Sara Paretsky - Sisters on the Case

‘‘You weren’t,’’ he said, flatly.

‘‘Yeah, I was. I don’t look it, I know. You expect somebody smooth looking, somebody in a nice suit, not some fat goombah in a baby blue nylon gym suit. Baby blue. My daughter picked it out. Appearances are deceiving. I don’t go to any gym, either. But ask anybody who knows me, they’ll tell you, I was a salesman.’’

‘‘If you say so.’’

‘‘I do say so. So what were you? In your working days?’’

Instead of answering, his park bench companion smiled for the first time, a crooked arrangement at one corner of his mouth. ‘‘Were you good at selling stuff?’’

‘‘You look like you think that’s funny. It’s serious, the sales business, and supporting your family. Serious stuff. Yeah, I was good. How about you?’’

‘‘I killed.’’

‘‘No kidding. Doing what?’’

The other man placed his left arm over the back of the park bench. His big chest rose and fell as he inhaled, then exhaled, through his large, pockmarked nose. ‘‘Let me think how to put this,’’ he said, finally, in his rumbling voice. ‘‘I never know what to tell people. You’d think I’d have an answer by now.’’ He was silent for a few moments. ‘‘Okay. I was a performance artist, you might say.’’

‘‘Really. I’m not sure what that is. Comedian?’’

‘‘Sometimes.’’

‘‘No kidding! Where’d you appear?’’

‘‘Anywhere they paid me.’’

‘‘Ha. I know how that is. Would I have heard of you?’’

‘‘You might. I hope not.’’

‘‘You didn’t want to be famous ?’’

‘‘Hell no.’’ For the first time, the answer came fast. ‘‘That’s the last thing I’d ever want.’’

‘‘But-’’

‘‘Fame can be… confining.’’

‘‘I get you.’’ The first man nodded, his big, fleshy face looking sage. ‘‘Paparazzi, and all that. Can’t go anyplace without having flashbulbs go off in your face.’’

‘‘I hate cameras of any kind. Don’t want none of them around, no.’’

‘‘Imagine if reporters had been here that day…’’

‘‘What day?’’

‘‘The Battle of Westport.’’

‘‘Oh.’’

‘‘Embedded with the troops, like in Iraq. Interviews with the generals. Shots of the wounded. What a mess.’’

‘‘And no TVs to show it on.’’

The first man let out a laugh, a booming ha . ‘‘That’s right.’’

His companion took them back to their other topic, as if he’d warmed up to it. ‘‘Lotsa people with lotsa money aren’t famous. You’d be surprised. They’re rich as Bill Gates, and nobody’s ever heard of them.’’

‘‘I wouldn’t be so surprised.’’

‘‘Yeah, probably not. You look like a wise guy.’’

‘‘You wouldn’t think I was so wise, not if you’d ask my son.’’

‘‘What’s the matter with him?’’ The second man was talking faster now, now that he was asking questions, instead of answering them. They were getting into a rhythm, a pace, a patter. ‘‘He think you’re an idiot?’’

‘‘He says I’m a fool, ought to mind my own business.’’

‘‘But you retired from that, didn’t you?’’

‘‘From what?’’

‘‘Minding your own business.’’

That earned another explosive ha, followed by some coughing. ‘‘That’s right, I did.’’

‘‘So the only business you got left to mind is his.’’

‘‘Ha! You’re right. That’s pretty funny.’’

‘‘But he doesn’t think so. Your son, he’s not so amused by you?’’

‘‘A serious guy, my son.’’ The man in the baby blue gym suit sniffed, the corners of his mouth dropped into a frown. He settled his body more heavily into the bench. If he still smoked, it was a moment when he’d have puffed reflectively, resentfully, on his cigar. After a moment, he pulled himself up and alert again. ‘‘So. Tell me. You make any money being a comedian who didn’t want to get famous?’’

‘‘I made plenty.’’

‘‘Clubs?’’

‘‘I did some of those. And private jobs.’’

‘‘That’s how you got to know the rich people who aren’t famous?’’

‘‘Some were famous. Some got famous after I met them. I’d see their pictures and their names in the papers.’’

‘‘Those ones-they ever call you again after they got famous?’’

‘‘No.’’ He smiled slightly. ‘‘They were beyond me by then.’’

‘‘Really. Stupid shits. People get big heads, that’s what fame’ll do. They think they’re too good-’’

‘‘They’re dead to me now.’’ He smiled to himself again, as at a private joke.

‘‘Sure. So what was your act?

‘‘My act?’’ He frowned.

‘‘Your shtick. You know, your routine.’’

‘‘I didn’t have no set routine. That’s dangerous, to be too predictable like that. You don’t want people to know what’s coming, you want to keep your edge, keep them on edge, so you take them by surprise, startle them, come at them out of the blue where they’re not expecting it. It’s intimidating that way. You shock ’em. Knock ’em off balance and never let ’em get back up straight again. Then you just keep knocking ’em down-’’

‘‘Knockin’ the jokes down-’’

‘‘Until they’re bent over, pleading and gasping for you to stop, ’cause it hurts so bad.’’

‘‘Been a long time since I laughed like that. That’s as good as sex. If I recall.’’

The second man smiled at that. ‘‘Yeah, it’s real satisfying. I guess you’d say I have a talent for shocking people. And for improvisation.’’

‘‘Like George Carlin? Or that black kid with the mouth on him, Chris Rock? Not everybody can get away with stuff like that.’’

‘‘I’ve gotten away with it for a long time.’’

‘‘Good for you. So that was your act? Improv?’’

‘‘Sometimes. It varied.’’

‘‘Depended on the venue, I suppose. You’re smiling. Did I say something naive?’’

‘‘No, no, you’re right. A lot depends on the venue, whether it’s in the open air-like this, like a park, for instance. Or maybe it’s inside. Could be a great big room, even as big as a stadium, or could be as small as a bathroom. Size of the audience makes a difference, too, now that you mention it, now that you’ve got me talking about it. Some things will go over well in a big crowd that are just overkill when there’s nobody around. And vice versa. That was part of the improvisation.’’

‘‘You get hecklers?’’

‘‘If I did, I took them out.’’

‘‘Pretty good audiences, though?’’

‘‘I had very attentive audiences. Very.’’

‘‘What’s your secret?’’

‘‘You want to get their full attention immediately. Don’t give them any time to adjust to your appearance. Hit ’em upside the head.’’

‘‘A big joke right off the bat, huh?’’

‘‘A two-by-four. A baseball bat. Bam. Get their undivided attention. I’m not a subtle guy.’’

‘‘Pretty broad comedy, huh?’’

‘‘Pretty broad… there was one of those in Pittsburgh.’’

‘‘Ha ha. Vaudeville, like. Slapstick. That you?’’

‘‘Slapstick. I coulda used one of those.’’

‘‘Ha ha. Borscht belt comedy. You Jewish?’’

‘‘Me? No way. I was circumspect, not circumcised.’’

‘‘Ha! You’re a wise guy, too.’’

‘‘That I am.’’

‘‘What about costumes? You ever wear costumes?’’

‘‘Yeah. Hairpieces. Teeth. Mustaches. Canes, crutches. I got a closet full of them, or I would have if I’d kept any of it.’’