Jack O'Connell - The Skin Palace

Mrs. Ellis walks up to an old man sitting on a slatted wooden bench at the end of the walkway. She begins to go into what must by now be an automatic spiel, the incomprehensible story of how random evil came to her door one day. The old man nods sympathetically and takes one of the flyers, studies Jenny’s picture. Then he gestures to the Snapshot Shack and, after some discussion, leaves Mrs. Ellis and begins to move across the parking lot toward Sylvia. He walks with a slight limp, leaning down on a cane. Halfway across the asphalt, Sylvia realizes that the figure is Mr. Quevedo from Brody’s Adult Books.

She slides the bubble open and waits for him to approach.

“You’re a long way from your shop,” she says before he can speak.

He comes to a stop directly in front of the window and stands formally with both his hands on the top of his cane and his milky eyes staring out at nothing in particular. He’s dressed in a slightly worn and very dated brown suit with a yellow and brown paisley tie.

“I decide to take a stroll,” he says, “before the weather turns.”

“I think you’ll get caught on your way back.”

“I won’t melt,” he says, then both of them are quiet for a few seconds and the awkwardness blooms. She should have expected to see Quevedo, sooner or later.

“I went to see Rory Gaston,” she says. “He swears he doesn’t know you.”

Quevedo seems to think for a minute. He blinks a few times and then says, “I don’t believe I’ve ever been introduced to Mr. Gaston.”

“You’re the one who told me to go see him.”

“I provided you with a name, Miss Krafft. I never said I knew any of the Proppists personally.”

A small, annoying smile comes over his face and prompts her to say, “What is it I can do for you, Mr. Quevedo? Do you have some film to drop off? We’re running a sensational price on Snapshot Shack brand when you drop off an exposed roll for processing.”

“I don’t take pictures, Sylvia,” he says.

“Well then,” she says, “it was good seeing you. I’m sure we’ll run into each other again.”

“My child,” he says and she flinches. “This is no way to treat an old man.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m having a very tough day. And the morning shipment is due any minute.”

He shifts his stance and looks up at the darkening sky and she wonders just how much he can see.

“I’m not your enemy, Sylvia. Out of all the men in your life, I’m not the one you should fear.”

Before she can think she says, “There’s only one man in my life.”

“Would that be Mr. Schick or Mr. Propp?”

“That would be Mr. Leroux.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head and pushing his pale, cracked lips out as if he was trying to whistle, “no it wouldn’t.”

So far, she’s more angry than fearful. She yells, “Who the hell are you, asshole?”

“Vulgarity doesn’t flatter you, child.”

“All right, just knock it off with the child shit. Jesus.”

She wants to climb out of the booth and knock the blind old bastard on his ass. He remains unfazed. He touches the small knot of his tie and says, “I’m not here to anger or annoy you, Sylvia.”

“So why are you here?”

“Very simply,” he says, “to be of assistance. I know you currently feel that there’s no one you can trust. And I know what a horrible feeling that can be, Sylvia. Please believe me.”

“And why,” she asks, coming back to control, “would you want to help me?”

He smiles as if the answer should be obvious. “I’m a displaced person, Sylvia. Before I settled in Quinsigamond, I was often a transient. Often a victim of some very brutal forms of repression. Buffeted by forces I could not always see. Forgive the pun.”

“Go on.”

“You are not the only frightened person in this city. I am not a free agent. I have compromised to the point where I owe allegiances and favors to a multitude of conflicting clients. To everyone but myself. People seem to think I’m the nexus where they can find satisfaction. Attain some unattainable artifact of their desires. Believe me, Sylvia, I know what it’s like to be scared and confused.”

“You haven’t given me a single reason why I should trust you.”

“I’m not sure,” he says, “what I could give you that would be adequate. That would make you believe my intentions are simple and benign. I’ve lived in Quinsigamond for a number of years now, Sylvia. I was here before you were born. But I’ll always be a foreigner in this city. The advantage of that fact is that I see a good many things the natives miss. And I’m a blind man, so I hear much that the sighted are deaf to. I’m a receptacle of information. Much of it is rumor and gossip. But some percentage of it is of value.”

She studies him, this awkward, slightly bent old man with odd, papery skin, long fingers, brittle, white, birdlike hair. Flanked this way, by the deserted plaza in the distance, the sky looking like it was about to press down on him, all she can think is what a wonderful picture he’d make.

“Last night,” she says, “I met a man who claimed to be Terrence Propp. Was he telling the truth?”

There’s no hesitation. He says. “He is what he claims to be. Don’t judge him too harshly.”

“I never said anything about judging him at all,” she says. “He tried to warn me away from Hugo Schick. Is that good advice?”

“Schick,” he says, seeming to consider his words, “is a megalomaniac. He is also a man of some talent. But then, there is no law, natural or otherwise, that says artists have to be ethical people. Schick may be a pathological liar. And he appears to consume all but the strongest individuals in his path. To be honest, Sylvia, I can’t see the benefit of an association with Mr. Schick.”

“Which one is running me through the maze, Quevedo?”

“The maze?”

“You want to help me? Then answer some of my questions. Like who made sure I got the Aquinas? Why was I supposed to find those pictures? What happened to Jack Derry? How did Propp know I’d be at the Halloween block party?”

He waves his right hand, a kind of fluid stop sign.

“Slow down, Sylvia,” he says. “Yes, I want to help you. But understand, my child — I’m sorry, excuse me — understand that, like everyone else, I’m at the mercy of my age and my culture. I may well know a bit more than you about both Mr. Schick and Mr. Propp. And I confess that I can’t prevent myself from making certain judgments concerning their behavior, their attitudes, the wreckage both seem to leave in their wake. A man of my particular sensibility might use phrases like irresponsible cad, like self-consumed scoundrel. Possibly, I could use a word like deviant or perhaps, in some case, even pervert. These words might be applied to one or both of the men in question. But Sylvia, they are not limited to those men. The world is full of callous and cruel men.”

“You have a problem getting to the point, Mr. Quevedo.”

He closes his eyes, nods. “Perhaps,” he says, “your greatest threat does not come from either Schick or Propp.”

“I found Rory Gaston in my apartment last night—”

“He’s a sad and deluded figure, but not a dangerous one.”

“Should I be afraid of you, Quevedo?”

He lets out a quick blast of a laugh, a high-pitched, one-syllable bleat. “I’m an old man at the end of a tiring life, Sylvia. Admit the obvious.”

“You’re saying Perry. You’re saying you know something about Perry.”

The white eyes just stare at her and she knows he’s got nothing more to say.

“Perry would never hurt me,” she says. “He’s not even aware of what’s been going on in my life.”