could find. The reading exacerbated a lifelong writing itch, one I'd started scratching in second grade. Now I began to believe I could write this stuff. Not at age thirteen, but later on. I could do it. I
would
do it. But for now, I'd keep reading.

Here's the point to all this me-focused stuff: All along I wanted to write horror fiction; all along I was convinced I could do it. No question about it: "Someday I'll do this."

Then I picked up a paperback called
Shock
by Richard Matheson. I'd read Matheson's work before, had been deeply touched by "Born of Man and Woman," and suitably impressed by many of his other stories. Here was a guy who delivered. And
Shock
was okay. Lots of interesting stories – sf, social commentary, suspense – but not much horror.

Then I came to the last story. "The Distributor" stopped me dead. All along I'd been telling myself, "I can do this."

Now I was muttering and mumbling, "No way I can do
that
."

I don't know how it is with other writers, but most of the time when I finish a story or novel, I may be pleased, I may even be impressed, but somewhere in the back of my mind I'm thinking,
I could have done that.

Every so often, though, you come across a piece of fiction that blows you away, not just because you've been hanging onto every word, but because when you're done you have to admit,
I couldn't have done that.

That's what makes certain stories special to me; those are the ones I admire most: the ones I lack the talent or insight or command of the language to write myself.

“
The Distributor” was first published in
Playboy
in 1957 and look what's happened to the country since. "Mr. Gordon" (or whatever his real name is) and his fellow distributors have been busy, busy, busy.

Maybe it's a little dated. What used to be scandalous is now daily fodder for today's talk shows (more evidence of Mr. Gordon's handiwork?), but change maybe fifty words, substituting incest and pedophilia – not too many people anxious to wave those flags yet – for a couple of passé taboos, and the story is right up to date.

Why did I say
I can't do that
after reading "The Distributor"? Not because I couldn't sit down and imitate it – I couldn't have
originated
it.

Notice the utterly flat affect. "The Distributor" is an epiphany in that sense. All horror fiction I'd read until then pulsed with vibrant emotion – rage, hate, fear, lust for revenge. "The Distributor" has none of that. And that's what makes it so horrifying.

The story is a parade of simple declarative sentences (hell, he uses fewer adverbs than Elmore Leonard) with only an occasional off-the-wall adjective to let us know "Mr. Gordon" is well educated. We spend the entire story in Mr. Gordon's point of view but experience no emotion; we witness only the surfaces of events. This is one of the most effective uses of minimalist technique you will ever see.

Mr. Gordon doesn't hate the residents of Sylmar Street. Nothing personal here. They're just people and this is just another town along his distribution route. It's just a job, folks.

Just a job.

But who does he work for?

That's Matheson's final coup. If he'd revealed that Mr. Gordon worked for the CIA or the KGB, or even some invented secret organization or cult, "The Distributor" would have migrated to short story limbo long ago. But he didn't. Who is behind this? Where is their home office? What is their agenda
? Why are they doing this?

I wanted to know in 1961.

I still want to know.

So as a tribute to Matheson and his story, I wrote “Recalled.” I took the same story as “The Distributor,” but flipped it on its head and made it my own.

Its simple presence here gives away the twist, but I think you’ll enjoy it anyway.

(a sequel to “The Distributor” by Richard A. Matheson)

Time to move.

Another town, another rental in another peaceful, unsuspecting neighborhood.

That was the easy part. As for the rest . . . it used to be so much simpler.

Listen to me, he thought. I sound like an old fart.

Well, he
was
an old fart. He’d been at this for decades, but instead of becoming routine, it had grown increasingly difficult. And he knew the problem wasn’t with him.

The world had changed.

Used to be reputations could be ruined with a mere hint of impropriety – adultery, drunkenness, wantonness, porn peeping. Now it was anything goes. Only incest and pedophilia seemed to lack champions in the mass media, and it was anyone’s guess as to how long before their paladins appeared and hoisted their flags.

People daily bragged on TV about what in the good old days would have had them afraid to show their faces in public. And nowadays the love that once dared not speak its name would not shut up.

But other, newer taboos had arisen from what used to be a matter of course.

And the ability to improvise was the greatest asset of an effective distributor.

*

The last town had been a quiet little place in central Jersey known as Veni Woods. He’d called himself Clay Evanson there, a name he’d used before, way back when. Just last week, before arriving here in Wolverton, a quaint little town on Long Island’s south shore, he decided to use another alias from the past: Theodore Gordon.

Every night before his arrival he’d closed his eyes and made the name his own. He was Theodore Gordon. All other names faded. He was Theodore Gordon and no one else.

After a little research, he found a furnished rental in the racially mixed Pine View Estates development on the eastern end of town. It had come down to a choice between that and another area half a mile west, but when he saw a woman wearing a striped hijab get out of a Dodge SUV on Fannen Street in Pine View and let herself into one of the houses, his decision was made.

He’d spent last Thursday night introducing himself around. As usual, he was a widower – not quite two years since his poor, dear Denise passed – and a financial consultant who worked from home, renting with intent to buy. Seven other houses made up this block of Fannen Street. He met the McCuins and their sullen fifteen-year-old son, Colin; the very Catholic Fabrinis and Robinsons; the waspish Woolbrights; the irreligious Hispanic Garcias with their noisy dog; the Muslim Rashids; and the very black Longwells. He made a point of inquiring at each stop about the best Internet access in the area. This induced Mr. Robinson and Mr. Woolbright to brag about the wi-fi networks they’d installed in their homes. Theodore had been hoping for one; two was a blessing.

Over the weekend he’d used his digital Nikon with the telephoto lens to snap photos of as many of his neighbors as possible as they worked in the garden or mowed the lawn, washed the car, or collected the mail. Between shoots he’d wandered Fannen Street, saying hello, helping unload a van, or transplant a bush. In the process he’d managed to see most of the backyards.

Since the Catholics held the majority, he’d attended mass at St. Bartholomew’s yesterday morning, making sure he introduced himself to Father Bain in sight of the Fabrinis and Robinsons.

Tonight he’d be ready to go. He’d made starting on Monday a tradition.

The Pine View houses all sat on well-wooded half-acre lots. Four of the homes on this block – the Longwell, Woolbright, Rashid, and Fabrini places across the street – backed up to the woods that lent the development its name. His place sat directly across from the Rashids; the Robinsons were stage left on the corner, the Garcias next door to the right, and the McCuins next door to them on the far corner.

He spent the daylight hours observing the comings and goings and refining his notes. Mr. Robinson and Mr. Rashid carpooled. This was Mr. Rashid’s week to drive. Theodore watched Mr. Robinson open the rear door to Mr. Rashid’s car, place his briefcase on the seat, then take the passenger seat in front. Mrs. Rashid, a secretary at the grammar school, drove Robinson’s girl, Chelsea, to school along with her own daughter, Farah, both ten.

Theodore noted the times of the comings and goings of everyone on the block. Today’s were all consistent with last week’s.

He admired consistency.

During the course of the day he used his laptop to access Mr. Robinson’s wi-fi network next door, but could not enter the system due to a firewall. He would work on breaching that during the week. Firewalls were handy in that they gave people a false sense of security. He’d try the Woolbrights tonight.

*

Shortly before midnight he wound his way among the pines behind the houses across the street until he came to the rear extreme of the Woolbright’s property. There he turned on his laptop and slowly made his way closer to the darkened house, stopping every dozen feet or so to see if he could access the wi-fi signal from their home network.

He could, and when it was good and strong, he tapped in and discovered that Mr. Woolbright had accommodatingly left his computer on and his webmail program open. Theodore had found this increasingly common over the years. Folks liked to hop out of bed and check their email before running off to work, and didn’t want to fuss with all that log-in nonsense.

Theodore found that Mrs. Woolbright’s password was also stored and so he switched over to her account and logged in to the
Village Voice
’s online classified site. There he used her email address to apply for membership. He waited for the verification email, then followed the instructions. As soon as he was officially registered, he placed an ad as Mr. Woolbright in the
men-seeking-men
category. He described himself as “rich and horny and into young stuff. Send a picture or no go.”

That done, he turned off his computer and crept to the tool shed by the fence between the Woolbright and Robinson properties. Easing open the door, he slipped a couple of gay porn magazines inside, then reclosed it.

When he returned home he removed a tray of ice cubes from his freezer and carried it to the extra bedroom on the second floor. He raised the window and the screen about twelve inches, then pulled his Firestorm High Performance slingshot from the night table drawer. He popped an ice cube out of the tray, loaded it into the sling, then winged it toward the wooden doghouse where Daisy, the Garcias’ short-furred bitch mutt, spent her nights. Theodore had become expert with the slingshot over the years, and rarely missed, even at this distance.

The cube shattered against the doghouse, startling Daisy to full-throated wakefulness. She rushed out with a howl that progressed to frenzied barking. Finally, after inspecting the six-foot picket fence that defined the perimeter of her domain, she quieted down. With some satisfied gruffs, growls, and grumbles, she returned to her abode.