Even the Wicked

There was plenty of tumult, however. Short on clouds, long on tumult. But it was Irish as all getout, my heartfelt autobiographical take on the Irish-American experience, and nothing gets an Irish book or play off to a better start than a title from Yeats. It's good the old boy wrote a lot."

"And the line's from your play?"

"The line?"

"The one about the withered hand and the nation's throat."

"Oh, that Will did a turn on. In the play the withered hand was Queen Victoria's, if I remember correctly.

And the throat was that of Holy Ireland, you'll be unsurprised to learn. It was a tinker woman who delivered the line. Mother of Mercy, what did I know about tinker women? Or Ireland either, for that matter.

I've never been to the poor benighted country, and never want to go, either."

"You're pretty good," I said.

"How's that, Mattie?"

"Not recognizing the line at first. Then realizing that I must know where it's from, and deciding to come up with it first yourself. And pretending that you're unaware that I know where the line's from, but how could you be? Because how would I know the original line if I didn't know about the play?"

"Hey, you lost me around the clubhouse turn."

"Oh?"

He hefted his glass. "You sober sons of bitches," he said, "you just don't understand how this stuff slows down the thought processes. You want to go over that again? You must have known because I had to know because you knew because I said you said—you see what I mean, Mattie? It's confusing."

"I know."

"So do you want to run it by me one more time?"

"I don't think so."

"Hey, suit yourself. You're the one brought it up, so—"

"Give it up, Marty."

"How's that?"

"I know you did it. You wrote the letters and you killed Regis Kilbourne."

"That's fucking nuts."

"I don't think so."

"Why would I do any of that? You want to tell me that?"

"You wrote the letters to stay in the limelight."

"Me? You're kidding, right?"

"Will made you really important," I said. "You wrote a column and the next thing anybody knew a killer was knocking off prominent people all over New York."

"And Omaha. Don't forget Omaha."

"Then Will killed himself, and it turned out the Wizard of Oz was just the little man behind the curtain. He was Adrian Whitfield, and he wasn't larger than life anymore. There was no more story, and that meant no more front-page headlines for you. And you couldn't stand that."

"I got a column runs three times a week," he said. "You know how many people read what I write, Will or no Will?"

"Quite a few."

"Millions. You know what I get paid to write what I write? Not millions, but close."

"You never had a story like this one before."

"I've had plenty of stories over the years. This town's up to here with stories. Stories are like assholes, everybody's got one and most of

'em stink."

"This was different. You told me so yourself."

"They're all different while you're writing them. You have to think they're special at the time. Then they run their course and you move on to something else and tell yourself it's special, and twice as special as the last one."

"Will was your creation, Marty. You gave him the idea. And he addressed all his letters to you. Every time there was a new development, you were first with it. You showed what you got to the cops, and you were the first person they shared with."

"So?"

"So you couldn't bear to see the story end. Regis Kilbourne was closer than he knew when he compared the case to a Broadway play.

When the star left the stage, you couldn't stand the idea of closing the show. You put on his costume and tried to play the part yourself. You wrote letters to yourself and wound up giving yourself away, because you couldn't keep from quoting your own failed play."

He just looked at me.

"Look at the three men you put on Will's list," I said. "A union boss who threatens to shut down the city and a judge who keeps unlocking the jail-house door. Two fellows who manage to piss off a substantial portion of the population."

"So?"

"So look at the third name on the list. The theater critic for the New York Times. Now who the hell puts a critic on that kind of list?"

"I wondered that myself, you know."

"Don't insult my intelligence, Marty."

"And don't you insult mine. And don't ride roughshod over the facts or all you'll get for your troubles is saddle sores. You know when The Tumult in the Clouds opened? Fifteen years ago. You know when Regis Kilbourne started reviewing for the paper of record? I happen to know, because it was in all the obits. Just under twelve years ago. It was another guy reviewed Tumult for the Times, and he died of a heart attack five or six years ago himself, and I swear it wasn't because I jumped out of a closet and yelled 'Boo!' at him."

"I read the Times review."

"Then you know."

"I also read Regis's review. In Gotham Magazine."

"Jesus, where'd you find that? I'm not even sure I read it myself."