Richard Montanari Read Online Free PDF Page A

right away.'
         'Sounds
like a plan.'
         'And
by the way, you've come highly recommended.'
         'Oh
yeah? Who recommended me? If you don't mind me asking.'
         'I'm
not sure I recall. It was a while ago.'
         'How
long?'
         'March
21, 2002.'
         At
the mention of the date Kenneth Beckman tenses. He takes a step backward,
glances at the door. 'I'm sorry? 2002? Is that what you said?'
         'Yes.'
         'March
of 2002?'
         'Yes.'
         Another
glance at the door. 'That's not possible.'
         'And
why is that?'
         'Well,
for one thing, I wasn't even in business then.'
         'I
can explain,' I say. 'Let me show you something.' I gesture to the dark hallway
leading to the back room of the first floor. Beckman takes a moment, perhaps sensing
that something is slightly off kilter, like a radio that cannot quite find a
signal. But he clearly needs the work, even if it is for a weird man who speaks
in riddles.
         We
head down the hallway. When we reach the door I push it open. The smell is a
lot stronger here.
         'Fuck!'
Beckman exclaims, recoiling. He reaches into his back pocket, takes out a
soiled handkerchief, brings it to his mouth. 'What the hell is that?'
         The
small square room is spotless. There are two steel tables at the center, both
bolted to the floor. The night-black walls have been expensively soundproofed;
the drop ceiling is made of acoustic tile purchased by mail order from a Swiss
company specializing in outfitting the finest recording studios in the world.
Above the tables is a microphone. The floor is a high- gloss enamel, painted
red in the name of practicality. Beneath the tables is a drain hole.
         On
one of the tables rests a figure, supine beneath a white plastic sheet pulled
up to the neck.
         When
Beckman sees the corpse, and recognizes it for what it is, his knees trick.
         I
turn to the wall, unpin a photograph, a clipping from a newspaper. It is the
only adornment in the room. 'She was pretty,' I say. 'Not beautiful, not in the
Grace Kelly sense, but pretty beneath the coarseness of all this paint.'' I
hold up the picture. 'Don't you think?'
         In
the pitiless fluorescent light Beckman's face contorts with fear.
         'Tell
me what happened,' I say. 'Don't you think it's time?'
         Beckman
retreats, waving a forefinger in the air. 'You're fucking nuts, man. Fucking
psycho. I'm outta here.' He turns and tries the knob on the door. Locked. He
pulls and pushes, pulls and pushes. It is a mounting frenzy, with no success.
'Open the goddamn door!'
         Instead
of unlocking the door, I step forward, remove the sheet from the figure on the
table. The body underneath has begun to decompose, its eyes now descended into
their sockets, its skin fallen sallow, the color of overripe corn. The form is
still recognizable as human, albeit emaciated and on the precipice of
putrefaction. The hands are gray and shriveled, fingers stiff in supplication.
I do not gag at the sick-sweet smell. In fact, I have begun to anticipate it
with some measure of desire.
         I
pry back the index finger on the corpse's left hand. There is a small tattoo of
a swan. I look at Kenneth Beckman, and say, in my best broken Italian:
        'Benvenuto
al carnevale!'
         Welcome
to the carnival.
         Beckman
staggers against the wall, horrified by the sight, the fresh surge of decay in
the air. He tries to speak, but the words bottleneck in his throat.
         I
lift the Taser and place it to the side of Beckman's chest. Blue lightning
strikes. The man folds to the floor.
         For
a moment the room is silent.
         As
silent as a womb.
     
         I
take the three killing instruments out of their sheaths, lay them on the table,
next to the salon-quality hair trimmer. I open the hidden cabinet concealed
behind a door that has a touch latch, revealing the recording equipment.