ACTION TEAM-UPS NUMBER THIRTY-SEVEN
Thursday, 3:32 P.M.
The dentures I lost on reconnaissance last week have come back to haunt me. Cavanaugh made a big show of it, waving them beneath my nose in the cafeteria line. Smug bastard. If I were ten years younger or if he were forty years older, I’d have shown him completely new uses for tapioca pudding. Regardless, I have my teeth back and that made lunch slightly more tolerable.
Saw the new guy today. I nearly choked on my meatloaf. The line of his jaw, the jutting ears, the arch of the eyebrows. Even his bulbous nose was broken in all the right places. I couldn’t help but smile at the memories of my fists connecting time and time again. He’d always been easy to hit. I leaned over to Mrs. Derkins. I just had to ask.
“Who’s the new guy?” I pointed with my fork and when her eyes followed, I swapped my skim milk for her chocolate.
Phlegm rattled before she spoke. “Why, I don’t believe I’ve seen him before, Mr. Carlson. He’s a handsome fellow.”
“If you like the criminal type,” I said. I don’t think Mrs. Derkins heard me, though. She was too busy squinting at her milk carton.
I’ll find out more tonight.
Friday, 3:32 A.M.
After the unfortunate events surrounding my dentures, I’ve had to significantly limit patrols. It was a mistake letting men into the nursing profession. Cavanaugh and his goons were everywhere and he’d made it pretty clear that he knew I was up to something. Usually it’s safe after two o’clock. I slipped out, the wheels on my chair silent. I use the chair for patrol . . . it gives me an extra hour or two of stamina.
The nurse’s station stood empty, but the door to the day room hung open a crack. Blue light flickered, soft moans oozed, the upbeat whoop of porno music eased itself out into the sterile hallway.
No one ever asked where the videotapes came from. Forty years on the street and a guy has his sources. My particular source made sure a new tape showed up every week.
It didn’t always work. Good Bi Guys 3: Backdoor-O-Rama had actually kept me stuck in my room until Driving Missy Daisy redeemed my nights a long week later.
Tonight was Stanley. He’d be in there for another two hours.
I let myself into the Administrator’s office with a paperclip and found the most recent admission papers in her outbox. Of course, it couldn’t be simple. He wouldn’t be going by the name I’d known. No. Now he went by Dirk Derringer. But at least I knew.
My old arch-nemesis was here. My unfinished business following me home like a mangy stray dog.
Saturday, 8:47 A.M.
Not much to report. Nurse Jamison had no panty-lines beneath her tight skirt. Deciding to investigate, I tipped myself over in front of her twice and dropped my pencil three times, but to no avail.
At least I stayed busy.
Sunday, 12:13 P.M.
I arranged steak for supper today. It accomplished two things: everyone ate, and it took most of the old farts three times longer to chew it. It’s good that the dot-com bomb didn’t get all of my assets.
Naturally, I took advantage of this time to search Mr. Derringer’s room. I moved quickly. Well, as quickly as I could. I am pushing ninety.
In the end, I found an old scrapbook in the bottom of his bureau. There were pictures of Derringer as a young man. Pictures of him with people like Mary Marionette AKA the Puppetress, and Jay Jacob Jackson AKA the Laughing Londoner. I also found a picture of me in there. One of those rare shots of the Night Marauder that someone had sold to Life back during the war.
This was all I needed. And I knew better than to go it alone. Time I pulled some strings.
Monday, 2:46 P.M.
Kid Sling Shot finally showed up after my fourteenth call. Of course, he wasn’t a kid anymore . . . close to seventy by now, I think. He had retired years ago and made a killing in the tire business.
He sat in my room on the edge of my bed. “Nice place, Cal.”
“It’s a shit-hole,” I told him.
He shrugged. “Another few years and I may be joining you here.”
I laughed but it sounded more like a bark. “Ann would never allow it.” I often though about Ann. She’d been something else back in her Night-Girl days.
He laughed too, then went serious. “What’s so urgent, Cal?”
“I need you to get the gang together. Call Colonel Patriot and have him rally the troops.”
He laughed even louder. “What on earth for?”
“Lunatic the Clown. He’s here. And if he’s here . . . well, you figure it out. The others will follow.”
“Cal, Lunatic’s dead. Died years ago in prison. Remember?”
I did remember something along those lines, but it seemed so long ago and out of reach. What I’d seen here was closer. “I’m telling you, Jimmy, he’s here. Goes by the name Derringer now.”
He patted my hand. Actually patted my hand. I nearly came across the room at him. But arthritis kept me in check and cooler heads prevailed.
I can’t remember the rest of the visit. I think we talked a bit about the old times. When he left, I knew I was on my own.
Fuck sidekicks. Fuck them all sideways and starboard.
Tuesday, 11:26 A.M.
I think Nurse Martinez went bra-less today. I was formulating my strategy for investigation when someone poked me in the rib.
“You been sneaking around again, Carlson?” Cavanaugh asked. A smug-looking Dirk Derringer stood behind him.
I glanced back at Nurse Martinez’s jiggling chest. “Not me, Mr. Cavanaugh.”
He leaned in close. “Well, Mr. Derringer here seems to think you were in his room the other day. Can you tell me anything about that?”
I ran my tongue over my teeth just to be sure they were there. “I have no idea what you could possibly be talking about. Sunday was steak day. For the love of Pete, I’d never miss that.”
He leaned in even closer. “No one said anything about it being Sunday.”
I pretended to faint. When I opened my eyes two dusky orbs of flesh danced in front of them as Nurse Martinez checked my vitals.
Cavanaugh had moved on. Derringer just smiled knowingly.
Thursday, 1:11 A.M.
I opened one eye and saw him sitting by my bed, his red nose glowing like blood by moonlight. “You.” I couldn’t get up the mucus to spit.
“Nice to see you, NM. Miss me?” He wore a shaving cream mask around his eyes and bright green pajamas accented with little yellow bananas. A white sheet substituted for a cape.
“What do you want, fiend?”
He lowered his voice. “Did you know that Nurse Jamison goes commando at least twice a week?”
“I did. And Nurse Martinez — ”
“ — goes bra-less every other day,” he interrupted. Lunatic laughed and slapped his knee. “I know, I know. That was brilliant earlier. Absolutely brilliant.”
He kept laughing. No longer the wailing maniacal laugh I remembered from years gone by. The marvels of modern medicine, I later learned. Still, his laughter was contagious. I joined in until we were shushing each other and wiping tears from our eyes. He’d smeared his shaving cream mask all to hell.
Our laughing settled into a chuckle and became an uncomfortable pause. “What do you miss most,” he finally asked, “about the good old days?”
I thought for a moment. “Purpose,” I said.
“Yeah. Me, too.” He stood. “You know, I got a look at the Administrator’s computer. She’s got a T-1 connection. Very fast. You know what that means?”
I’d lost my millions on high tech; I hadn’t made them there. “No, I don’t know what that means.”
“Porn,” he said.
I waved him off. “I get it delivered every week. Keeps our jailers busy.”
“Still,” he said. “Something to do.”
He let himself out.
Sunday, 3:32 A.M.
We fly, Lunatic and me, sailing around corners. He rides the back of my chair scattering Jello and Skittles in our wake.
Stanley tries to catch us, but only manages to snag my cape before the lime-flavored dessert brings him down hard on the tile.
I’ve lost my teeth again but I’m having too much fun to care.
Tomorrow should be Commando Day for Nurse Jamison, and those web cams I ordered should be in any day now.
I can’t wait to see what’s next.