younger, he had a passing resemblance to Sam Spade in the definitive incarnation by Humphrey Bogart in The Maltese Falcon. Perhaps that was what had led Eddie to become a private detective. What had led him to become a heavy drinker, though, was the pressure of having to hide what he really was—a Stranger. Eddie Markell did industrial investigations for suburban firms, Vern Engelking’s among them, and he drank. When he had the opportunity, he killed people. His aura was the telltale red of a Stranger, but he had another aura as well, the’ internal smell of decay that came from years of mummifying himself with liquor.
“Tell us more unsavory facts about our hitherto trusted salesman, Herb,” Vern Engelking said.
“What’s there to say?” Eddie shrugged. He had lost weight in the past two or three years and his lightweight sportcoat did not fit well. When his shoulders moved, the cloth bunched up at the collarbone and stayed wrinkled. “Fucker uses his own set of price books for all his territory; he’s skimming good coin from southern Illinois, northern Kentucky and Missouri. So I kill his fucking ass and that’s that.”
Michael had his misgivings about Eddie.
Yes, Eddie was a Stranger, but he might soon prove a liability. Eddie seemed less and less capable of maintaining his disguise, of thinking of every possibility and planning for it. When The Time of The Strangers at last arrived it would only be those who had never, never once given themselves away, those who had been as shrewd as Michael Louden, who would partake of the countryside feast of blood and screaming and death.
Vern Engelking raised an index finger. “If you please, we kill his fornicating ass. These group endeavors are so rewarding for us all.”
“Yeah,” Eddie said. “See, Herb’s got this nineteen year old sweetie-pie he shacks up with in Mt. Claron. Wednesday night’s his usual for getting his cookies. I’ll fix it so we can have a surprise party. We can do them both, put some heavy shit on ’em.
“Michael?” Vern asked, raising his eyebrows, “We’ll have to go away on business next week. Does that suit you?”
Business, Michael thought, the business that was the sole reason for a Stranger’s existence! Herb Cantlon, pot-bellied yokel with white socks and jokes about traveling salesman and farmboys who loved sheep, a good ole boy hick in hicksville territory—lumpy-dumpy Herby—and a woman!
A tingling shudder ran through Michael at the thought of what Vern and Eddie and he would do. How could the thrill be described? He wondered. Sex? It was so far beyond any pleasure that the brain or body could know from any of the varieties of that act that the comparison was ludicrous. Had he been capable of pity, Michael would have felt sorry for the poor sadist who found only—sexual pleasure in inflicting pain; A Stranger knew transendent, illuminating, overwhelming pure pleasure—became himself all pleasure when the blood poured hot and red and copper-stinking …
“Sure, Vern,” Michael smiled. “I knew when you appointed me national sales manager that there’d be some travel involved.”
“Indeed,” Vern Engelking said.
“Yeah, whatever,” Eddie Markell said. “See you guys,” he said, and left.
With Eddie gone, Michael voiced his concern. If there was anyone he trusted in the world, it was Vern Engelking. “Vern, do you think Eddie could be a problem for us? The way he’s drinking, well, his lungs ought to be marked ‘flammable.’ I’m not so sure he’s in control.”
Vern nodded, leaning back in his ergonomically designed executive chair. He folded his hands, twiddling his thumbs; he was one of the very few who could do that without looking like an untalented actor in an amateur melodrama. Vern sighed. “The fact is, I don’t know. Eddie has his virtues, but your fears are not ungrounded. The man imbibes immoderately and that might create unfortunate situations in the future.”
Then Vern smiled
“Tell us more unsavory facts about our hitherto trusted salesman, Herb,” Vern Engelking said.
“What’s there to say?” Eddie shrugged. He had lost weight in the past two or three years and his lightweight sportcoat did not fit well. When his shoulders moved, the cloth bunched up at the collarbone and stayed wrinkled. “Fucker uses his own set of price books for all his territory; he’s skimming good coin from southern Illinois, northern Kentucky and Missouri. So I kill his fucking ass and that’s that.”
Michael had his misgivings about Eddie.
Yes, Eddie was a Stranger, but he might soon prove a liability. Eddie seemed less and less capable of maintaining his disguise, of thinking of every possibility and planning for it. When The Time of The Strangers at last arrived it would only be those who had never, never once given themselves away, those who had been as shrewd as Michael Louden, who would partake of the countryside feast of blood and screaming and death.
Vern Engelking raised an index finger. “If you please, we kill his fornicating ass. These group endeavors are so rewarding for us all.”
“Yeah,” Eddie said. “See, Herb’s got this nineteen year old sweetie-pie he shacks up with in Mt. Claron. Wednesday night’s his usual for getting his cookies. I’ll fix it so we can have a surprise party. We can do them both, put some heavy shit on ’em.
“Michael?” Vern asked, raising his eyebrows, “We’ll have to go away on business next week. Does that suit you?”
Business, Michael thought, the business that was the sole reason for a Stranger’s existence! Herb Cantlon, pot-bellied yokel with white socks and jokes about traveling salesman and farmboys who loved sheep, a good ole boy hick in hicksville territory—lumpy-dumpy Herby—and a woman!
A tingling shudder ran through Michael at the thought of what Vern and Eddie and he would do. How could the thrill be described? He wondered. Sex? It was so far beyond any pleasure that the brain or body could know from any of the varieties of that act that the comparison was ludicrous. Had he been capable of pity, Michael would have felt sorry for the poor sadist who found only—sexual pleasure in inflicting pain; A Stranger knew transendent, illuminating, overwhelming pure pleasure—became himself all pleasure when the blood poured hot and red and copper-stinking …
“Sure, Vern,” Michael smiled. “I knew when you appointed me national sales manager that there’d be some travel involved.”
“Indeed,” Vern Engelking said.
“Yeah, whatever,” Eddie Markell said. “See you guys,” he said, and left.
With Eddie gone, Michael voiced his concern. If there was anyone he trusted in the world, it was Vern Engelking. “Vern, do you think Eddie could be a problem for us? The way he’s drinking, well, his lungs ought to be marked ‘flammable.’ I’m not so sure he’s in control.”
Vern nodded, leaning back in his ergonomically designed executive chair. He folded his hands, twiddling his thumbs; he was one of the very few who could do that without looking like an untalented actor in an amateur melodrama. Vern sighed. “The fact is, I don’t know. Eddie has his virtues, but your fears are not ungrounded. The man imbibes immoderately and that might create unfortunate situations in the future.”
Then Vern smiled
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