Blackburn

VICTIM NUMBER EIGHT

Blackburn came to a suburb of the City of Brotherly Love and found it full of garbage. The sanitation workers were on strike, and trash heaps lined the streets. The sidewalk in front of the house where Blackburn stayed was unwalkable. It was buried under cans, bottles, newspapers, disposable diapers, and rotting food waste. The stench and the noise of flies were constant. Blackburn resisted the urge to bring out his Colt Python and shoot the occasional rat that showed itself.

He was reading a sci-fi paperback and eating corn chips on a Tuesday evening when the doorbell rang. He had never heard it before. He stopped reading and listened. It rang again, playing the opening notes of "Greensleeves." Blackburn put down the book and stood. His bare skin peeled from the fabric of the easy chair. The weather was sticky, and the house had no air-conditioning.

Blackburn went to the door. There was no security peephole, so he hesitated, thinking of cops. But he opened the door. A man in a cream-colored suit stood on the stoop, holding a black case in his right hand. His skin was sallow, his teeth brownish. His hair was a little darker than his teeth.

"Good evening, Mr. Talbot," the man said. "I'm Randall Wayne. I've brought the information you requested regarding the Encyclopedia Europus. I'm sorry it's taken me so long to reach your neighborhood. The garbage situation has made traffic difficult."

"I understand," Blackburn said.

Randall Wayne stood there, smiling. He seemed to be waiting for something. Blackburn leaned against the door-jamb and waited with him.

"May I come in?" Wayne asked at last.

Blackburn considered. "No," he said, and shut the door.

The doorbell rang again before Blackburn could return to his chair. He reopened the door. Wayne was still there.

"I'm sorry to bother you again, Mr. Talbot," Wayne said, "but you asked for an in-home presentation. The free two-volume reference set is included, of course. I'll only take a few minutes of your time." He held up a printed postcard. Blackburn saw that Mr. or Mrs. Talbot had filled out the blanks on the card, which did indeed state that an in-home presentation was involved.

He supposed that he should fulfill the Talbots' obligation, although he doubted that they would have fulfilled it themselves. He had painted the house as they had ordered, complete with trim, and then they had refused to pay him. They wouldn't even reimburse him for paint and materials. They just didn't like the way it looked, they had said. They were the sort of people who would send in a postcard for a free two-volume reference set and then refuse the in-home presentation.

Blackburn was cut from more honest cloth. "Come on in, then, Mr. Wayne," he said.

The salesman came inside, and Blackburn closed the door and returned to his chair. Wayne stood in the center of the room, looking around and smiling.

"Nice home you have here," he said. "Nice new coat of paint outside."

"Thank you," Blackburn said.

Wayne licked his lips. "I wonder if I might trouble you for a glass of water."

Blackburn frowned. An obligatory presentation was one thing; a glass of water pushed the boundaries. He stood up. The chair fabric stuck to his skin again. "Be right back," he said, and went into the kitchen. While he was running water into a glass, the floor thumped under his feet. He shut off the water, and the floor thumped three more times. He stamped his foot, and the thumping stopped. He returned to the living room with the water.

Wayne took the glass. "What was that noise?" he asked.

"Rats," Blackburn said.

Wayne nodded. "It's the garbage." He drank the water, then eyed the glass. "Good cool water," he said. "Ice would have been redundant."

"You're welcome." Blackburn sat down in his reading chair.

Wayne gestured at the divan across the room. "May I have a seat?"

"Sure."

Wayne sat and opened his black case. He pulled out a shrink-wrapped pair of paperbacks. "This is your free reference set, the best dictionary and thesaurus in the English language." He placed the package on the cushion beside him. "But, as good as it is, it only deals with words. It's no help with detailed information concerning people, places, and world events. Suppose you needed a nutshell description of Einstein's Theory of Relativity. Could you find it in a dictionary or thesaurus, Mr. Talbot?"

Blackburn didn't want to rise to the bait, but the presentation might last longer if he didn't. He would have to play along. "My guess would be no," he said.

The salesman shook his head. "Of course not. And where would your son look for information if he had to write a school theme on mollusks, or the moon landings, or Sacco and Vanzetti, or Pocahontas, or the Treaty of Versailles?"

"I don't have any children," Blackburn said.

Wayne took the postcard from his jacket pocket. "Your card says you have a son."

"Oh, him. He's away at college. Pitt."

Wayne peered at Blackburn. "You look young to have a son in college, Mr. Talbot."

Blackburn decided that the salesman had been there long enough. "The boy's my stepson," he said. "And, really, my wife is the one you want to talk to, since the encyclopedia would be for her kid. She's away right now, but she'll be back in a few weeks. You could talk to her then."

Wayne remained seated. "I'll be happy to do that, Mr. Talbot," he said. "But as long as I'm here now, I'd like to show you the many features the Encyclopedia Europus has to offer. Then, when your wife returns, you can fill her in." He reached into the black bag and pulled out a thick, oversized volume bound in brown leather.

"I don't think-" Blackburn began.

Wayne interrupted. "This is Volume Fourteen, Lalo to Montpar. This volume alone contains seven hundred and eighty-seven entries on nine hundred and twelve pages and weighs two kilograms, or four point four pounds. It includes six hundred and three photographs and illustrations, two hundred and sixty-two in full color. Like each of the other twenty-eight volumes, it includes its own index-and that's in addition to the comprehensive index, which is a separate volume. This binding is full leather, but we also offer simulated leather, buckram, simulated buckram, and Carthaginian cork."

"How much?" Blackburn asked. He had become curious.

Wayne stood and carried Lalo to Montpar across the room to Blackburn. "Just feel that leather, sir. And the paper's acid-free. It'll last for centuries."

"I don't think my stepson will need it that long," Blackburn said.

"No, but his children and their children will, Mr. Talbot."

"Won't it be out of date by then?"

The salesman shook his head. "Europus publishes its yearbook every February, so your encyclopedia can stay perpetually current."

Blackburn was beginning to think that maybe this encyclopedia was something the Talbots could use. On the other hand, if they wouldn't even pay a man for painting their house, they wouldn't spend much money on a set of books. It would have to be a bargain.

"How much?" Blackburn asked again.

Wayne placed Lalo to Montpar in Blackburn's lap. It fell open to an illustration of the lymphatic system. "Far less than you would think, Mr. Talbot. Europus has an easy monthly payment plan."

Blackburn stared up at Wayne's eyes. "How. Much. For. The. Least. Expensive. Set."

"Your monthly payments would only be-"

Blackburn shut the volume and stood. "Total price," he said. He was becoming irritated.

"Two thousand eight hundred and twelve dollars. But when you consider-"

"My wife will never agree to that," Blackburn said. "I'm sorry." He held out the volume with both hands. He expected Wayne to take it and leave.

Wayne did neither. Instead, he tilted his head and gave Blackburn a sly look. "How old are you, Mr. Talbot?"

Blackburn was taken aback, but he saw no reason not to answer. "I'm twenty-one."

Wayne chuckled. "Smart. Very smart."

Blackburn didn't know what the salesman was talking about. "Excuse me?"

"Not that I blame you," Wayne said. "If I could find a nice older woman with a few bucks-"

"Please take your book," Blackburn said.

Wayne held up his hands. "Hey, I'm not putting you down. You're the smartest guy I've run into all day."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome," Wayne said. "So. Two thousand eight hundred is going to be too much for your wife. I trust your judgment on that. Hey, if you don't know what she'll spend, who does? Just tell me what you think she will spend."

Blackburn considered. How much would the encyclopedia be worth to the Talbots? "Maybe a thousand," he said.

The salesman laughed. "Is Talbot a Jewish name?"

Blackburn considered. "No. It's a werewolf name."

"Just kidding," Wayne said. "But look, you're going to have to make an offer I can take to the company without them pissing on my shoes." He leaned in close. "Then maybe you can sell me something too, you know?"

"Beg pardon?"

"Come on." Wayne's voice lowered. "A young guy like you? With an older lady? With nothing else to do all day? What do you deal-smoke or snort?"

Blackburn smiled. He was beginning to understand. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and his hair was a little long. That made him a gigolo and a drug dealer. He thought twenty-eight hundred dollars was too much money for an encyclopedia, so that made him a Jew.

"Let's you and me do some business," Wayne said. "If you can get your old lady to spring for the leatherbound, four thousand five hundred, I can bounce five hundred back to you. Free money, no taxes. She gets an encyclopedia for her college boy, you get some untraceable working capital, I get my commission. Everybody's happy. How about it?"

Blackburn hefted Lalo to Montpar. It was good and heavy. Solid.

"Not good enough?" Wayne said. "Okay, so how about this: I go into a lot of people's houses. These houses contain expensive items. Sometimes I leave a house and happen to find something small but valuable in my pocket. Other times I notice how bigger things might be taken away. Perhaps you could use such information."

Blackburn was appalled. "You steal from the people you sell to?" Blackburn himself sometimes stole when he had no other choice, but he never did so under false pretenses.

Wayne shrugged. "I'd call it putting knowledge to work. Hey, that's the whole concept behind the Encyclopedia Europus in the first place."

Blackburn nodded. "I understand," he said. He raised Lalo to Montpar and clubbed the salesman over the head.

Wayne staggered backward. "Hey!" he yelled. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"Putting knowledge to work," Blackburn said, and went after him.

Blackburn tried to drive Wayne out the front door, but Wayne went into the kitchen instead. Blackburn got in five more blows, and then Wayne found a filleting knife in a magnetic rack. The salesman stood with his back against the refrigerator and held the knife as if to stab Blackburn in the chest. Blackburn raised his encyclopedia volume and pressed the attack.

The knife struck the book, glanced downward, and speared into Wayne's upper left thigh. It went in deep.

"Shit," Wayne said. He slid down the refrigerator to the floor. He tried to pull out the knife and failed. Soon there was a great deal of blood. It surged out around the blade. The floor thumped.

"Oh, shut up down there," Blackburn said.

"Help me," Wayne said.

Blackburn squatted beside him. "I think you hit the femoral artery."

"Please."

Blackburn sighed. "All right. Close your eyes."

Wayne closed his eyes. Blackburn went into the living room to retrieve the Python from under the chair cushion, then changed his mind. Why waste a cartridge? They were hard to come by. He looked at the encyclopedia volume in his hands. The filleting knife had sliced the leather on the back cover, but the board underneath was intact. It really was a well-made book.

Blackburn returned to the kitchen. Wayne was still alive, but the puddle of blood on the linoleum was growing. Blackburn stepped around it and knelt beside Wayne's head. He placed the spine of the book on the salesman's throat and pushed down. Wayne's eyes opened wide. His tongue stuck out. Then Lalo to Montpar crushed his trachea, and he was dead. Blackburn took the car keys from the body, cleaned up the mess as well as he could, and waited for night.

Just after eleven, Blackburn went out to the sidewalk trash pile and found a moldy twin-size mattress. He dragged it into the house, placed the salesman's body on it, and covered the body with newspapers, coffee grounds, and banana peels. Then he returned the mattress to the trash pile. It was hard work. When he came back inside, he had a glass of iced tea and a pastrami sandwich.

After eating, he tucked the filleting knife under his belt and stuffed his possessions into a gray duffel bag he found in the utility room. He carried the duffel and the Python outside and put them into the salesman's Vega. He locked the car, then took a hacksaw and a flashlight from the Talbots' garage and went around behind the house. He had to put down the saw and flashlight to pull the concrete blocks away from the gap in the foundation. Then he got down on his belly, grabbed the tools, and crawled in.

The place smelled like a public toilet. Mr. and Mrs. Talbot had messed their pants. They were still slouched against the stanchion to which they were chained. There was a shallow hole in the dirt beside Mr. Talbot, and he now held a chunk of two-by-four in his bound hands. That explained why the kitchen floor had been thumping.

Blackburn used the filleting knife to cut the Talbots' gags and to free their wrists from the nylon clothesline he had used to bind them. Mrs. Talbot began screaming. Mr. Talbot tried to club Blackburn with the two-by-four, so Blackburn scooted away and then tossed them the hacksaw.

"I couldn't find a key for the padlock," he said. "I'll leave you the flashlight, though."

"Lousy bastard," Mr. Talbot said.

"Hey," Blackburn said, "you got your house painted for nothing, and there's a free two-volume reference set in the living room. Don't bitch."

By the time he reached the Vega, he could no longer hear Mrs. Talbot's screams or Mr. Talbot's curses. The car started easily, and Blackburn pulled away from the trash. When he reached I-95, he took the encyclopedia volume from his duffel and caressed the leather. It felt wise. Maybe he had never graduated from high school, but within a month he would be an expert on everything from Lalo to Montpar.

Seven weeks later he read a dateline-Philadelphia story buried deep inside the Washington Post. The garbage on Mr. and Mrs. Talbot's street had finally been picked up.