Joker In the Deck: A Haley and Willi Novel

By Larry M. Rosen

Haley and 3-M plan to kill The Termagant, but at a movie house, a clown opens fire, kills two people, and leaves an enigmatic note—What Would J Do? Thus begins an endgame rooted in 1635, conflating the psychotic Lomi; a killing machine named Übeltäter; natural philosopher Marin Mersenne; movie icon James Cagney; and the prime numbers series. Meanwhile, The Termagant leaves a prophetic note—Your demises shall be my right hand’s gift, but how shall I do it? Asked and answered. Soon, serial killer La Bohème begins murdering women, cutting out a section of cheek, and also leaving a note—She’s so perfect now, my chef-d'oeuvre. As the clown shootings escalate, Haley and 3-M engage in a battle at Kings Dominion, then learn a massacre to be seen by millions is being planned. But as they hunt the killers, the beasts decide to target their families, stoking Willi’s long repressed savagery. After deducing The Termagant’s identity, she hides her discovery, then confronts the killer on her own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781329440531

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Joker In the Deck: A Haley and Willi Novel

Joker in the Deck: A Haley and Willi Novel

By

Larry M. Rosen

Cover Page

Copyright Page

Copyright © 2015 by Larry M. Rosen

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

This Book Is

PUBLISHED BY LULU

(www.lulu.com)

First Edition: July 2015

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, businesses, companies, other organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

ISBN 978-1-329-44053-1

The author and publisher do not have any control over, and do not assume any responsibility for, third-party websites or their content.

Novels By Larry M. Rosen

The Haley And Willi Novels

Joker In The Deck

The Light In The Garden

A Shadow That Passes Away

Seal, Trumpet, And Vial

Cultural Landscapes

The Maxine Kordell Novels

I, Of Limited Mercy

The Nora Kelly Novels

Maranatha

The Emissary Novels

The Elixir Of Fools

Other Novels

Women Don’t Like Me

Acknowledgments

I’d like to acknowledge friends and colleagues whose names I modified and used for several characters—Ed Urquhart, my neighbor and friend, who rebuilt an entire cabinet for my butler’s pantry so it wouldn’t again rip out of the wall, although the cabinet’s store of Sam Adams may have been his true motivation; Cindy Flint, who now resides in Roanoke, Virginia, where she’ll have more quality time to spend with grandchildren Connor and Hayley; Larry Klapper, my software soul mate, who became the first father of the bride to mention pivot tables in a speech at his daughter’s wedding; Germana Miner, the world’s only Ph.D. in mathematics who is also an Italian Champion high diver, database developer, and Executive Chef; Sal Culosi, a brilliant logistician and singer of Frank Sinatra standards, who elevates karaoke wherever he performs, particularly now that he’s introduced audiences to his granddaughter Victoria; Stephanie Klapper, a wunderkind newly wed to Max, whose video presence brightens her brother James’ brilliant cinematography; Nora Mayers, my writing soul mate, who hasn’t been seen or heard from in so long, she’s been nicknamed Amelia; AnnaSara Dahlborg Carnahan, who has moved to Sweden, but continues to inspire my depiction of Miss Anna; Georgette Grossman, who now has a website on which to offer her magnificent photographs; Toni Nichols, who is currently residing in Germany, undoubtedly impressing her colleagues with her unique blend of technical skills, work ethic, health and healing efforts for those in need, and spirituality; Alex and Mary Jo McLaughlin, of Alderson and Charleston, West Virginia, a married couple I introduced over 40 years ago, a double date for which Mary Jo has never forgiven me; and especially Michelle Kordell, still the most dangerous woman on the planet, who, in her new position as Business Manager, ensures the timeliness of project deliverables and accounts receivable through the persuasiveness afforded by her Moro Kris.

A special thanks to my daughter, Samantha, who provided review and comment about the dust cover and book layout.

Dedication

To Marin Mersenne, René Descartes, Galileo Galilei, Blaise Pascal, Christiaan Huygens, Pierre de Fermat, and the other early advocates of natural philosophy, which became a cornerstone for what today is called the scientific method.

To the memory of James Cagney, a consummate performer and one of filmdom’s true originals, whether shooting a hoodlum, slapping around the Dead End kids during a staged basketball game, yelling Top of the world, ma from a burning oil tank, bullying Henry Fonda and Jack Lemmon in Mister Roberts, or gracefully tap dancing across the screen to a George M. Cohan song.

And to all comedians, humorists, and jesters—famous or not—who give us the gift of laughter. There are far too many to attempt an exhaustive, or even personal, list, but my favorite is the inimitable Don Rickles.

And, as always, for the two women who moved me to write—Nora Mayers and Michelle Ingrid Williams II.

Author’s Note

The fictional characters Rufus Backer, Brie Kelsey, Ellen Thom, and Carla Gretch are solely the author’s creation. Although some of their personal traits and history are loosely based on, respectively, CNN’s Wolf Blitzer, CNN’s Brianna Keilar, White House Press Corps member Helen Thomas, and Fox Network’s Gretchen Carlson, these characters are pure fiction. In some instances, their words are portions of direct quotes attributed to their real life counterparts by various Internet sources. In other instances, some of their words are the author’s paraphrases of reported quotes. In most instances, the words spoken by these characters are entirely the author’s invention.

Rayan Auzenne is an entirely fictitious character created by the author. Auzenne’s natural philosophy debate with historical figure Marin Mersenne at Mersenne’s Académie Parisienne is likewise pure fiction. The attack by Auzenne and his jesters on visitors to the Hall Of Mirrors in Versailles, France, is also totally fictitious.

The discussions between James Cagney and Benny Ford on movie sets, while Cagney is filming Yankee Doodle Dandy and Man Of A Thousand Faces, are solely the author’s creation, although they use or paraphrase several Internet quotes attributed to Cagney.

The physical and psychological effects of polio on Benny Ford are based on an article entitled, The Post-Polio Patient: Psychological Issues, written by Margaret E. Backman, Ph.D., a clinical psychologist working in the area of health psychology.

The phrase, Be grateful our scars have the power to remind us that the past was real, was spoken by Hannibal Lecter in the film version of Thomas Harris’ Red Dragon. In this novel, the phrase is shouted by a shooter at a screening of Red Dragon at the Centreville Multiplex.

The Burn Brae Dinner Theatre closed in 2001, but the author took the liberty of keeping it operating a little while longer. The author has many pleasant memories of their musical performances, including Oklahoma, The Pajama Game, and Gypsy.

The fictional telephone conversation among actress Joan Leslie, Haley, 3-M, and Nora Kelly is solely the author’s creation, although it uses or paraphrases quotes attributed to Joan Leslie by various Internet sources.

The fictional meeting among actor/director Joseph Pevney, his wife Margo, Haley, 3-M, and Nora Kelly is solely the author’s creation. It is based on the author’s familiarity with Pevney’s career, and a blog article in One Way Street, written by Alan K. Rode, a writer and film historian.

The That’s Amore Italian restaurant in Vienna, Virginia, the setting for a chapter in this novel, was open in 2002, but has since closed. The author has fond memories of many dishes served there, particularly the grilled squid.

Preamble

A joker is a little fool

who is different from everyone else.

He's not a club, diamond, heart, or spade.

He's not an eight or a nine, a king or a jack.

He is an outsider.

He is placed in the same pack as the other cards

but he doesn't belong there.

Therefore, he can be removed

without anybody missing him.

Jostein Gaarder, The Solitaire Mystery

When a joker dies, the joke remains.

Mokokoma Mokhonoana, The Confessions of a Misfit

If you ever play cards with your enemies,

you must never expect them of having the joker.

Vikrant Parsai

Like a madman who throws firebrands,

arrows, and death,

is the man who deceives his neighbor

and says, I am only joking!

Proverbs 26:18-19, ESV

My japery is jesting.

That is, pranks, jokes, or black humor

I employ to entertain, mask my own insecurities,

or deflate demagoguery, intolerance, or pomposity.

When there is genuine evil,

I replace the Joker In The Deck

with the Ace Of Spades.

Willi Mayers

Prologue

1635

Académie Parisienne

Paris, France

Marin Mersenne was born in 1588, and in mathematics circles is known for trying to develop a formula to generate prime numbers. He is perhaps best remembered as one who communicated mathematical knowledge throughout Europe prior to the advent of scientific journals. Notably, he disseminated Galileo’s ideas beyond Italy, and wrote about Torricelli’s barometric experiment, which led to Pascal’s work on the weight of air. Mersenne also defended Descartes and Galileo against criticism by The Catholic Church, worked to discredit alchemy and astrology, delved into music and acoustics, and proposed the pendulum as a timing device to Christiaan Huygens, which inspired the first pendulum clock.

Mersenne was feeling quite content at age 47. Earlier that year, his Académie Parisienne had been created, a forerunner of the French Academy of Sciences. The Académie was a meeting place where French mathematicians and philosophers of nature could share their research. The phrase philosophers of nature—or natural philosophers, as they were often called in the 17th Century—evolved to be termed natural science. Its adherents included René Descartes, Galileo Galilei, Blaise Pascal, Christiaan Huygens, and Pierre de Fermat.

Mersenne, some colleagues, and several invited newcomers were sitting in a room at the Académie. The purpose of the informal get together was to celebrate the Académie’s birth, and to discuss differences between classical philosophy and natural philosophy, particularly their scope and methods.

Mersenne was dressed in a loose fitting brown cassock, which featured a thick hood that bunched up at the nape of his neck. His dark hair had receded into a pronounced widow’s peak, and he sported a well trimmed beard and moustache. The other men in the room were also informally garbed, and all were seated in upholstered chairs arranged somewhat in a circle.

Mersenne was about to welcome everyone when a young man Mersenne did not know—he had been invited by a colleague—rose to speak. The man, quite tall, but small boned, had auburn hair, and mesmerizing large green eyes. Although this interruption was a breach of etiquette, Mersenne offered no objection, since the motif of the get together stressed informality, the sine qua non for the sharing of knowledge and opinions.

Classical philosophy is a gift from the ancient Greeks, the young man began. "The word philosophy itself means love of wisdom, and was first coined by no less a personage than Pythagoras. It has a long tradition of shining light upon the most complex and important issues and problems facing humanity."

The practice of classical philosophy has indeed shined a light on issues and problems, Mersenne agreed. But I fail to see that it has solved anything, unless one seeks to minimize unemployment among classical philosophers.

There were several chuckles around the room, which seemed to unsettle the young man.

Philosophy permits us to study fundamental problems of existence, reason, values, and knowledge, the young man continued, using a critical and systematic approach that relies on rational argument.

What is your name? Mersenne asked.

Rayan Auzenne.

Your views suggest you have studied classical philosophy rather extensively, perhaps at university.

I have.

And your certainty that classical philosophy is the preeminent tool of a superior intellect marks you as a devoted disciple.

I trust that it does.

You do realize that such absolute certainty also marks you as a young man with a naiveté that has not yet matured with seasoning.

Auzenne turned crimson.

Pardon me if I embarrassed you, Mersenne said. Please accept my sincere apology. I have been a less than optimal host.

Your nouveau natural philosophy is but the latest fad parading itself as critical thinking, Auzenne said, ignoring the offered truce.

Hardly nouveau, Mersenne replied. Historically, there have been several great thinkers who were rather critical about the pretentiousness of acclaimed philosophers. Some of their views are at the core of natural science, reflecting their belief that an antidote was needed for unproductive philosophical musings. Today, we strive to distinguish science from classical philosophy, particularly when such a distinction is directed at the fanaticism and superstition that often accompanies the unholy conflation of theology with philosophy.

You are little more than an intellectual heretic, Auzenne said. You steadfastly refuse to see the abundance of fruit the tree of philosophy has manifested.

Abundance of fruit? I see no fruit whatsoever. The failed search for primary truths that confounds classical philosophy today is as severe as in the first centuries. The emerging school of natural philosophy rests upon the predictable reoccurrence of assured phenomena, which provide a basis for sound reasoning. Your classical approach leaves us with only deeply sunken truths that stubbornly resist the light the mind can shine upon them. Natural philosophy removes much of nature’s shroud, and permits humanity to plainly see the marvels nature offers.

Monsieur Mersenne, your blatant apostasy will yet bring you before those with the light and the lash to curb your blasphemous tongue.

On that point, my young inquisitor, you are likely correct. Should that come to pass, I would welcome my destiny, so long as it was accompanied by a measurement device, and an unbiased recorder to document the observable and quantifiable indicators of my demise.

Auzenne, now red-faced, rose, turned on his heel, then strode from the room.

*     *     *     *     *

Rayan Auzenne was angry, mostly at himself. He had always been an artful debater, articulate and nimble minded. Yet he had been little more than an accusatory bumbler in his confrontation with Marin Mersenne.

Why was that? Auzenne asked himself. Aah. Anger was my undoing. In debate, one must never allow one’s anger to cloud tactics. But why did I permit that to happen? Of course. I became angry the moment I spied Mersenne.

Auzenne, who had been walking along a cobblestone street, thought hard about the question.

I consider Mersenne to be a traitor, twice over no less. Mersenne was educated at a Jesuit college, then studied theology at the Sorbonne and the Collège de France. Later, he entered the Roman Catholic Order of Minims. Subsequently, he taught classical philosophy and theology at College de Nevers. So his roots were in both Mother Church and classical philosophy. Yet he betrays both in his obsessive quest to spread the heresy of natural philosophy.

Auzenne spied a tavern coming up on his right.

I am oscillating between anger and depression. Perhaps a tankard or two will lift my spirits.

Auzenne entered the tavern, and the tankard or two quickly became six or seven. Two hours later, he left the tavern, walking unsteadily. Before him was a large pile of trash. As he approached, a putrid odor overwhelmed him. He leapt to his left, into the center of the cobblestone street, where he was run down by a horse drawn carriage. The carriage’s passenger ordered the driver not to stop.

*     *     *     *     *

1640

Beaune, France

Beaune, France, a walled city with battlements, ramparts, and moats, features landmarks such as the Halles, the Hospices, the Beffroi, and the Collégiale Notre-Dame. Centered on a plain by the hills of Côte d’Or, Beaune sits amid the Corton-Charlemagne, La Romanée-Conti, and Pommard vineyards, making it the capital of the wine region. Its multi-colored roofs gaze down on cobbled streets featuring boutiques that offer Bresse chickens, Jura cheeses, truffles, wine, fruit liquor, chocolate, cold cooked meats from charcuteries, and sweet pastries and cakes from patisseries. Rayan Auzenne had come to love life in Beaune, although the demands of his unanticipated current profession afforded him scant time there.

Five years earlier, Auzenne had been a physically shattered man, when two men and a woman came upon him lying unconscious in a Paris street. One of the men, burly and powerful, lifted Auzenne, then carried him to a nearby house where his three rescuers were temporarily quartered. They called for a physician, and were quite surprised that Auzenne survived the next few days. His right arm and left leg were crushed beyond any hope of repair. Several ribs and his clavicle were also fractured, but the physician assured them they would eventually heal.

Auzenne had few cogent memories of his early recovery days, as pain and sleep alternately engulfed him. His earliest memory was of three people smiling at him as he lied on a bed. Oddly, all three, including the woman, were bald. As his senses fully returned, he learned that the burly man, Gauthier, had a hunched back, the other man, Abelin, was a dwarf, and the woman, Jocelyne, had but one leg. Jocelyne walked with a crutch, and her second leg, now a stump, was hidden beneath the floor length dresses she customarily wore.

As his recovery progressed, Auzenne began to feel a close kinship with his three rescuers. They were all impaired in some way, as he was now. This made it easier for him to accept his misfortune, as they became colleagues in his adversity. Also, he was surprised to learn they were jesters, and their combined absence of high dudgeon allowed him to ward off the darker impulses that often accompanied his now permanent physical condition.

Auzenne had a modest nest egg, and a steady income from various properties bequeathed to him by his deceased parents. He offered his new friends a bargain. He would pay for their food and lodging if they stayed with him until he was sufficiently healed to travel. He would also purchase a new wagon for the trio, if they allowed him to join their troupe, and trained him accordingly. The current wagon was old and unreliable, and its latest breakdown was the reason for the trio’s temporary respite in Beaune. The trio, unaccustomed to the company of an educated upper class man of means, immediately accepted Auzenne’s offer. It didn’t hurt that they were mesmerized by Auzenne’s large green eyes, which made his intelligence and wit all the more hypnotic.

A little over a year after his accident, Rayan Auzenne began his new life on the road as a jester. After the troupe performed one night in Beaune, Auzenne, taken by the beauty of the locale, asked his fellow jesters if they would mind remaining there for a few days. They agreed, and all became so enthralled by the walled city, that they decided to make it their home base.

*     *     *     *     *

1687

Versailles, France

In the early 1600’s, Versailles was a country village located twelve miles southwest of Paris. What came to be the Palace Of Versailles was originally a hunting lodge for King Louis XIII completed in 1634. By 1682, Versailles had become the official residence of King Louis XIV, who had moved from Paris to make Versailles the heart of French government. Louis XIV turned the Palace into an international showpiece, featuring magnificent surrounding gardens and fountains.

In 1686, the Palace’s Hall of Mirrors was completed. Located on the first floor, the Hall—an immense 240 feet by 34 feet, with a soaring forty foot ceiling—offered unobstructed views of the surrounding landscape via seventeen ornate windows. A total of 578 large mirrors were hung opposite the windows to enhance the light pouring in during the day. Chandeliers were hung from the ceiling, which was decorated with paintings celebrating Louis XIV’s reign.

Rayan Auzenne was now in his seventies, and his troupe of jesters, which had swelled to around fifty, was acclaimed across France. They had been invited to participate in the celebration marking the first anniversary of the completion of the Hall Of Mirrors. The troupe had arrived at the Palace a day early, and were excited to wander around the grounds and the Versailles countryside. Auzenne, however, feeling his age, had decided to stay behind, indulge his penchant for introspection, and, perhaps, catch up on some sleep.

Quite the paradox, Auzenne thought, sitting on a blanket laid out on the grass next to the troupe’s eight wagons. I stay behind, hoping to sleep, yet my melancholy prevents me from doing so. Why is that?

Auzenne pondered this for several minutes, then sighed audibly.

"I have enjoyed life on the road, and the companionship of my jesters. My jesters. Indeed. They have honored me by naming me their leader. This is a significant accolade within our world. Why, then, am I so dejected? Of course. My tomorrows will soon come an end, so to what has my life amounted? A title and the acclaim of jesters."

When I was young, I saw myself as a polemicist and classical philosopher, using both to defend the Church against the rising tide of natural philosophy heresy. Yet here I am, absent from that holy crusade, as this poisonous natural science gathers increasing influence over the professions, the masses, and even, in some quarters, Mother Church. Stopping this vile outpouring of apostasy should have been my life’s calling. The temerity of these heretics—these enemies of God—knows no bound. Telescopes, and microscopes, and assorted measurement contraptions can never begin to understand the majesty of God’s tapestry. And I could have stopped it, all of it, with my words and my pen. I …

Auzenne, suddenly annoyed at himself, slammed his fist on the ground.

I would have stopped nothing. I deceive myself. I failed in my maiden opportunity, when I allowed my anger at Marin Mersenne to cloud my reason. And I would have assuredly failed again. I lack the temperament to calmly compete in the marketplace of ideas.

Auzenne looked off towards some distant trees, sadness in his eyes.

"I played the fool in the presence of Marin Mersenne. And now I play the fool once more, routinely in fact, as I demean myself before the aristocracy and the wealthy. The aristocracy. The wealthy. Vapid, venal, condescending, as they squat on their true or fancied thrones. And the audience comprised of the peasant masses. No better. A largely scoffing and mocking group of buffoons, devoid of any real compassion for our suffering. … Our suffering. My jesters. We are little more than the latest version of the Roman gladiators, providing gawkers with entertainment, courtesy of our misfortune and suffering."

Auzenne slammed the ground again. He was becoming very angry. Lately, he had often become livid, particularly when alone with his reveries. First would come regret, for his life that never would be. Following that, he would vividly imagine an alternative reality, where he metaphorically slew the dragons of natural philosophy. Then, a deep depression would beset him, as he was forced to discard his fantasies. Finally, from deep within him, a great rage would stir, then overwhelm him with hate.

The aristocracy, the wealthy, the peasants. They have betrayed the march of reason, and been disloyal to Mother Church, often using their growing secular power to stay her righteous hand as she sought to chastise heresy. And these children of privilege, these parasites, these fools called the masses, these betrayers of God, they all dare to mock me and mock my jesters. Their laughter reeks of sardonicism, rather than a warm response to my troupe’s artistry. Their mirth is derisive, a modern version of the thumbs down gesture that sealed the fate of defeated gladiators.

"Gladiators. Of course. We must become true gladiators. And what exactly were these denizens of the arena? Gladiator is but a euphemism. They were killers. So be it. I have been elected the leader of jesters. I am a mock monarch. During the holiday period, I rule, as life is turned upside down, and masters bow to their servants. Then I preside over all, and I wield the power to command anyone to do my bidding."

Auzenne suddenly remembered the trio that had saved him, then helped launch his new life. That had been some fifty years earlier, in another reality. And all three were now long dead. Did they regret their lives? Did they feel any sense of accomplishment? Were their lives even an iota more than subsistence and survival?"

Forgive me, Jocelyne, Abelin, and Gauthier, my dear and loyal friends, for what I now do. But I will not sully your memories, or bring shame to our world of jesters. For the first time, I give meaning—true meaning—to our world, and bring chastisement to our tormentors.

Auzenne frowned, as something occurred to him.

How will history know the true meaning of what I intend to do? … Of course. A letter. I shall write a letter, then post it to the Académie des sciences, that bastard child of Mersenne’s foul Académie Parisienne. Yes, that will do rather nicely. I shall have another opportunity to confront Mersenne, albeit posthumously on both our parts. And this time, I possess the seasoning Mersenne said I lacked as a youth.

Auzenne smiled slightly, stared blankly across the sea of grass that surrounded him, then his expression became livid.

Now, and again later from beyond the grave, Mersenne, I shall savage those who torment my world of jesters. Your unwitting bequest, Mersenne, will be the eternal fuel for my rage, the wrath of my jesters, and the fury of jesters yet unborn. And this time, my now seasoned, well-honed blade will cut deeply.

Auzenne began to compose his letter.

*     *     *     *     *

It was evening, the planned festivities had ended, and guests, entertainers, and servants were moving about the Hall of Mirrors. The chandeliers had all been lit, and their reflections filled the seventeen windows looking out upon the darkened landscape. The 578 large mirrors, hung opposite the windows, created surreal images that mixed reflections of the attendees with visual echoes of the chandeliers and outside terrain.

Rayan Auzenne and his troupe of jesters moved among the crowd, accepting compliments about their performance, engaging in small talk, and occasionally accepting an offered drink or hors d’oeuvre from a tray carried by a roving servant. From time to time, Auzenne would nod slightly at one of the guests, identifying that person as a primary target. A jester would then casually walk towards the marked person, and remain nearby. Most of the targets were members of the aristocracy, or were wealthy businessmen. Some were moderately well known adherents of natural philosophy.

When all but one of the targets had been selected, Auzenne moved next to the last, his own intended victim, a man who was a prominent member of the Académie des sciences. Auzenne nodded his head up and down three times, indicating to his followers that he was ready. He decided to make his statement in French and English, since some of the attendees had traveled from England.

Je ne veux plus te revoir, Auzenne began, his voice shrill. I never want to see you again. Allez-vous-en. Go away. Bon débarras. Good riddance. Je suis très en colère contre vous. I am very angry with you. J’ai dépassé le stade de la colère. I am beyond angry. Maintenant je suis furibond, hors-de-moi. Now I’m furious, beside myself with anger. Je vous déteste. I hate you.

Most attendees smiled or laughed nervously, believing that Auzenne was about to amuse them with some new entertainment. Even when Auzenne produced a long dagger, the smiles and guffaws continued.

I am Lomi, the destroyer of Marin Mersenne’s heretical heirs, and the slayer of those who mock my jesters’ pain, Auzenne screamed, as he plunged the dagger into the neck of the man from the Académie des sciences.

As blood immediately began flowing, there was an audible gasp from the crowd, then screams began, as jesters across the immense Hall Of Mirrors began stabbing persons standing near them.

Drawn by the crowd’s screams, and cries for assistance from several musketeers already in the room, some two dozen musketeers came running into the Hall. The musketeers wore high boots, and a wide-brimmed hat with a feather plume. Each wore a draped tabard, which displayed either a cross or a fleur-de-lis. Each also carried a musket fitted with a bayonet that plugged into its barrel, as well as a rapier. The muskets were single shot, black powder weapons that took a long time to reload, which is why the bayonet and rapier were necessary accompaniments.

The musketeers began firing at the jesters, and within no more than a minute, half of the jesters were dead or dying. The remaining jesters—untrained in combat, suffering from at least one disability, and armed only with a dagger—were no match for the bayonets and rapiers that quickly ended their lives.

Rayan Auzenne did not even try to defend himself as a musketeer ran him through with a rapier. Auzenne went to his knees, his hands clutching at the wound in his stomach. As his vision began to blur, Auzenne looked up at one of the immense chandeliers, his now befuddled mind believing he was kneeling in prayer before God’s holy light.

I have honored God, Mother Church, and my beloved jesters, Auzenne managed, blood streaming from his mouth. And now God shall honor me.

Clowns And Serial Killers

Yankee Doodle Dandy

1942

Warner Brothers Studio

Burbank, California

James Cagney was alone in a rehearsal hall, practicing the Give My Regards To Broadway dance number he’d be performing in Yankee Doodle Dandy, a biographical film on the life of George M. Cohan. Cagney, a former hoofer who’d gone on to gain acclaim as an actor, was best known for playing gangsters in such films as Public Enemy, The Roaring Twenties, and Angels With Dirty Faces, for which he’d received an Oscar nomination.

Cagney, normally an introspective man given to losing himself in deep thought in a crowd, was feeling ebullient. Playing George M. Cohan gave him a break from his customary screen persona, although he knew the Warner Brothers writers would find a way to show off the tough guy the audience expected. Since he was still a hoofer at heart, the film allowed him to revisit his Broadway chorus boy roots. And there was a bonus—his sister, Jeanne Cagney, was in the flick, playing Cohan’s sister, Josie.

Besides, he thought, I`m sick of carrying guns and beating up women. Once a song and dance man, always a song and dance man. Those few words tell as much about me professionally as there is to tell.

Cagney practiced the number several times, then made a few adjustments to how he pretended to teeter at the edge of a pier, and how he kicked a barrel without facing it. Satisfied, he went to his dressing room, then lied down and closed his eyes. In an hour, they’d be ready for him on the set. They’d do a last rehearsal that made sure he hit his marks, and that the camera angles were appropriate. If all went well, they’d shoot the scene.

*     *     *     *     *

A week later, Cagney was in a dress rehearsal for The Belle of the Barber’s Ball song and dance number in Yankee Doodle Dandy. He was doing the scene with Walter Huston, Rosemary DeCamp, and his sister, Jeanne. They were all costumed in clown getups.

Off to the side, away from the spotlights, Benny Ford—a 15 year old who had lied when he said he was 18—was working as a stagehand. Benny idolized Cagney, as did most of the crew. Cagney saw himself as a working class guy, and the crew as people no different than he. Cagney was known to purposely delay filming so the studio would have to pay the crew overtime to finish the scene. And Cagney would talk to Benny, real talk, not the phony I’m just one of the guys bullshit you got from some of the other movie stars on the Warner Brothers lot.

Benny walked with a decided limp, and had lost some functionality in his usually stiff left arm, the result of polio he’d contracted as a kid. He was lucky he’d survived, although he was often bitter about what he considered two deformities. And why not. He knew he was a nice looking kid, well built, just under six feet tall. He had auburn hair, and striking green eyes. Girls often stared at him. At least they did until they saw him get up and limp around, or struggle using his left arm. After that, they were cool, avoided eye contact, and kept their distance.

Benny realized it was time to report to an Assistant Director on the set, to see if he needed anything. Benny disliked the AD, since the man was always tense, often insulting, and on several occasions had shoved Benny around.

The AD, a man named Berkeley Bass, was sitting in a director’s chair, which was located several feet away from the set. The film’s director, Michael Curtiz, had been summoned by Jack Warner, the studio head, and had asked Bass to have everything ready to shoot when he returned.

As Benny limped over to Bass, he failed to see a small stool sitting in the shadows. His right foot—the one not impaired by polio—got tangled with one of the stool’s legs. As Benny struggled not to fall, his weight inadvertently shifted to his left leg, then he staggered, lost his balance completely, and crashed into Bass. Both men lied on the floor, tangled together.

Bass roughly shoved Benny away, then stood over the boy. Benny tried to stand, couldn’t, then wound up on his knees, staring up at the AD. Bass bent over, then slapped the boy hard.

Damn cripple, can’t you watch where you’re goin’.

Sorry, Mister Bass. I didn’t see the stool.

Damn cripple, Bass repeated, then raised his hand to strike Benny again.

I bet you slap women, kick dogs, and whip horses, Cagney said, grabbing Bass’ wrist before he could slap Benny.

Cagney slapped Bass on his left cheek, reversed the slap hitting Bass on the right cheek, slapped him on the top of his nose, then slapped him a fourth time under the chin. Cagney balled his right fist, saw that Bass had no fight in him, lowered his hand, then shoved the AD back several feet.

What’s goin’ on? Michael Curtiz asked, walking onto the set.

Whadya hear, Mike, whadya say? Cagney replied, using the line he’d made famous as Rocky Sullivan in Angels With Dirty Faces.

Berkeley, you bullying people again? Curtiz asked. I thought I’d straightened you out about that.

I lost my temper, Mister Curtiz. I see that now. A house doesn't have to fall on me.

It might help, Cagney said, giving Bass the same look he’d given the bartender who’d called him a sucker in The Roaring Twenties."

I apologize, Bass said.

Does that satisfy you, Jimmy? Curtiz asked.

I'll bury the hatchet, Cagney replied. Right in his thick skull.

You’re not much for forgiving, are you, Bass said.

Forgive your enemies, but first get even.

You want some time before we shoot, Jimmy? Curtiz asked.

Yeah. I want to talk to Benny, make sure he’s okay.

Cagney walked over to Benny, put an arm around him, then ushered him to a corner away from everyone.

You okay, kid?

Yes, sir. Thanks for helpin’ me out. The AD’s pushed me around before.

I don’t think he will again, Cagney said.

Will I get fired over this?

Nah. You’re in a union. That’s why unions are so good. Some big shot tries to push a little guy around, the little guy has brothers who push back.

Why’d you stick your neck out for me? You’re a star.

Kid, I hate the word star. I have never been able to think in those terms. They are overstatements. You don`t hear them speak of Shakespeare as a star poet. You don`t hear them call Michelangelo a star painter. They only apply the word to this mundane market.

But you didn’t have to help me.

No, I didn’t. But I wanted to, and I was able to. One day, you help out another working man. Then we’re even.

Benny looked at Cagney. His savior was wearing an ivory satin clown top, with black and red stripes, black yarn buttons, and matching pants and hat. The image of Cagney dressed as a clown would remain permanently etched in Benny’s memory, although it would be many years until the imagery would change his life.

Man Of A Thousand Faces

1957

Stage 28, Universal Studios

Universal City, California

Joseph Pevney, Director of the film, Man Of A Thousand Faces, was looking over a checklist he’d prepared for a scene he was about to shoot. The film was a biography of the great silent film actor, Lon Chaney, and James Cagney was brilliantly playing the lead role, based on the earlier rushes Pevney had seen. Pevney—himself a former actor, perhaps best known for the role of Shorty in Body And Soul, a boxing flick starring John Garfield—respected Cagney, both as an actor and a man. Like Cagney, Pevney had appeared in independent films, and was well known for early film noir.

When he believed he was prepared to shoot the scene, Pevney had an assistant go to Cagney’s dressing room to let him know they were ready for him on the set. The scene required Cagney to recreate a mute clown, a character Chaney had played in one of his vaudeville acts.

Benny Ford, now 30, was still making a modest living as a stage hand. He was excited when he’d learned he’d been assigned to work on a set where Cagney was shooting a scene. He wondered if Cagney would remember him, although Benny’s features hadn’t changed much over the intervening fifteen years.

Day dreamin’ again, Ford, a male voice snapped at him.

Benny turned to see Al Crandall, an Assistant Director, scowling at him.

It’s bad enough you’re slow as shit movin’ things around, Crandall said, but now I’ve gotta put up with you day dreamin’. What you thinkin’ about, Ford? A baseball career? Your name ain’t Whitey. Or maybe you think there’s an Olympic sprinter in your future?

Sorry, Mister Crandall. I’m just excited about working with Mister Cagney again. I haven’t worked with him in a long time. So I was remembering when he was playing George M. Cohan. Got an Oscar for that, you know.

Get your head on straight, the AD snapped. The scene has a violinist, but somebody forgot to move the violin stand that’s supposed to be in front of the guy onto the set. So go get it pronto.

Yes, sir, Mister Crandall. Right away.

Benny limped off, perused the areas around the set, found the violin stand, then tried to lift it. His stiff left arm made that difficult, so Benny grabbed a low slung four wheel cart, then managed to hoist the violin stand onto it. Benny then began pulling the cart over to the set.

Goddammit, Ford, you can’t drag that prop the way you drag your leg, the AD screamed. You’re gonna damage it.

No, sir, Mister Crandall. I’ve got it on a cart. It won’t be harmed.

You contradictin’ me, Ford? Get the hell off my set, you damn cripple.

It’s not your set, James Cagney said, standing behind the AD, an angry expression on his face. It’s Joe Pevney’s set, and for a few minutes it’ll also be mine. Or do you disagree with me about that?

No, sir, Mister Cagney. I was just …

Shaddup, Cagney snapped, in a street tough voice, suddenly looking like a hoodlum. You insult a working man with a disability, you lose your right to speak. So get out of my sight before I deal with you the way Cody Jarrett would. Jarrett was the psychopathic killer Cagney had played almost a decade earlier in White Heat.

Crandall left the set, then Cagney turned to Benny.

Whadya hear, whadya say, Cagney said, showing Benny a huge smile. What’s it been? Fifteen years?

You remember me, Mister Cagney?

"Of course I do. You did a great job for us on Yankee Doodle Dandy. Say, how is it you look the same, and I look more like a mutt than ever?"

You don’t look like a mutt, Mister Cagney.

I’ve always had a mutt’s mug, Cagney said, grinning, and a bit of the gutter snipe in me. That’s what the public liked, and some of that was in every role I played.

But you played so many different characters.

Kid, all I try to do is to realize the man I`m playing fully, then put as much into my acting as I know how. To do it, I draw upon all that I`ve ever known, heard, seen, or remember. And a lot of that is mug and gutter snipe. Anyway, what have you been up to since 1942?

Same as back then. Stagehand. It pays the bills, and keeps me in groceries.

Married? Any kids?

Naw. Uh, have you been doing things besides acting?

Some. I paint a little, live in the country, own a farm, and raise horses. I believe the world needs simplicity, honesty, and decency, and you find them more often in the country than in the city. I like to be where animals are, and things are growing.

You were very political in the forties, a big FDR guy, a Democrat. You were always out to help the working man. Uh, I hope you don’t mind me sayin’ that. I guess that’s kind of personal.

It’s okay, kid. We’re old pals catching up. I did get involved in some political campaigns, generally on the side of the Democrats. I also had several scraps with Jack Warner, even left Warner Brothers for awhile. He named me the Professional Againster. But as I got older, I became more conservative. Same thing happened to my close friend, Ronald Reagan. We both felt moving away from the Truman Era Democrats was totally natural because of the undisciplined elements growing there, notably the hippies and their unproductive mind set.

Jimmy, we’re ready to shoot, Joseph Pevney said.

Gotta get to work, Benny. Nice seeing you again, kid.

As Cagney walked off, Benny suddenly realized the actor was made up as a clown, and wearing a clown outfit.

*     *     *     *     *

Benny was feeling very depressed. He was sitting in the small living room of his apartment, and, as was often the case when he was thinking, the lights were off. Benny liked the darkness. He sometimes wished the world was shrouded in perpetual darkness, so his deformities would be invisible. Maybe then people would see him, really see him. Most didn’t, as they tried not to stare pitifully at him, pretending his shattered arm and leg weren’t there.

My life’s gone nowhere, Benny thought. I’m still struggling to make ends meet as a stagehand, just like fifteen years ago when I last worked with Cagney. And some son-of-a-bitch AD is still pushing me around, then Cagney saves my butt. And Cagney’s again dressed in a clown getup. Who’d a believe that? So nothin’s changed. Not one damn thing, except I’m older.

Benny’s introspection turned to bitterness, then anger.

Clown outfit. That reminds me. I’ve been reading about jesters. I didn’t know that so many of them were deformed, just like me.

Benny rose, turned the living room lights on, then placed several library books he’d been reading next to a straight back wood chair positioned by a floor lamp. He turned on the lamp, then sat down.

Benny turned to the bookmark in the history text he’d been reading, then skimmed ahead a few pages, so he’d have an idea of what was coming. His eye caught an odd word. Lomi. Was that a foreign word, or perhaps a name or place? Curious, Benny began to read. When he’d finished, he stopped, suddenly feeling very bitter.

The jesters are like me. Deformed, hard working, and lonely. They were in the show business of their time, but their audiences pitied or mocked them, hiding their true feelings behind phony smiles of amusement. That’s just like me. My audience, the people I try to please, are Assistant Directors, and most of them treat me like I’m not there, or they abuse me. I’m no different to them than one of the carts I use to bring props to the set. That’s what I am to them. A piece of equipment. A prop.

Benny scowled, then his face became very angry.

"Man Of A Thousand Faces. That’s what I must become. Not a master of makeup and costume changes, though. But still a man who presents more than one face to the entertainment industry. The nice face of Benny, always anxious to please, to be sure. Let them believe that nothing has changed. Benny the pleaser is still here to serve you. But now a second face will be added. An angry face. A deadly face. A fearsome face that bears the name nobody but me knows. Lomi. Yes, Lomi. I read his letter. He was right. His vision was right. His plan to punish his enemies was right, too. How clever you were, Lomi. So far ahead of your time. And you even looked like me. Auburn hair. Striking green eyes. You even limped, just as I do. We are one. Am I Lomi reincarnated?"

Benny became very agitated, but then it quickly passed.

I’m Benny Ford, not an ancient jester. Am I nuts? I’m a stagehand, not a jester, and certainly not a killer.

Benny thought about everything for a few minutes, then felt himself getting drowsy.

I can fantasize about it, can’t I. That doesn’t hurt anything. Besides, it would take years for me to get there, maybe even decades.

Benny leaned back, closed his eyes, then fell asleep.

Académie Parisienne

1968

Académie Parisienne Storefront

Huntington Beach, California

Benny Ford was now almost 41 years old. During the past eleven years, he had begun preparations to abandon his old life, then start over from scratch, although his precise goals were uncertain.

Sitting at a table in a coffee house on New Year’s Day, Benny thought about the path that had led him to this current turning point in his life.

A decade earlier, Benny had given up his apartment, then begun sponging off fellow studio workers for short periods of time, telling them he was trying to save money to take college night courses. During the intervals when no one housed him, Benny slept overnight at the studio, which had restrooms and showers. This allowed him to build a modest nest egg to eventually finance his still vague plans.

Five years earlier, Benny had begun to court the disaffected. He went to rallies, joined protests, and contributed to flyers about the exploitation of workers, blacks, and women in the movie industry, which was, after all, a bastion of the capitalism the disaffected hated. His good looks and mesmerizing green eyes had appealed to many in the counterculture, who viewed his disabilities as symbols of repression by the dominant society. What Benny had once seen as a handicap limiting his advancement, he now came to view as an asset, if stage-managed properly. And Benny had learned a lot about stage management from brilliant directors, who knew how to build and milk audience tension and expectations. Benny also discovered he possessed an innate oratorical skill, with an ability to sway people, particularly the young, angry, and impressionable ones. Benny took every opportunity to hone this skill.

I was a non-person for so long, Benny thought, sipping a decaf. I was once merely a shadow off to one side of a movie set. But now I’m on stage, maybe even ready to become a star.

Benny recalled a recent conversation.

"What was it that young girl said to me? Benny, you should start your own protest group. I’d join. Many of my friends would, too. We’ve been searching for someone who tells it like it is, who knows how the masses, women, and minorities are exploited and kept down. And you never hoke it up by throwing in any of that religious crap. We don’t want holier than thou bullshit, or morality plays about not smoking pot, or lectures about not making love whenever we damn well feel like it."

I see opportunity in this, Benny, the voice called Lomi said. "We can start small, build, then unleash our power on those who mock us. Let’s use the disaffected. Let them believe we stand for free love, the right to do drugs, libertarianism, socialism, communism, or any other ideology these morons espouse. They will join us, support us, then be used by us to destroy