Clandestine

Happy Harry didn't look too happy. He was a fat, middle-aged man who looked like he hated kids. He was suspiciously eyeing a group of them, who were holding balsa wood airplanes over their heads and dive-bombing them at one another, exclaiming "Zoom, karreww, buzz!" Suddenly, I felt very tired, and not up to sparring with the fat man, who looked like he would give a good part of his soul to converse with an adult.

I walked up to him and said, "George 'The Gluebird' Melveny."

He said in return, "Oh, shit."

"Why 'Oh, shit'?" I asked.

"No reason. I just figured you was a cop or something, and the Bird set himself on fire again."

"Does he do that often?"

"Naw, just once or twice. He forgets and lights a cigarette when his beard is full of glue. He ain't got much of a face left because of that, but that's okay, he ain't got much of a brain left either, so what's the diff? Right, Officer?"

"I'm not a cop, I'm an insurance investigator. Mr. Melveny has just been awarded a large settlement. If you point me in his direction, I'm sure he will repay the favor by purchasing glue by the caseload here at your establishment."

Happy Harry took it all in with a straight face: "The Bird bought three models this morning. I think he crosses the drive and goes down to the beach to play with them."

Before the man could say anything more, I walked out to the lot and told my tour guide we were going beachcombing.

We found him sitting in the middle of the sand, alternately staring at the white, churning tide of Lake Michigan and the pile of plastic model parts in his lap. I handed Waldo five dollars and told him to get lost. He did, thanking me effusively.

I stared at the Gluebird for several long moments. He was tall, and gaunt beyond gaunt, his angular face webbed with layers of white scar tissue burned to a bright red at the edges. His sandy hair was long and matted sideways over his head; his reddish-blond beard was sparkling with gooey crystalline matter that he picked at absently. It was a breezeless ninety degrees and he was still wearing wool slacks and a turtlenecked fisherman's sweater.

I walked up to him and checked out the contents of his lap as he stared slack-jawed at a group of children building sand castles. His bony, glue-encrusted hands held the plastic chassis of a 1940 Ford glued to the fuselage of a B-52 bomber. Tiny Indian braves with tomahawks and bows and arrows battled each other upside down along the plane's underbelly.

The Gluebird noticed me, and must have seen some sadness in my gaze, because he said in a soft voice: "Don't be sad, sonny, the sister has a cozy drift for you and I was in the war, too. Don't be sad."

"Which war, Mr. Melveny?"

"The one after the Korean War. I was with the Manhattan Project then. They gave me the job because I used to mix Manhattans for the fathers. By the pitcherful, with little maraschino cherries. The fathers were cherry themselves, but they could have told the sisters to kick loose, but they were cherry, too. Like Jesus. They could have got fired, like me, and left the sisters to work for the sister." Melveny held his mound of plastic up for me to see. I took it, and held it for a moment, then handed it back to him. "Do you like my boat?" he asked.

"It's very beautiful," I said. "Why did you get fired, George?"

"I used to be George, and it was George with me, but now I'm a bird. Caw! Caw! Caw! I used to be George, by George, and it was George by me, but the padres didn't know! They didn't care!"

"Care about what, George?"

"I don't know! I used to know, when I was George, but I don't know anymore!"

I knelt beside the old man and placed an arm around his shoulders. "Do you remember Johnny DeVries, George?"

The old Gluebird began to tremble, and his face went red—even the white scar tissue. "Big John, Big John, squarehead krauteater. Big John, he could recite the table of elements backwards! He had a prick the size of a bratwurst! Eight foot four in his stocking feet, Big John. Big John!"

"Was he your friend?"

"Dead friend! Dead man! Guy Fawkes. Welcome back, Amelia Earhart! Redevivus Big John! Big John Redux! Didn't know a bunsen burner from a bratwurst, but I taught him, by George, I taught him!"

"Where did he get his morphine, George?"

"The nigger had the dope—Johnny just got the cat's bones. The nigger got the pie and Johnny got the crust!"

I shook the Gluebird's bony shoulders. "Who killed Johnny, George?"

"The nigger had the pie, Johnny had the crumbs! Johnny Crumbum! Johnny said the slicer paid the piper, the slicer's gonna get me, but I got my memoirs at the monastery! Buddha's gonna get the slicer! And make my book a best-seller!"

I shook the Gluebird even harder, until his glue-streaked beard was in my face. "Who's the slicer, goddamnit?"

"Ain't no god. Johnny-boy. The Buddhist's got the Book and they don't believe in Jesus. Turnabout's fair play, Jesus don't believe in Buddha! George don't believe in George, by George, and that's George!"