Sisters on the Case

I Killed by Nancy Pickard

When the second man sat down, the green metal park bench groaned and sank into the dirt. He took the left side, leaving a polite foot and a half between his arthritic, spreading hips and the wide hips of the man leaning on the armrest on the other side of the bench.

They glanced at each other. Nodded heavily, like two old bulls acknowledging one another’s right to be there. Then they turned their beefy faces back to the view. Each man inhaled deeply, as if his worn-out senses could still detect the burnt-grass, baked-dirt scent of autumn.

They both wore baggy gym suits that looked as if nobody had ever run in them.

Behind them stretched an expanse of golden grass, and then the elegance of Fifty-fifth Street. On the opposite side of Fifty-fifth, the big windows of large, well-maintained houses looked out over the same beautiful vista the two men faced. In front of them, there was a cement path, then trees, then the golden-green, rolling acreage of Jacob L. Loose Park. If they’d hoisted their aching bodies up, and limped to the right, they’d have come to a pond where swans paddled in bad-tempered glory all summer, but which Canada geese owned now that it was late November. If they’d hobbled left, instead, they’d have come to tennis courts, wading pool, rose garden, playground. Mansions and high-rise, high-priced condos ringed the big park in the middle of Kansas City, Missouri. To the north was a private school, then the Country Club Plaza shopping center; to the south were the neighborhoods of Brookside, Waldo, and a short drive to the suburbs.

It was a tranquil, wealthy, civilized scene in the heart of the city.

The man on the right side of the bench said, in a voice made gravelly from time and the cigars he no longer smoked, ‘‘You come here often?’’

After a long moment, as if he hadn’t much liked being spoken to and was considering ignoring it, the second man said, ‘‘No.’’

His voice sounded as if he, too, had been a heavy smoker in his day.

‘‘I do.’’ The first man coughed, deep, racking, phlegmy. ‘‘I come here every day.’’ When he was finished hacking, he said, without apologizing for the spasm, ‘‘This bench, every afternoon, regular as clockwork.’’

‘‘That right.’’ His bench companion looked away, sounding bored.

‘‘Yes, it is. You know the history of this park?’’

‘‘History?’’ Now the second man looked where the first man was pointing him, with a finger that looked like a fat, manicured sausage. He saw a black cannon, a pyramid of cannonballs, and what looked like a semicircle of signs for tourists. ‘‘No, I don’t know it.’’

And don’t care to, his tone implied.

‘‘This was the scene of the last big Missouri battle in the Civil War. October twenty-third, 1864. The Feds had chased the Rebs all across the state from Saint Louis, but the Rebs kept getting away. Finally, they took a stand here. Right here, in this spot. Picture it. It was cold, not like today. They were tired, hungry. There was a Confederate general right here, where that big old tree is. It’s still called the General’s Tree. His graycoats were standing here, cannons facing across the green. Then the bluecoats suddenly came charging up over that rise, horses on the run, sabers glinting, guns blazing.’’

He paused, but there was no response.

‘‘Thirty thousand men in the battle that day.’’

Again, he paused, and again there was no response.

‘‘There was a mass grave dug afterwards, only a few blocks west of here.’’

Finally, the second man said, ‘‘That right?’’

A corner of the historian’s mouth quirked up. ‘‘Mass graves always get people’s attention. Saddam would still be alive without ’em. You just can’t kill too many people without somebody noticing.’’

‘‘Who won?’’

‘‘Feds, of course. Battle of Westport.’’ Abruptly, he changed the subject. ‘‘So what’d you do?’’

‘‘What did I do?’’

The question rumbled out like thunder from a kettledrum.

‘‘Yeah. Before you got here to this park bench. I’m assuming you’re retired. You look around my age. You’ll pardon my saying so, but we both got that look of being twenty years older than maybe we are. And not to mention, you’re sitting here in the middle of a weekday afternoon, like me.’’

‘‘Almost.’’

‘‘Almost what? My age, or retired?’’

‘‘Both, probably.’’

‘‘I figured. You always think so long before you speak?’’

There was a moment’s silence which seemed to confirm it, and then, ‘‘Sometimes.’’

‘‘Well, retire quick, is my advice. I was a salesman.’’

The other man finally looked over at him, but skeptically. A slight breeze picked up a few strands of his thin hair, dyed black, and waved it around like insect antennae before releasing it to fall back onto his pale skull again.

‘‘You weren’t,’’ he said, flatly.

‘‘Yeah, I was. I don’t look it, I know. You expect somebody smooth looking, somebody in a nice suit, not some fat goombah in a baby blue nylon gym suit. Baby blue. My daughter picked it out. Appearances are deceiving. I don’t go to any gym, either. But ask anybody who knows me, they’ll tell you, I was a salesman.’’

‘‘If you say so.’’

‘‘I do say so. So what were you? In your working days?’’

Instead of answering, his park bench companion smiled for the first time, a crooked arrangement at one corner of his mouth. ‘‘Were you good at selling stuff?’’

‘‘You look like you think that’s funny. It’s serious, the sales business, and supporting your family. Serious stuff. Yeah, I was good. How about you?’’

‘‘I killed.’’

‘‘No kidding. Doing what?’’

The other man placed his left arm over the back of the park bench. His big chest rose and fell as he inhaled, then exhaled, through his large, pockmarked nose. ‘‘Let me think how to put this,’’ he said, finally, in his rumbling voice. ‘‘I never know what to tell people. You’d think I’d have an answer by now.’’ He was silent for a few moments. ‘‘Okay. I was a performance artist, you might say.’’

‘‘Really. I’m not sure what that is. Comedian?’’

‘‘Sometimes.’’

‘‘No kidding! Where’d you appear?’’

‘‘Anywhere they paid me.’’

‘‘Ha. I know how that is. Would I have heard of you?’’

‘‘You might. I hope not.’’

‘‘You didn’t want to be famous?’’

‘‘Hell no.’’ For the first time, the answer came fast. ‘‘That’s the last thing I’d ever want.’’

‘‘But-’’

‘‘Fame can be… confining.’’

‘‘I get you.’’ The first man nodded, his big, fleshy face looking sage. ‘‘Paparazzi, and all that. Can’t go anyplace without having flashbulbs go off in your face.’’

‘‘I hate cameras of any kind. Don’t want none of them around, no.’’

‘‘Imagine if reporters had been here that day…’’

‘‘What day?’’

‘‘The Battle of Westport.’’

‘‘Oh.’’

‘‘Embedded with the troops, like in Iraq. Interviews with the generals. Shots of the wounded. What a mess.’’

‘‘And no TVs to show it on.’’

The first man let out a laugh, a booming ha. ‘‘That’s right.’’

His companion took them back to their other topic, as if he’d warmed up to it. ‘‘Lotsa people with lotsa money aren’t famous. You’d be surprised. They’re rich as Bill Gates, and nobody’s ever heard of them.’’

‘‘I wouldn’t be so surprised.’’

‘‘Yeah, probably not. You look like a wise guy.’’

‘‘You wouldn’t think I was so wise, not if you’d ask my son.’’

‘‘What’s the matter with him?’’ The second man was talking faster now, now that he was asking questions, instead of answering them. They were getting into a rhythm, a pace, a patter. ‘‘He think you’re an idiot?’’

‘‘He says I’m a fool, ought to mind my own business.’’

‘‘But you retired from that, didn’t you?’’

‘‘From what?’’

‘‘Minding your own business.’’

That earned another explosive ha, followed by some coughing. ‘‘That’s right, I did.’’

‘‘So the only business you got left to mind is his.’’

‘‘Ha! You’re right. That’s pretty funny.’’

‘‘But he doesn’t think so. Your son, he’s not so amused by you?’’

‘‘A serious guy, my son.’’ The man in the baby blue gym suit sniffed, the corners of his mouth dropped into a frown. He settled his body more heavily into the bench. If he still smoked, it was a moment when he’d have puffed reflectively, resentfully, on his cigar. After a moment, he pulled himself up and alert again. ‘‘So. Tell me. You make any money being a comedian who didn’t want to get famous?’’

‘‘I made plenty.’’

‘‘Clubs?’’

‘‘I did some of those. And private jobs.’’

‘‘That’s how you got to know the rich people who aren’t famous?’’

‘‘Some were famous. Some got famous after I met them. I’d see their pictures and their names in the papers.’’

‘‘Those ones-they ever call you again after they got famous?’’

‘‘No.’’ He smiled slightly. ‘‘They were beyond me by then.’’

‘‘Really. Stupid shits. People get big heads, that’s what fame’ll do. They think they’re too good-’’

‘‘They’re dead to me now.’’ He smiled to himself again, as at a private joke.

‘‘Sure. So what was your act?

‘‘My act?’’ He frowned.

‘‘Your shtick. You know, your routine.’’

‘‘I didn’t have no set routine. That’s dangerous, to be too predictable like that. You don’t want people to know what’s coming, you want to keep your edge, keep them on edge, so you take them by surprise, startle them, come at them out of the blue where they’re not expecting it. It’s intimidating that way. You shock ’em. Knock ’em off balance and never let ’em get back up straight again. Then you just keep knocking ’em down-’’

‘‘Knockin’ the jokes down-’’

‘‘Until they’re bent over, pleading and gasping for you to stop, ’cause it hurts so bad.’’

‘‘Been a long time since I laughed like that. That’s as good as sex. If I recall.’’

The second man smiled at that. ‘‘Yeah, it’s real satisfying. I guess you’d say I have a talent for shocking people. And for improvisation.’’

‘‘Like George Carlin? Or that black kid with the mouth on him, Chris Rock? Not everybody can get away with stuff like that.’’

‘‘I’ve gotten away with it for a long time.’’

‘‘Good for you. So that was your act? Improv?’’

‘‘Sometimes. It varied.’’

‘‘Depended on the venue, I suppose. You’re smiling. Did I say something naive?’’

‘‘No, no, you’re right. A lot depends on the venue, whether it’s in the open air-like this, like a park, for instance. Or maybe it’s inside. Could be a great big room, even as big as a stadium, or could be as small as a bathroom. Size of the audience makes a difference, too, now that you mention it, now that you’ve got me talking about it. Some things will go over well in a big crowd that are just overkill when there’s nobody around. And vice versa. That was part of the improvisation.’’

‘‘You get hecklers?’’

‘‘If I did, I took them out.’’

‘‘Pretty good audiences, though?’’

‘‘I had very attentive audiences. Very.’’

‘‘What’s your secret?’’

‘‘You want to get their full attention immediately. Don’t give them any time to adjust to your appearance. Hit ’em upside the head.’’

‘‘A big joke right off the bat, huh?’’

‘‘A two-by-four. A baseball bat. Bam. Get their undivided attention. I’m not a subtle guy.’’

‘‘Pretty broad comedy, huh?’’

‘‘Pretty broad… there was one of those in Pittsburgh.’’

‘‘Ha ha. Vaudeville, like. Slapstick. That you?’’

‘‘Slapstick. I coulda used one of those.’’

‘‘Ha ha. Borscht belt comedy. You Jewish?’’

‘‘Me? No way. I was circumspect, not circumcised.’’

‘‘Ha! You’re a wise guy, too.’’

‘‘That I am.’’

‘‘What about costumes? You ever wear costumes?’’

‘‘Yeah. Hairpieces. Teeth. Mustaches. Canes, crutches. I got a closet full of them, or I would have if I’d kept any of it.’’

‘‘Your own mother wouldn’t have recognized you?’’

‘‘My mother’s dead.’’

‘‘Oh, I’m sorry.’’

‘‘It was a long time ago. I killed her, too.’’

‘‘That’s nice, that she appreciated your humor. Your dad, you get your funny bone from him?’’

‘‘Oh, yeah, he was hilarious.’’ It sounded bitter, as if there was jealousy. ‘‘He killed me. Nearly.’’

‘‘Is that unusual?’’

‘‘What?’’

‘‘A comic from a happy family? I thought all comedians came from bad families, like they had to laugh to keep from cryin’, that kind of thing.’’

‘‘I don’t know about that.’’

‘‘Not much of a philosopher, like you’re not much of a historian?’’

‘‘Hey.’’ Defensive. ‘‘When I was workin’, I knew what I believed, and what I didn’t. That’s philosophy, ain’t it?’’

‘‘Like, what did you believe?’’

‘‘I believed in doing my job, and not cryin’ over it.’’

‘‘Me, too.’’

‘‘That right?’’

‘‘Yeah, do your job and fuck the regrets.’’

‘‘Or fuck the pretty broads in Pittsburgh.’’

‘‘I think maybe we’re kind of alike, you and me.’’

‘‘A salesman and a comedian.’’

‘‘You still don’t buy it that I was a salesman, do you?’’

‘‘You said it yourself, you don’t look the part.’’

‘‘I look the part as much as you look like a comedian.’’

‘‘You bought it. Askin’ me all about it.’’

‘‘I was sellin’ you. You think I’m no salesman, but I sold people down the river all the time. But you already know that, don’t you? What? Gone silent again? Nothin’ to say? So who sent you? One of those wise guys I ratted out? My son? Somebody else in the Family? And where’s your two-by-four? You got a reputation for takin’ ’em by surprise, knocking ’em flat first thing, you said so yourself. So why the conversation first before you take me out?’’

‘‘The conversation was your idea.’’

‘‘What about the two-by-four?’’

‘‘Not as quick as the gun in my pocket.’’

‘‘What about the noise?’’

‘‘Silencer.’’

‘‘Witnesses?’’

They both looked around, both of them taking note of the two young women with baby carriages over by the historical markers, of the middle-aged male jogger moving their way from the west, of the young couple leaning up against a tree.

‘‘Witnesses to what? I get up and stand in front of you to continue our conversation. You slump over, but nobody sees past me. I grab your shoulder to say good-bye. When I leave, you’re an old man in a baby blue tracksuit, asleep on a park bench, and I’m an old man walkin’ back to my car.’’

‘‘And then what?’’

‘‘Then you go to hell. I go home and retire.’’

‘‘You’re retiring, all right. See this wire on my baby blue jacket? And see those young women and that jogger coming our way? They’re FBI. If you looked behind you, you’d see a few more, including a sniper in the bedroom window of that nice house back there. He’s aiming at your head, so don’t think you can take a shot at mine. I just made my last sale, Mr. Comedian. And you’re the product.’’

He stood up, slowly, heavily, and then turned and looked down at the fat man with the gun in his pocket.

‘‘You should have paid more attention to history when I was trying to tell you.

‘‘You want to know why the Confederates lost? Because the greedy fuckers stole a farmer’s old gray mare, which pissed him off, and so he told the Feds where they could sneak over that ridge.’’ He pointed north and a little west, as the first two agents laid hands on the shoulders of the other man. ‘‘It took the Rebs completely by surprise. Then they got surrounded, and they never had a chance.’’ The agents hoisted his audience to his feet. ‘‘Just like you were going to steal my life, which pissed me off, so I told the Feds how to sneak up on you, so they could surround you, and you wouldn’t stand a chance. You know the old song? ‘The old gray mare, she ain’t what she used to be’? Your life and mine, they ain’t what they used to be, but my life is still mine.’’ He banged his meaty right thumb on his chest. ‘‘I’m hanging on to it, like that farmer and his old gray mare.

‘‘You know what they say about history,’’ he called out, raising his voice to make sure the other man heard as they led him away. ‘‘If you don’t pay attention to it, you’re bound to repeat it!’’