The Killing Kind

When I left, he had resumed his seat and his hands were once again steepled beneath his chin, his face hovering over them like that of some malicious, pitiless god.

11

MICKEY SHINE WAS ABOUT FIVE-SIX and bald, with a silver ponytail and a silver beard, both of which were designed to distract from the fact that he didn't have more than six hairs above the level of his ears. Unfortunately, when your name is Mickey Shine and the bright lights of your store reflect the dazzling brilliance of your skull, then cultivating a goatee and opting to grow your hair long at the back aren't exactly fail-safe options in the distraction stakes.

“You ever hear the joke about the two legio

Mickey Shine looked at me blankly.

“Sand,” I said. “Sand-ra.”

“You want to buy something already?” asked Mickey Shine. “Or did somebody send you here to brighten up my day?”

“I guess I'm here to brighten your day,ὕ I said. “Did it work?”

“Do I looked brightened up?”

“I guess not. Al Z gave me your name.”

“I know. A guy called. He didn't say nothing about you being a comedian, though. You want to lock the door, turn the sign to Closed?”

I did as I was asked, and followed Mickey Shine into the back of the store. There was a wooden table with a cork bulletin board above it. On the board were pi

“You want I should stop?” asked Mickey. “I got orders, but you want I should stop, I'll stop.”

“No,” I replied. “It's okay.”

“Help yourself to coffee,” he said. There was a Mr. Coffee machine on a shelf, beside a bowl filled with nondairy creamer and packets of sugar. The coffee smelled like something had crawled into the pot to die, then spent its final minutes percolating.

“You're here about Pudd?” he asked. He seemed intent upon the orchids, but his hands faltered as he said the name.

“Yes.”

“So it's time, then,” he said, more to himself than to me. He continued arranging the flowers in silence for a few minutes, then sighed and abandoned the task. His hands were shaking. He looked at them, held them up so I could see them, then thrust them into his pockets, the orchids now forgotten.

“He's a foul man, Mr. Parker,” he began. “I have thought much about him in the last five years, about his eyes and his hands. His hands,” he repeated softly, and shuddered. “When I think of him, I imagine his body as a frame, a hollow thing to carry around the evil spirit that resides inside. Maybe this sounds like madness to you?”

I shook my head and recalled my first impression of Mr. Pudd, the way his eyes peered out from behind their hoods of flesh, the strange, unco

“I think, Mr. Parker, he is dybbuk. You know dybbuk?”

“I'm sorry, I don't.”

“A dybbuk is the spirit of a dead man that enters the body of another living being and possesses it. This Mr. Pudd, he is dybbuk: an evil spirit, base and less than human.”

“How do you know of him?”

“I took a contract, is how I know. It was after I left, when the old ways started to fall apart. I was a Jew, and Jews do not make the book, Mr. Parker. I was not a made man, so I thought I would walk away, let them fight to the death like animals. I did one last favor, then left them to die.” He risked a glance at me, and I knew that Al Z had been correct; it was Mickey Shine who had pulled the trigger on Barboza in San Francisco in 1976, the last favor that allowed him to walk away.

“I bought my store, and things were good until about eighty-six. Then I got sick and had to close up for a year. New stores opened, I lost customers, and so and so…” He puffed up his cheeks and let his breath out in one loud, long exhalation.

“I heard that there was a paper on a man, a strange, thin man who killed out of some… misguided religious purpose, or so they said. Doctors in abortion clinics, homosexuals, even Jews. I don't believe in abortion, Mr. Parker, and the Old Testament is clear on… such men.”

He tried not to catch my eye, and I guessed that Al Z had told him a little about Angel and Louis, warning him to watch his mouth.

“But killing these people isn't the answer,” he resumed, with all the assurance of a man who has killed for a living. “I took the paper. I hadn't fired a gun in many years, but the old instincts, you know, they die hard.”

He was rubbing at his arm again, I noticed, and his eyes had grown distant, drawing back from the memory of some ancient hurt.

“And you found him,” I said.

“No, Mr. Parker, he found me.” The frequency and force of the rubbing increased, harder and harder, faster and faster. “I found out he was based somewhere in Maine, so I traveled up there to look for traces of him. I was in a motel in Bangor. You know the city? It's a dump. I was asleep and I woke to a noise in the room. I reached for my gun but it wasn't there, and then something hit me on the head, and when I came to I was in the trunk of a car. My hands and feet were tied with wire, and there was tape on my mouth. I don't know how long we drove, but it felt like hours. At last the car stopped, and after a time the trunk opened. I was blindfolded, but I could see a little beneath the fold. Mr. Pudd was standing there, in his mismatched, old man's clothes. There was a light in his eyes, Mr. Parker, like I have never seen. I-”

He stopped and put his head in his hands, then ran them back over his bald head, as if all he had intended to do in the first place was smooth down whatever straggling hairs remained there. “I almost lost control of my bladder, Mr. Parker. I am not ashamed to tell you this. I am not a man who scares easily, and I have faced down death many times, but the look in this man's eyes, and the feel of his hands on me, his nails, it was more than I could take.

“He lifted me from the car-he is strong, very strong-and dragged me along the ground. We were in dark woods, and there was a shape beyond them, like a tower. I heard a door open, and he pulled me into a shack with two rooms. The first had a table and chairs, nothing more, and there were bloodstains on the floor, dried into the wood. There was a case on the table, with holes in the top, and he picked it up as he passed and carried it with him. The other room was tiled, with an old bathtub and a filthy, busted toilet. He put me in the tub, then hit me again on the head. And while I lay stu

“ ‘You stink of fear, Mr. Sheinberg,’ was all he said.”

The store around us receded and disappeared. The noise of the traffic faded away, and the sunlight shining through the window seemed to dim. Now there was only the sound of Mickey Shine's voice, the stale, damp smell of the old hut, and the soft exhalations of Mr. Pudd's breath as he sat on the edge of the toilet bowl, placed the case on his lap and opened it.

“There were bottles in the box, some small, some large. He held one up in front of me-it was thin, and the stopper had small holes-and I saw the spider inside. I hate spiders, always have, ever since I was a boy. It was a little brown spider, but to me, lying in that tub and smelling of my own sweat and fear, it looked like an eight-legged monster.

“Mr. Pudd, he said nothing, just shook the jar, then unscrewed the top and dropped the spider on my chest. It caught in the hairs and I tried to shake it off, but it seemed to cling there, and I swear, I felt the thing bite me. I heard glass knocking on glass, and another little spider dropped beside the first, then a third. I could hear myself moaning, but it was like it was coming from somebody else, like I wasn't making the sound. All I could think of was those spiders.