Running Dog (29 page)

“He looks so very old.”

“Do I need it?” Lightborne said.

The camera is trained on the man’s face. Again it moves, coming in for a medium close-up
.

Eyes blank
.

Little or no hair alongside his ears
.

Face pale and lined
.

Flaccid mouth
.

Smoothly curved jaw
.

The famous mustache
.

Head shaking, he acknowledges the presence of the camera. It pulls back. The man moves forward, walking in a screwy mechanical way. Here the camera pans the audience. As the man enters the room, the adults show outsized delight, clearly meant to prompt the children, who may or may not be familiar with Charlie Chaplin
.

Back on the performer, the camera pulls back to a corner of the room, providing a view from the wings, as it were
.

He’s a relatively small man with narrow shoulders and wide hips. It’s now evident that his pantomime, intended as Chaplinesque, of course, is being enlarged and distorted by involuntary movements—trembling arm, nodding head, a stagger in his gait
.

“Do you want me to tell you what this is?”

“He’s not bad, you know,” Moll said. “Despite the tottering and such. He’s doing fairly well.”

“This is one of her home movies.”

“Whose?”

“We saw her before.”

“Eva Braun, you mean.”

“This is her idea. She was a home-movie nut. She had movies made of herself swimming, walking in the woods, standing around with
him
. He’s in some of them.”

“He’s in this one.”

“But he didn’t like Chaplin, if I recall correctly. I think he’s on record as not being a Chaplin fan.”

“I believe it was mutual.”

“On the other hand he was a gifted mimic. He did imitations.”

“Who did imitations? Say it.”

“There were resemblances other than physical. He and Charlie.”

The figure shuffles toward the camera, his cane swinging. Behind him, in a corner of the screen, one of the small girls earnestly looks on
.

Briefly the man is flooded in light—the bleached and toneless effect of overexposure. With the return of minimal detail and contrast, he is very close to the camera, and his lifeless eyes acquire a trace of flame, the smallest luster
. A
professional effect. It’s as though the glint originated in a nearby catch light
.

He produces an expression, finally—a sweet, epicene, guilty little smile. Charlie’s smile. An accurate reproduction
.

“They were born the same week of the same month of the same year.”

“Is that a point?”

“Within days of each other.”

“But is that a point?”

“It’s a fact. A truth. It’s history.”

“You’re overwrought, Mr. Lightborne.”

“Not that I’m convinced it’s him. It’s not him. He didn’t empathize with the tramp character at all. Why is he doing this?”

“For the children, presumably.”

“Who do I sell this to?”

Three-quarter view. At first he seems to be speaking to the smallest of the children, a girl about three years old. It is then evident he is only moving his lips—an allusion to silent movies. One of the women can be seen smiling
.

“Hitler humanized.”

“It’s disgusting,” Lightborne said. “What do I do with a thing like this? Who needs it?”

“I would think it has considerable value.”

“Historical. Historical value.”

“It’s almost touching.”

“Has to be one of her home movies. That bitch. What is she, stupid? Artillery shells are raining down and she’s making movies. That whole bunch, they were movie-mad.”

“You’re certain about the children.”

“Cyanide.”

“So here we are.”

“I expected something hard-edged. Something dark and potent. The madness at the end. The perversions, the sex. Look, he’s twirling the cane. A disaster.”

Flash frames
.

“I set things in motion.”

New camera setup
.

This is the sole attempt at “art.” The camera faces the audience head-on. The members of the audience are attempting to pretend that the Chaplinesque figure is still performing at a point directly behind the camera
.

Two adults remain, an unidentified man and woman. Both gaze dutifully past the camera, forcing tight smiles. Of the six children, only three seem interested in the illusion. One of the
others kneels on the chair, her back to the “action.” One looks directly at the camera. The smallest climbs down from her chair
.

There is a general shifting of eyes. The members of the audience are clearly being prompted by someone off-camera
.

“I put powerful forces to work.”

Silently they applaud the masquerade
.

The hoods of their ski parkas kept getting blown off their heads. He saw the bright orange lining.

He gave a neighborly shout.
Hey
. Louder. One more time. He saw the ranger on the left reach out and touch the other’s arm. Both had him in view now. They turned into the wind, which was at his back.

They came toward him like skiers cross-country, absorbed in economy and method, leaning into the force of the storm, each step a deliberate and nearly ritual movement, diagonal stride with poles.

He forced the lower part of the hood up over his nose so that only his eyes were visible. He saw the bright nylon lining intermittently. He had his feet firmly planted in the dirt, to maintain balance. They emerged from a swirl of dust, vanishing in a single stride.

He held the long knife across his stomach. Handle in his right hand. Blunt edge resting lightly in his left. He was rocked by the wind. The sound gathered density.

Moving slowly, not appearing to struggle, they emerged again, still empty-handed, he noticed, one of them unzipping his parka, vanishing, the other vanishing, the first transformed now, an apparition, ballooning bright nylon, the second emerging, undoing his jacket, which likewise filled with wind,
and they came more quickly, released from their trekking pace, orange lining wind-billowed, metal at their belts. These bursts of unexpected color. The beauty of predators.

Strong sense of something being played out. Memory, a film. Rush of adolescent daydreams. He’d been through it in his mind a hundred times, although never to the end.

They moved in, showing spear-point bowies. One of them edged off to the side. He seemed to think if he moved slowly enough, Selvy would forget about him. The other one, in clear sight, stopped his maneuvering, as an afterthought, to remove the parka he wore. Selvy wanted to ask him what the fuck he thought he was doing.

When they closed in, Selvy used a backhand slash. Motion only. Drawing reaction. He turned to meet the man coming full-tilt, coming too fast, giving up alternatives. He went to one knee, throwing the man off-stride. The ranger’s face registered mistake. Selvy used his free hand to push off from the ground, giving him added spring. Stunned breath. He found the midsection, realizing he’d used too much force going in.

He was attached, in effect, to the man he’d stabbed. He shoved his left forearm up against the ranger’s chest, pressuring forward, trying to withdraw the knife at the same time. The man sagged to the ground, all mash, Selvy slipping down with him part of the way. When he turned, rising with the knife, too late, the other ranger was on him, white-eyed, wincing with every thrust.

He could see sand in the man’s lashes. They held each other briefly. The tension left Selvy’s face, replaced by deep concentration.

What he needed right now was a drink.

Van lessened his grip in stages, letting the body ease to the ground. He walked over to Cao, whose mouth was wide open. Sand came skimming along the ground in broad flat masses.

The blowing dust, which had been part of things, inseparable
from events, was now a space away, the landscape, the weather, small rough particles striking Van’s face and arms. He reached for his parka and put it back on.

He put the bowie knife back in its sheath. He rolled up his jeans and took a second, smaller knife that was clipped to the outside of his boot. Working carefully with this utility model he cut the drawstring on Selvy’s hood. Then he sliced the fabric down along the zipper. He put the knife away. With both hands he opened up the hood and lifted it off Selvy’s head.

He knelt there, still breathing heavily. The wind force decreased. He realized he was looking directly toward the helicopter; the fuselage was briefly visible. On all fours he searched for the guerrilla bolo. It was five feet away, nearly buried. He lifted it out of the sand and used it to cut off the subject’s head.

It was something he’d done before and seen others do. Heads on poles in the high noon slush of rice fields. A discomfort reserved for the spirits of particular enemies.

He dragged Cao’s body to the aircraft. The weather kept easing and he saw the butte he’d nearly flown into before setting down. He went back for the other man’s head, first emptying out a duffel bag to carry it in.

He thought Earl would want to have it. Evidence that the adjustment had been made.

“There’s another reel,” Odell said. “Where’s everybody going?”

Moll was heading toward the door. Lightborne went around turning on lamps. Briefly he stood near a three-foot-high fertility figure—wood and horsehair.

“I knew it would be no good. A document, with gestures. I was always the chief skeptic. I told everybody. Did they listen? Or did they keep calling me up? Long distance, local,
from airplanes. I’m a dealer in knickknacks. I shouldn’t have to turn off my phone to avoid hearing things.”

He moved toward a wall switch, running his hand through a streak of yellowish hair over his right ear. After flicking on the light, he slipped behind the partition into his living quarters. Here he turned on more lights. Then he sat on his cot and stared into the black window shade.

Odell left his seat by the projector to unlock the door for Moll Robbins. He wore white cotton gloves, important when handling master film. As she stepped out, he gestured toward the screen.

“Who are those people?” he said.

Lightborne could hear Odell close the gallery door and walk over to the projector. Apparently he was getting ready to screen the second reel. A few moments later the lights in the gallery went out, one by one. Lightborne remained on his cot. There was a noise outside, just a yard or two away, it seemed. He lifted the window shade. It was one-thirty in the afternoon and a man with tinted glasses was sitting on his fire escape.

It was Augie the Mouse. He sat facing the window, his back against the vertical bars, knees up, hands jammed into the pockets of his long strange charcoal coat, big-buttoned, rabbinical. He had a small pointed face. His hair was dark and wild. He kept sniffling, and every time he sniffled he moved his head to the left, as though to clean his nose on the worn lapel of the coat; he couldn’t get his nose that far down, however, and kept rubbing his chin instead—a detail he didn’t appear to notice.

“What do you want?”

Augie cocked his head. The window was shut and he couldn’t hear what had been said. Lightborne thought of running out of the room. He thought of shouting for Odell. But the man was just sitting there. His casual attitude finally prompted Lightborne to open the window.

“What do you want?”

“I still don’t hear you.”

“What do you want?”

“You’re seeing things. There’s nobody here.”

“Broad daylight,” Lightborne said, not knowing quite what he meant.

Augie seemed to take the remark as a compliment.

“People can see us from those windows.”

“They can see you. I’m not here. They see some old man moving his lips.”

“Is this a new hangout for derelicts? The streets are no longer adequate. Is that what I’m meant to conclude?”

“You see these glasses I’m wearing?”

“I can call my colleague, who’s right in the next room there.”

“These are called shooting glasses,” Augie said.

Down on Houston Street, Moll watched a flock of pigeons fly over a two-story building into the back alleys. Seconds later Lightborne saw the same pigeons turn a bend and hurry toward a nearby roof.

“Do I have something for you?”

“I’m beginning to hear,” Augie said.

“Did somebody send you to pick up something from me? Is that it? An item?”

“I’m taking form.”

“Is it something that fits into a round can?”

“You’re beginning to see me,” Augie said. “I just arrived from my country place.”

Lightborne heard something behind him. It was Odell, standing on this side of the partition. Augie didn’t seem upset at the sight of another person. He sat sniffling, hands still in his pockets.

“What happens now?” Lightborne said. “Do I tell my colleague to go get it and bring it out to you while I remain here as insurance? He knows the handling procedures. Is that what happens?”

“No.”

“What happens?”

“You invite me in.”

“We can do that,” Lightborne said. “We can do it inside. Fine, sure. But all this is assuming you tell me who sent you.”

“Hey. I’m not here to audition.”

“I don’t necessarily mind parting with the item. But I’d like the option of knowing the recipient.”

Augie let his head slump to one side, closing his eyes at the same time. Weary disappointment. I come here to do a simple job, he seemed to be thinking, and they start in with their complications, with their ballbreaking little remarks. Opening his eyes, he waited a long moment before moving his head to an upright position.

“Maybe you notice how far into these pockets my hands go. Practically half an arm is in there. That’s made possible by the pockets being conveniently ripped out. What my hands are in there holding, if you want a clue to size, it takes both hands to hold, and I’m not talking about dick. You know dick?”

“I know,” Lightborne said with a sigh.

“It’s not dick I’m holding.”

He invited Augie in. Odell, surprisingly, seemed to grasp the nature of the situation, and said nothing. All three went into the gallery. The second reel was running. One of the women from the earlier footage—unidentified—was teaching the oldest of the girls how to waltz, leading her stiffly around the floor. Briefly visible were two smaller girls, running from the camera.