Haggopian and Other Stories (64 page)

Synchronicity or Something

Back in the 1980s, a young man
 
called Carl Ford published a multiple award-winning Cthulhu Mythos RPG (role-playing game) fan magazine called
Dagon
. Toward the end of that decade Carl contacted me and commissioned a Mythos story with an RPG theme which he intended to publish in the same format as his magazine. The story I eventually sent to him was “Synchronicity or Something”. It contains quite a few in-jokes—the somewhat skewed names of a small handful of contemporary horror writers, for example (not to mention that of a certain young publisher)—and like that, but it is also quite nasty. And with an ending that is suitably Cthulhu Mythosian, “Synchronicity” saw light of day as an excellently presented “Dagon Press Production”, in 1989.

Jim Slater sat glowering, nursing his pint, plainly annoyed. His drinking companion, Andrew Paynter, was a bit put off, especially since he’d just asked Slater to be his best man.

It was a Friday night and both men had just finished divorce cases; which is to say, they’d gathered sufficient evidence of adultery to satisfy any court of law in the land that their respective clients should be granted divorces, and compensation to boot. Tomorrow they would go into the office, put their reports in order and check their pigeonholes, then with a bit of luck take the rest of the weekend off. They worked for a detective agency specializing in the usual dirt-digging, with no excuse except “somebody has to do it”.

“So…what’s eating you?” said Paynter. He was young, not yet thirty, lean and handsome in a colourless sort of way. After spending five years in the Intelligence Corps and two more in shiny boots on the Metropolitan beat, he’d finally taken his chances on private-eyeing. It was shitty work but it paid the bills, and so far it had been something of a not-so-private eye-opener. Infidelity-wise, the world was abustle! As for Phillip Marlow-type cases: forget it.

“Nothing’s wrong with
me
,”
Slater answered. He was Paynter’s senior by maybe ten years, himself divorced for three of them, and wore his cynicism like armour. A big man, there was a touch of the early Robert Mitchum about him, the same sleepy eyes and deep, dull voice. But he looked so much the part that usually people didn’t think he could be what he was. A nice fellow when he was one hundred percent sober, but as often as not he was eighty percent proof. He had taken the younger man under his wing when Paynter joined the agency, and Paynter hadn’t forgotten it.

“Are you saying there’s something wrong with me?” Paynter grinned. “Or is it just the world in general?”

“Since you’ve asked,” Slater answered, “it’s you. See, I thought you had a brain in your head. I mean, how long have you been with us? A year…longer? How many days—or more properly nights—spent traipsing around checking out all the illicit screwing? Taking your sly little compromising pictures, listening to sobbing wives or husbands telling you their worst fears or suspicions, discovering them to be right and in the process finding out that the ‘innocent’ party is also balling or being balled? Son, it’s a cesspool!”

“Our job? Tell me something new.”

“The world, for Christ’s sake! There isn’t a bird out there, married or single, who can’t be pulled at the right time, in the right place, for the right reason, and there isn’t a bloke who isn’t trying to pull one. Sometimes I think it’s not the act itself, just that it’s a
guilty
act! You know? Stolen apples taste the sweetest? Well, maybe they do—until they cramp your stomach. But they do it
because
it’s forbidden. Some of them, anyway. And others just because it’s there.”

“Like climbing a mountain?”

“Smart bastard! I’m
serious.
Every timid little fink you see is a potential stud, and every sweet, innocent little thing is probably getting it six nights a week. And the married ones are the worst.”

Paynter shrugged. “That’s life, Jim. But apart from work, what’s it got to do with me?”

“Everything. Now you tell me you’re getting married, to Judy Dexter, the boss’s daughter—and that you want
me
to be your best man!”

Paynter’s smile slipped a little. “I’m not following you,” he said, hoping he wasn’t.

Slater finished his beer, ordered two more. “Yes you are,” he said. “You just turned sour, so I know you are. Listen,
I
was married! Did you know that?”

Paynter knew. Three years ago she’d gone off with the milkman or a door-to-door insurance salesman or something. He’d heard it mentioned in the office, but never when Slater was around. Jim was too big and too volatile to take chances with. Apparently it had broken him up for a long time: the fact that while he was out nooky-snooping, some jerk had been doing it with
his
wife. Hence the creeping alcohol dependency, the cynicism, and now this bitter anti-connubial harangue. If Jim Slater didn’t straighten up, he’d soon become a marinaded misogynist. Or, if tonight was typical, he was one already.

“You know?” Slater said again, insistently, his words beginning to slur a little. “I said I had a
wife
!” He used the last word like it was poison.

“There are good ones and bad ones, Jim,” Paynter answered, wishing he could change the subject. “You had a mother and a father, too, but did they split up?” He knew he’d made a mistake as soon as he said it.

Slater eyed him across the table. “Actually, yes,” he said. “But good and bad? I suppose there are. At least I used to think so.” He looked away, peered into his beer, seemed to find it fascinating. At length he took a swig, said: “Tell me, what’s the most expensive thing you’ll ever buy in your life?”

“Eh?” (Maybe the subject had decided to change itself.) “A house, I suppose.”

“You suppose wrong,” said Slater. “But it’s a good try. Let me tell you: you buy a house to cage a bird. Before the bird, digs are good enough, or a grotty old bachelor flat. But when she comes along it has to be a house, for the kids. So…point made. Try again. The most expensive thing you’ll ever buy?”

Paynter’s sense of humour was rapidly evaporating. “A car?”

“A car?
Hah
! No imagination. But again, it’s an example of how the mind works. Why do young guys buy cars, eh? To pull the birds. And why do birds like guys with flash cars? ‘Cos they’re handy for how’s-your-father. Anyway, you’re wrong again.”

“So what
is
the most expensive thing I’ll ever buy?”

Slater scowled. “Your bloody marriage certificate, ding-dong!”

Paynter had to admit the wit of it, however misplaced, mordant. “Jim,” he said, “Judy and me are different. I mean, are you really worrying about us?” He smiled, sadly shaking his head, trying to convince Slater how wrong he was. “We’re…different,” he said again.

Slater couldn’t be swayed. “See, I’ve worked for Dexter for a long time,” he said. “His little girl Judy’s been around ever since she was oh, fifteen? You think you’re the only young, good-looking filth-ferret in the business?”

Paynter was still smiling, but it was frozen on his face now, totally humourless. “I think you’ve said enough, Jim,” he said.

“Eh?” It was the other’s turn to display his surprise. “You think I’ve said—? Well if
that’s
what you think, then I haven’t said nearly enough!”

“Enough for me, anyway,” said Paynter. He stood up, almost sent their beers flying, headed for the door. Snatching his overcoat from a peg, he knew Slater was right behind him. The bartender called good night after them, but neither one answered him. And then they stood outside on the pavement like strangers, buttoning their coats, silent in the dark and the drizzle. Slater radiated misery, Paynter anger, and each was physically aware of the other’s aura.

After a while Paynter said, “Forget it.” He looked this way and that, uncomfortably.

“Yeah, yeah,” Slater mumbled. As close as he would get to an apology. “Hey, my car’s round the corner. I’ll drop you off.”

“No, it’s…are you sure?”

“Sure. You can’t walk in this. It’s only fit for fish. Soaks through everything—even a soak like me!” Another apology.

Paynter softened. “You’ll be OK to drive?”

Slater managed a smile, however wry. “When I’ve had a few is the only time I
am
safe to drive!” They ran through layers of mist and rain to find his car. When they pulled up in front of Paynter’s place fifteen minutes later, and as the younger man was getting out of the car, Slater said: “Andrew, if I turn this best man thing down, you won’t think too badly of me?”

“I guess not. No one knows I was going to ask you, anyway, so no one can get upset.”

“It’s just that—”

“It’s OK, Jim. I know…”

• • •

The next morning Paynter “overheard” a conversation where Slater and Dexter talked in the latter’s office. In fact the entire office overheard it, for Dexter was angry and Slater surly. “Jim,” Dexter’s voice was hot, exasperated, “I just don’t know what gets into you. You called this woman…
names
!”

“She deserved every one of them,” Slater answered, his voice rumbling as always.

“What? But that wasn’t for you to decide, Jim. We’re lucky that this one will probably end up settled out of court, because if it went
through
a court we’d be the losers. Oh, not the case—our reputation. Now look, Jim, it’s taken me too many years to build this thing up to have some woman-hating gumshoe tear it down.”

“I called the girl a slut,” Slater’s voice was a little louder now, “and she is. A young slut eating up boyfriends like the world was running out of men. Which wouldn’t be quite so bad if she weren’t already married—to a rich idiot! I watched her for a fortnight and even
I
didn’t believe it! I was afraid I might catch something just following her!”

“But you’re not the judge and jury!” Dexter’s voice was louder, too. “And you’re far too experienced a detective to just let them catch you watching them. I say you
let
yourself be seen! It was a deliberate provocation. That man lost two teeth! If he wasn’t so badly compromised you’d be explaining all of this to a judge right now—and this agency would be hiding under whatever cover it could find!”

“The guy went for me!” Slater pretended astonishment, but Paynter knew from his voice that it was an act. “Was I supposed to just stand there and let him take me to pieces?”

“You nearly hospitalised him! Look, I’ve had it with you, Jim. No more arguing on this one—or the last one—or the one before that. Get this through your skull: these people aren’t Big Criminals, they’re just people who cheat on their husbands or wives.”

“Right. They fuck fraudulently.” Slater wasn’t cowed.

“Whatever they do, they’re our bread and butter. If you want to beat them up and toss them in a dungeon for their sins, then maybe you should emigrate to South Africa, get yourself fixed up with a sjambok and…and what the hell! Something like that, anyway. But you certainly don’t belong here!”

“I’m sacked?” Slater’s voice was calmer now, almost resigned.

And after a pause: “No,” said Dexter, sourly. “Not sacked, just warned. And Jim, this time it’s the last warning.”

“Is that it? Are you finished?”

“Yes.”

People scattered in the main office, began filing things away where they didn’t need filing, opening envelopes, picking their fingernails. Someone started whistling tunelessly, and Paynter went back to checking a perfectly good report. Dexter’s door opened and Slater stood there looking out, his head cocked on one side. He saw the exaggerated bustle and smiled humourlessly. Over his shoulder came Dexter’s voice, still angry: “Look in your pigeonhole, Jim. It’s for next weekend. Worth big money. It
might
keep you off the bottle and get you out of my hair for a while all in one go!” Dexter had intended the entire office to hear every word, and Slater knew it.

He slammed the door behind him…

Two hours later when Paynter left the office, Slater was waiting for him. “A quick one?”

“Drink or word?”

“Both, now that you mention it.”

They went to their local, ordered beers. Paynter had things to do; without his saying anything, the half-pint he ordered underlined the fact that he wasn’t staying.

“What, have I got leprosy or something?” Jim Slater scowled.

“It’s the weekend,” Paynter reminded him. “What’s left of it. Me, I want to enjoy it. I thought you wanted to talk? You didn’t say anything about a booze-up.”

Slater took a long Manilla envelope out of his pocket, slapped it down on the bar. “What do you make of this?”

Paynter took up the envelope, shook out a letter, a couple of photographs, several cuttings from foreign newspapers and typed translations of the same. “The job Dexter gave you? For next weekend?”

Slater was impatient. “Yes, but what do you
think
about it?”

Paynter sighed. “You expect me to read all of this?”

“Hey, let’s not pull any punches here!” Slater put on a hurt look. “I mean, wow! Here’s this total stranger asking for a whole ten minutes of your time!”