David Ohle - The Devil in Kansas

Mickey and Myra approach the gallery. The attendant lowers the volume.

Mickey drops a dollar on the counter, takes up a rifle, fires six shots, misses every time. He smiles sheepishly at the attendant, then moves down the midway arm-in-arm with Myra. The attendant wipes the rifle barrels with an oiled cloth and raises the volume on the radio: “To prosper in this country, it is good to know the American character. Sometimes Americans feel like jumping a fence for the fun of jumping, or they burst into song for the fun of singing, or they string silly words together just for the fun of saying them. What they do for fun, they do for the sheer pleasure of doing it, without having any other purpose in mind.”

The tamale van is parked on the midway, doing lots of business.

Walter unloads meat from a truck behind the van. Mickey gets out his wallet. “These are great tamales. I’ve had ‘em. I should get us a dozen.” He buys a bundle of tamales wrapped in newspaper and two Budweisers.

Walter spots him. “Hey, Zook!”

“Walter…how goes it?”

“Hey, is that Myra?”

“Hi, Walter.”

“Guys…you heard about Wayne? That runny eye he had? It was cancer. He’s in bad shape. It went to the brain. He’s in pain.”

“Oh, no.”

“You found work yet, Mickey?”

“Nothing solid. A few nibbles.”

“Go down to the post office. They’ll be a man short. Wayne ain’t going back.”

Walter waves, moves up a ramp into the tamale van with his load of meat.

Mickey and Myra stand on the midway near the bumper cars and eat tamales with the cars crashing behind them.

“These are great, Mickey. Thanks.”

“The best I ever had. How’s that book coming?”

“I’m halfway finished. And I’ve got a title. Deathcraft. You like it?”

“That’s catchy. Deathcraft. I like it.”

“I think it’s gonna get published. I got a feeling.”

“Hey, that’s great.”

“There’s this private detective, Derek Balanchine. He’s zeroing in on a magician who killed his wife.… I read in Writer’s Digest, you gotta give your detective figure lots of quirks, lots of odd personal habits and outlooks. So Balanchine drinks only one kind of drink, Pimm’s Cup, with 7-Up and a cucumber stick. Wherever he goes, he orders a Pimm’s Cup. If the bartender doesn’t know how to make it, Balanchine pisses on the floor and leaves, always walking out backwards. I quote, ‘sweeping the room with his dark, darting eyes.’ Another funny thing about Balanchine. He was born with both male and female organs. A true hermaphrodite. Mostly, he preferred the male role. But every once in a while — in fact, this is how he traps the magician. He has sex with him. Before this we know that his wife had once written a letter to a girlfriend saying that the magician had a very special shape to his…organ. And this detail, naturally, leads Balanchine to conclude that the murder weapon was this very specially-shaped organ. It looked a little bit like a banana and had a poison tip.”

“That’s good stuff, Myra. It’ll sell in the airports.”

At the dining room table a worried Vickie drinks beer and stares at the wall. Though she isn’t listening to it, a small portable radio is dialed to a talk show: “I’m telling you, Marty, the way things are nowadays, why bring an unwanted baby into the world?”

“I agree totally. What is this government of ours up to?”

“On the one hand they’re eighty-sixing abortion and at the same time, abolishing welfare as we know it. And they’re building prisons on a massive scale, the government housing of the future.”

“Okay, ‘nuff said. We’ll be back with more talk in a minute. Right now, give a listen to this, troops. A word from Walt down at Walt’s Premium Meats.”

“Hi there, folks. This is Walt from Walt’s Premium Meats. Come on over and see me. Stock up for the big Fourth of July weekend. Low price special on lean ground beef, all-beef franks, spicy brats, ready-made sirloin k-bobs and honey baked hams.”

Vickie lifts another beer from the fridge and turns off the radio.

Near the carnival roller coaster, Mickey tells Myra, “We’re starting a business.”

“Who’s we ?”

“Me and Junior, and Ray, and Lorna, and Vickie…maybe. It’s a family-type organization. It could be a big money-maker. No overhead, no rent, no union dues.”

“I’m all excited. What kind of business?”

“It’s kind of been Junior’s thing, Junior’s idea. And it’s pretty early on, too. We’re not all set up yet. Still some bugs to work out.”

“What does the business do? Is there a product?”

“It’s more like a service. For shut-ins and sick people, real sick people. We send somebody out to visit them, ease their pain, bring some comfort to them and the family.”

Myra kisses him. “What a nice idea. Sort of like a hospice on wheels.”

“Yeah, like that. Like that.”

A ritzy neighborhood, late at night. Junior pulls into the driveway of a mini-mansion in a new, white Monte Carlo. Several other cars are parked in the driveway.

He rings the bell. A Latina maid answers the door.

“Yes?”

“I have an appointment at four with…”

A handsome, stylishly attired gay man appears behind the maid. “It’s fine, Theresa. He’s expected. Hi, I’m Greg. Come on in. I think we’re ready.”

Junior is led through an entry hall, then into a modern drawing room. Seated are several other well-dressed gay men, having drinks and chatting softly.

“He’s here,” Greg announces softly. “Are we all ready?”

The men grasp their drinks more tightly and begin a solemn procession up the spiral staircase.

In an upstairs bedroom, a young man hooked to a drip lies comatose on a sofa. A table in the room is heaped with liquor and hors d’oeuvres.

Greg whispers to Junior, “Lyle just couldn’t do it himself. He knew his doctor wouldn’t either. So when I heard about Thanatek from a friend, I said, ‘That’s it, get them on the phone.’ And here you are.”

On the other side of the room, a gay man says to another, “If that’s not the height of selfishness, to make someone else do it for you.”

“I wonder what he charges?”

Greg hands Junior a small vial of clear liquid. “There’s the dose as promised. And the recipe came from the Hemlock Society. It should work.”

“Okay, good deal. Let’s get started.” Junior asks who’s closest to Lyle. “Whether as a friend or a lover. It doesn’t matter.”

“I guess I am,” says Greg.

“Okay, Greg, it’s a Thanatek policy that everybody has to hold hands. You hold his hand, and he holds his hand, and so on, form a chain. And the last one holds my hand. Anybody want to say anything?”

Greg and the other men mumble their goodbyes. Junior observes a moment of silence, bows his head, then adds the liquid to the drip. The men stand around with sad looks, swishing the ice cubes in their glasses, drinking, and eating hors d’oeuvres.

In a minute or two, Lyle lets out a death rattle, which quiets the room.

The parking lot of Medi-Kwip Service and Supply. A sign says, “We Carry a Full Line of Medical and Home Care Products.”

Junior’s new Monte pulls in. He gets out in a suit, with briefcase, enters the building. Inside, a one-armed medical equipment mechanic works on a wheelchair behind the counter. A talk show is on a radio: “Cars travel on the right throughout the United States; one must by law signal not only for all turns but also for changes of lane. Traffic laws are being enforced more and more strictly as congestion problems become acute in American cities. Police may travel in unmarked cars; speed regulations are often checked by radar.”