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RASPUTIN’S MISSION
Mel Waldman
I
Rasputin dreamed he was climbing Jacob’s ladder. But last night’s vodka, which he had devoured after leaving the old man, fully interfered with his spiritual quest. And of course, protecting a mysterious old man from unknown assassins was not exactly his Brooklyn cup of tea.
So in the middle of the night, Rasputin leaped from Jacob’s ladder and fell into the abyss. “The Black Hole of Hell!” he cried as he jumped out of REM sleep and vomited his guts onto the dirty sheet covering a torn mattress in the rat hole bedroom of the basement apartment which enclosed him.
In the midst of his late night “let it all hang out-episode,” the phone rang.
“It’s the Messiah!” he cried out. “Not the old man, please.”
He continued vomiting as the phone rang until the answering machine was activated.
“This is Rasputin, you V.I.P. private eye of Brooklyn. Brighton Beach’s favorite. The Chosen One. The P.I. you have chosen. I’m not available to come to the phone right now. But at the sound of the beep please leave a friendly message and tell me your name, the time of your call, and your telephone number. Rasputin will get back to you. Thank you.”
Although he was in the throes of Hell, Rasputin listened to his message with much pride and joy. He admired himself from a distance in perhaps, an out-of-body experience or the likes thereof. Until the stranger spoke.
“Good evening, Mr. R, honorable private eye of Brighton Beach. Sorry you are not available right now. Indisposed. Whatever. But not to beat around the bush. The NNKKK wishes to hire you for a very special mission. An envelope has been left underneath your front door. Inside you will find payment number 1 and instructions about the nature of your mission. Welcome aboard. Good night.”
And the rotund Rasputin stumbled across the underground railroad apartment until he found the letter under the door. Inside the envelope was a single one dollar bill and a note: “Enclosed please find $1.00. This is the first of several payments for services rendered. Total payment equals $100,000.00. Mr. R, your first mission is to contact the police in the morning. Tell them a bomb has been planted in Sheepshead Bay. It will go off at noon tomorrow unless the members of the NNKKK are permitted to march through the area. Thank you, honorable P.I.”
Grinning sardonically, Rasputin made the finger, pointing it upward to no one in particular. “A joke. A middle of the night prank. Now, let me go back to sleep.”
He waddled across his underground tomb, his barbershop moustache twitching and moving more rapidly than his tired feet.
He stroked his pulsating moustache and goatee and patted his bald head. “Time for beddie bye.”
And he fell into a deep sleep, snoring relentlessly through the swaddling night.
II
“Hell on earth!” Rasputin screamed as he heard the bomb go off in his dream. He woke up in a sweat.
He looked at the broken alarm clock on the night table. 12:05. He missed his morning appointment with the old man. No matter. He had told him to stay put until Rasputin arrived.
Rasputin poured himself a shot of vodka and turned on the TV just when a news flash came on. At noon, there was an explosion in the Sheepshead Bay area of Brooklyn. Several people were killed. Dozens were injured. Cause of the explosion-unknown at this time. More news in a minute.
“Jeeeesuus Christ! The bomb was real!” His hands shaking, he tried to pour himself a second shot of vodka. He couldn’t. Most of the liquor spilled on the floor. And then the phone rang.
Rasputin let it ring, for he wanted to screen the call. He listened to the hypnotic sound of his own voice until the person at the other end spoke: “Rasputin, are you there? If you’re there, pick up. This is the old man. I hired you to protect me. Where are you, Chosen One?”
He lifted the receiver with his right hand and with his left pressed a button to turn the machine off. “Yeah. Yeah. Rasputin speakin’.”
“Been waitin’ for you, Mr. Private Eye, since early this morning. Are you workin’ for my enemies?”
“Never!”
“Well, if you want to work for me today, get here fast.”
“Are you where...?”
“Yes. That place.”
“I’m on my way. Stay...”
The old man hung up and Rasputin was left with his mouth wide open.
As he scurried to the door, the phone rang again. “Christ!” he shouted. “God in Heaven!” he added. Then he turned around, waddled to the phone, and picked up the receiver. “Old man, you are...”
“Good afternoon, Mr. R, hired killer for the NNKKK.”
“What?”
“You failed us, so people died. Do not fail us again!”
“Who are you?”
“Your friend and benefactor. Now, look under your door for the second payment and further instructions. Bye.”
There was an envelope, a ten dollar bill, and a note: “Enclosed please find $10.00. This is the second of several payments for services rendered. Total payment equals $100,000.00. Mr. R, you second mission is to go to the 61st precinct within the hour. Tell the police a bomb has been planted in Brighton Beach. It will go off at 3 unless Joseph K is set free. Goodbye, Mr. R.”
“Why me?”
Rasputin paced back and forth. He stopped abruptly and gave the invisible NNKKK his glorious finger, tossed a coin, called it, made a hopeless decision, and stormed out into the dog day afternoon.
III
Inside the 61st precinct, Rasputin told his story to Detective Blank. “So you’re telling me that the NNKKK is responsible for the explosion in Sheepshead Bay and another one which hasn’t happened yet in Brighton Beach if we don’t release Joseph K? Is that right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, as I see it, there are two problems here. Never heard of the NNKKK. Never. And there ain’t no Joseph K in prison. Not in Brooklyn. Not upstate. Nowhere.”
“Nowhere?”
“Yeah. So keep in touch.”
“Sure.”
And Rasputin sauntered off in a daze until he remembered he had another appointment with a desperate client.
IV
Rasputin drove his 1980 Chevrolet Impala recklessly through the streets. Soon, he drove up to Dunkin’ Donuts on Kings Highway near 15th Street, by the Kings Highway Station for the D train. He parked the car in front of Dunkin’ Donuts and rushed into the crowded, seething store.
Last night he left the old man inside Citibank near the cash machines. Before leaving, he had ordered the old man, disguised as a homeless person with torn clothes and a shopping bag, to sleep inside the Citibank vestibule. In the morning, he was to hang out inside Dunkin’ Donuts.
“Old man, you here?” Rasputin yelled indiscreetly.
An old man emerged from the rear of the store. “Rasputin?” he cried out.
Suddenly, a fat stranger with sunglasses and a .38 in his right hand covered with a black silk glove stepped behind Rasputin, shot the old man, and shoved the hot gun into Rasputin’s right hand. Then he disappeared.
Momentarily, Rasputin stood paralyzed in the center of Dunkin’ Donuts, the hot steel dangling from his numb fingers. He looked quizzically at the corpse nearby. Some of the other customers looked blankly at Rasputin.
Then an old lady screamed: “He’s dead! And there’s the murderer!”
A throng of mental patients, junkies, alkies, and other misfits shouted: “Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!”
Rasputin dropped the gun. Then he turned and ran into the street. His hands shaking wildly, he took out his car keys and tried to unlock the left front car door until he realized that it was already unlocked. Confused and desperate, he jumped in, started the car, and drove off.
Rasputin sped up Kings Highway and made a right on Ocean Avenue.
“Are you nuts, Mr. Private Eye” a familiar voice asked.
Rasputin looked into the rearview mirror and saw the old man. “You? But I saw...”
“You thought you saw, Mr. R. A simple matter of impression management. I am very much alive. But that poor fellow I hired to stand up and call your name is most certainly dead.”
“You knew he’d be killed, didn’t you?”
“Of course. Just as I knew that you’d be dumb enough to lead my enemies to me. You were quite predictable. But what kept you?”
Mindlessly, Rasputin told the old man what had happened.
“The NNKKK didn’t waste any time,” the old man commented. “They want me dead! And they want to own you. Such evil men.”
“You’re just like them, old man. A murderer!”
“We’re all killers, my friend. Given the right circumstances, the right time, the right motive, and... Killing is a natural instinct.”
Suddenly, Rasputin stopped the car and turned ot face the old man. “who are you?”
“A hunted man.”
“Why?”
“I’m a writer. I wrote a book which my enemies condemn. So they have sentenced me to death.”
“A writer? You?”
“Yes. A writer-me!”
“Christ! In my wildest dreams I never imagined that a man of intellect could commit such violence!”
Smiling wickedly, the old man said: “Now you know-who we are-and what we do!”
For a few seconds, the two men looked maliciously at one another, across a bridge of silence.
“Sorry, old man,” Rasputin said ironically. But due to these unusual circumstances, I’m afraid I can no longer help you.”
“Of course, you can.”
“Perhaps, you do not understand. As of this moment, I quit!”
“Impossible!”
“On the contrary, inevitable! Yet since I’m a decent fellow, I’ll drop you off somewhere and...”
“We must stay together.”
“Never!”
“Foolish, foolish man. It is you who do not understand. Since that little incident in Dunkin’ Donuts, you’re a fugitive too.”
“I didn’t kill that poor soul.”
“It doesn’t matter. You’ve been set up by the NNKKK. Your fingerprints are on the gun. Before I easily broke into your car within a matter of seconds, I witnessed everything. The crowd saw you holding the killer’s gun.”
“But what about the real killer?”
“There was confusion and chaos. Perhaps a few customers saw the man. Eyewitness reports are notoriously unreliable. But fingerprints are not.”
“I’m innocent!”
“Of course, you are. But you appear to be guilty. That is the Relaity of the situation!”
“I’ll go to the police and explain. But first, I must go home and find two letters which the NNKKK left for me. It’s my proof!”
“Stupid man! These letters have probably been destroyed by now. It’s too late, you see.”
“No!”
“Yes, my friend. This is the way it is. Remember, the NNKKK does not officially exist. But you do. And by your own confession, you are implicated in at least one mysterious explosion. Perhaps two. So Mr. R, I am your only hope of survival. The hunted animal knows its hunter!”
“I’ll take my chances alone, old man. Now, where do you want me to drop you off?”
“Nowhere!” the old man shouted as he took out a .45 from his shopping bag. “No exit, Rasputin!”
Impulsively, Rasputin grabbed the old man’s right hand which held the .45. Rasputin and the old man struggled for a few seconds. The old man shrieked and howled. And then the gun went off, blasting a hole through the hunted animal’s forehead. And the silenced quarry slumped over, murdered by its protector.
Sweating profusely, Rasputin gazed incredulously at the corpse. Shocked by the unreal events which had occurred, he was momentarily immobilized. But the oppressive heat forced him to act.
Unexpectedly, he found himself touching the corpse, confirming that the old man was really dead. And then he searched the body. He found a driver’s license issued to Joseph Kant. So the old man was Joseph K!
Frantically, he continued his search, finding sundry items: a key (perhaps, to a safe deposit box), an address and telephone book with mysterious symbols scattered throughout the pages, and a list of names and different cryptic notations. Apparently, the old man was fond of codes.
Later, he’d examine Joseph K’s possessions more carefully. But now, he had to go home and find the two letters. In the postern of his mind, he knew he should hide the corpse before returning home. He couldn’t. Something stopped him.
V
Ignoring the corpse in the back seat, he drove toward Brighton Beach. On his way home, he heard the explosion in the distance. “It must be 3 o’clock,” he muttered to himself as he continued to head home. But when he approached his block, he stopped the car abruptly.
The house where he lived was a magnificent inferno. Inconspicuously, he watched the beautiful fire swallow up his underground apartment. No one noticed Rasputin or the corpse in the back seat. Spectators were consumed by the fire, unaware of other forms of destruction.
Eventually, Rasputin drove off, heading nowhere, a desperate fugitive with only a silent companion to kill his loneliness. His mission was to make it through the night. Nothing more. At sunrise, he’d figure things out, say goodbye to Joseph K, drink some vodka, and talk to the crepuscular insects.
