1 THE CONFESSIONAL, novella
by Patrick Breheny pjbreheny@hotmail.com
The meet-up was explained with a vague intention to ‘discuss spiritual and philosophical values.’ From reading a review of local entertainment spots in the ‘Life’ section of the Bangkok Post Conor knew ‘Brannigan’s Emporium for Reconciling Spirits’ was located off Sukhumvit Road where the western tourists and expatriates hung around, and that the Confessional, on the second level, had a scroll along the top reading Bless me father for I have spinned. According to the article, one rumor had it that it had been shipped whole by sea from Ireland. Others claimed it had been taken apart, flown, and reassembled. The writer said it looked authentic, tan wood faded and worn by time, a priest’s seat in the center, small slots for penitents on either side of that---though there were still the schismatics who claimed it had been built in Bangkok. This origin was such an unresolved topic of bar debates that James Brannigan wouldn’t spoil the speculation by revealing the answer, if indeed he knew. His only response to a direct journalistic question was a smile borrowed from the Mona Lisa.
The first night Conor visited, he climbed the steep stairs to Level 2. Climbed. The stairs each required raising a leg high, and he leaned into the banister. At the top, he needed to gasp, then looked around, and heard a friendly “Hey!”
There were several set ups of small tables and chairs, and one table hosting a sofa on one side with several high back chairs on the other. At that larger arrangement, sitting alone in the center of a lush pink-beige couch, was an apparent rasta man, complete with dreadlocks and reggae threads. As Conor approached, Bob Marley’s cousin said with a brogue, “You’re the first. Did you RSVP?”
He had tried, but it wouldn’t take, some glitch on the website. He said, “Wasn’t able to.”
“Happens. Where are you from?”
“The states. Massachusetts.. But I’m not a tourist. I live here.” This was a difference he was trying to impress on hawking tuk tuk drives drivers, who neither understood nor cared about the distinction..
“I’m Danny. What’s your name?”
“Conor. Where are you from?”
“Dublin. Have a seat. I lived a little while in Pasadena. Recruited at our college in Ireland to work a couple of months at an amusement park. A two month job. I know a lot about American culture, but most isn’t from direct experience.”
Conor judged Danny to be in his mid 30s. Conor was 46. He couldn’t readily find a common topic to address, and said---because it was at least true---”Its quiet up here.”
“Yeah, and that works. .Few other people come upstairs because, like, the bar is on the ground floor, sports TV, music, people. But those who come for the meet-up order drinks and food, and we’re here on a week night, so management’s okay with us.”
“Where are the others?”.
“Usually late arrivals. Where are you from in Massachusetts?”
“Springfield. Quincy.”
“Your background?”
“Irish too.I went to Catholic schools but I’m divorced. Sold insurance, paid off a mortgage, sent my kids to college, reinvented myself teaching English to Thais.”
“That’s what I do too. What brought you here tonight?”
“I’m not sure. I couldn’t quite figure out what your meet-up was about, but I had nothing else to do.”
“Pride and Sloth.”
“Pardon me?”
“A lay diagnosis. Are you familiar with the Seven Deadly Sins?”
“I’ve heard of them. The Ten Commandments come close.”
“Of course, but what I meant by citing Pride and Sloth ---nothing personal--- is
that its hard to keep the deadly sins or vices from fornicating with each other.
Do you think you could name them?”
“Maybe a few.””
“They’re Sloth, Envy, Wrath, Greed, Lust, Pride and Gluttony.”
He stopped--- it seemed to Conor, to evaluated his reaction---and said, “Hard to
hear those without a sheepish smile.”
“I was doing that?”
“A little. Aristotle, before the Christian church, called them the vices---abuses of natural inclinations, the extremes. Courage is a virtue. Rashness, overcompensating for fear, is an excess. Cowardice is a deficiency but, getting into a fight you know you can’t win is not virtuous. Also Sloth, or laziness, is an accomplice of cowardice. Greed and Gluttony are abuses of eating, but starving one’s self to look better encompasses Pride and Envy. Guilt is a product of Wrath---anger at one’s self and those who were participants, willing or unwilling.”
“Can’t do anything!”
“You can. To Aristotle, the Golden Mean was the balance of natural
inclinations. He designated Pride and Greed as representative of all evil.”
A smiling waitress arrived at their table. He ordered a ginger ale and fries, and
Conor informed her “We’re discussing Greek philosophy”, expecting she’d
hardly understand what he said. She said, “Wait till he starts on the Romans.”
Danny was enjoying his surprise. “My girlfriend. Fon. She’s a student. Went to international schools. Just a little of the Romans. Horace. To him, fleeing vice---abuse of the natural---was the beginning of virtue. Getting rid of folly---the abuses---was the beginning of wisdom. An allegorical cave painting from antiquity gave the sins animal personalities. Gluttony is a pig. Envy, a snake. Sloth is a snail.”
“Why was wrong with using a sloth?”
“No one to ask. Lust is a goat.”
“They didn’t know about rabbits?”
“Maybe not. Wrath is a lion.”
“Too majestic a symbol.”
“They needed you there. Greed is a toad. Pride is a peacock.”
“But the peacock is beautiful.”
“Be that as it may, it was the artist’s vision. To answer your
question about this meet-up’s purpose, its reconciling. To whatever torments”
The confessional, six feet away, was lurking closer. Conor indicated it to Danny with a chin gesture. ‘“So, not just a coincidence you sit here.”
“Oh, that. Its the smoking room.”
It was many long decades since Conor had been in a confessional, but he felt a
sudden craving---not for a cigarette, he was a non-smoker now ---but
to experience the interior.
“I think I’ll check it out.”
“Abandon all hope ye who enter there.”
“That’s for hell. You know that.”
“I stand by my proclamation.” He seemed to be joking, was smiling, but with glazed pupils. He was drinking Guinnesses and Tulamore Dew on the rocks, which Conor took into account could put a shine in his eyes.
He went into the confessional.
It was cramped and dark. Of course it was dark. There was just enough room to
feel an uncushioned wooden seat with a sharp 90 degree angle digging in
behind his thighs, and a bare, even harder, kneeler. It was difficult to breathe,
and that wasn’t helped by a prevailing odor of stale smoke that was like an
unemptied ashtray.
He also sensed that he wasn’t alone, but no, not that God was with him.
The panel to the priest’s side abruptly slid open.
Somebody was there. Invisible. Somebody with a deep voice who said,
“How long since your last Confession?”
“What?”
“Do you want to go to Confession?”
“I just wanted to see….No.”
Was something in that ginger ale? “This is unreal.”
“You think maybe I don’t exist?”
“This is part of the theme here, right.”
“ If it’s been a long time, I can talk you through it.”
“You’re not a priest.”
“How do you know if you can’t see me?”
“Even if I could...” They finished together, “...what does a priest look like?”
Conor said, “He dresses like one when he says Confession.”
“Did you ever see the priest at Confession?”
“Of course not, Its too dark.”
“So he might be wearing jogging clothes.”
“I’ve seen then go into the booth.”
“An occasional sighting means nothing. What if he’d just been running?”
“They don’t do that.”
“We go out in the world. Can’t we run?”
“Why would yo….they….do that?”
“Why does anybody?”
“How would I know? I don’t jog.”
“Of course you know.”
“Okay. Exercise.”
“Bravo. And you think we get enough already.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Did you come in here to smoke?”
“I don’t smoke.”
“So... if you’re in the smoking room but you’re not a smoker, you must be here
for Confession.”
“I just wanted to look inside.”
“Oh, I think you’ve seen the inside of a confessional before. Just tell me how
long its been.”
“Why?”
“I’m curious.”
“ If you have to know---about twenty five years.”
“TWENTY FIVE YEARS!”
He shouted like dear old deaf Father Simon used to in Quincy. Father Simon
imploring for higher volume by bellowing himself “You did WHAT?”
Here in Barrigan’s Emporium this impersonator roared again, “Twenty five
YEARS since you last confession!”
Conor hadn’t smoked in twenty of those years but he wished he had a butt now,
if only to blow smoke into the face of this heretic.
Who continued, “You have not yet said, Bless me Father...”
‘This is a sham.”
“This is a confessional.”
“For smoking in.”
“Would you like a cigarette?”
“I told you I don’t smoke.”
“Mind if I do?”
“Yes.”
“Well, this is the smoking section so I’m lighting up.”
He did. In the moment of flash from the lighter, Conor got a glimpse of a well worn face of creases, and a hulking shadow. Then the tiny alcove, already stinking like a fireplace the morning after, became a gas chamber.
He pushed against the door to escape the fumes, but it didn’t yield.
“I’m locked in?”
The impostor laughed like Richard Widmark in KISS OF DEATH after he
pushed the old lady in the wheelchair down a flight of stairs.
“Your humor is sick.”
“You think this funny somehow?”
“I’m not laughing. Hey, Danny!.”
By the distance away, he could estimate the replying voice to be Danny's,
who was at least still at the table.
“What’s up?
“I’m locked in.”
“Help save you, you’re locked in a confessional?”
“I’m getting asphyxiated.”
“Just hold your breath. I’m busy, some other people here now. As soon as
Fon comes back, I’ll tell her and she’ll send somebody to get you out.”
“I’m going to kick the door open. This guy is holding me prisoner..”
“Oh, my friend. There’s nobody in there but you.”
“Unlock the door or I’ll break it.”
The blasphemer exclaimed with amusement, “What a scene!” and let loose that
maniacal laugh again.
Conor shouted to Danny, “You hear that?”
“What?”
“The other voice. Laughing now.”
“Bro, try to remain calm. We’ll get you out when Fon comes. Just don’t start
destroying the furniture.”
“Since we’re going to be here, don’t you want to go through with it? You’ll feel so much better.”
“ I want the door to open.”
“You can leave your burden behind first.”
“I don’t have a burden.”
“Oh, come now. Everybody has. What’s the worst thing you ever did?”
“Like I’d tell you.”
“A matter of trust. Hey, I’ll tell you mine.”
“I don’t want to know.”
“You think you’re the only one who needs forgiveness? Did you ever kill anybody?”
“No.. Did you?”
That maniacal Widmark laugh again. “There are secrets people can’t take to the grave with them, but actually they tend to brag about those big ones. Its the humiliating litlle ones they’re coy about. Like jerking off.” He paused, it seemed evaluate reaction. “So, how often?”
“I don’t”
“Oh, come on! I’ve heard it all.”
“Danny, get me out.”
“Don’t panic in there.”
“I do it quite regularly myself. Do you mind?”
“He’s a pervert”
Danny asked, “Are we going to need a straight jacket?”
“Maybe.’
“Are you episodic?
“I’m not talking about me.”
“For your imaginary friend?”
“He’s not a friend”
“Excuse me. Your imaginary foe.”
“Not imaginary.”
“Lord have mercy.”
The lunatic said, “Christ have mercy.”
Conor could hear, on a CD in his mind, the ghost of masses past chanting the Kyrie Eleison.
He had enough. “If I could get into your compartment now, I’d get out.”
“That’s good. Might be redeeming.”
Conor heard laughter again from that table Danny was at. A lot of laughter.
Had more meet-up members arrived?
Danny said, “Okay Fon.”
The door lock released. Fon was there, beaming beautifully. All was in fun?
Smile, you’re on Candid Camera?
If there was a joke, he was it. He stepped out of the confessional, grabbed the center door and yanked it open, prepared to commit mayhem.
There was nobody in there
The group around Danny was laughing even more. He went to the table to turn his wrath toward Danny, but was blocked by his fans who got on heir feet.
Dany said, “Sit down and join the club. You pass.”
“What’s failure?”
“I don’t know. What’s failure?”
“You can explain this?”
“If you sit down, have a drink and chill.”
“No more ginger ale.”
“I never recommend that.”
Conor had ordered two Irish coffees. Never mind it was nine o’clock at night. He’d just enter the Twilight Zone again, in dreams between coffee insomnia and whiskey induced sleep
Danny told him, “The audio came from in there”
He pointed to a glass enclosed sound booth, from which Level 2 became a disco on weekends. “That’s Tony, the DJ. and sound engineer. A talented improviser.” Tony was at the screen, looking out, smiled and waved.
“I saw somebody for a moment..”
“That visual was holography.”
“What about the smoke?”
“An incense bomb. Kyrie Eleison smoke.”
“Catholic incense smells good. That was smoke.”
“You believed it was smoke.”
So, he was the recipient of a practical joke. Life goes on. Oh, but they’d taped it on their closed website, and it was just that---someone in the group did post it on Facebook. It got shared. Then a lot of shares. Then it went sort of viral. People were laughing at him. Well, with him too. Some were supportive. Some even admiring. Pick a reaction and here was one. There were even jobs offered. The cruelest for its irony was the one selling insurance again, in a boiler room.
There was something else happening. There were people who wanted to go to Confession. At Brannigan’s. But the priest was a mirage. His speech was a voice over by DJ Tony. Conor went to Tony’s plexiglass booth one Saturday afternoon while Tony was setting up the evening song list. As he watched his deft coordination, Conor said, “Tony, you have the talent, you should take the confessions.”
“They liked what you said. And they saw your face during the flash.”
“It was your voice.”
“I’m a techie not a thespian. and people didn’t like that priest character at all. I can’t do it.”
On the pub’s blog, people were petitioning for him to hear their confessions. He responded, told them to go to a church. They persisted. There was a firm movement for whom only Conor would do as intermediary.
He was invited to dinner at Mr. Brannigan’s home, up fashionable Soi 33 in the hills above Sukhumvit Road, and near the residence of a former prime minister and still active politician. The building Brannigan lived in was called a mansion---that was nothing to get excited about in Bangkok because an apartment building translated as ‘mansion’---but Brannigan’s digs were substantial enough to qualify. After the family dinner, polite and irrelevant, all went into the living room where Conor was sat on a sofa so soft it seemed to simultaneously console and capture him. With his weight tipped toward the backrest and his feet barely on the ground, getting up seemed it could be as challenging as if from a wheelchair.
Brannigan, his wife Molly, grown daughter Sally, and teen son Buddy were all potentially more mobile in armchairs. Conor, in the middle of the encompassing sofa, felt himself a centerpiece on display. The maid brought coffee and tea, and when she departed, Brannigan said, “Now, I think you know why I invited you here.”
“Mr. Brannigan, I’m not ready for hearing confessions.”
“I have heard that.”
And, as a bit of unnecessary self deprecation, Conor added, “Not moral enough myself.”
“Ahh. I know about that too.”
Brannigan was tall, 6’3”, black hair streaked by grey, but Conor was fixated on his bushy white mustache that rose and fell and shook in rhythm with his speech pattern. And what he said, with his family present as witnesses, and for benefit of embarrassing Conor, was, “Now, I know about some indiscretions. May I remind you, for instance, of an affair you had with in Boston with a lap dancer while you were married, and later paid her off. Something you wouldn’t want your children to know about.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. And my children are grown and capable of forgiving if such a thing was true.”
“Alright then. Just one example.” Conor watched his moustache wobbling as he continued as if the blackmail attempt hadn’t taken place and Conor’s denial had been noted and accepted, but Conor was feeling a strong craving to slap young Buddy’s smirk off his face. “Yes, I asked you here to offer you a job. To be the confessor. We’re going to have a local English language radio show, call it IN THE BOOTH. and I have a contract prepared you can look at.”
He proffered such to Conor, who read, and it offered more money than he could sanely decline.
“What if I heard about molestations, beatings, robberies, real crimes? Would we report them?”
“Of course. It will be on the air, the police will be listening. We won’t advertise that, but we have no confessional seal and they know it. So stop asking yourself “Why me?” think about the money, and just say yes.”
Brannigan’s Emporium was quickly becoming a new age---or would that be ‘prior age’?---pilgrimage destination. Bangkok Post dubbed the phenomenon ‘mystical chic’, It became listed on sites like Lonely Planet beside the recommended inexpensive restaurants, hostels and entertainment venues. James Brannigan was a capitalist. A reservation was now required. You would have to stay at the B and B he was opening. Seeing mutual advantages, the owners of the other establishments on the trendy side soi let James decide which ones would have to go to make way for new accommodations. Brannigan took the Royal Oak pub, called it a Brexit., turned it into a chapel, and moved the confessional there, smoke fumigated. When other hotels in the area began charging ten times more because of the influx, he expanded again.
Conor’s first night was a warm up, a rehearsal that would be real, but not yet on air. Brannigan was sitting in a pew with Danny and Fon. Clients came and sat, those who knew the form even knelt, and then sat also. A few blessed themselves, though there was no pretense of a tabernacle, not a crucifix in the structure. There was a faux altar Conor stood watching from, wearing slacks and a blue dress shirt, The confessional was set to one side of the it. On a cue from Brannigan, Conor went into the center of the booth and waited.
And in time, the door to a penitent’s slot opened and closed. A man sighed and creaked in the dark, finally spoke. He knew the protocol, went through the starting ritual of “Bless me...”
Conor immediately interrupted. “You know I am not a priest”
“I don’t care.”
“Why are you here?”
“I want to tell you about an occurrence.”
”You have something on your chest?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. What is it?”
“I shot Jesse James.”
“What?”
“I ‘m that dirty no good coward who shot poor Mr Howard.”
Was this another prank? Conor, somewhere in memory from childhood, knew he’d seen the old movie on TV, and that the song ended ‘And laid Jesse James in his grave’. There was also some connection in that name to contemporary rappers.
”When did this happen?”
“In the old American west.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty.”
“Well, see, that reference is to the 19th Century. You weren’t there.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m good at math.”
“I’m back again.”
Mindful Conor was that he was in Thailand, and he didn’t want to dispute local theology, but
“People only have occasional glimpses of past live.”
“Who says that?”
“What I’ve always heard.”
“That’s not enough.”
Thinking if he just said the words to relieve this imaginar guilt he’d be rid of him, Conor asked, “Do you want me to tell you you’re forgiven?”
“No. Its my claim to history.”
“Well, that is a problem. Why are you here?”
“I just wanted to tell somebody.”
“Boast about it?”
“Let someone else know.”
“Well...I have heard you. Good enough?”
“Good enough. Thank you.”
“You’re quite welcome.”
The door on that side opened and closed and he left. Conor released a gasp. He’d broken the ice. That wasn’t so hard.
By the diminutive shadowy outline, the next client was…a boy?...a girl?...a woman?
A woman, who rasped, “I was expecting I could buy a drink.”
“You can. Before or after at the pub.”
“Don’t you do wine?”
“This is a fake chapel, but the real deal doesn’t sell booze, and neither do we.”
“Why not?”
“We’re not licensed to.”
“Well I’m dry.”
“You can get a drink at Brannigan’s and come back.”
“I don’t have all day.”
“Would you like to start?”
“That’s the idea.”
“Well how can I help you? And stating to you first that...”
“I know. You’re a fake.”
“But by popular demand.”
“So? You want to know my secret, right?”
“I don’t actually. You don’t have to tell it. Maybe we can save each other time.”
“You don’t care?”
“Why would I?”
“But you’ll listen?”
“I was conscripted to do that.”
“Its like your job?”
“You could see it that way.”
“Do you?”
“Let’s say I’m not a volunteer.”
“Well, your fuckin’ holiness then, what do you think of necrophilia? I had sex with a corpse. A dead man.”
“Did you kill him?”
“No.”
He had asked the second obvious question first. He now asked the first obvious one. “How?”
“I broke into a funeral home.”
“That doesn’t answer how.”
“Its not impossible, trust me.”
He thought Danny and Fon and Brannigan might be monitoring in the pew, flirting with appendicitis trying not to laugh. Well, he could be JP Barnum, give the rubes what they wanted.
“So how was it?”
“You want to know that? Disappointing.”
“He let you down? Before they let him down?
“He was so-so.”
“That rigor mortise must make for some erection.”
“Oh, you’re disgusting. I’m describing a sensitive personal experience.”
“Are you here to repent?”
“I have no guilt about it.”
“You just came to tell someone too?”
“Too?”
“It’s going around.”
“Its more than that. I want to promote it. Necrophilia. Who gets hurt if they’re dead and you didn’t kill them?”
“You said it wasn’t fulfilling/”
“First attempt. Nobody’s born a lover”
“But maybe dies one? So, what can I do? You don’t want to be forgiven and I can’t advertise for you.”
“But somebody else knows.”
“Ahh”
“Which way is that pub?”
Two weeks later, they were on air for real, and a man with a stern voice said, “This is a sacrilege.”
“Its a parody, but no disrespect intended. Are you a Catholic?”
“Yes. Aren’t you?”
“My background.”
“And you say this isn’t ridicule?”
“Not for those who want to come here. And maybe it’s getting people curious about the religion.”
“You mean in your way, you’re like a missionary?”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“You do it for the money?”
“ I’m not a willing cross bearer.”
His next client said, “I want to do my AA 5th Step with you.”
“What’s that?”
“My inventory. ‘Admitted to God, to ourselves to and another human being the exact nature of our wrongs’
“Don’t you have a mentor“
”A sponsor.”
“Yeah. Can’t you go to him?”
“I want to tell you.”
“I don’t know your tradition. And I don’t have time to listen to your life story.”
“I expected more compassion. Your reputation.”
“My …? I’m letting you down?”
“Yes.”
“So, see, I’m imperfect.”
”Another human being.”
“Well in that case, it shouldn’t bet be so hard.to find somebody. Buy a bottle for a wino and tell him. “
“That’s uncharitable.”
“Go to somebody who know what you’re doing, like maybe that sponsor,”
Next, a man came In The Booth, and said quite civilly, “I’m not here for Confession.”
“Many are not. How may I help you?”
“I’m a United States senator. Senator Table, Massachusetts.”
“My home state. And you know about me.?”
“There was an article in a New York paper.”
“Are you investigating me?”
“No.”
“Then what can I do for you?”
“I have a medical issue.”
Conor, thinking, I’m in no way qualified for what I’m doing, said,
“Life threatening?”
“No.”
At least this wasn’t a ‘Death and Dying’ request for counseling, but....
“Look, not only am I not a priest, I’m also not a doctor.”
“I don’t want medical advice. My secret is embarrassing.”
“I won’t ridicule you, but I’m not a therapist either.”
“I know. That’s why I’m here. I have penile erectile dysfunction.
”Well, not so rare in men after a certain age. Associated with prostate problems, right?”
“Correct.”“
“You came to tell me this?
“It’s more than that. I’m considering a public service announcement. A promo to take the shame away from it.”
“What’s to be ashamed of?”
“I’ll be telling the whole world I can’t get it up anymore. What do you think about me doing that?”
“Oh, its your decision.”
“Can you give me an opinion?”
“If you think you’ll do good, its noble.”
“I don’t know if I can stand the spotlight.”
“I don’t know either. It really is your call.”
As it turned out, Gigi could have drank in the chapel. Danny wasn’t deterred, he had drinks delivered from Brannigan’s. And he was sitting alone in the pew by the booth watching a big screen TV on an afternoon months later when Conor came to work..
“Ready for your shift? Want a ginger ale or a Jameson’s”
“Seltzer”
“How’s it going?”
“Rationalizations! Some of them come in and justify with comments like ‘I’ve been sexually compulsive all my life.’”
“You don’t buy that.”
“Its the twinky defense. My mother didn’t breast feed me so I killed eight women.”
“You’ve heard that?”
”Not yet.”
“Judgmental.”
“If I listen, I can opine. The shrink tells people they’re under forces beyond their control. There’s no accountability.”
“You accept the concept of sin.”
“As do you.”
“And atonement. Redemption. Absolution
“In the shrink’s office and in the confessional, there’s a need to be understood. And forgiven. But in psychiatry, its, ‘If you were me, you would have done the same thing.’”
“Irrefutable logic.”
“Right. I am me, and I did it, so if you were me, you would have done it. Free will and choice are missing”
The TV caught Conor’s’s attention suddenly when Danny switched channels from the wrap up of a soocer game, (with the sound down, the talking heads pontificating) to CNN, and there was Sen Lesley Table, R, of Mass, indicated as such at the bottom of the screen .His lips were moving, but Conor never studied lip reading. Absent words, however, there was other communication, and on Table’s face were all the misgiving and insecurity he’d expressed in the booth.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“I’ll put football back. There’s another game soon. You look shook that I changed channels.”
“No, I don’t care. I’m not a soccer fan..”
“I didn’t think so.”
Conor’s next client on In The Booth said, “You know that case of the woman who was found on the beach in Hua Hin? I did it.”
“You have to go to a priest, and he’ll tell you to accept the consequences, turn yourself in.” He knew a priest wouldn’t say that. That wasn’t Church teaching, but this wasn’t Confession.”
“I tried. The police don’t believe me.”
“If you did it you know the details. Convince them.”
“I tried. They weren’t convinced.”
“You know I’m not a priest, there’s no seal. I can tell the police.”
“They won’t believe it.”
“Do you want to give me your name?”
“Sure. Harry Howler. Go ahead and tell them.”
Tong Lo Police station was a long motorcycle taxi ride up the street of the same
name. Conor had called ahead, and they were expecting him. The uniformed officer at the front directed him to a small private office where he was met by a plain clothes detective who introduced himself as Inspector Somchai---his given name used, possibly because his family name had more syllables than he believed Conor could process.
Inspector Somchai listened again to Conor’s account, took notes, then said,
“We know this man. He’s crazy, wants attention. We had a dozen like him. There’s information we withhold from the public, that only the killer knows.”
A few days later he was riding on the escalator at the Jasmine building on Sukhumvit, a small three story mall, coming up from a convenience store in the basement, speculating about what might have happened if he’d tried to arrest Howler. He could have resisted, Conor would have had to smash him, there would have been a battle, he’d block Howler’s kick and punch him, and when Howler fell he’d…
“ARE YOU OK?”
What did he look like? Was he acting out his fantasy fight--- miming kicks and punches, raging, bat shit crazy? Irritated at his reverie being interrupted, he reflexively snapped, “I’m okay,” implying that he whose business it was none of wasn’t. Until he realized it was Danny, who had passed Conor as Danny rode down, and was now near the bottom. So, maybe he didn’t look okay. Somebody once said Mike Tyson needed a referee to follow him around in life. Maybe we all needed a coach, somebody who saw what we couldn’t.
“Just things on my mind, Danny.”
“I’d like to talk to you. You have time for a coffee?”
“I guess so.” They went into Starbucks to order, but Danny suggested sitting outside on the patio. The shop wasn’t particularly crowded, but there were a few people, and their conversation could be overheard, so Danny wanted a private discussion. They had to shuttle away debris of coffee cups from former outdoors types who’d interred cadavers of cigarette butts under the chairs. The sun wasn’t shining directly on their table, but close, radiating tropical heat from unshaded steel table tops with umbrellas presently at the wrong angle, and reflected from the baking beige pavement.
Conor said, “I hope this is important. The air conditioner isn’t working well out here.”
“I have VCDs to play for you.”
“VCDs?”
” From the show?”
“I know they must keep audial records.”
“Visual too. From the show, but others shot outside the booth.””
“There’s no light in the booth.”
“I live nearby.”
Danny lived in a standard Bangkok rental that was one large room with a balcony and bathroom, furnished by the building with an unattached wardrobe, a double bed, a small desk and a dresser. It had to be by Fon’s influence that it was tidy, the bed so perfectly made and covered by a gold patterned cloth from a fabric store, and with wall posters of Thai captions he knew Danny couldn’t read any more than he could.
Danny showed him a video. It had Brannigan on it, negotiating with the Jesse James ‘assassin’ in the chapel.
“Mr Lawson, what would you do to keep this confession quiet?”
“I’ve been trying to tell people.”
“But Jesse James was a popular outlaw. A Robin Hood.”
“I killed Robin Hood too.”
“You don’t say?”
“Facts are facts.”
“Even today, there are people in America who wouldn’t forgive you for Jesse James. If they knew, you’d be a target yourself”
“I want people to know.”
“You don’t strike me as a man of means.”
“NO.”
“Would you like to be in a reality TV show?”
“I’d love it.”
Danny showed another video where Brannigan had a conversation with ‘Gigi The Necro Woman’. She also wanted her 15 minutes and agreed to be on Brannigan’s TV program.
Gigi only lasted one episode on “REAL LIFE TV”, because there was no market for her proclivity. And ‘I Shot JJ’ encountered grave historical competition from a claimant who said he shot Lincoln, and yet another who killed Archduke Ferdinand, starting WW1. Conor knew about the episodes, but not about these negotiations.
Danny then showed him video of In The Booth, filmed without Conor or the participant’s knowledge, shot with that surreal, hazy yellow cast of a night vision lense. Danny said, “He’s selling them.”
“For how long?”
“I think months.”
“When did you know?”
“Most of that time.”
“Why are you telling me now?”
“ You have a right to know. He’s sending these to subscribers, of which he has about a million.”
When Conor confronted Brannigan at the pub. Mr. B said
“Of course I was going to tell you. How did you find out?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“ I’m not hiding it.”
“You didn’t tell me you were doing it.”
“I was going to. Have you read the details in your contract? You’ll get a commission, residuals. As to Howler, watch out giving the police too much. We don’t want to discourage clients..”
“What if he does something?”
“The police don’t expect him to.”
“This is all immoral.”
“Is it now? It’s making your life a little better. Its entertainment”
“What if he did do something?”
“I’d help track him down myself.”
“For ratings.”
“No. I report crimes. Give the evidence. There have been convictions. I don’t advertise that, but we have no seal. If somebody wants to keep a secret, they better just keep it. Tell one person and its out. How would you like to be Doctor Conor?”
“No.”
“Father Conor?”
“No.. Just Conor. Take down those signs.”
Conor recognized the authoritative voice “Well, I’m back.”
He acknowledged knowing who was there. “Senator. I’ve seen your promo.”
“Yes, but you’re out here in Thailand. You don’t know what’s going on in America.”
“What is?”
I’m a joke.”
“Who would do that and why?”
“Late night comedy shows. There isn’t empathy, there’s derision. You set me up.”
“Oh look, I never expected anything like that.”
Conor heard---Could it be? He wasn’t sure---clicks like rounds being inserted into the barrel of a revolver.
“You said it would be noble.”
“You asked for my opinion. I just gave it.”
“Encouraged me.”
“I said it was your decision.”
“I’m a laughing stock. A disgrace.”
“There are people you must be helping. No one with your condition is laughing.”
“You’re saying you didn’t intend this.”
“Absolutely not.”
“If I killed you, I’d be killing he wrong person.”
“I’d certainly see it that way.”
“Be careful about giving advice.”
“I will definitely take that under consideration.”
The senator left the booth. Almost instantly, Conor heard male voices in the chapel, a lot of them, their catcalls and laughter. They were chanting “Limpy.” He imagined tattooed ‘boys’ of middle and advancing age, the kind of tourism louts the government was trying to discourage. They’d know Table was in town from thaivisa.com. There was another voice among them, familiar, shouting “Out! Out!”
He heard a gunshot, and almost thought whoever got it deserved it. There was only one bang, and the taunting turned to hushed shock. When he rushed from the booth, the body was surrounded by the malcontent turned gapers, but it wasn’t one of their own. He could reconstruct what the disfigured face once looked like, and it had belonged to DJ Tony. Maybe shooting Tony, who was trying to chase the harassers, was unintentional but Senator Lesley Table, Republican of Massachusetts, definitely shot the wrong person and was now a fugitive from justice.
Conor took a few days off, which meant a few weeks because the show was only on Tuesdays. He considered quitting. He had listened to people’s confessions, problems, secrets and delusions, and he was now disconnected himself, suffering grief, guilt of responsibility, maudlin depression, and there was no one in his life to take it to. On the contrary, he was getting anonymous emails reminding him that he had secrets, and had better get himself together and back into the booth.
He had not completely given up his other vocation of teaching ESL, still had a few part time classes at the language school that he continued because they distracted him.
One evening when an ‘after work, after school group’ ended at 9:00 o’clock, a tall western man in his 60s, with silver hair, wearing a blue three piece suit, came into his classroom. Conor assumed he was an overdressed new teacher he hadn’t met yet, but the man extended his hand and said, “I’m Fred Onyx. I’m a psychologist.”
Lordly as he appearance was, if he wasn’t a teacher or a student he had no business on the premises.”
“ Have you checked in with the receptionist?”
“She was occupied. Making copies.”
“You have to go back and do it.”
“I’m here to see you.”
“This is no way to approach me.”
“I’d go to your chapel, but you’re not there now.”
“We have security here. Find another way to contact me.”
He took back his unshook hand and placed a business card on Conor’s desk. “I shall do. Just wanted to introduce myself.”
Conor returned to In The Booth, With his next guest, there was a chill when he/she came into the small space, and an odor that was---decay?. Rot in the ground. Rot under the ground. A smell like the grave. Conor vowed to start wearing a surgical mask. Some people stink.
He said, “I went to the police”
“Of course you would.”
“And you didn’t do it.” .
He didn’t respond. It was as if, simply, I told you I did it, that’s that. Then he said, “I killed a boy this time. He’s near a railroad track.”
There was a news story out about a boy found by a rail trestle. Howler must have heard it too.
“You expect me to go to the police with your confession of another prominent murder?”
“Prominent?”
”That poor kid north of Bangkok, near Nakhon Nayok.”
“Not that one. That was just inspiration. Mine is south of here, towards Ayuthaya. My real sin is not making other people pay for their crimes against me. I can’t get them and somebody has to pay.”
Howler’s track record was false reports, Conor believed they were false, but decided to address the vileness of his fantasies.
“How could killing innocent people be getting even for you?”
“Nobody’s innocent.”
“If they did nothing to you?”
“They would have if they could.”
“You boast about children.”
“They grow up.”
He had to tell Bangkok police at least. Somchai contacted jurisdictions in that direction, but there was nothing discovered like Howler was claiming.
Onyx was at the chapel one night as Conor arrived for the radio show He said,
“I’m interested in your opinions.”
“What’s you game? You writing a book?
“I might but it’s secondary. and I think you need someone to talk to yourself”.
“I don’t trust you.”
“Do you have to?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To confide, I’d have to, yes.”
“If I paid you and guaranteed secrecy. An NDA. More seal than you offer.”
“I’ll consider, okay? And I am pressed for time now.”
Same chill, same stink, another day. “Howler, do you ever bathe?”
“I do. It doesn’t wash off. Did you get my letter?”
“I got no mail from you.”
“I sent you a map. Where to find that boy.” .
“Oh, hey, if you’re saying your real, why don’t you turn yourself in instead of coming here?”
“I just want credit. I don’t want them to catch me anymore. I want to play with them. And now I’m going. Tell them, Conor.”
“No. Stay. Wait..”
“I won’t let YOU catch me.”
“I just want more details.”
”Why?”
“Promotion. I want to get the exclusive.”
“And why that?”
“Oh, you know. Fame. Ego.”
Howler opened the door on his side. Conor opened his. Howler had a head start and was fast, if dressed as a woman in a skirt and blouse but no shoes. Conor figured he had disguised thinking there was surveillance---and wasn’t that an acknowledgment of culpability.
When he got out the building door, he couldn’t see Howler. He could be anywhere on the busy soi--- in a shop, a hotel lobby, a bar, a taxi.
Back at the booth, a woman’s pair of high heels lay abandoned. He used his cell to call Inspector Somchai.
When he told Somchai, he said, “Can you keep the shoes?”
“Okay. I guess so.”
“If you get a map, call me at once.”
“Will do”
Was Somchai lazy? They wouldn’t come to get the shoes?
Two days later, he got a map, called, and Somcha told him to bring that and the shoes to the station. Was told, go to the police, not they go to him.
He did, and the day after that Somchai came to his apartment with an inspector from another jurisdiction.
Somchai told him, “We found a body where the map indicated. Tell nobody about receiving the map. That includes Brannigan.”
The media didn’t find out, and as time went by there is no progress. As persistently as Brannigan inquired if Conor got a map, he equally denied such. Weeks became six before Conor got a call from Howler, who said, “Sir, I’m bored. They’re not playing well. I’m going to live stream the next one.” Conor was thinking, all cells in Bangkok are registered. His phone shows the number and telecom records show the registered party. Even knowing that, he tried to keep him on line.
“Maybe I can help you stream.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Promotion. I want to get the exclusive.”
“Oh?”
“Fame. My career.”
“You’re truly sick, sir.”
“From you, I should take that as a compliment.”
Howler laughed, and said, “I kind of like you.”
“A lot of people say that. My downfall.”
“So how can you facilitate my next?”
“My technical expertise.”
“Streaming is streaming.” .
“Streaming is not streaming. Don’t you want a large audience? You need to advertise, hook them, build the suspense, have them at their computers waiting, waiting for you to say, ‘ Look!. Its happening. Look now.’”
“Okay!”
Conor didn’t care for Somchai’s cavalier approach, like he had let Conor keep the shoes, evidence, until he was sure there was a map, and then, when there was a body, had Conor go to him. He agreed with Howler that they were making no progress, if even trying. It was puzzling.
Danny had tipped him to Brannigan’s antics, and Danny was as much a confidante as Conor had. He decided to first share what he knew with him.
He went back to Danny’s pad. After hearing it all, Danny said, “Brannigan would love this. We all should.”
“Love it? You understand, I don’t trust Brannigan?”
“You don’t have to trust him. Just work with him when it it’s in your interest”
“What are you talking about Danny? Why should we should love this?”
“We can stop it, solve it ourselves and take the credit. Howler wants your help. He’ll contact you again to set it up. We can lay a trap and catch him.”
“What if we blow it and he succeeds?”
“We won’t let that happen. I’ll talk to Branigan.”
“Brannigan, not the police?”
“We don’t need the police. This is Brannigan’s cup of brew.”
“You sound just like him.”
“Of course I do. Let’s hear what the old man says.”
He had to sit again in Brannigan’s parlor, this time with Danny, knowing Danny had filled Brannigan in.
Mr B said, “You’ve actually seen him Conor. Can you describe?”
“A tall fast barefoot woman in a skirt.”
“You’re saying you wouldn’t recognize him out of drag?”
“I’d recognize the voice and the laugh.”
“Enough to authenticate. But it doesn’t match anybody around here?”
“I keep hearing that maniac laugh from the first night in the booth.”
Brannigan counseling was, “ You must have PTSD.”
Danny said, “That was special effects.”
“From DJ Tony?”
Brannigan said, “We can’t ask him.”
Conor said “Tony didn’t have that psychos in him.”
“Tell him, Danny.”
“What you heard on prank night WAS the sound track of Widmark’s laugh
from KISS OF DEATH”
Two more weeks passed and Howler didn’t communicate. Conor concluded he couldn’t go back to the booth, and had to know Conor’s phone was bugged. Conor had no way to contact him, just hoped Danny and Brannigan were right and Howler would find a way.
Through the radio show, Conor had obtained a work permit. He had to go see a broker who handled 90 address reports for visa holders. That was a simple matter of taking the Sky Train a couple of stops to a business office that acted as an agent. He was on the always packed train, squashed against people, but had only a five minute ride to endure when he sensed the chill and smelled that subdued but vile odor that only Howler could produce. Where was he in the crowd of commuters? Why, was it that tall husky woman who had all the space to herself because everybody moved away?
When he got off the train, Howler came up beside him on the street with quick strides and said, “I’m getting ready.” He stepped in front, blocked Conor’s path, and handed him a slip of paper. Conor saw Howler’s face for the first time. His face looked artificial. Yes, he was wearing a skin mask. Latex.
Howler said, “Secure number. Call me at 7:00 tonight. Don’t tell anyone.”
He did tell Brannigan and Danny. At two minutes to 7:00, the trio were in Brannigan’s old pub, not yet open for business.
Conor said, “Don’t we have to tell the police what we know?”
Danny said, “Only if we know.”
Mr. B seemed in no the mood for repartee, didn’t respond to Danny, said nothing at all, until at exactly 7:00 he said,
“Let’s call him, Conor.”
“My phone is tapped”
Brannigan came up with one of those old cells from before the smart phones, holding it with cloth gloves. ”Use this.”
“Isn’t it registered to somebody?”
“Somebody who stopped breathing.”
Conor had a T-shirt on, took off his outer shirt, shrouded the phone in it, and punched in Howler’s number with the cloth covering his finger. It rang too many times before a voice answered, the voice saying, “You’re late.”
“It’s seven.”
“It’s two minutes after.”
“Because you took too long to answer.”
“Don’t disrespect me or my time, sir. Are you alone?”
“Of course.”
“Really? Have you told anyone?”
“No.”
“Oh, come on. That’s disappointing. But good to know you say you do what you’re told. So, this will happen June tenth. When I’m ready, I’ll start streaming.. I mean ready…at the exact moment. What you do now is promote that. Tell your mercenary friends, tell the police, ride around in a truck with a bullhorn if you like, just let the world know. Can they stop me from doing something that’s vaguely prophesized? They’d try if they could find me, but they can’t. You get the exclusive, streamed only to you. Welcome to the game, Conor. Keep in touch for details Goodbye for now.”
“No, wait. Wait!”
But there was then only that brain scraping dead air buzz of a disconnect.
Conor looked at the family pair, and said, “Now the police?”
Brannigan replied, “Not at all.”
Danny said, “He hasn’t given us anything. No leads.”
Conor didn’t miss that Danny seemed to be countering his father.
Brannigan “We have to get our bearings. Frustrate him. Don’t call. Don’t play. He wants attention, so don’t promote. He has to make contact again.”
“Who keeps this phone?”
“Who do you think?”
“They monitor every phone here.”
“But they can’t listen to every conversation. This belonged to an elderly woman.”
“What happened to her
“I told you. She died.”
“How?”
“She stopped breathing. That’s how it happens.”
Conor’s show continued, but without any hiding of surveillance by the police. Howler was not likely to appear around any of Brannigan’s properties and Conor just hope for no more dramas developing simultaneously. None did, but he began to a discern another pattern, of people ‘confessing’ to shameful events they never wanted anyone to know about, and yet wanted someone to know---an anonymous someone who couldn’t see them, whom they would never again meet. Someone who couldn’t say, “Go in peace. Your sins are forgiven”, but at least, “It’s alright. I understand.”
He had to keep the hot phone with him. He only touched it with plastic gloves, carried it in a backpack when out and about. At home it was on and end table, and when he slept, lying beside the bed.
Howler didn’t contact, Conor didn’t call and Brannigan kept saying “Wait.” Conor was almost wishing Howler could just forget the whole business. Maybe that hope was the reason that, as time passed, he’d sometimes forget to pick the phone up off the floor in the morning. At first when that happened, he’d check later for missed calls, but now it could be on the floor a couple days before he looked. He hadn’t thought far enough ahead to consider DNA because he didn’t do anything. Wasn’t that the problem, that he hadn’t done anything?
He wanted to have the phone, Howler, the entire burden out of existence. That was no doubt why, one afternoon, he realized he hadn’t checked the little black cell for messages in two days. Often there was something indicated. The telecom company texted advertising. It had done that twice since he looked last, but there was also a missed call, already a day and a half old, and it was from Howler. His impulse was to immediately call, give some excuse, but he heard Brannigan’s “Wait.”
He did wait until evening when he could consult with Brannigan and Danny, once again at original Brannigan’s pub before it opened. It was almost forty eight hours since Howler called.
Brannigan said,” Dial his number, and when he it rings, hang up.”
“Then what?”
“When he calls back, pick up but don’t say anything.”
“He’ll think police.”
“Let him.”
Conor called, hung up. They sat and waited. And waited. Who knew what Howler did with his time? Maybe he had a job. Maybe he was busy, Maybe he thought, Conor makes me wait, I make him wait. Maybe he wasn’t going to call back. Now or ever.
He didn’t call that evening. Conor hardly slept all night, waiting in the dark for the cell to ring, wanting to have the wits to say nothing and make Howler speak.
They spent part of another evening at the pub on watch. Conor suggested calling and letting Howler answer, Danny wanted to call and hang up as they’d done yesterday. Brannigan said, “Don’t do anything.”
They didn’t, and neither did Howler. Conor slept better that night, no longer expecting an eminent call. He even turned the ring tone lower, For that reason, he checked in the morning for a possible missed call. There were none of those, but there was a text message from 4:19 AM that read CALL TONIGHT AT 7:00 AND STAY ON THE LINE.
Back at the pub. same company, another night, Brannigan now was in for calling, saw it as a victory. ”We got him to contact, let’s listen to what he has to say.”
Conor called. Howler answered with, “You’re not representing me very well. Where’s my publicity?”
“Haven’t had much time to arrange it, and if I do that I’ll have to talk to the police.”
“That’s go-od.!” He said ‘good’ like he thought good was a good word, maybe his favorite.
“My next bit of intel will be to tell you who the chosen one is. But you have to work to get information. Get Brannigan’s reality show on this. Is he there now?”
“Brannigan? No, of course not. Why would he be?”
“Liar.”
“I’m not.”
“And not good at it.” He didn’t elongate ‘good’ for a negative. Not a great word then. “Results, Conor. I want results.”
And he was gone again.
Brannigan took the phone in his cloth gloved hands and complained, “It’s a ballicks trying to text like this. I need plastic gloves like you.”
It did take a while, with the awkward poking of the covered finger, and when he finished he sent the meassage, then handed the phone back to Conor, who read:
YES, I LIED. B IS HERE, WANTS TO KNOW WHAT YOU THINK ABOUT CALLING IN TO THE REALITY SHOW.
Simultaneously with Conor finishing reading the text, the phone rang.
Brannigan said, “I don’t want to talk to that man.”
Conor picked up, said, “Yeah?”
“Let me talk to him.”
“Who?”
“Who? Brannigan.”
“ Brannigan’s not here.”
“What is this shit?”
“I wanted you to call back.”
“You haven’t even asked him about it.”
“I will. Do you want to call in to the TV show?”
“I’ll tell you what, Conor. You get his answer and text me with it. Then I ’ll let him know if I’ll do it.”
“That sounds like a yes.”
“It’s a yes to talking to Branigan.”
With a wink at Brannigan, Conor said, “I’m not sure he wants to talk to you.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, you know. Complicity. And maybe he doesn’t like you.”
“Just do as I said.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t think about it. Do it.”
“You want something too, don’t you? One hand washes the other.”
“Wash your balls with your hand.”
“That the best you can do, Howler?”
“Fuck you.”
And he hung up. Brannigan released an explosion of laughter he’d been holding and said, “Well done. Again, we make him make the contact. And when he does, Conor, start to use some of your magic.”
“I don’t have any magic.”
“You just don’t know you have. People want to confide in you. Show some understanding toward him. Ask what makes him want to do it.
“He says revenge.”
“Get him to be specific. What happened to him? Make him want to talk more.”
“On the air? It won’t be confidential them”
“No, absolutely not, but he’s an exhibitionist.”
“You want me to be a shrink.”
“Confessor. Great TV. Our little cable TV show can break the American market.”
“Not with me.”
“Oh? You’ve shown your can be bought, but if not, you can be replaced. If you died tomorrow, we’d have to get somebody else.”
“If I died?”
“An existential musing. Everybody is replaceable. We all croak.”
Danny said, “Brannigan’s a philosopher.”
Brannigan’s cable “Real Life TV” show had guests—some from ‘In The Booth”, but not all---sharing mostly sensational, bizarre and salacious tales recounted verbally, and showing film clips and comments from social media, playing illegally taped phone conversations. It was aired live with a few minutes delay, on a different night than Conor’s show, so Conor was now co-hosting with Brannigan, in the hope that Howler would notice and call in.
They weren’t many episode along before he bit. The delay lag between real time and air time was enough that Brannigan and Conor knew Howler was on the line. Brannigan answered with “And now we have a caller from the Silom area. Go ahead, Silom.”
“zzz zzz zzzz”
“Silom, turn your TV off or we can’t hear you.”
“I thought you didn’t want to talk to me.”
“Why would you think that, Silom. I answered the phone.”
“Conor said you didn’t want to.”
“When did he say that? He hasn’t said a word.”
“Last time.”
“Have you been on our show? Called in before?
“Not this one.”
“Then how could…?”
“Cut ths sh…..zzzz”
“Be careful with words that aren’t nice.”
“You talk to people about perversions, abuse, suicide attempts, but no bad words.”
“We don’t make the rules.”
“Well, MISTER Brannigan, you didn’t want to talk to me, but you are. Of course it was Conor who told me that, and he’s a liar.”
“Oh, you’ve given me a hint now, so why don’t you talk to Conor?’
“You really don’t want to talk to me?”
“Its not that. He’s just better at this.
“Why don’t you want to talk to me?”
“I’ll talk to anybody. It’s my business. Go ahead if you like.”
“Conor.”
“The man wishes to converse, Conor.”
“Hello? Who’s this?”
“Like you don’t know.”
“Well, let’s say I have a clue too, but don’t you want the audience to know?”
“Can’t you tell them?”
“You’re not shy.”
“No, but you have the panache. Explain it.”
Brannigan said, “Allow me. As most of you know, Conor’s radio show is In The Booth, and, he’s been getting into the mind of a serial killer, dealing with a psycho. Would that description fit you? Stark raving mad?”
“More like stark raving sane”.
“He first went to the booth about six weeks ago, during an off-air episode…” and Howler was gone again.
“Silom, we got disconnected. I hope you turned your TV on again. If you hear me, call back. We were just getting chatty and you didn’t tell us why you called.”
Brannigan went to a break. His next possible-guest-to-be was a poacher who sold the meat of tigers, lions, elephants and hippos for virility, would only arrive unannounced to the public, and not at all if he suspected entrapment.
In the corridor, he said to Conor, “If we can live stream catching him, it will make us.” While Mr. B was checking with staff to see if they’d heard from Outback Harry, Conor got another text on the old cell: YOU’LL GET A FORESHADOWING TOMORROW
He had no idea what that could mean, so addressed what he did know: YOU SAID YOU’D TELL US WHO
Howler’s reply was NOT YET. TOMORROW IS JUST A TEASER.
When Brannigan got back from the production office, in the corridor outside the stage, Conor showed him the texts and said. “He sounds like he might kill somebody just to impress us.”
“He doesn’t say that. This is not a threat against anybody. Don’t start thinking police again.”
Well, Conor could try to forget it, but Brannigan couldn’t when, the next day, Conor got a text that said I HAVE DANNY SO BE NICE TO ME. This time he went back to chez Brannigan to show him. Brannigan called Danny and he didn’t answer. He wasn’t home. Fon said he left for work, but over there they said he never arrived nor called.
Brannigan took the phone and punched in DON’T HURT HIM.
The reply was AH- HA- HA
Conor perceived that Brannigan was reconsidering this not- calling- the police when he got THEN DON’T CALLTHE COPS Conor thought, No Howler isn’t psychic. He knew the old man had limits. He tried to offer solace to Brannigan by saying, “He’s not looking for publicity with this. He just wants our cooperation.”
“Okay. Let’s play it. Maybe you can negotiate to speak to Danny.”
“I’ll try.”
He texted: WE WANT PROOF. LET US TALK TO DANNY.
What came back was: PROOF I HAVE HIM? WHERE ELSE IS HE?
Brannigan grabbed the phone with no concern for a glove. He typed:
PROOF YOU HAVE HIM AND PROOF OF LIFE
The cell was still in Brannigan’s hand when it rang. He answered, “Yes?”
“Danny”. Brannigan’s phone was on speaker.
Brannigan said, “Danny! How are you?”
“I can’t talk. All I can say is…” Disconnect.
Conor said, “Cancel that special.”
“I have to think. If I cancel we’ll endanger Danny. I never thought we could be filming his attempted murder.”
“I think it’s time you told me how we’re supposed to stop Howler.”
“Find out where he is, and the police will get him.”
“Could he be so stupid?”
“If he thinks he’s holding a chip.”
“That was your plan? A hostage?”
“He has to feel he has insurance.”
“So it had to be somebody.”
“Somebody.”
“Me?”
“Somebody.”
The phone rang again. Brannigan answered, ”Yes?”
Danny was whispering. “Howler’s in the bathroom. Turn the speaker down. I have to speak to Conor.”
Brannigan shut the speaker, passed the phone over. “Conor here.”
“There’s another CD. Don’t tell Brannigan. It’s in my apartment. Fon will show you. Howler’s coming back.” Danny was gone again.
Brannigan asked, “Well?”
“Nothing. Howler came back.”
Brannigan texted, WHO IS YOUR NEXT?
Howler replied “SOON TO BE REVEALED. YOU KNOW THE DATE”.
Fon let him in, and he told her, so far as he knew Danny was still alright.
She said, “ Danny shot this hiding in Tony’s glass booth with the lights off. You’re not going to like what you hear,” and she set up the DVD to the television.
Inspector Somchai was with Brannigan in the pub, in daytime because light was coming in the windows, and no customers or staff were in sight. House lights were on.
Somchai said, “Howler’s a mental case who fantasizes he’s an actor, studied for it in L.A. He’s an ex-con.”
“He’s an ex-con? He could harm Conor?”
“As far as we know he’s never hurt a fly. His sentences were for burglary with no one home, shoplifting, frauds. These murder confessions are the way he hopes to get his fifteen minutes. So I have a way to exploit those delusions, make your show a starburst”
“I’m listening.”
“There’s been a killing we kept from the media. I have a map I can give you. You can pass it anonymously to Howler, and he can show it to us publicly, claim proof of knowing details.”
“How did you get a map?”
“What?...Through our investigation. Confidential.
“And…You’ll prosecute him?”
“We’ll arrest him because of your show’s influence, then let him escape for a while.”
“He’s a killer.”
“His follow up calls will titillate you audience. He always has a latex mask on, so nobody knows what he looks like anyway, just the contours of his face. He can disguise by being himself, but we’ll keep watching him and re-arrest.”
“I just wish you’d tell me where you got the map.”
“Between you and me, it came in the mail.”
“Hah!”
“Sir, do we have a deal.”
“Yes, I think we do.”
“Deposit to my account in the Bahamas,, and you’ll get the map.”
“For half that today, can I get the map now?”
“Deposit today and you’ll get it today.”
“ I’ll have to shuffle some funds.”
“That’s acceptable.”\
They were live in the studio on July tenth when the call came from Howler’s number. His
cell had no GPS, was not registered. Conor was thinking, I still don’t know what he’ll
do, we don’t know where he is, but everybody in Bangkok who speaks any English,
including every cop, is watching now.
Find some of that magic Brannigan imagines I have, dally him, get him to keep
talking, until they find a way to track him.
There was no need to bother with phone greetings, but it could be Danny, so he
answered, “Conor.”
“Go-od. I’m ready for my close-up.”
“Yeah, Howler, this is your big day. Maybe…you would want to tell us why?
.Build the suspense a little.”
“I don’t care what anybody thinks. I do it for myself.”
“You don’t care? All the attention you’ve attracted.”
“They can think what they want. I’ll find peace when I die. I won’t become a
restless ghost if I get even. People have to pay.”
“Didn’t you get even already.”
“Not to the right person yet..”
“Some bad things must have happened to you.”
“Must have. I was like Charlie Manson. A serial killer in the making since a small
child.”
“How so?”
“You know. Violent abuse, molestation, abandonment, institutions. And revenge.”
“You sure about that?”
“Hey! What? Why would I lie about such a thing?”
“Maybe to brag. Bullshit us a little.What kind of institutions were you in?”
“Think you can track me through them?”
“No, actually I don’t.”
“Why not?”
Conor thought, Maybe I’m outing him too much. ”There isn’t time if today’s the
day.”
“But why do you want to know?”
“I’m trying to understand you, why you do it.”
“I was in orphanages, foster homes, juvie reform schools, prisons.”
“Wow! What kind of crimes were you charged with?”
“What do you think? Assaults, armed robberies, drugs.”
“Serious stuff, huh? What about murders?”
“ I’ve told you about them.”
“Let’s talk about today then.
” Okay.”
“Where is Danny? What are you doing with him?”
“You’ll see Danny very soon.”
“We will?”
“Absolutely.”
“When?”
“Right now. The stage door has a red light on. It’s locked. Open the door.”
“What?”
“Open the stage door and let him in”
Brannigan quickly bounded across the room and unlocked it. The door opened and
Danny walked in. He was holding a camera that was now a live stream showing on the
huge computer screen in the studio. He was accompanied by a tall uniformed policeman
with a pistol in one hand and a phone in the other, who push kicked Brannigan back into
the room and shut the door.
Conor said, “Holy shit.”
“We can put the devices away now that we’re face to face, Conor.” And to the camera
Danny was holding Howler said, “If you raid, you’ll get everybody in here killed.”
The not easily shocked Brannigan gasped, “How did you get past our security?
“Nobody’s seen my face before.” He was now unmasked and, Conor noted, yes as
ugly as sin. “A suggestion of law and order usually prevails.”
Brannigan said, “The police themselves are monitoring.”
“They didn’t get it.”
Conor thought keep talking, and asked, “Where did you get the uniform?”
Howler’s reply was condescension to a boy: “Why, a costume shop.”
Still hoping there could be no next, that maybe Howler had another plan to play out,
he asked, “So why are we honored by your visit today?”
“Well, Danny’s on crew. That leaves you two.”
He smiled and surveyed them.
They didn’t smile back. Conor said, “This is your big moment. Don’t you want to
explain your choice.?”
“I just don’t like either of you. Especially him.”
“There must be a reason for that.”
“He doesn’t like me. You said so.”
“I never said such a thing.”
“I once asked to talk to him, and you said he didn’t want to talk to me.”
“That was kind of a joke.”
“That’s why maybe you.”
They suddenly heard sirens and it got Howler agitated and shaking.
Brannigan said, “This is a sound proof stage. Those are special effects from a glitch.”
Howler said, “High pitch sounds can penetrate the studio.”
Conor said, “The police wouldn’t announce like that. This is noisy Bangkok. It’s
ambulances to an accident.”
That didn’t reassure Howler’s alarm, but as Conor persisted with, “They wouldn’t
come here so conspicuously”, the sirens stopped.
They stopped because they hear themselves and us talking.”
Conor said, “Some VIP is taking mom on a shopping excursion.”
Howler said, “They’re here.”
“Why haven’t they broken in?”
“Because you’re all hostages.”
Brannigan said, “Danny, fuck that camera.”
Howler pointed the gun at Danny and said, “Keep filming.”
Conor said, “Howler, don’t kill the wrong person.”
“I won’t.”
Brannigan suddenly lunged at him. Conor joined him. They all struggled for the gun as
Brannigan shouted “Danny, help us.”
Danny said, “I am,” and kept filming.
Conor was the smallest in the skirmish and got knocked to the ground. Wrestling
with Brannigan, but still in control of the gun, Howler chivalrously bent to help Conor
up. Howler’s position put the gun between his and Brannigan’s heads, and Brannigan
reached for it.The gun discharged and Howler and Brannigan both fell.
Conor shouted to Danny, “I think he shot your father.”
Danny said calmly, “No he didn’t”, though his line of sight was blocked by Conor, so
how could he know?
But no he didn’t. Howler’s head looked like a tomato squashed by a hammer.
As Brannigan was catching his breath, Conor marveled, “You shot him.”
Brannigan said, “No.”
“No/” That was Danny. “No, he didn’t. If I told you his plan, he would have killed me.
This was his moment.. I had to keep filming.”
Conor said to Brannigan, ’You both had hold of the gun.”
Brannigan replied, “I would have shot him, but I didn’t.”
“Danny, you could have stopped filming at the end.”
“I had to keep shooting.”
“What could he do to you when we were fighting him?”
“I couldn’t stop.”
“Why not?”
“Because he killed the person he came to kill.”
Brannigan said, “And it’s great television.”
The studio phone rang and Brannigan answered.
“Okay…Yes…Okay.”
He hung up. “The police don’t want to break our door in. Danny, can you open it? They
said there’s a EMS crew with them.”
Conor offered, “Maybe those were the sirens.”
“Who knows? Wrong responders for this occasion.”
Inspector Somchai, up for captain but not promoted yet, was in charge.
He said to Brannigan, “We have to detain you for investigation.”
And told a uniformed, “Handcuff him.”
Brannigan objected, “This is outrageous.”
“You shot him. Put your hands behind your back and turn around.”
“Wait. Let’s look at what happened.”
Somchai allowed that they replay the tape, and froze it at the shooting.
“Your hand is on the gun.”
“So is his.”
“You mean he shot himself?”
“Yes.”
“Why would he do that?”
“ He was crazy. Or maybe he didn’t mean to.”
“Went off by itself?.”
“ It might have”.
.
“They don’t just go off. Somebody has to pull the trigger.”
“Couldn’t happen in a struggle?”
“No. That’s simple science. Law of inertia has to come into play.”.
“But it could by accident.”
“Could, but that would have to be determined. in a courtroom. I suggest you find a
lawyer. Now, turn around, hands behind you.”
The police brought Conor and Danny along to the Tong Lor station to interview, though
everything that transpired in the studio was filmed in the stream. They didn’t see Mr B
once they got to the station, were told he was separately questioned and would be in
custody.
Conor and Danny left the police station together, talked as they walked down
toward Sukhumvit Road.
“Your old man doesn’t know about that CD Fon showed me?”
“No, of course not.”
As conflicted as Danny was about his father, he maintained a loyalty,
and the CD showed a complicity Somchai would never want revealed.
Danny said, “That video might not help him and we could all disappear.”.
“You think Somchai will follow through with a formal arrest?”
“He wants to distance himself.. But it will never result in a conviction. It’s a self
defense shooting.”
“What does Brannigan have on me?”
“I don’t think he has anything but the lap dancer. He always knew what you’ve
just recently learned. Everybody’s hiding something. Howler told me one of his secrets
when he had me prisoner.”
“Which was?”
“The map was to the spot where he buried his dog. They weren’t going to arrest him for
murder and then let him escape. They were going to release him. He never killed
anybody.”
“You know that?”
“It’s just logical. They had no evidence but a dog.”
“I wonder how the dog died.”
“Only Howler could have told you that.”
Conor met Onyx in his medical office in the Lad Prao district. Despite Onyx’s
promise of confidentiality, Conor wasn’t planning to tell him about the DVD, or his
knowledge that Brannigan had been willing to let Conor be a hostage to gain ratings.
He was getting paid well for the interview, and had to give Onyx something to put
in his book. So he made it up, “That day in the studio. I almost chickened out.”
“Why are you confessing that.”
“For truth. But I overcame it.””
“What if you hadn’t?”
“Oh, let’s not go there.” Thinking, bullshitting the bullshitter.
“Would you confess to it?
“Let’s not go there.”
“Wouldn’t want to be understood then?”
“Wouldn’t happen.”
“Didn’t happen, not wouldn’t. It happens.”
Conor thinking, Maybe we’re getting to one difference now between the confessional and the shrink’s office. Would anybody own to that one in the shrink’s office? Maybe if the shrink had no face. The priest didn’t see you, you could pick a confessor you didn’t know you, but their list of sins weren’t always the things you felt were sins. That one wasn’t.
Brannigan was right that everybody had a secret. Some would make one up to keep from telling the real one. Conor was an immediate case in point. That CD might get Brannigan out of jail, but revealing it could only bring Conor grief.
Some stories stayed untold. What was to be gained by telling them? He remembered the scroll above the confessional his first night at Brannigan’s pub. Bless me Father for I have spinned.