The Comedy is Finished

13

Koo lies on the couch, his head propped by pillows, and eats spoonfuls of oatmeal fed to him by the woman called Joyce. “After this,” he says, still whispering because of his ragged throat and still gasping with fatigue, “will you—read me a story?” To his complete surprise and embarrassment, she responds with an utterly tragic and despairing expression of face; two large tears ooze from her eyes and roll unhindered down her cheeks. They look hot, and the skin itself looks both hot and dry. All in all, her appearance is in Koo’s eyes unhealthy, as though she doesn’t eat right, doesn’t sleep right, doesn’t have good medical advice. “Hey,” he whispers, lifting one weak hand from his side, “you trying to—break my—self-confidence?—That’s the worst—reaction to a gag—I ever got.”

She turns away, fumbling the oatmeal bowl onto the counter, swabbing at the tears with shaky fingers of her other hand. Then she covers her face with both hands and just sits there, huddled over like a refugee in a bombed bus station.

Koo frowns at her. His strength is slowly returning, and with it the determination somehow to help himself, be of some use to himself.

For instance, he knows where he is. It came to him in one of his deliriums, and now that he’s once again more or less in his right mind he’s convinced he’s right. He’s never been here before, but he definitely knows where he is. Could the knowledge be turned to use?

He also wonders if he could work some sort of deal or something with one of the kidnappers. So far he’s seen five of them, and is beginning to get a sense of each as an individual. There’s the leader, probably the one referred to as Peter; he likes to stay behind the scenes, put in an occasional dramatic or sardonic appearance, and then fade away again. The old eminence grise routine. Along with him there’s Vampira, the naked blonde chickie with the scars; Koo doesn’t know her name, and would be perfectly happy never to see her again, with or without clothing. Another nut is Larry, the lecturer in Advanced Insanity; there’s a weird sort of sympathy inside Larry, but it’s probably useless to Koo, since Larry clearly is a True Believer, one of those intellectual clowns who can’t see the goods for the theories. A completely unsympathetic type is Mark, the tough guy with the chip on his shoulder; Koo knows that fellow is just waiting for an excuse to do something really drastic.

Which leaves this girl here, Joyce, who looks tragic and unhealthy, and who cries at Koo’s jokes. Can he make some sort of useful contact with this one? “Hey,” he whispers. She doesn’t respond, she remains huddled, face covered, shoulders trembling slightly, but Koo knows she’s listening. He licks dry lips and whispers, “Your pal Mark—is gonna kill me—can you help me out of here?”

Her head moves, a quick negative shake.

“Tonight,” he whispers, pressing harder, feeling the urgency as he says it. He reaches out, but she is just too far away to touch, and he isn’t strong enough yet to sit up. “I can hack it—till tonight,” he says, as though she’s already agreed to help and all that’s left to get organized is the details. “I’ll be stronger then—able to walk—just get me away—from the house—it’s my only chance—you don’t want—Mark to get me.”

“But Mark has you,” says the cold voice, from behind Koo, back by the door.

Joyce goes rigid, then lifts her tear-stained face to stare toward the doorway. Koo closes his eyes, sighing, trying not to be afraid. He’s so weak, so goddamn weak. What will the son of a bitch do now?

Talk; for the moment, that’s all, just talk. “Joyce wouldn’t do it,” he says. Koo opens his eyes, and now Mark is standing next to Joyce, his hand on her shoulder, his coldly triumphant eyes on Koo, and in his other hand the cassette recorder. “And if she would do it,” he tells Koo, “she couldn’t. Not a chance. Right, Joyce?”

“I was feeding him,” Joyce says, trying to reach around Mark for the bowl.

“He’s had enough to eat. He shouldn’t get his strength back too fast. Go on, now, he’s about to make another record.”

“I should finish feeding him.”

“Later, Joyce.”

Joyce flashes Koo a quick frightened look, then gets to her feet and leaves the room. Koo isn’t sure about that look: Is she afraid for me or of me? Maybe there’s other stuff inside her, and the sympathy won’t matter.

But now the problem is Mark, who sits where Joyce was sitting and says, “Davis, you’re helpless. I could beat you to death now, if I felt like it. You live or you die according to what we want. You’re healthy or unhealthy according to whether or not we let you have your medicine. You’re in no position to make mistakes. What you were saying to Joyce was a mistake.”

Koo doesn’t speak; he doesn’t want to make another mistake. This guy is a time bomb, and Koo doesn’t want to set him off; but on the other hand Koo himself has always had a certain amount of pride, and he doesn’t want to grovel before the son of a bitch. Unless, of course, it’s necessary; better a living grovel than a dead defiance.

Mark slaps the edge of the cassette recorder almost casually against Koo’s shin. It hurts, like bumping into something in the dark. Koo winces, and Mark says, “Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes. No mistakes.”

“That’s right.” Mark seems to consider more physical stuff, then changes his mind. Instead, he puts the recorder on his lap and takes from his pocket a folded sheet of paper. “Your new script,” he says, opening it and extending it toward Koo.

“I’m sorry—I can’t hold it.”

Mark looks annoyed, but makes no comment. Instead, he holds it up where Koo can look at it.

This one is shorter, typewritten like the last one, and again with the heavy editing and alterations done by several hands. Apparently, script conferences with this crowd are even hairier experiences than in the television industry. Koo reads it over, knowing he isn’t going to like what it says, and not liking it. “Terrific,” he whispers, at the end.

“I’m glad you approve.” Mark unlimbers the microphone, raises the recorder, then puts a small pillow on Koo’s chest and props the sheet of paper against it. “This time,” he says, “you read the script the way it’s written. You don’t add any lines or crack any jokes. If you do, I’ll make you regret it. You follow me?”

“I follow you.”

“That’s good. Are you ready?”

“Do you want me—to, uh—start with personal—things again?”

Mark considers that, then says, “That’s a good idea. You don’t sound much like yourself.”

“I been off my feed.” Koo closes his eyes once more, gathering his thoughts, then opens his eyes and says, “Okay.” Mark switches on the machine, and Koo says, “This is—what’s left of—Koo Davis—speaking to you—from inside the whale—I wanna say hello—to Lily and my sons—Barry and Frank—and especially—Gilbert Freeman—my favorite host—in all the world—and now I got—a script to read.”

Koo drops his head back onto the pillow, gasping for breath, and Mark switches off the machine, saying, “What’s the problem?”

“Wore myself—out—gimme a minute.”

“All right. One minute.”

His eyes again closed, Koo breathes hard, struggling for strength and hoping somebody will pick up that message. Surely Lynsey will get it, won’t she? Jesus, somebody better get it.

“Don’t go to sleep.”

“I’m not asleep.” Koo opens his weary eyes, focuses with difficulty on the messy script. “All right—let’s put it—in the can.”

Mark starts the machine and Koo reads, slowly and painfully, his voice a grating whisper. “It is now—noon—and I have been—given my medicine—the twenty-four hours—will be up—at six o’clock—if the ten—aren’t released—by then—my medicine will be—taken away from me—again—until the demands—have been met—announcements—on the radio—will reach the people—who are holding me.”

That’s all. Koo lies back against the pillows, watching as Mark rewinds and then listens to the tape, making sure it’s all right. There’s no expression on Mark’s face as he removes the script and pillow from Koo’s chest, and when he stands to leave Koo whispers to him, “They won’t, you know—they can’t—you are—gonna kill me.”

Mark shrugs. “Either way. It doesn’t much matter to me.”

“But why? Jesus Christ, man—you act as though—you got a grudge—against me.”

“Not at all,” Mark says. “It’s the system I hate. It has nothing to do with you.”

“But it does,” Koo insists, fired now by an irrational conviction. “It is me—what did I—ever do to you?”

Mark gives him a look of contempt and walks away toward the door, out of Koo’s sight. But there’s no sound of the door opening and Koo listens, wondering what’s coming next. After about ten seconds, while the hairs have been rising on the back of Koo’s neck, with the silence behind him unnatural and eerie, Mark suddenly reappears, transformed. The cold white face is now hot and red, the hands and arms are trembling, the lips are actually writhing with hatred. This is the rage, out on the surface now, and Koo is utterly terrified of it. This is no fooling, this kid really is death on its way to happen to somebody.

Even Mark’s voice is different, a strangled snarl. “You want to know what you ever did to me? All right, I’ll tell you. You fathered me.”

Koo has no idea what he means; terror keeps him from understanding much of anything. All he can do is stare at the kid and shake his head, mute with fear and ignorance.

Mark leans down over him, controlling himself, managing to speak more calmly. “I’m your son,” he says. Then he straightens, gradually becoming again the restrained cold hater. Hefting the cassette in his palm, he says, “I’ll go deliver your message to the folks.” And this time, he does leave the room.