Nightmare Magazine, Issue 33 (June 2015) by Nightmare Magazine

Author:Nightmare Magazine [Nightmare Magazine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Horror, Dark Fantasy, Short Stories
Publisher: John Joseph Adams
Published: 2015-04-01T00:00:00+00:00

• • • •

Bobby Goodman had told Rabbi Sakowicz that he would wait to hear from him, but once he was sitting behind his own desk in his own office, he realized he wouldn’t have the patience. Karl Weissman was a gift, a gift from the god of his fathers, Goodman thought wryly. If he cooled his heels waiting for Sakowicz, he could lose his momentum, Talbot could lose his interest, and Sakowicz might wind up a dead end anyway. No, Goodman wouldn’t, couldn’t wait. It was difficult enough to wait until the six o’clock shift, when old Karl came on.

Goodman had always thought of him as “old” Karl, although Weissman couldn’t have been over sixty-five, still the required retirement age for all Republic employees. Weissman looked far older, his brows crisscrossed with lines like a wartime map of Europe. His hair was a dirty yellow-white, and his eyes were constantly bloodshot, the whites appearing pinkish as a result. He looked, Goodman thought, like an albino with a hangover. He’d wondered more than once if Karl had a drinking problem. Now, knowing the man had been in Adlerkralle, he wondered how Karl could possibly have avoided one.

At 6:04 a soft knock sounded on the door of Goodman’s office. “Come in,” he said calmly.

Karl Weissman entered, drab to the point of invisibility in his janitor’s grays. “Mr. Russell told me to come up here.” The voice was quiet, the accent Midwestern with only a hint of a Mittel-European comic opera precision. “What needs to be done?” Weissman stood quietly, like a soldier awaiting orders.

“I need your help, Karl,” Goodman said. He didn’t smile. He had the feeling that Karl Weissman had forgotten what smiles were for. “We’re whipping together a project on the Second World War.”

“Yes,” Weissman said. “The rabbi told me of your visit to him.”

Goodman struggled to keep the angry surprise out of his face, but he felt his mouth twist nonetheless. “The rabbi told you?”

“He told me what you might want. And I’m sorry, Mr. Goodman, but I want nothing to do with it.”

“Karl, be fair,” Goodman said, damning the rabbi. “You hardly know what this is all about.”

“Oh, I know. I know exactly what it was about.”

Goodman shook his head. “That’s not what I mean, Karl.” He stood up. “Will you come with me? Just down the hall into Studio C. Let me explain the situation to you, that’s all. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. This is just between you and me. You don’t want to help, fine. Mr. Russell doesn’t have to know a thing.” The very use of Russell’s name was an unspoken threat. The janitors hated the building superintendent, who ruled them like a petty tyrant.

“I don’t care if Mr. Russell knows or not,” Weissman said, his weak chin thrusting forward, “but I . . .”

He hesitated, and Goodman dug into the silence. “That’s fine, fine,” he said, putting a hand on Weissman’s shoulder. “Five minutes. You don’t have to say a word.

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