Darth and the Puppeteers

By Michael Davidson

Every Friday evening in an office six doors off Colorado Boulevard, Pasadena California, Jon Sadler and three fellow psychotherapists practice a therapeutic intervention with hand puppetry in an attempt to assist their clients in drawing out the dark side of their personalities, what Carl Jung coined as the Shadow. The depth of their combined knowledge assures them of the benign nature of their undertaking so that they were unprepared for the results of their efforts and unaware that the neighborhood killings were intimately related to their little friends. Not far, as the crow flies on the north side of Riverside Drive, lay the Glendale site of Forrest Lawn Cemeteries, a two hundred acres of cultivated earth reserved for the dead. At the summit of the enriched soil, Jon Sadler's friend and associate, Darth, lay quietly at rest in his vaultlike crypt, at least that was where he was supposed to be. Darth was never really human. He had appeared and befriended Jon Sadler in a combined effort to eradicate the demon, Samael, the angel of death who had taken up residency in the Ocean Front Mall in Long Beach. The culmination of that effort resulted in Darth's demise, and Darth's body, which was not really his body, was interred. Now Darth is needed in Pasadena, and that's where our story begins. Cover Art: Douglas F. Jones

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9781642982442

Michael Davidson

Michael Davidson is Professor of Literature at the University of California, San Diego. He is the author of The San Francisco Renaissance: Poetics and Community at Mid-Century (1991) and several books of poetry.

Book preview

One

Ihad followed his directions to a tee. Darth had been very specific on how his body should be cared for if he did not survive the investigation and how his crypt, or tomb, which I prefer, should be designed and constructed. The location of his remains was apparently of no concern; he’d left that to my discretion.

My name is Jon Sadler. I am a psychiatrist; however, I make my living practicing psychotherapy. As a psychiatrist, I am free to scribble those little notes when I fail to convince a patient that, in the grand scheme of things, they are completely normal. I was also a friend and associate of Darth’s until about a year ago when he was shot dead by Mark Salatori, a young man who had been, well, possessed is the only word I can think of for what had occurred. For details, you can read my last journal, now available in paperback under the name of Toy Store.

After the conclusion of the case in which Darth was killed, I continued doing profiles for the Los Angeles Police Department and my friend, Homicide Detective Larry Radino. Sometimes, my part in a case would go beyond profiling, and I would participate, shall we say, in a more tangible capacity. Such was the case a few years ago when Darth and I got involved in the investigation of a series of murders. And you can check that affair out in the paperback with the catchy name The Mad Thing.

It was Thursday, the thirty-first of December, when I pulled to the yellow curb in front of my office, a space I had designated as my very own. And while I don’t value entitlement per se, I am quite conscious of the fact I had made an exception in favor of expediency, or maybe it was just lethargy. I rent an office on Mentor Avenue (and no, I didn’t make that up) in front of the trendy Pasadena Comedy Club, which is down the alley on my west wall. I am also just a half block off Colorado Boulevard, which will host the Rose Parade tomorrow morning. My habit is to sleep overnight on the couch in my office and take a chair down early so I can have a front row seat. The parade has become ho-hum, but not for a million other people who camp on the sidewalks with their sleeping bags and hibachis a full day before the spectacle.

As I entered my office, the phone was ringing. Hello, Jon Sadler.

Jon, its Meryl.

Detective Bagley, how are you? It’s been awhile.

I’m good, Jon, and yes, it’s been awhile.

What’s the haps, bro?

Cute. Jon, Reba and I are coming to the parade tomorrow and we were hoping to hook up with you and watch it together.

Reversing my ho-hum attitude immediately, I responded, Of course, that’s a great idea, Meryl, and I’d love to see you, guys.

I’m guessing that parking will be a problem?

It will be, but you’re a cop. You must know some tricks.

An ex-cop, Jon, but yes, I still know a few.

Come early, I’ll be in my office.

I’d met Sgt. Meryl Bagley during the investigation of the series of murders I previously mentioned, which occurred in the greater Los Angeles area. The killer turned out to be a supervisor with the Department of Children and Family Services who stalked, killed, and mutilated men who had brutally abused children. Larry had been in charge of the countywide investigation.

Meryl, who was then a detective working out of the Long Beach Police Department, was assigned to the killing that was the first in the series. A man had been killed and mutilated in his stateroom on the permanently moored Queen Mary in the Long Beach Harbor. I was at Parker Center busily attempting to profile a case for Larry, so he took me along when he went out to meet up with Bagley.

It was Meryl who suggested we consult with Darth on the case. Darth had an office in the closed and abandoned Ocean Front Mall in Long Beach on Pacific Coast Highway. He had been hired to caretake of the mall and to discourage vandalism and those who would logically take up residency in the network of hallways. What Larry and I didn’t know, but found out soon enough, was that Darth was a powerful psychic.

Eventually, it was through the efforts of the four musketeers—Darth, Larry, Meryl, and me—that we succeeded in chasing the killer out of town, which was not the result Larry had hoped for. Larry and I followed the bread crumbs she’d conveniently left, the last crumb being a pair of shoes we’d found at the entrance to a vast flat plateau twelve miles out of Boise, Idaho.

The following day, on the first of January, Meryl, Reba, and I watched the parade three rows back in my office chairs set in the middle of Mentor Avenue. By the time it concluded, I think Reba and Meryl had decided that once would be enough, and we went for lunch at Manuel Ortega’s Mexican restaurant just a few doors up from my office. Reba is easy on the eyes, and I’d guess her to be in her mid-forties. We’d hit it off right away when we met during the investigation of the murder on the queen.

It was Reba, after the parade and during lunch, who asked the question I’d hoped wouldn’t be asked.

How’s Marilyn, Jon?

Marilyn who? I responded.

Uh-oh, problemo.

It’s not a problem.

No, what is it then?

Pause.

Jon, you might as well give it up, Meryl said, because she won’t.

So I gave it up.

Marilyn and I had met several years ago in China, on a small freighter heading down the Pearl River that fed into Hong Kong Bay, a sight that should be memorialized on a picture postcard if it hasn’t been already. We liked each other immediately, and within a month, she’d moved her domicile from Chicago to Los Angeles, where her parents lived. Marilyn is an international flight attendant for United Airlines, which allows her employment just about anywhere she chooses. After living in LA for a year, she decided to move and buy a home in Cambria, California, which is on the central coast in San Luis Obispo County. The distance made our relationship somewhat difficult and was a message that I had missed completely. Property, if you had to choose, is more important than a relationship.

We were into our second year of the arrangement when I began to feel the strain of driving two hundred miles-plus to see her. Added to that, my beautiful blond bombshell seemed angrier each time we got together.

It’s typical that psychotherapists can help others with their relationship problems but are without a clue when it comes to their own. To make a long story short, Marilyn was upset because I didn’t follow her to Cambria. In my defense, she never mentioned it, not a word. But one day, she informed me that she had met a very bronze surfer in Australia that she liked better than she liked me, and that was it.

When I finished telling my version of the reason Marilyn and I had split up, I remembered that Reba and Marilyn had become close friends after their involvement in a horrendous incident at the Ocean Front Mall during the investigation that had centered on the Toy Store in the mall. The girls had decided to take a stroll through the corridors of the mall to see what all the fuss was about and had become victims of the same malevolent presence that had infected Mark Salatori. We eventually discovered them on the rocks underneath that portion of the mall that projects over a man-made canal. They were in a raging combat with dozens of seals who objected to their presence. It took months for the two women to recover from the experience.

Reba was saddened when I told her about the split-up, and Meryl caught it immediately.

You seem to be handling it well, Jon,

I didn’t respond, but I watched Reba.

I’m sorry to hear it, she said.

Wow! I just had a great idea, Meryl said.

We both looked at him and waited.

I’ve always wanted to lay anchor in the San Simeon Bay beneath the castle. Now we have an excuse.

That got a smile out of Reba because San Simeon shares a border with Cambria.

After lunch, my friends were off to the Pasadena Arboretum, home of the entitled Peacock.

I wouldn’t see them again until I had immersed myself in a criminal activity more sinister than I could have imagined.

Two

Seven weeks prior to the Pasadena Rose Parade

It had started innocently enough. Four mature male therapists getting together once a week, yakking it up. A men’s group, a guy thing, a no-holds-barred night free of feminine influence. No drums, no commitment to dredge up one’s deepest feelings, just a relaxing and a unwinding process that cannot weather the storm of a woman’s critical gaze. But something went wrong. Somewhere along the way, it had gone bad, very bad.

I’d spent the entire day trying to find where it began. But there is no beginning, is there? One thing leads to another. Each moment seems to build on the last. But at some point, a door opened and something crawled through, something unexpected. Something that smiled and pretended to be what it wasn’t. What bothers me most is that these men, myself included, were solid, functional people deeply involved and committed to the study of the human psyche. The trouble had begun when we introduced the puppets into the group.

That Friday morning, I had two clients cancel due to rain. Three showed up in the afternoon, but I was twiddling my thumbs by five o’clock. The rain slacked off, so I put a jacket on and stepped into the shallow alcove in front of my office door. I was startled by a movement in the alcove of the office next to mine.

It’s only me, Doctor.

It was Payback. Slim pickins’ tonight, Payback?

Tell me ’bout it. I just got out ah da hospital, Doc. I could sure use a little hep’.

Sorry, Payback. I’m a little short myself this week.

Tell me ’bout it.

Payback is a street person. He acquired his name through his particular style of panhandling. When he took your money, he always promised to pay it back, but he never did. If you were naive enough to ask him about the five dollars you loaned him last week, he would say, That fivers got your name on it, brother, and you can bet it’s on the way, yes in deedee. Payback had an interesting attitude of entitlement. I imagined he saw panhandling as his vocation, and though he assumed a position of one down in his relationship with those of us on his beat, Payback, like a houseman working for a wealthy patron, no doubt felt his position to be an important part of the great universal puzzle as, of course, it was.

Just then, we were approached by a man crouched beneath an umbrella, hugging a briefcase to his chest. It was too dark to see his face, but his walk was unmistakable. Payback addressed the man.

Evenin’, Doctor.

How many times have I told you I am not a doctor?

Ted was the first of the Friday night group to arrive, and Payback was not one of his favorite people; Payback knew it of course. If he was nothing else, he was an accurate judge of his impact on potential customers. Payback had an enviable way of never justifying himself. He did not react to Ted’s bristle.

"Jon, why are you standing out in this drizzle when you have a cozy private little office? Come on, I’ve got something to show you."

With that, we turned away from the small rain-soaked black man. As I opened the door, Ted removed his raincoat, shook out his umbrella before he brought it in, collapsed it, and hung them both on the brass coat rack near the door. He placed his brown leather briefcase on the couch and headed for the coffeepot.

You don’t like him much, do you? I said.

Payback? I don’t think it’s dislike, Jon, more like indifference. I find him annoying, though, that much is certain.

Ted took a careful expectant sip of his coffee. You make the best damn coffee, Jon. He walked back across the room to the couch and placed his cup on the small marble-topped table next to it and said, I’m surprised you don’t get tired of him.

I got over being tired of him. Actually I owe him. He taught me how to say no without feeling guilty.

He didn’t look well. Did he get beat up again?

Apparently, what did you want to show me?

Ted Blasingame is a very bright student of psychology. I say student because he is in his third year of studies toward a doctorate. His thesis is an entirely new theory of anxiety. Not being a doctor yet, Ted doesn’t like it when Payback addresses him as if he was.

Ted did most of his graduate studies in South Africa as an exchange student. As Apartheid crumbled, Ted was learning to speak, live, and work within the black African culture. After six years, he returned to the City of Angels, but as he put it, The angels had gone south. He resumed his formal education, receiving a graduate degree, at UCLA. His PhD was interrupted by some time he had spent in an institution for a condition he had yet to share.

Ted was unmarried, straight, about five feet eight inches tall. He had sharp features, piercing brown eyes encircled by black-rimmed glasses for a nearsighted condition. He dressed preppy. He came from mucho money, enabling him to focus on his studies. We had met at a hypnotherapy workshop a year earlier and were immediately friends. Ted was the fourth to enter into our group.

I do have something to show you, but maybe I should wait for the others.

My, my, I said. What discipline. It sounds mysterious.

It is mysterious, Jon, or rather it can lead to mystery.

Well then, I said, let’s wait, and how are the studies coming?

You want to know what it is, don’t you?

Not at all. I’m not the least bit curious, I lied, as I seated myself in the black leather chair behind my desk.

Like hell. You’re dying to know.

No really, Ted. I think we should wait for the others.

Okay then, I’ll show it to you.

Ted went back to the couch and brought his briefcase to my desk and popped it open. Just then, I heard a tapping sound coming from the glass portion of the office door. A memory flashed through my mind and body, and I shuttered instinctively. I was recalling an experience which had occurred a few years earlier, but that’s another tale. The tapping sound was David’s polite announcement that he had arrived.

Ted jumped to the door and cracked it open. What’s the password? he whispered.

David has a soft resonating baritone voice, and I could clearly hear his confusion as he answered.

What . . . Oh . . . I didn’t know . . .

That’s it! Ted shouted, throwing the door wide open.

David Franklin Sheridan came through the doorway, filling it vertically. David is six feet five inches tall. He weighs in at about 175 pounds, qualifying him as the quintessential Ichabod Crane. He is seventy-three years of age. He wears a size 15 shoe. He has large, expressive hands. His face is long with soft brown eyes behind gold rimmed glasses, and he is naturally calm with an intelligent semi-alertness. David was soaking wet.

Hi, guys, he said, smiling.

His glasses had slid down his nose, and he was peering at us over the top of them.

My god, David, I said. You’re soaked!

I forgot my umbrella.

But you’re super soaked, Ted added.

Yes, well I was accosted by Payback and—

And you stopped in the pouring rain, dug out your wallet, and gave him some money, didn’t you?

I know you disapprove, Ted, but the man appeals to my sympathies, and besides, he’s the only person I know who looks like I feel. In any case, you’re not my mother.

Give me your coat, I said. In your condition, you can’t afford to catch a cold.

My condition?

David was twenty-three years into a successful practice as a psychiatrist. He had recently gone back to school to pick up an MA in psychotherapy. It was part of an effort to brush up on his bedside manner. His recent encounter with a heart virus had necessitated a Pacemaker, and looking in the mirror each morning at the rectangular bulge just beneath his skin on his upper right chest had become an unpleasant reminder of his mortality. Like many who choose to become a psychotherapist as a second career, David was integrating a previously undeveloped side of himself.

David’s heart had slowly deteriorated over the years I had known him. Six months ago, he was placed on the list for a heart transplant. He was ambivalent about the electronic gadget fastened to his belt, which would alert him to call the hospital when and if a heart was available. He said he thought he would scream if the damn thing went off.

He handed me his coat. In return, I gave him a small wool blanket I kept folded on the couch. I hung his coat up to dry, and he began removing his pants.

Good God! Ted howled.

In his classically unpretentious manner, David removed his sodden trousers and held them up to me expectantly. I don’t know that I’d ever seen his legs before, certainly not since he became emaciated. I took the pants and hung them with his coat. He crossed the room to his chair, a tan leather Lazy Boy recliner in the corner. His striped boxers hung tentlike around his thin white legs. David’s legs are so long that when he sits down, his knees point toward the ceiling. Where is Steven? he asked.

Steve called, I replied. He’s on duty this afternoon. He said he might be late.

Ted was staring at David’s legs. Jon, surely you have something to . . . cover him with.

I’m not in need of covering, Ted. It’s quite warm in here.

Are you sure, David? I asked.

Yes. Hand me my bear.

I fetched a stuffed panda sitting along the wall and handed it to him. David was partial to teddy bears, and I had several in the office. He placed the bear in his crotch and glared at Ted.

Ted has a surprise for us tonight, I offered. Don’t you, Ted?

I do, but I thought we’d agreed to wait until we were all present.

David and I remained as silent as the dead.

All right, if you insist. Ted opened his briefcase and withdrew a doll. But it wasn’t a doll, it was a hand puppet. And before either of us could respond, the puppet was on his hand and talking.

Rickles

Puppet caricature of Don Rickles

Pathetic. I say it’s pathetic. That man, he has no pants!

The voice was in Ted’s octave, but it had a certain articulation that was foreign to Ted’s normal speaking voice. The effect was surprisingly theatrical. Officer, arrest that man, he’s doing something to that bear.

I’m sure my mouth was unhinged. I looked at David and got a scare. He was doubled over. When he lifted his head, tears were streaming down his face. It took me another second to realize he was laughing so hard he was crying. When he finally got his voice, he roared. I was sure he would expire at any moment.

Ted put the puppet down, and we both watched David expectantly. Finally, Ted said, Are you all right, old man?

David nodded his head in the affirmative. He pulled a handkerchief out of his shirt pocket and wiped his face. We waited. He was shaking his head.

My god, Ted, it was so unexpected. I had no idea such talent lay entombed in you.

I was that good?

Jon? David looked at me.

I agree, I said. I’m flabbergasted. The voice, it reminded me of someone. Where did you get the voice, Ted?

Search me, ask him. Ted picked up the puppet and wiggled its wooded head.

Don Rickles! David shouted. It’s a Don Rickles puppet.

He was right. That’s who it sounded like, and the puppet was a caricature of Don Rickles.

Who’s Don Rickles? Ted asked.

Before your time, my boy, David said.

Ted, can I see the little fella? I asked.

He tossed me the puppet. I instinctively put him on my hand.

Ouch! I yelled. I yanked the doll off my hand and found a small wood sliver poking off the end of my index finger. It was accentuated by a tiny dot of blood.

What the hell happened, Jon? Ted asked.

Hand me a Kleenex, I said.

Ted grabbed a tissue from a box on the table and passed it over.

I guess I picked up a little sliver.

Better you than me, Ted chuckled.

I pulled the wood sliver from my finger and dabbed at the spot of blood. I held the puppet out in front of me. It was a bald, square-headed human caricature with a wide shark grin on its face. He was dressed in a suit and a bow tie. But there was something special about the puppet’s expression when Ted used it. I looked closer at the face and noticed the eyes were not fixed. I put my hand back inside, carefully, and fiddled around until I found the lever. I pushed it and the doll’s eyes moved sideways. I moved the eyes back and forth and held it up for David. He reached out for it, and I let him remove the puppet from my hand.

At that moment, I heard the outer screen door open and jumped up in anticipation of the rapping which immediately followed. I opened the door to the last of our gathering. Steve was the youngest of our tetrad.

Three

Steve wore a heavy-duty yellow raincoat with a matching hat. The rain glistened as it cascaded down the rubberized surface, falling to the green office floor tiles.

David said, Steve, you’re flooding the place.

Steve looked at the floor as if he wondered how the water had