The Devil Delivered and Other Tales Read online

  “Oh, yes, a series, each one target-specific. We’ve spent thousands researching and producing our pamphlets. Let’s see, the arts community … vibrant, thriving, you said? Well, that would be Series 16-B—you got the pamphlet for potential donors. You should have received Series 11-D, for new members.” She shook her head and sighed. Picking up a pen and making a note she said, “Well, that does it. She’s fired. I simply cannot deal with this level of incompetence. Series 11-D is for new members—she should know that.”

  “So, I’m curious, how’s it different?”

  “Well, in Series 11-D, the arts community is ‘welcoming, appreciating, open, and receptive.’”

  “Oh. Seems a small mistake—”

  “Hardly, Mr. Nacht. Now, where were we?”

  He hesitated, then said, “I was enthusing about there being an arts community and displaying appropriate eagerness, intending to convey to you my eager willingness to do anything it takes to become part of that community.”

  “Ah, excellent, Maxwell. I must say, I’m impressed. Do you have any opinions?”

  “No, none at all, and I don’t make them.”

  “Superb. Do you consider yourself an ethical person? Do you have standards?”

  “No, I’m completely amoral. All art produced by notable members of the community is either ‘good’ or ‘interesting.’”

  “Are you cynical?”

  “To the black core of my rotten heart.”

  Annie Trollop leaned back, looking thoughtful. “The timing is … propitious. We need a new wunderkind. Someone we can milk and glom and flutter and sigh over—for a year, maybe two. Then we’ll get tired and move on.” She looked at Max. “A year, maybe two, Maxwell.”

  “Sounds perfect,” he replied. “I won’t fail you, and I won’t hang on after it’s over.”

  “Well, I should think not, Mr. Nacht. Because then you’ll join that elite, powerful group—you’ll become a—”

  “A peer.”

  “Exactly.”

  He smiled.

  She smiled back. “We’ve found our boy. Now, let’s go. Introductions of the proper sort need to be made.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Have you visited Anything but Craft?”

  “Your retail outlet? No, it never seems to be open—”

  “Well, of course not. Heaven forbid we actually sell something. Because then someone would be unfairly favored over others, and that’s not allowed. But come, I’m certain Penny is in.”

  Max stood. “Penny? Penny Foote-Safeword? Brandon Safeword’s wife?”

  “Exactly. We’ll explain everything, and she’ll get to work. You’re about to enter the revolving door, Maxwell—no, not Maxwell. Maximillian. Maximillian Percival Nacht, I think.”

  They headed out.

  “Revolving door?”

  “Oh yes, our, shall we say, euphemism. The track, the pathway. Grants, awards, a lifetime of funding. Round and round and round … Once you’re in the loop, you never have to come out, you see. And of course there’s no official way to get into the loop in the first place. It’s the way of modern life, Maximillian, it’s—”

  “Revolvo.”

  “Precisely. Very apt. How clever. Follow me.…”

  They left Annie’s office, walked past the luckless underling who was destined for firing, headed out into the hallway—where Monk was nowhere in sight—then descended five flights of stairs, proceeded along another hallway, and came at last to a featureless steel door. “This is the back way into the studio area of the shop,” Annie explained. “It’s necessary that you memorize the floor plans of the building, since it is deliberately intended to confuse and, indeed, lose the uninitiated. We’ve had three would-be artists disappear in Outre Space over the past five years. Stubble swears he’s seen one of them, but somehow, the cameras never detect him, or her, or them.” She turned to the door and knocked. After a moment she produced a key and opened the door. “Penny!” she called. “Darling! We have a guest!”

  They edged inside.

  Penny was lying on a kind of divan at the opposite end of the studio. Paint-spattered cloth had been draped and tacked to the wall behind and to either side of her. Bits of tinfoil hung from threads attached to the ceiling and slowly turned in the warm, incense-sweet air. A video camera mounted on a tripod was off to one side, a red light blinking on it.

  Max had never seen Penny before, and in fact knew almost nothing about her, except for the fact that she was Brandon Safeword’s wife. As he and Annie approached, he saw that the woman, in her early forties, was dressed in a see-through, tie-dyed kind of slip that outlined her body without providing any support. Her breasts were large and hadn’t known a bra in years. Bits of bark and leaves were profligate in her long black hair. Her red-painted lips were huge although the rest of the face was narrow, modestly featured, and her eyes, lined in catlike kohl, stayed mostly hidden under the painted lids.

  “Oh, Annie dear,” she purred—well, Max corrected in his mind, it was meant to be a purr, but the sound had come mostly from her nose—“you’ve found me my installation piece, I see.”

  Annie waved a hand. “This is Maximillian Nacht, honey. Our new boy. He’s destined for moderately great things.”

  “An artist?” Penny let her gaze rest on Max. “And what do you do, Maximillian Nacht?”

  “Uh, I’m a sculptor.”

  “Call me Penny.”

  “Penny.”

  “And what do you sculpt?”

  “Everything. I mean, anything. I’m presently doing miniatures.”

  “How economical.” Penny glanced at Annie and raised her thin eyebrows.

  Annie smiled. “Well, I’d best be off. Office work, how it piles up. Maximillian, I leave you in capable hands. Pay close attention to what Penny tells you, and you’ll do just fine.”

  “Thanks, Annie.”

  The chief administrator for CAPSs closed the door behind her, leaving Max alone with Penny.

  “Well, come closer, my bite’s not too painful,” Penny said. “Have you read my book?”

  “Uhm, no, I’m sorry, I haven’t.”

  “That’s not surprising. I refused to let crass commercial retail outlets sell it. Self-published, too, since why should some faceless publication company profit from my efforts. So, you can only acquire the book from moi, which is perfect, for it allows me, the author, to elect my own audience—an exclusive one, an audience worthy of my work.”

  “That’s very clever, Penny.”

  “Of course,” Penny said, “you’re now among that elite company, so I’ll have to find a copy, sometime, somewhere.”

  “What’s the book called?”

  Her smile made Max’s heart jump—or maybe it was his liver, the incense was putting him in a daze. “Is the videocam on?”

  He stumbled over to the tripod. “Uh, yep, it’s running.”

  “What do you know about performance art, sweetie?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid.”

  “Uninitiated, then. Excellent. I’m working on a project that is a continuation of the book, an expansion of the basic precepts. Research is paramount. Come here, take off your clothes.”

  “My clothes?”

  “We’re going to fuck. A performance piece, art in all its visceral glory. I have made a discovery—it’s all in my book—and it’s revolutionary, it might well change the world forever. Have you ever heard of collective memory?”

  “As in Carl Jung?”

  “Someone like that—I can’t recall, but that doesn’t matter. What’s important to realize is that this collective memory is not found in the brain. Oh no, darling, not the brain. Take off your clothes, Maximillian, and get over here. We’re wasting tape. Where was I?”

  Max began stripping down. “Anywhere but the brain,” he said.

  “I have discovered it is possible to tap into that memory, to unveil the mysteries of all one’s past lives, the myriad identities of one’s genetic histories. For example,
I have discovered that I was once a princess, no twice, once in Egypt, and once at Stonehenge. I have also been a queen, a high priestess, and an Amazon warrior. These identities can be driven back into my consciousness, because, as the title of my book reveals, The Vulva Remembers!!” With that she lunged forward, wrapping Max in her arms and pulling him down onto the divan. “Fuck me fuck me fuck me—she’ll remember again, ohmigod, she’ll remember—she remembers!”

  3.

  the ends of the line

  Wild Bill Chan hobbled along the abandoned rail line, dragging one leg that had been crushed in 1962 at a spill outside Climax, Saskatchewan, walking with a rolling hitch of his hunched back, which had been bent and then broken in 1969 trying to hold up a derailed, sagging-in-the-mud piggyback just outside Ste. Rose du Lac, Manitoba. He glared at the world with one eye, the other one lost in 1974 when he was trampled by a herd of caribou being pursued by a polar bear down Churchill’s main street—his only off-duty injury in a long list of injuries that had begun in 1920 when, as a mere lad, he had joined his father on the crew breaking the path for the northern line.

  Joey “Rip” Sanger grinned as the old man approached. “Hell, getting ya outa that damned retirement weren’t too hard, eh?” Behind Joey stood the redcap, who’d had a hell of a time dragging one of the steel trunks out to this forgotten spur. He’d damned near earned his fiver, Joey reflected. Almost. The prairie spread out beyond the line, dotted here and there by derelict grain silos and bought-out farmsteads. A few dusty trees broke the flat skyline to the east and north, while to the south rose the city’s scattering of skyscrapers, behind a golden veil of spring dust.

  Chan arrived and hooked his glare up at Joey. “Y’bastard,” he rasped. “Eh was ’alfway t’Katmandu when the call come.”

  “Under was under the weather, hah,” Joey said. “Thin skin and too much under it, if you ask me. This the guy you groomed to take over, Chan? Hell, what a sorry thought.”

  “Times change, Joey. That’s all eh say. So you call me out here, y’grizzled carp, but in case y’hadn’t nooticed, this spur’s abandoned.” He waved a mangled hand in a sweeping gesture. “’Alf the track’s rusting t’nothing, boy! The heyday’s scrammed. It was the ’20s, the best times, when it was touch and go between this city and Chicago and St. Louis—who was going to be the gate to the West, hey? Touch and go. You’ll find more track round this city than y’can fathom, boy, round and round and round. Spurs and runs and switchbacks and platforms and silos and maintenance shacks and sheds and damned cars, too, boy!”

  Joey grimaced. “You forget, you one-eyed Shanghai warlock, you’re talking to Joey ‘Rip’ Sanger here. Y’think I can’t read maps, y’think two thousand miles of unused track around this city is enough to make my knees shake?” He kicked at the rail. “Unused, hell. Take a close look, Chan.”

  “Eh?”

  “Your squatters are living in cars, got their own goddamned train, look where the rust’s streaked away. Looking pinched, right? It’s a 57 Wells, a goddamned steam engine. Not listed on your service, is it? But it’s here, and someone’s working it, and those squatters are living in the cars behind it, and they got you hunting everywhere but so long as they keep to the abandoned spurs, so long as they keep moving, you won’t find ’em.”

  “Holy bear livers,” Chan whispered.

  “You got it. It’s bloody ingenious. I can’t wait to meet the brains behind it all, and mark you, Chan, I will. Soon. The bastard’s mine, all mine. Redcap!”

  “Yes sir!”

  Joey tossed the boy a ring of keys. “Open that trunk, son.”

  The redcap fumbled through the keys, and finally found the right one. He lifted back the hinge, then stepped back.

  Joey and Chan walked up to the trunk. Inside was a sophisticated array of high-tech equipment, motion sensors, IR sensors, and innumerable other gadgets of detection and tracking, all neatly stored in stacked foam beds. Joey said to Chan, “I want a two-man runner brought here. We’ve got a whole lotta lines to seed before dark.”

  “Ground-up dragon bones,” Chan swore, “you’ll get what you need, Joey.”

  “What was that about Katmandu, anyway?”

  “Got part-time work as a Sherpa. But never mind, I want to see you nab these squatters. The old glory’s back, Joey. You’re a goddamned wonder, boy.” Chan faced the redcap and scowled up at the young man. “You stick by him, son, and you’ll learn something, you’ll learn enough to carry on the tradition—and someday you’ll be running this goddamned company!”

  “Yes sir!”

  Chan said to Joey, “You gonna sock it to ’em, ain’t ya?”

  Joey paused over the trunk and cocked his head. “The Sanger Sock? If I have to, I suppose. Better they come along peacefully, though.”

  “The Sanger Sock?” the redcap asked.

  Chan nodded. “A martial art, a single move no one on earth has stood against, and that includes Clay himself—was in ’63, in Toronto, at a house party in Don Mills. Things got rough between Joey and the Champ.” Chan cackled. “The Yank got whupped by a Canuck! Again! Hee hee!” He continued after a moment, “Of course, they hushed it up. Bad press and all that. The Sanger Sock, first invented by Liza Sanger, when she was working in the bush on the Rennie crew—all those horny Finns, hah! Then passed down the line, all the way to Joey here.”

  “Wow,” the redcap breathed. “Can I learn it?”

  “Mind your manners, boy,” Joey snapped. “You’re getting uppity.”

  “Nothing wrong with that, Joey,” Chan said. “A kid’s gotta be uppity, wants to get anywhere.”

  “S’pose you’re right. Well, you gotta earn the right, redcap. I seen signs, good signs, I admit. We’ll see, I s’pose. Now, give me a hand here and Chan, you ain’t that well-hung so I figure that’s a cellular in that pocket, so put in the call for that two-man runner.”

  Chuckling, Chan reached into his pants pocket.

  4.

  Anything but Craft

  After the taping they went to another taping, this one somewhat more sedate. Penny was in a fine mood, still swimming in the euphoria of discovering an Aztec princess in one of her past lives. Max, on the other hand, could barely walk.

  “I’m the producer,” Penny said as they stood in the foyer and waited for the elevator. “The Northern Order program is not only the premier quality show on the arts in this city, it’s the only show on the arts in this city. Brandon is, of course, simply superb. Not that I’m biased. My objectivity in all things is above reproach. In any case, we’re taping this week’s show at Art Place Gallery, which is just upstairs.” She checked her watch. “Everything should be set up by now. Excellent. Ideal. Karmic synchronicity. Don’t worry, I’ll make introductions.”

  The elevator arrived. They entered. “Second floor,” Penny said loudly. The speaker grille chirped, and they ascended.

  Most of the second floor was taken up with the public gallery—although, as the sign posted on the door indicated, it wasn’t open to the public. “Art Place Gallery,” Penny explained, “is for our darling artists, the prize students of important people. In order to get a show in here—which can be seen by invitation only—you must have studied under Professor Don Palmister or Lucy Mort. You must receive a letter of reference from my dear husband, and a personal non-written reference from moi.”

  “Oh,” said Max. “But I haven’t studied under either Don or Lucy.”

  “Don’t worry about that, Maxie. There are always ways around the rules. Always. Besides, Annie’s backing you, and that should open all the doors. Also”—she smiled demurely—“you have moi in your camp. Not to be too immodest, you can’t lose. Ah, here we are.”

  They entered into the spacious gallery. The TV camera was already set up, a technician perched behind it. Brandon Safeword had taken position, the tips of his shoes perfectly aligned with two strips of white tape on the hardwood floor, beside a huge, imposing work of art.

  Max gaped at it as he and Pen
ny approached. The work of art was a cow, stuffed, legs spraddled, tail sticking straight out, and an SLR camera jammed into its mouth. A black box had been strapped to the cow’s head, between the ears, with wires leading down to the glass eyes, both of which rolled incessantly to an electronic pulse.

  Brandon scowled at Penny. “You’re late, darling.”

  “Sorry, the performance piece went on, and on. You know how it is. I don’t recognize the cameraman, Brandie—you know how strangers bother me.”

  “Can’t be helped. Ellis is down with meningitis. Meet Scott.”

  “Do I have to?” Penny whined, then, offering a bright smile at Scott, who stood bemusedly behind the camera, she waved and said, “Wonderful to meet you, Scott. Shall we begin taping?”

  “Anytime,” Scott said, shrugging.

  Penny gave her husband a nod; Brandon gave Scott a nod. Scott glanced over at Penny, who nodded, then at Max, who nodded. “Okay,” Scott said, “we’re rolling.”

  “Wait!” Brandon called out. “I want to change the order! Where’s our guest?”

  Penny rolled her eyes. “Not due for another ten minutes, darling. Let’s stick with the script, please?”

  “Oh, all right. Okay, I’m ready. Everyone ready?”

  Everyone nodded.

  Brandon faced the camera, composed himself, then smiled and said in his deep rolling voice, “Welcome, friends, once again to Northern Order magazine’s program on the arts, coming to you this week from the Art Place Gallery at Outre Space in the heart of this vibrant, wonderful city.” He paused, took a step closer to the cow. “Today, we’ll look into the seminal centerpiece of Johan Guppy’s groundbreaking, innovative show, ‘A Cow’s Eye View,’ which has been on display here for the past twenty-six months, to much acclaim.” He strode to the cow’s side and laid a hand on its back. “This piece, entitled Cow, is a wonderful example of interactive art. The intent, for the viewer, is obvious.” He walked around to the back of the cow, then faced the camera again. “One must proceed, through the installation, until one’s eye comes into contact with the camera’s eyepiece.” Brandon rolled up the sleeves of his casual cardigan, revealing his broad, hairy wrists—which, Max guessed, were Brandon’s own personal favorite features. “Art always makes demands of its audience, and Cow is no exception.” He smiled once again and Scott nodded, indicating he was zooming in; then Brandon turned to the cow’s anus and pushed his head against it. “No doubt,” he grunted, pushing steadily, “it’s a tight squeeze. If you’ll be patient.”