Page 80 of The Nameless Ones

The Great Lost Bear had been in business since 1979, when Dave Evans, along with his wife and a cousin, had arrived in the city of Portland from North Conway, New Hampshire, and decided to open a bar of his own after years of working for other people who did a lot of stuff right and, sometimes, even more stuff wrong.

During those decades in Maine, Dave had seen just about everything, or thought he had until the Fulci brothers came into his life. Since that fateful event, Dave had been forced to reconsider his attitude to existence, and now steeled himself each morning to face the possibility of some degree of social interaction with Tony and Paulie Fulci. Such a day would potentially be open to chaos and destruction, and cause Dave to go to bed that night wondering if there really was a God and, if so, what had He been thinking when He created the Fulcis.

The Fulci brothers had once tried to agree on how many jails and prisons they’d been inside, but had lost count once the total reached double figures. Dave was surprised they could even count that high, but decided this was why God had opted to go with ten fingers, just so the Fulcis could divide aspects of their world into Things That Numbered Up To Ten, which were easily reckonable, and Things That Were More Than Ten, which were not. They’d run into similar difficulties coming up with an estimate of the number of psychiatrists who’d treated them, and the number of heads they’d busted over the years. As for the quantity of different pharmaceuticals they’d been prescribed, mostly unsuccessfully, during their long and fraught relationship with the medical profession, it easily ran into three figures, although Dave thought that might be erring on the low side, even if he chose to keep this opinion to himself.

The Fulcis were by now in middle-age, and no longer busted quite so many heads as they once had. Neither had they seen the interior of a cell for a number of years, a development due in no small part to their involvement with the private detective named Charlie Parker and his colleagues, Angel and Louis. The Fulcis looked up to all three of them: Parker with a deep respect, Angel with much affection, and Louis with an awe approaching that of the centurion Longinus upon having his blindness cured by the blood of the crucified Christ.

Dave Evans was far from an ingénue, and had no illusions about the natures of Parker, Angel, and Louis. He liked all three of them, and was close to Parker in particular, but he recognized that these were violent men, and not, therefore, ideal role models for the Fulcis, who were easily led. On the other hand, it could not be denied that Parker and the others lived by a moral code and – if even a fraction of the stories, both reported and unreported, were true – had brought a great deal of wickedness to an end. If they were not strictly good, they were whatever was required to face down evil. This, Dave accepted, sometimes necessitated methods that were not entirely legal or, in the case of Parker’s occasional utilization of the Fulcis, even strictly wise.

The Fulcis were not without some admirable personal and professional qualities. They loved their mother. They were unswervingly loyal to their small circle of friends. They only busted the heads of those who were asking to have their heads busted. They were kind to animals. After this, the list of positives petered out, but as Dave’s wife Weslie liked to remind him – a lot of people in the world couldn’t boast even that many decencies. This, Dave had to admit, was certainly true, but as far as he was aware, the majority of those dubious individuals did not drink in his beloved Great Lost Bear, whereas the Fulcis practically lived in it.

Views differed on which of the brothers was the least unbalanced, an argument so esoteric, the differences involved being minute, that even St Thomas Aquinas himself might have elected to take a pass on it. Those familiar with the Fulcis felt that Tony, the older of the two, was now marginally less crazy than Paulie, and kept his brother somewhat in check. Since they looked almost identical (each being roughly as wide as he was tall), dressed in the same clothes, spoke in similar tones, and held interchangeable views on the world, the point was probably moot – especially if one of them was hitting you, since they also punched with indistinguishable force, like being hit by a cement block carved into the shape of a fist.

Currently Paulie Fulci was curled up on a bench beneath the bear head that was the bar’s mascot, working on a crossword puzzle. Dave, who was checking accounts at the bar, had almost fallen from his stool in shock upon being told this, only to discover that it was a crossword puzzle in a comic book with a pony on the front cover. Still, it represented progress, of a sort.

The bar was quiet, even for early on a damp Sunday afternoon. Dave enjoyed this time. He found it conducive to the kind of concentration the accounts required, which was why, once a month, he liked to come to the Bear to do them. But once evening arrived, Dave would be gone. The Bear didn’t need him around at night, and the line chefs would only stress him out.

In a corner booth, Charlie Parker was speaking softly with a young woman, most likely a client, who was obviously in difficulty if Parker was meeting with her on a Sunday. Parker often received clients, prospective or otherwise, at the Bear. He didn’t have an office of his own and his home was out of bounds. Dave knew that Parker occasionally used the premises of his lawyer, Moxie Castin, if circumstances required it, but preferred more informal settings. Moxie ate at the Bear a couple of times a month, usually with Parker. He seemed to be the unhealthiest man Dave had ever met, because his diet would have frightened Ronald McDonald, but he continued somehow to walk the earth. Dave had even started to use his services because Moxie’s legal connections were second to none, and being a bar owner in this town meant dealing with the cops and the courts on a regular basis, whether one liked it or not.

The young woman with Parker had begun to cry. Parker caught Dave’s eye, and Dave told one of the staff to take her a glass of water and see if she wanted a coffee or a soda, too. Parker’s face was alive with feeling for the woman opposite him: not pity, or not solely that, but more a profound empathy. It was why Parker did what he did, why he was good at it, why Dave would never wish for Parker’s absence from his life, and why Dave would never judge him harshly for any of his actions. As long as the Bear existed and was under Dave’s control, Parker would always be welcome; Angel and Louis, too. And okay, fine, even the Fulcis, although Dave expected time off in purgatory for what he’d endured on earth as a consequence of their presence.

Speaking of which, Dave wondered what Tony was up to. Tony and his brother were usually inseparable, but Tony had headed out two hours earlier and not been seen since. This was potentially bad news for civilization, depending on what he was doing. Dave glanced over again at Parker and the young woman. Cupcake Cathy had arrived with a glass of water, as well as two empty mugs and the coffeepot. Dave trusted that the young woman would be okay. She was with Parker now. He would do his best for her.

Dave returned to his accounts, but Tony Fulci’s absence continued to nag at him. He hoped Tony wasn’t in any trouble, because if Tony was in trouble, it would certainly be as a result of causing trouble for someone else. Dave wasn’t sure how he had ended up feeling some responsibility for the Fulcis’ actions, but that had come to be the case. In his weaker moments, he even worried about them. He hoped he wasn’t becoming fond of them.

Dear God, he thought, not that.

Chapter LXVII

Tony Fulci was not stupid.

Of course, there were persons in Portland and farther afield who liked to joke that Tony was dumb as a rock, while his brother was dumb as two rocks, or half a rock, depending on where one stood on the whole dumbness/rock comparison index. They did not offer these opinions to Tony’s face, or not a second time, but Tony was aware that they circulated, and had taken note of the identities of those responsible. It wasn’t so much the aspersions being cast on his intelligence that bothered him as the mockery of his brother. Tony was very protective of Paulie and had promised their mother that he would always look out for him. The world was more confusing to Paulie than it was to Tony. It was frequently too loud, too fast. The unkindness of strangers toward those more vulnerable than themselves, whether human or animal, conspired to rouse Paulie to an excess of righteous indignation that tipped easily into outright violence; yet in all his life, Paulie, like Tony, had never hit anyone smaller than himself, not unless they really, really deserved it. Paulie lived by the principle that a man should punch up, not down. He might have struggled to express the range and complexity of his better feelings, and consequently the unobservant and judgmental concluded that he had no such feelings available to express, but Tony knew better.

When the opportunity presented itself, Tony would have a quiet word with individuals known to have belittled his brother. These conversations typically took place in alleyways or restrooms, and had a tendency to be very one-sided. They also generally resulted in a permanent alteration in behavior, because once Tony Fulci told you something, you stayed told.

To repeat, then: Tony Fulci was not stupid. But he was slow. He did not absorb information quickly, but absorb it he did, in the end. He had learned to listen carefully because he missed crucial details otherwise. Later, in solitude, he would contemplate all that he had heard and try to come to some conclusions about it. He would sit up late into the night when his mother and brother were asleep, his elbows on the kitchen table, his chin in his hands, and stare at the wall, lost in what appeared to be a trance. But the kitchen wall was made of bricks, and on each brick Tony had learned to visualize a word or concept. In his mind, he could then move the bricks around, although it was often sufficient just to leave them in place, having broken a subject down into manageable pieces. For particularly intractable problems, he would resort to writing on the bricks with a piece of chalk, making sure to wipe them clean before he went to bed. Mrs Fulci did not approve of people writing on her walls, not even in chalk.

Tony worried about appearing ignorant and was therefore reluctant to reveal his thought processes, or his doubts, to more than a handful of people. If he did not understand something, he tried to find somebody to explain it to him, someone who would not laugh at his lack of cognizance. This was why Tony and his brother liked the Great Lost Bear: Dave Evans, when he was not busy, or not looking perturbed by the Fulcis’ continued presence in his bar, was always willing to listen and offer advice. So, too, was his wife, who reminded the Fulcis a little of their mother, but without the accompanying terror.

For very serious matters, Tony would cautiously approach Mr Parker. Tony felt uncomfortable calling him by his first name – it just didn’t sit right – and referring to him by his last name alone seemed rude. Tony respected Mr Parker more than any man he had ever met, even Louis, and he secretly and not-so-secretly worshipped Louis. Tony had never before encountered one so willing to risk his own life to end another’s pain as Mr Parker. As far as Tony was concerned, the private investigator had a moral authority that even God lacked. If you asked God for help, there was no guarantee it would arrive, or that God had even listened. But with Mr Parker, if you were a good person in distress, and you asked for his help, you got it.

That was why Tony and Paulie stood by him any chance they got. The brothers had messed up a lot in their lives, and Mr Parker represented an opportunity to put some of that right by redressing any existing imbalance in favor of the good. Tony thought Angel and Louis had allied themselves with Mr Parker for a similar reason: because they had messed up, too – Louis especially, although Tony wasn’t about to judge him for it, even if Louis frightened him at times – and siding with the detective was a way to make up for it. Tony also secretly suspected that it gave Louis an excuse to shoot people and not feel too bad about it.

All of which was a roundabout way of explaining that Tony Fulci was neither as intellectually or as emotionally limited as some believed him to be. And like a lot of men and women who think slowly, he had a habit of coming to the right decision at the end of his deliberations. He had now spent ninety minutes sitting in the cab of the monster truck he shared with his brother, eating a box of Crown Fried Chicken and watching the two men parked over by Coastal Trading & Pawn. Earlier, by coincidence, he and Paulie had been five vehicles behind Parker as he drove along Forest Avenue to the Bear, where his car currently sat in the parking lot. Four cars behind Parker, and therefore immediately in front of the Fulcis, had been a blue Chevy Avalanche with New York plates and what looked like two male occupants. When Tony had stepped out of the Bear to call his mother – he didn’t like forcing others to listen to his cell phone conversations, especially not with his mom – the Chevy had been parked outside Skillful Home Recreation, still with two guys sitting in the front. It had since relocated twice while always keeping the parking lot of the Bear in view.

It hadn’t taken Tony long to figure out that the two men were watching and waiting for someone in the Bear and the available evidence, given the vehicles that had already entered and exited during the time that Tony had spent observing it, suggested it could well be Mr Parker. On the other hand, Tony knew, he might just be jumping at shadows where none existed. He could call Mr Parker and tell him what he was seeing, but then what? The investigator might confront the two men – because a certain rashness was part of his nature – but he was currently alone, Angel and Louis being elsewhere, and if the men in the car meant him some ill will, he would be walking straight into their sights. If the cops were called, they could only question them before moving them along, unless something offered probable cause for further action. Again, if the watchers meant Mr Parker harm, they’d either vanish only to materialize again later, or pass the job on to someone else.

Tony really wished Angel and Louis were around.

Just then the Chevy pulled away from the curb and headed east along Forest Avenue toward the entrance to I-295. Rain had been falling steadily since morning, and the streets were nearly empty of people. Tony waited, and a minute or two later the Chevy reappeared in his rearview mirror, passed him, and pulled up at the intersection with Ashmont Street. The driver kept the engine running as the passenger got out. He was shorter and less well built than Tony – there were parking garages less structurally impressive than Tony Fulci – and was, in theory, not the kind of individual Tony should have been inclined to hit. But Tony, who was essentially a good person, had an unerring sense of badness in others. God did not always mark the worst of men, but He did brand some of them, and He had certainly taken the time to differentiate this one from the rest of the herd, if only – because say what you wanted about the Divine, He had a sense of humor – by giving him virtually no distinguishing features at all. From the top of his smooth head to the soles of his no-brand shoes, here was an unfinished man, a moral absence given human form.

Tony knew this because he had encountered similarly incomplete versions of such an entity before, often in prison and even, on occasion, in positions of authority. The best of them were willfully cruel, either to distract themselves from the prospect of their own inevitable damnation or to indulge their basest impulses, seeing no merit in depriving themselves of entertainment if their perdition was already assured. But in others nature and nurture had conspired in a grave error, giving the resulting creations no other option but to behave as they did, just as a bullet fired from a gun can only go in one direction until stopped by an impact or rendered harmless by the laws of energy and decay. They did not recognize concepts such as viciousness and sadism, just as any attempt to explain their opposites would be met with stares of absolute incomprehension. They were as content to inflict hurt as not to inflict it, and if they dreamed, they did not recall their visions. In repose, they gazed out on a featureless vista and heard only white noise. They were humanity’s detritus and the devil’s foot soldiers.

And now one of them was entering the parking lot of the Bear, carrying a brown paper bag in his right hand and supporting its base with his left. All this time, he and his companion had been waiting for the perfect moment: rain, temporarily empty streets, an almost deserted lot. Tony alighted from the cab of his truck and moved toward the Bear, ignoring the Chevy and its driver for the present because he could deal only with one man at a time. He arrived at the lot to see the human doll kneeling by Parker’s car, one hand under the front-left wheel well. The doll looked up to see Tony Fulci standing above him and reacted swiftly, his left hand leaving the wheel well while his right moved simultaneously toward the inside of his coat. Tony let the tire iron slip from his sleeve to the palm of his right hand before swinging it in a single sharp motion toward the doll’s head. It caught him just behind the right ear, and Tony heard the bone crack. The doll’s eyes rolled upward as he toppled, and blood began to flow from his ear canal.

Now Tony heard footsteps behind him and turned to face the new threat. The driver had emerged from his vehicle. In his right hand he held a short-barreled revolver. Tony threw the tire iron, missing the driver’s head by inches.

‘You fucking asshole,’ said the driver in an accent Tony did not recognize, but Tony was by then already charging at him like a rhino in polyester. If Tony was going to die, he intended to make his killer work for the pleasure, except that the ground was slick with rain, and Tony might have had bulk but he did not have speed, not until he’d built up momentum. He needed more distance than he had, but he realized this just too late.

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