such a mistake, Morris Rosen would have told him, had Morris been there—and hits play with the tip of his finger...

4 8 6
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B L A C K H O U S E
He hears a throat-clearing sound, and then Arnold Hrabowski iden-
tifies himself. The Fisherman interrupts him before he can even finish:
Hello, asswipe.
Henry rewinds, listens again: Hello, asswipe. Rewinds and listens yet
again: Hello, asswipe. Yes, he has heard this voice before. He’s sure of it.
But where? The answer will come, answers of this sort always do—
eventually—and getting there is half the fun. Henry listens, enrapt.
His fingers dance back and forth over the tape deck’s buttons like the
fingers of a concert pianist over the keys of a Steinway. The feeling
of being watched slips from him, although the figure outside the stu-
dio door—the thing wearing the bee slippers and holding the hedge
clippers—never moves. Its smile has faded somewhat. A sulky expres-
sion is growing on its aged face. There is confusion in that look, and
perhaps the first faint trace of fear. The old monster doesn’t like it that
the blind fish in the aquarium should have captured its voice. Of
course it doesn’t matter; maybe it’s even part of the fun, but if it is, it’s
Mr. Munshun’s fun, not its fun. And their fun should be the same . . .
shouldn’t it?
You have an emergency. Not me. You.
“Not me, you, ” Henry says. The mimicry is so good it’s weird. “A lit-
tle bit of sauerkraut in your salad, mein friend, ja? ”
Your worst nightmare . . . worst nightmare.
Abbalah.
I’m the Fisherman.
Henry listening, intent. He lets the tape run awhile, then listens to the
same phrase four times over: Kiss my scrote, you monkey . . . kiss my scrote,
you monkey . . . you monkey . . . monkey . . .
No, not monkey. The voice is actually saying munggey. MUNG-ghee.
“I don’t know where you are now, but you grew up in Chicago,”
Henry murmurs. “South Side. And . . .”
Warmth on his face. Suddenly he remembers warmth on his face.
Why is that, friends and neighbors? Why is that, O great wise ones?
You’re no better’n a monkey on a stick.
Monkey on a stick.
Monkey—
“Monkey,” Henry says. He’s rubbing his temples with the tips of his
fingers now. “Monkey on a stick. MUNG-ghee on a stigg. Who said
that?”
N I G H T ’ S P L U T O N I A N S H O R E
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4 8 7
He plays the 911: Kiss my scrote, you monkey.
He plays his memory: You’re no better’n a monkey on a stick.
Warmth on his face.
Heat? Light?
Both?
Henry pops out the 911 tape and sticks in the one Jack brought today.
Hello, Judy. Are you Judy today, or are you Sophie? The abbalah sends his
best, and Gorg says “Caw-caw-caw!” [Husky, phlegmy laughter.] Ty says
hello, too. Your little boy is very lonely . . .
When Tyler Marshall’s weeping, terrified voice booms through the
speakers, Henry winces and fast-forwards.
Derr vill be morrr mur-derts.
The accent much thicker now, a burlesque, a joke, Katzenjammer Kids
Meet the Wolfman, but somehow even more revealing because of that.
Der liddul chull-drun . . . havv-uz-ted like wheed. Like wheed. Havv-uz-
ted like . . .
“Harvested like a monkey on a stick,” Henry says. “MUNG-ghee.
HAVV-us-ted. Who are you, you son of a bitch?”
Back to the 911 tape.
There are whips in hell and chains in Sheol. But it’s almost vips in hell, al-
most chenz in Shayol.
Vips. Chenz. MUNG-ghee on a stick. A stigg.
“You’re no better’n—” Henry begins, and then, all at once, another
line comes to him.
“Lady Magowan’s Nightmare.” That one’s good.
A bad nightmare of what? Vips in hell? Chenz in Shayol? Mung-ghees
on sticks?
“My God,” Henry says softly. “Oh . . . my . . . Go d. The dance. He
was at the dance. ”
Now it all begins to fall into place. How stupid they have been! How
criminally stupid! The boy’s bike . . . it had been right there. Right there,
for Christ’s sake! They were all blind men, make them all umps.
“But he was so old, ” Henry whispers. “And senile! How were we
supposed to guess such a man could be the Fisherman?”
Other questions follow this one. If the Fisherman is a resident at
Maxton Elder Care, for instance, where in God’s name could he have
stashed Ty Marshall? And how is the bastard getting around French
Landing? Does he have a car somewhere?
4 8 8
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B L A C K H O U S E
“Doesn’t matter,” Henry murmurs. “Not now, anyway. Who is he
and where is he? Those are the things that matter.”
The warmth on his face—his mind’s first effort to locate the Fisher-
man’s voice in time and place—had been the spotlight, of course, Sym-
phonic Stan’s spotlight, the pink of ripening berries. And some woman,
some nice old woman—
Mr. Stan, yoo-hoo, Mr. Stan?
—had asked him if he took requests. Only, before Stan could reply, a
voice as flat and hard as two stones grinding together—
I was here first, old woman.
—had interrupted. Flat . . . and hard . . . and with that faint Ger-
manic harshness that said South Side Chicago, probably second or even
third generation. Not vass here first, not old vumman, but those telltale
v’s had been lurking, hadn’t they? Ah yes.
“Mung-ghee,” Henry says, looking straight ahead. Looking straight
at Charles Burnside, had he only known it. “Stigg. Havv- us-ted. Hasta
la vista . . . baby.”
Was that what it came down to, in the end? A dotty old maniac who
sounded a bit like Arnold Schwarzenegger?
Who was the woman? If he can remember her name, he can call
Jack . . . o r Dale, if Jack’s still not answering his phone . . . and put an
end to French Landing’s bad dream.
Lady Magowan’s Nightmare. That one’s good.
“Nightmare,” Henry says, then adjusting his voice: “Nahht- mare.”