Even the Wicked

"which in this town would have to include half the waiters and a third of the bartenders. But they'd like to kill him the way you'd welcome a shot at Judge Send-'em-home Rome. You might relish the fantasy, and it might not break your heart if a piece of the cornice broke off a tall building and took him out when it landed. But you wouldn't actually want to kill him."

"No, and I probably wouldn't jump for joy if somebody else did, either. It's not good for the system when people start taking out judges."

"Or critics," I said, "or labor leaders, either. You know the difference between the two Wills? The first one objected to the invulnerability of his targets, the way they'd managed to subvert the system. But these three don't have that kind of invulnerability. Marvin Rome's not going to be riding the bench forever. The voters'll probably boot him next time he comes up for reelection."

"Let's hope so."

"And Peter Tully can shut down the city, but the governor can return the favor. Under the Taylor Law, he can lock up anybody who orders a work stoppage by public employees. Kilbourne's probably got a job for life at the Times, but he's likely to rotate off the theater desk sooner or later, like the man before him. These three are by no means invulnerable, and that's not what's got the new Will's motor running.

What he resents is the power of the men on his list."

"Power, huh?"

"Tully can throw a switch and plunge the city into immobility.

Rome can unlock the cell doors and put criminals back on the street."

"And Regis Kilbourne can tell an actress her nose is too big and her tits are too small and send her running in tears to the nearest plastic surgeon. If you call that power."

"He can pretty much decide which shows stay open and which ones close."

"He's got that much clout?"

"Just about. It's not him personally, it's the position he holds.

Whoever reviews plays for the Times has influence that comes with the territory. A bad notice from him won't guarantee a show's dead, and a rave won't necessarily keep one open if everybody else hates it. But that's usually what happens."

"Which means he's the man."

"Yes."

"What man?' The man with the power.' Remember that?"

"Vaguely."

" 'What power?' 'The power of voodoo.' "

"It comes back to me now."

" 'Who do?' 'You do.' They don't write 'em like that anymore, Matt."

"No, and I can see why. He must feel powerless himself, don't you figure?"

"Who, the man with the power?"

"The man who wrote this."

"Let's see." He held the letter, scanned it. "Powerless, huh?"

"Don't you think so?"

"I don't know," he said. "I suppose that's what the Feebies would say if they did a profile of him. He resents the power others have over him and seeks to redress the balance by threatening their lives. Plus he wet the bed when he was a kid."

"Funny how they always tell you that."

"Like it's going to help you find the son of a bitch. 'Hey, the FBI says our guy used to wet the bed, so I want you guys out on the street looking for a grown-up little pisspot.' Useful bit of knowledge when you're mounting a manhunt, but they always toss it in."

"I know."

"Along with the information that he came from a dysfunctional family. Jesus, that's helpful, isn't it? A dysfunctional family, holy shit, whoever heard of such a thing?"

"If you came from a dysfunctional family," I said solemnly, "you'd wet the bed, too."

"And probably kill a few people while I was at it. It's all part of the package." He frowned at the letter.

"Powerless and resenting the power of others. Yeah, I suppose so.

It's a hard theory to argue with. But you know what he reminds me of, Will Number Two?"

"What?"

"A list of pet peeves like you'd write up for the high school yearbook. 'What really pisses me off is insincere people, snap quizzes in algebra class, and lumpy mashed potatoes.' "

"Well, who likes lumpy mashed potatoes?"

"Not me. They make me want to kill the pope. But isn't that how it reads? 'Here's a list of the people who really piss me off.' "

"You're right."

"I am, aren't I?" He pushed his stool back. "The son of a bitch doesn't sound like a homicidal maniac. He just sounds like a nut with a hair up his ass."

18

The next couple of days were a three-ring circus for the media.

Marty McGraw broke the story of the new letter from Will, with

"WILL'S BAAAAACK!" on his newspaper's front page. Reporters hurried around town interviewing his three prospective victims, each of whom seemed to take the distinction more as an insult than a threat.

Peter Tully chose to see Will not as a personal foe but as an enemy of organized labor as a whole. He issued a statement linking the anonymous letter writer with the repressive anti-union forces as exemplified by the mayor and the governor. There was a wonderful cadence of old-fashioned lefty rhetoric to his words. You could almost hear the Almanac Singers in the background, harmonizing on "Union Maid" and

"Miner's Lifeguard," songs to fan the flames of discontent.