“Hell,” said Mr. Punch. Was that a little less drool? A little smile starting?
“Hell, Florida, or Hell, California?”
Mr. Punch didn’t know what to do with that one. It’s a good trick. I always did it with my doctors. Just go along with whatever they say, ’cause they’re not about to stop saying it. They hardly even needya there, really. My grumpy ol’ patient grunted and flopped his face over to stare at the deep end of the pool, where the Fearwig was busy sharpening a tongue depressor into a shiv with his pincers. Ugh. The Fearwig is gross. He is never invited to my birthday party.
“And what year was that, Mr. Punch?”
“1066.” The Fearwig shambled over to a fat chick with a tattoo of the world on her dumb face. We watched it happen calmly, with a real sense of companionship, like watching the ocean from a big, white boat deck.
“I have your file, Mr. Punch.” I didn’t. “You ain’t . . . you aren’t any kind of mystery to me. I already know everything about you. Where you were born and what year doesn’t matter. It only matters that you tell me.”
Wiggy got his wooden stake up under the heart of the big fat world. Nurse Happy and her crew threw their arms up in the air, wailin’ and moanin’ like a big-ticket musical, kick-ball-change and shake ya syringes! Jazz hands!
r /> Mr. Punch grinned up at me. “I’ll dance and sing like any thing, with music for my pretty Poll.”
Then he passed clean out. Oh, well.
I swiped the little green pills next. After-dinner mints, I always call ’em.
“At what age did you lose your virginity?” I asked. Was he sittin’ up a little straighter? Twitchin’ a little less?
“I’ve known whores and dolls in a hundred halls but I’ve saved all my love for my pretty Poll.”
And he yacked all over the moldy green tiles of old Mrs. Sarkomand’s healing natatorium. Aw, Mistah Punch, you can quote at me and puke at me all you want. I want anything that’s inside ya. Everything you got.
“What a lovely sentiment, Mr. Punch. But I hardly think that can be true. Even the original Mr. Punch was married to Judy before he met his Pretty Polly.” God, but it was hard to keep up that fancy voice! Tasted like Bad Daddy’s cigars in my mouth.
Mr. Punch’s neon hair gleamed in the watery Pool-light. He kept on talkin’ all hunched over where he’d barfed. Like there was a microphone in his slime. “I was twenty-five. I paid a whore to get it over with. She had blond hair and blue eyes, like American girls always do in the movies. Her name was Daisy. When it was done, she said she loved me. Says it to all her johns. That’s her calling card, like my strangling men with puppet strings. It’s nice to conduct your life with a little flair. I appreciated that about her. She took the time to leave a mark. So, I only broke her hand instead of killing her as I’d planned. Professional courtesy.”
Another girl probably woulda stopped there. Who wants to peel back another whack of onion once you hit the hooker-killing slice? Me. I did. People always want me to be good somewhere deep inside, but Bad Daddy was always right about me. I’ve got shit for a soul and a C-4 heart. So, the next time I got Nurse Happy’s white coat on and took that little Dixie sippy cup of meds over to Mr. Punch, I dropped all those pills—the after-dinner mints, the pink ladies, the blue velvets—into my pocket and sat down next to him real close. So close I could smell his emptiness. I looked into his red eyes, the deepest eyes in the whole wide world, deeper’n Hell, Florida, and the Battle of Hastings and all the blood and death that ever happened to anybody ever.
“Tell me your name, Mr. Punch. Your real name.”
“I’m no one,” he whispered. “It’s better to be no one. It’s so lazy being somebody. Everybody does it. Except him. No one knows who he is. That’s how it should be. No names. Just death in the dark.”
I thought long and hard about it. Never give up an advantage. But then again, if you want a boy to like you, you gotta give him presents.
“I know who Grimdark is,” I said, cool and causal, like sayin’: I know the name-a that actor in that one show you like.
Oh, did I not tell ya? I absolutely know who Grimdark is. I met him a buncha times at Bad Daddy’s parties. Practically bounced me on his knee when I was just a wee baby psycho in ribbons and matchsticks. He thinks he’s so clever with the black mask and the armor and that fake-ass manly voice, but who is he kidding with that jawline? Please.
Mr. Punch’s pupils crackled black and bright. It was him. It was finally him in there, and he wanted what I had. I shivered all over. He grabbed my hand. His skin was hot. My heart beat like it could get outta me and jump straight into him.
“Tell me.”
“Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t,” I giggled. He was squeezing my hand so tight, I thought he was gonna break it. Like Daisy the loving hooker. I did get a little worried then. You don’t get outta Bad Daddy’s house without survival instincts. “Maybe it’s time for your meds.”
He slung on that mad grin. Mr. Punch’s patented scars opened and folded into new patterns, deeper patterns. “If you like. They have as much effect on me as the water I take them with, Dr. Ketch. Tell me who he is or I will choke you to death in front of this august audience of Guignol City’s greatest hits and has-beens.”
“You were faking!”
Mr. Punch gave a humble little shrug. This old thing? How sweet of you to notice. I reached out my free hand and stroked the side of his face just like he’d done to me.
“That’s all right, sweetie,” I crooned. “I was fakin’, too. Ain’t we a pair?”
I opened Nurse Happy’s coat to show the stained green checkered hospital gown inside. I don’t think I’ve seen a thing in this world as nice as the way Mr. Punch looked at me then. Not even my house burning down like justice. He kissed me on the mouth (boy howdy, was my baby a good kisser!) and hissed:
“Of all the girls who are so smart, there’s none like Pretty Polly. She is the darling of my heart, she is so sweet and jolly!”