obviously delirious at times. I was also seeing the world and reality in a new and different fashion, courtesy of Malaria Airlines. And one of the landscapes I was observing, with the practiced and penetrating eye of the detective, was an endless dusty plain fraught with the fragility and the futility of the human condition.
“So what do you think of Piers’s idea, Kinkstah?” said Ratso, as he brought over a tray of bagels and espresso. His words and his gestures seemed stilted, unctuous, and solicitous.
“I think it’s great,” I said. “What is it?” I wasn’t going to make it easy for him.
“You know. He said he brought it up to you last night.”
“Oh, yeah. You mean Piers’s idea that he should be the one to sleep on the couch because he’s known me longer than McGovern? I believe he also stated that he’s responsible for introducing me to McGovern, which is certainly something to be proud of for an adult male Australian currently living on this planet. There is, of course, the small matter of getting McGovern off the couch first. This maneuver may require a forklift or possibly a team of Lilliputian engineers.”
“Kinkstah, Kinkstah, Kinkstah,” said Ratso, while eating a bagel at the same time.
“I hate it when people say your name three times like that. It means they think you’re fucking up and they feel sorry for you but they don’t know how they can help. Is that about it?”
“Kinkstah, Kinkstah, Kinkstah, Kinkstah, Kinkstah,” said Ratso. “What’re we going to do?”
“I know what I’m going to do. I’m going to throw up if you keep treating me like a sick child.”
“That’s what you’re behaving like!” shouted Ratso.
“No, I’m not!” I shouted.
“Look,” said Ratso, in only a slightly more conciliatory tone. “You’re like that little fucking kid in that fucking movie. You see dead people and you talk to them. I know this. I’ve watched you conversing with them as you’re lying in bed almost every night this week.”
“You saw ’em, too, did you?”
“No, I didn’t. They’re not there! That’s the whole point! Now you see a guy beat up some woman. Now you see a guy with a gun. What do you expect us to believe?”
“No matter how ugly it gets,” I intoned, “there’s nothing as beautiful as the truth.”
“Well, it’s gotten pretty ugly,” said Ratso, helping himself to another bagel. “Almost as ugly as the floor of this loft.”
“McGovern just cleaned the place up yesterday. I saw him do it. Or don’t you believe me?”
“Oh, I believe you. It’s just that McGovern’s a slob, Brennan’s a slob, Piers is a slob, you’re a slob, and I’m a slob. What this place needs is a woman’s touch.”
“Why don’t you ask the woman across the street?”
“That’s cute, Kinkstah. Maybe it’s time I reminded you that the cops couldn’t find the man or the woman you supposedly saw. They couldn’t even find an apartment on the floor you said it was. So perhaps Piers is right about you getting some—uh—professional help. And I don’t mean Kent Perkins. I mean a good shrink you can just talk to. Tell him what you thought you saw. Tell him how everybody’s stabbing you in the back. How there’s a great conspiracy against you made up of the doctors, the cops, and your old friends. Tell him you’re Jesus fucking Christ!”
“Let’s not drag Jesus into this. Jesus was a great teacher. He just didn’t publish. And it’s amazing what a rumor factory this loft is. Yes, Kent Perkins will be arriving soon, just in the nick of time, I might add. And yes, he is a professional, in the narrow sense of the word. But it is I, the amateur, who will be directing his every movement, other than bowel, of course. God loves an amateur! Kent will merely be my eyes! He will merely be my ears! He will merely be my legs!”
“I’ve seen better legs on a carrier pigeon.”
“—as I was saying, Kent will act at my behest, the amateur giving
“So what do you think of Piers’s idea, Kinkstah?” said Ratso, as he brought over a tray of bagels and espresso. His words and his gestures seemed stilted, unctuous, and solicitous.
“I think it’s great,” I said. “What is it?” I wasn’t going to make it easy for him.
“You know. He said he brought it up to you last night.”
“Oh, yeah. You mean Piers’s idea that he should be the one to sleep on the couch because he’s known me longer than McGovern? I believe he also stated that he’s responsible for introducing me to McGovern, which is certainly something to be proud of for an adult male Australian currently living on this planet. There is, of course, the small matter of getting McGovern off the couch first. This maneuver may require a forklift or possibly a team of Lilliputian engineers.”
“Kinkstah, Kinkstah, Kinkstah,” said Ratso, while eating a bagel at the same time.
“I hate it when people say your name three times like that. It means they think you’re fucking up and they feel sorry for you but they don’t know how they can help. Is that about it?”
“Kinkstah, Kinkstah, Kinkstah, Kinkstah, Kinkstah,” said Ratso. “What’re we going to do?”
“I know what I’m going to do. I’m going to throw up if you keep treating me like a sick child.”
“That’s what you’re behaving like!” shouted Ratso.
“No, I’m not!” I shouted.
“Look,” said Ratso, in only a slightly more conciliatory tone. “You’re like that little fucking kid in that fucking movie. You see dead people and you talk to them. I know this. I’ve watched you conversing with them as you’re lying in bed almost every night this week.”
“You saw ’em, too, did you?”
“No, I didn’t. They’re not there! That’s the whole point! Now you see a guy beat up some woman. Now you see a guy with a gun. What do you expect us to believe?”
“No matter how ugly it gets,” I intoned, “there’s nothing as beautiful as the truth.”
“Well, it’s gotten pretty ugly,” said Ratso, helping himself to another bagel. “Almost as ugly as the floor of this loft.”
“McGovern just cleaned the place up yesterday. I saw him do it. Or don’t you believe me?”
“Oh, I believe you. It’s just that McGovern’s a slob, Brennan’s a slob, Piers is a slob, you’re a slob, and I’m a slob. What this place needs is a woman’s touch.”
“Why don’t you ask the woman across the street?”
“That’s cute, Kinkstah. Maybe it’s time I reminded you that the cops couldn’t find the man or the woman you supposedly saw. They couldn’t even find an apartment on the floor you said it was. So perhaps Piers is right about you getting some—uh—professional help. And I don’t mean Kent Perkins. I mean a good shrink you can just talk to. Tell him what you thought you saw. Tell him how everybody’s stabbing you in the back. How there’s a great conspiracy against you made up of the doctors, the cops, and your old friends. Tell him you’re Jesus fucking Christ!”
“Let’s not drag Jesus into this. Jesus was a great teacher. He just didn’t publish. And it’s amazing what a rumor factory this loft is. Yes, Kent Perkins will be arriving soon, just in the nick of time, I might add. And yes, he is a professional, in the narrow sense of the word. But it is I, the amateur, who will be directing his every movement, other than bowel, of course. God loves an amateur! Kent will merely be my eyes! He will merely be my ears! He will merely be my legs!”
“I’ve seen better legs on a carrier pigeon.”
“—as I was saying, Kent will act at my behest, the amateur giving
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