The Face

some audience members thought he’d daringly punctuated a point with a pratfall, and they applauded briefly before realizing that here was death indeed, not shtick.
        Corky had learned so much from his parents. He had learned that envy alone does not constitute a philosophy. He’d learned that a fun lifestyle and cheerful optimism cannot exist in the face of all-consuming, all-embracing hatred without surcease.
        He’d also learned not to trust in laws, idealism, or art.
        His mother had trusted in the laws of economics, in the ideals of Marxism. She ended as a bitter old woman, without hope or purpose, who seemed almost relieved when her own son had beaten her to death with a fireplace poker.
        Corky’s father had believed that he could use art like a hammer to beat the world into submission. The world still turned, but Dad had gone to ashes, scattered in the sea, dispersed, as if he’d never existed.
        Chaos.
        Chaos was the only dependable force in the universe, and Corky [195] served it with the confidence that it would, in turn, always serve him.
        Across the glistening city, through the night and unrelenting rain, he drove to West Hollywood, where the undependable Rolf Reynerd needed to die.
        Both ends of the block where Reynerd lived were closed off by police barricades. Officers in black rain slickers with fluorescent yellow stripes used chemical-light torches to redirect traffic.
        In the basic colors of emergency, bright skeins of rain raveled through the pulsing ambulance beacons and knitted urgent patterns on the puddled pavement.
        Corky drove past the barricade. Within two blocks, he found a parking place.
        Perhaps the official bustle on Rolf Reynerd’s street had no connection with the actor, but Corky’s intuition insisted otherwise.
        He wasn’t worried. Whatever mess Rolf Reynerd had gotten himself into, Corky would find a way to use the situation to further his own agenda. Tumble and tumult were his friends, and he was confident that in the church of chaos, he was a favored child.

CHAPTER 29
        
        FRIC FELT THAT BY SOME MAGICAL INFLUENCE of the brick floor under his feet and the brick walls around him and the low brick vaults overhead, he had been transformed into brick himself as he listened to the soft voice of this stranger.
        “The secret room concealed behind your closet isn’t as secret as you think, Aelfric. You won’t be safe there when Robin Goodfellow pays a visit.”
        “Who?”
        “Previously I called him the Beast in Yellow. He styles himself Robin Goodfellow, but he’s darker than that. In truth, he’s Moloch, with the splintered bones of babies stuck between his teeth.”
        “That’ll take some heavy-duty dental floss,” said Fric, though a tremor in his voice belied the flippancy of his words. He hurried on, hoping that Mysterious Caller had failed to detect his fear. “Robin Goodfellow, Moloch, baby bones-you aren’t making any sense.”
        “You have a great library in your house, don’t you, Aelfric?”
        “Yeah.”
        “And you must have a good dictionary in that library.”
        “We have a whole shelf of dictionaries,” said Fric, “just to prove how scholarly we are.”
        [197] “Then look it all up. Know your enemy, prepare yourself for what is coming, Aelfric.”
        “Why don’t you tell me what’s coming? I mean just plain, simple, easy to understand.”
        “That’s not within my power. I’m not licensed to take any direct action.”
        “So you aren’t James Bond.”
        “I’m authorized to work only by indirection. Encourage, inspire, terrify, cajole, advise. I influence events by every means that is sly, slippery, and seductive.”
        “What’re you-an attorney or something?”
        “You’re an interesting young man, Aelfric. I’ll genuinely be sorry if you’re disemboweled and nailed to the front door of Palazzo Rospo.”
        Fric almost hung up.
        Wrapped around the handset of the phone, his palm became greasy with perspiration.
        He would not have been surprised if the man on the far end of the line had smelled this sweat and had commented on the salty scent.
        Returning to the subject of a deep and special secret place, Fric mustered a steady voice. “We have a panic room in the house,” he said, referring to a hidden high-security haven armored to keep out even