New York, Part 2: Friday the 13th—Forceman Takes Manhattan

(I apologize for the long post. I couldn't find a good place to break it.)




Long, long narrow halls, and everywhere, pocked red carpet. Even in the elevator. Lighting was not so much dim, as erratic—overly bright wall fixtures split up the gloom. And when we opened the door of our room, there was that fucking carpet again.


The space was small, needless to say, but it was also oddly laid out. It was a scrawny rectangle—extremely-narrow by not-esp.-long. There was a bed w/ a squeaky metal frame. There was a battered desk. There was an armchair and end table. There was a small closet. And there was a TV.


“Look,” said BFA, holding up the remote. On the back, the battery compartment was missing its lid. In its place, a cardboard square had been scotch-taped.


“Rad,” I said. “Hey! Do you think we get cable? Like, maybe porn?”


“I’m not watching porn.”


“Oh, no! I didn’t mean that. I figured you could go out for a while or something.”


“We have to meet my uncle,” said BFA. “We’re late.”



Broadway does look different than Chicago. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s the spiffy old buildings w/ their clean brick walls, lined by clean, unscarred lanes. NYC potholes must be an endangered species. I was sorry I’d left my safari gear at home. I might’ve been able to find one w/ my XL binoculars. (Though I must confess, they’ve never helped me find the clitoris, nor that spot on a guy’s prostate that you can reach down n’ tickle. Drive ‘em nuts.) But then, you need traffic to get potholes, and it seems that in NY, there isn’t any. Other than taxis, and even these are judiciously dispersed. There’s just enough of ‘em that they’re right there when you need ‘em, but not so many that they get on yr. nerves. There’s a vehicular snarl all over Chicago that can be oppressive, so I was downright surprised by how un-claustrophobic NYC seemed.


There’s a place there that looks like a Long John Silver’s and only had bottled beer, and that’s where we ended up. At first, all of the people there seemed to be dining in groups made up of 2 older people and 2 younger. The latter would smooch and giggle, so that you didn’t have to be Steve Forceman, P.I. to know that this was Ma & Pa & Billy & Mrs. Billy, out on the town, which meant that this was the sorta place you take Ma & Pa when you wanted them to meet the new Gal or Guy, or when you wanted to announce your engagement on a budget.


If anyone at our table had been smooching and laughing—or maybe just appeared young and glistening—we might’ve fit right in. Instead, I felt too sober, and BFA looked tired—even though, she’d spent 90% of the trip here drooling on my shoulder. Minus some pleasantries, I was left w/ my thoughts, as she & her relatives discussed the fates of their various kin.


I have this bad habit of zoning out on things that I have no interest in. I started watching the Billy’s & Susie’s & Mom’s n’ Daddy’s around me more closely. They were more interesting, because I didn’t know them, or have to know them. In my head, I was making up narratives about what their lives might be like in another, more lively universe.... f'rinstance, I pictured this 1 esp. squeaky cleen babe in a ruffly white dress whipping out her tits out at me and waving them about. They had these pointy green nipples. Look she'd say... I got green nipples... She wouldn't be saying this by way of seduction or whatever, but just conversationally, y'know? Exchanging pleasantries w/ a friendly stranger n’ all… sharin’ some of the Big Apple pie of hospitality.


As to BFA’s aunt & uncle… I don’t know where to begin.


They were vanDeuxs: Kasper and Ilse, (he introduced himself as “Signor,”) and they were somewhere between the tail-end of their 50s and the low-point of the 60s. Now. Get this: Uncle Kasper was wearing a fez. When they showed up. Really. A little gold tassel flopped around on it and everything. Thrown over his extremely wide torso was a white jacket with black bow tie. Seems he had just come from some affair put on by a quasi-Masonic group. Or maybe they were full-on Masonic. Who the hell knew the difference? Or cared? To the extent that I know anything about ‘em, which is not much, of course, I’ve always found the Masons to be pretty disappointing. As Secret Societies go, they seem kinda PG-rated, sorta like Herbie the Love Bug movies—the old ones, w/o Lyndsay Lohan—as opposed to the teen slasher flick that is the Rosicrucians, the soft-core porn of Scientology, or the splurtin’ hardcore porn of the Bavarian Illuminati. (Let’s just not even talk about the snuff film that is Amway. You gotta draw the line somewhere.)


It seems to me that about all the Masons out-intrigue or -frighten are the Shriners, who are sorta like the Sat. morning cartoons of Secret Societies. ‘Course but then, what do I know? (And that’s the point of a secret society, right?)


Anyway, his “fraternal brotherhood” went by the moniker of “The Circle of the Comely Hind” and he hadn’t had time to change his clothes after visiting it.


Well, fine, this was weird, but something about it seemed too weird. So I laid courtesy aside and said that while I understood that he’d not been able to change his clothes, I kinda wondered why he’d retained the fez as well, seeing as we were indoors and whatnot.


As he leaned forward, he was smiling and staring at me, but he looked like his mind was off somewhere else. I was hoping this location wasn’t a bed besplotted w/ puddles of KY w/ body hair stuck in ‘em—somewhere where his pink lil’ willy wasn’t wanglin’ somewhere in my general area.


But then he said something. “Something.” And then he said something else. “I like your candor. A man w/ such candor could go quite far.”


“Eh-heh.” I glanced at BFA. She was looking out the window, smiling obliviously.


“I suppose one might say you’ve already come quite far.”


"What the fuck do you know about my come shot?"


He looked at me as 'tho I was a wooden board.


"Mr. Forceman, that remark referred to yr. trip here from the... City Of Big Shoulders."


"Heh?" I always forget that expression and have absolutely no idea of what it means.


"The City," he said. "Of Big Shoulders."


"Hey. You're cultured. What does that Big Shoulders crap mean anyway?"


"Hmm," he said ruminatively. "I've often wondered that myself. The appellation does appear in Carl Sandburg's much beloved poem 'Chicago' (1916)."


"Signor VanDeux, I’ve retained almost nothing from high school English. Now you’ve raised some unpleasant memories of a poet whom I now remember is very bad. Could we please move less far into the past to the point where you answer my question about yr. head gear?"


More chortling. With lil' girly grace, a fat finger & thumb lifted an espresso cup. He looked off across the restaurant, watching something for some while. Was he pissed or watchin' for something?


At this point, I was only irritated. I have had plenty of clients, who were this difficult--or more so--but they were cut from different cloth than this guy. I couldn't even understand him. I looked to BFA, feeling it was way past time that she intercede, but she'd escaped into a conversation w/ Aunt Ilse.


VanDeux said, "What do you know about my Circle? Of the Hind?"


I decided to be honest. "Um, well, nothin'. Cool name 'tho."


Lean. Sip. And now he stared at me, smiling.


"Ours is an elder Order, w/ a storied past


"Right."


"Some say our practices predate the Roman Church."


"Right. Signor..."


"That is my title. Please..." his eyes a-twinkle... "Call me Kasper."


"Um... OK." Just like the Friendly Ghost, which seemed, somehow, appropriate. Later, I found that my intuition was warranted, even if 'Kasper' was spelled differently.


I signaled for another beer, fighting the urge to be annoyed by the bottled piss. At least I wasn't buying.


"Someone is trying to kill me."


He'd said it flat--no whispering or mumbling--but I still said, "What?"


"I fear it is someone from the Order. Or one who has left, or been dispelled."


"Signor..."


"Kasper," he said, tapping my wrist w/ his meaty fingertips.


I sat back. "Kasper. Ever seen Columbo?"


He shook his head.


"Oh. I did here & there. I don't remember it so well, except for that the way you solve a crime is to figure out three things. One of 'em I can't remember. Oh wait: it's 'means.' Like, how will they kill you? I mean, would they kill you. I'm not gonna let 'em. OK, but, then... the next thing is something called 'location.' Well, see, unfortunately, unless you have any insights, I don't think we're gonna know where that might be, until the offended party puts a hole through yr. head that causes yr. cerebral cortex to plop onto the wall and go slidin' down like a big bloppa spit on a wall, or however he/she... (What's that? Yr. Society doesn't let women in? Kinda sexist, don't you think? Ahh... well... whatever... Life is fulla injustice...) ...decides to eliminate the prob. that is you..."


Somewhere in the midst of alla this, he'd finished his espresso, ordered another, finished that, ordered a Harvey Wallbanger, (whatever that is,) consumed that, requested a Shirley Temple, sipped that up, thought twice about that, & was now sipping absinthe mixed w/ laudanum or something--Ida know... I was too busy talkin' too much. Now he was lookin' at me w/ gapin' mouth. It was not so much the expression of a catatonic as it was of a sentient transistor radio that is occupied w/ signals from god knows where and from god knows who or what.


"Oh. Shit. Sorry. That prob. isn't helpin' yr. general sense of corporeal security..."


He shook his head.


"I meant whatever sorta means the would-be killer chooses to try n' kill you before I intercede, well before the whole thing seems to be a prob. OK?"


He nodded.


"OK. Now. See. The other thing you gotta know is called 'motive,' & that's the 1 we might very well be able to dope out, at least up to a point. OK?"


My beer came, and I drank a lotta it right away. My throat hurt. I’d been talking a lot.


"Now," I said, "Why would one of yr. lodge bros. or whatever wanna kill you?"


He looked calmer now, w/ his mouth closed. It was a little girl's mouth. Despite yr. better judgment, you felt the need to protect it.


He said, "For many a year, within the Circle, I have held the title of Man Friday?"


"Wait. Are you some kinda super-being? I mean, y'know, like Man-Bat from Batman? I always thought that they were fuckin' lazy--comin' up w/ a Batman villain by just flippin' the words around like that. Comic book writers had no standards in the 70s, 'tho the artists mostly drew better than the ones in the 80s. So, like, what's yr. super power anyway? Can you make the weekend show up faster? And then all the grateful 9-to-5-ers could say: Thanks god it's Friday! Shit that's great! You can use it, if you wanna..."


Naught a smile did part his jowls.


"The title 'Man Friday' has nothing to do w/ the costumed comic book heroes produced by the juvenile for the juvenile."


"Yeah, but, like, what other kinda costumed heroes are there?"


He was kneading the bridge of his noise, as 'tho the fat clumped their were well-risen wheat dough.


"The title refers to my sacred duties... I am the Circle's scribe... its record keeper..."


"Say, in a group like that, don't you usually refer to the person who does that job as "secretary? Mmmff... Snicker... So you're a secretary!"


His eyes were shiny bowling balls. "I am not... a secretary."


Then the really funny part hit me...


"Wait! 'Man Friday'... Girl Friday!"


I choked down a stale roll to keep from laughing, but it was getting difficult to swallow. It was pretty clear that this job was shot.


Kasper looked defeated.


"Mr. Forceman, please."


I looked at him like he was an optical illusion. I hate it when people are earnest.


He said, "I need your help. There is no one else."


I sighed. "What makes you think that someone is trying to kill you?"


"I can't tell you... but I know."


My head hurt. I couldn't decide if it was from travel or irksome contact w/ other human beings.


"Look... Kasper. Gimme somethin' to go on here. Otherwise, how am I 'sposed to do my job?"


He deliberated over this for a long time. "There have been threats..." he said "...death threats."


"And what form have these threats taken? Phone calls?"


He nodded.


"E-mail?"


Nodded again.


"You got print outs, recordings, saved files...?"


This time, he shook his head.


"...anything? OK, well, do you remember anything these messages said?"


"Veiled insinuations," he said, "but very evocative."


"Well, like what?"


"References to the various punishments visited by medieval groups... made up of scholars, knights, and others on those who had transgressed."


"Punishments."


He stared. "Horrible. Torture. Slow, excruciating death."


"And these messages have promised you similar punishment?" He nodded, and I said, "Kasper, I'm not one to knock my own skills. I need the work. Still..." and it pained me to say it, but I did... "You should go to the cops."


He was suddenly sharp, looking at me clearly, despite his fear.


"And what would I tell them, Mr. Forceman?"


He was right. He hadn't saved anything. Dumbass.


"Well, you could wait till you get another message. I could keep an eye on you till something shows. Then we could go to the cops."


"The messages have stopped."


"When?" I said.


"Two days ago--Wednesday."


I considered suggesting that there might not be anymore. Maybe it had all been a mean-spirited gag. But I felt that might not be true, and I could see that he felt the same way.


I looked over to BFA. Still giggling at the aunt--it was starting to seem calculated.


Kasper was watching me watching them. He said, "You like her, don't you?"


I wasn't sure what he meant.


"Your wife? She's pretty hot, for a mature woman."


He did not blink for a full 37 seconds. I counted.


He said, "I do have one piece of concrete evidence for you," and my jaw might've dropped.


This futility of this whole affair had really been getting to me. I felt more alive than I had for a week.


"Lemme see!"


He produced a small, round object and dropped it into my hand.


It was a dark red glop of some sorta putty. It was about the size of an old half dollar coin, and it felt quite tacky in my hand. There were so many purposes for which it might exist that I did not want to know about.


"What is it?"


Kasper said, "It is the insignia of a Magnificent Headsman. In times past, a headsman was an executioner. Within our group, this role is symbolic and rarely practically relevant. It is, however a high honor. Only the Lofty Hierophant can give Headsman status to a member."


"Could you repeat that last part? What can the Lofty Hierophant do?"


"Give Headsman status to a Circle member."


"Ahh..."


"The Headsman's role is to punish or cut off members from the Circle, who have transgressed against the Circle's rules."


"What are some of the rules?" I asked.


Without hesitation, he said, "I cannot reveal them."


"Hey, c'mon now..."


"I can’t,” he said. “It is my Oath."


"An Oath that'll get you killed."


"Nevertheless."


I said, "OK then... screw general principles... Can you at least tell me something about how you’ve transgressed?"


"I haven't," he said, "nor have I been accused of doing so."


"So the Headsman’s gonna withdraw yr. membership or whatever."


"But there is the most traditional responsibility of a Headsman."


"As an executioner," I said. My brain was working in the background somewhere--trying to see something. It was a process I didn't understand. "So the Circle's Headsman is nuts. That sucks, but we can deal w/ it."


"We can't."


"Why not?"


He sighed and looked sleepy.


"The Circle has not had a Headsman for over 3 years."


Ilse was poking Kasper in the shoulder.


He said, "Mr. Forceman," he waited--maybe expecting me to tell him to call me Steve? I didn't-- "Have you ever heard of the Knights Templar?"


"Nope. Why?"


It saddened me a little--the way he deflated into his chair. The tassel hung limply on his fez, like a flaccid lil’ golden dick.


"No matter," he said.


"Kasper, whatever you do tell me will help me solve yr. prob. Inversely, whatever you don't, won't."


"Later," he said. "Now, I am tired."


We said good night. Predictably, when she rose, the old lady was as tall as a cherry-picker. For the first time, she spoke directly to me.


"Have a wonderful visit," she said, and I thanked her.


"One last question..." I said to Kasper, and he nodded.


"Do you take stenography?"



When we left the restaurant, The City That Never Sleeps was deader ‘n Mick Jagger’s artistic integrity.


I’d been trying to ask BFA more about her uncle and just what the fuck might be goin’ on. She was being uncharacteristically taciturn—defensive, maybe protective. I chalked that up to fatigue, but couldn’t help wondering why these assholes had dragged me here, only to make it impossible for me to do my job.


Since BFA wouldn’t tell me more about her uncle, I tried a different tack. “Hey, what’s w/ those Knights anyway?”


“Knights Templar.”


“Templar Knights, Boogie Knights, whassa difference? What do they have to do w/ anything?”


She rolled her eyes. “Didn’t you see the DaVinci Code?”


I mentioned that the idea of seeing the DaVinci Code had all the allure of gargling the remains of a gerbil that had been used by Richard Gere for unmentionable kicks, before being repeatedly blended in a food processor (on the pulse setting, of course). I described how the only cool movie I could imagine that would star Tom Hanks would involve slashing him w/ several machetes and then running over him w/ a flatulent bison. (A little over-busy & not esp. imaginative I’ll grant you, but it had been a long trip.) Then I mentioned that he bored the crap outta me. The 2 sentiments conflicted w/ each other, but living is always like that. Isn’t it?


I explored this contradiction, whilst I ignored a monologue BFA was presenting. It dealt w/ some stultifying shit about the Crusades and massacres and things, and I was basically falling asleep on my feet till she said, “Y’know… the Knights Templar have connections to some Masonic and quasi-Masonic organizations, just like Uncle Kasper does. It’s weird.”


“Yep. Weird.”


Then she stopped walking and grabbed my arm.


“Steve.” She looked deeply into my eyes.


“What?”


“I didn’t see the DaVinci Code either.”


“Right. Whatever.”


“No, really, I just heard the review on NPR. I mean, c’mon… Tom Hanks? You really have a low opinion of me, don’t you? ”


She started walking, and I followed her. I felt bad, but wasn’t sure what to say. She was right. It was a lousy judgment to make. Sometimes I’m too quick to think poorly of people. Then she stopped and grabbed my arm again.


“Steve.”


“What?”


“I just thought of something else that’s weird.”


My head still hurt. “So tell me about it in the morning, when I can better appreciate how weird it is.” My arm also hurt. “Let go.”


“Back sometime in the 14th century, King Philip II signed the order for the assassination of the Knights on Friday the 13th. Some people think that’s how people came to think of it as an unlucky day.”


“Yep. Weird. I’m goin’ to the hotel.”


With only a rudimentary amount of contempt, she said, “Shithead.” And we were on our way. I hate Creative Anthropology.



We’d left the hotel in such a hurry that we hadn’t even had time to inspect the

bathroom—and, incredibly, we’d forgotten about the trundle bed.


The former—well, that was something to behold. Thing is, it was impossible to do so, really, because when you went inside, it was too narrow for you to move your head around—or open or close yr. eyes for that matter. The only thing I can say for certain is that the floor was made up of these cracked little squares of yellow tile. Whether their color was by design or by piss is something everyone must decide alone—just as he/she must do when confronted w/ the existence of god.


On to the trundle bed. I’m afraid I must confess that up till that day, I’d had no idea that what these things were—or that they even existed. You are prob. more erudite than I. You prob. need no descriptions, but on the off chance—something that one must always bear in mind—that you are a coarse wretch like me—let me elucidate: a trundle bed is a narrow metal frame, ‘pon which not a single mattress, but a mattress so small as to defy traditional classifications—like “single,” et. al.—may be placed.


As Jerry had mentioned, the trundle bed was concealed under the main bed—itself a hide-a-bed of some sort. Beds w/in beds—it all sorta created the impression of one of those Russian dolls that conceals a smaller doll inside, itself containing a smaller doll inside itself on into infinity—or rather, to the limits of the dollmaker’s patience, tools and materials.


Anyway, the setup was really confusin’. I couldn’t decide whether I’d be watching TV on a sofa, bed, trundle bed, or what—or maybe just on the floor, which was looking more & more attractive by the moment. But I rolled the trundle bed out—a cheap, anorexic frame w/ a thin pad and blanket on it.


I stayed outta the way as BFA emptied her luggage. I marveled at the fact that altho’ we were only here for a weekend, she somehow needed to unpack for more than 60 seconds. I stood aside, flipping channels. By luck of some sort—good? indifferent? bad? —one of the 4 channels the TV got was the Sci-Fi Network. I found an episode of Ghost Hunters & settled into ogling Investigator Kris Williams. She needs serious dental work (huh huh) & is not remotely hot, but lately, somehow, she’s begun to seem more interesting.


“Say,” I said to BFA, who was moving around the room, brushing her teeth. Somehow, she’d donned pajamas w/o my even noticing it. “What’s up w/ Investigator Kris Williams’s boobs? Lately, they’re, like, more prominent.”


She glanced at the TV.


“New bra. You get the trundle bed.”


“Screw that. Look at that thing.”


She did, and maybe it was my imagination, but I thought I heard a spring give—just like it would’ve in the movies.


BFA did that feminist thing:


“No. I want the bed. And I’m a woman. Remember? Chivalry and alla that?”


There was some cliché here, but I couldn’t quite come up with it, so I just went with: “What’s chivalry?”


And she said, “What’s feminism?” Then before I even saw it coming, she leapt onto the regular bed. “Ha! He who hesitates, etc. Dumbass.”


I didn’t say anything, just reflected to myself that if there’s one thing worse than traveling with a woman, it’s when you have to travel with a man. Usually. Frequently, it’s the other way around. If you really want to play it safe, your best traveling companion is one who doesn’t exist.



I slept poorly. Somewhere during the night, the cliché about chivalry came to me: “Chivalry is dead.” Stupid fuck. How could I’ve forgotten that? Then something else about chivalry occurred to me—knights were the ones who brought that whole concept to life. Weren’t they?