‘Next couple of years, I’d travel up to see him once in a while, if any new artwork had turned up. One time, I found this nude Peggy Parks cover that Lou Shapiro had done as a joke for Sol Stickman, and Duckley just about went crazy. He told me he was starting to worry about how long Mom and Dad’s money was going to last, and thinking that maybe he should get some sort of job.

  ‘It’s like, this is someone who knows nothing of the world or adult life, who’s never even attended kindergarten. OK, in all that tutoring, it turns out he’s picked up a great command of formal English, he’s a whiz at math – and of course he knows absolutely everything about Thunderman – but other than that, he’s like a giant newborn baby with a jerk-off fixation on Peggy Parks. The only job I could think of that he’d be qualified for was maybe something in comics.

  ‘See, I think I was like a mentor figure for him, and – hey, watch out! Nearly spilled that. You’re going to be pretty tanked by the time you meet your buddies at that bar later. Where did you say it was again? Really? So, the Burgess, that’s the old Imperial? Ha. No. No, it’s nothing. I was just thinking of something funny, that’s all. What was I … oh, right. Getting Duckley a job in comics.

  ‘We talked a lot about what his options were, now he didn’t have his parents watching his every move. I told him he could get a TV, watch movies – hell, he didn’t even have to live in Connecticut if he didn’t want to. He could sell up the house, rent an apartment in New York, maybe get work in the industry. His mouth was open like none of this had ever occurred to him.

  ‘Over the next few months, I helped him get the logistics figured out. I mean, I liked the guy, you know? Still do. Duckley is like the funniest guy. Not intentionally, but he’s completely hilarious. And I knew the industry people would think so too, Brandon and those guys. Dick Duckley was just, like, one hundred per cent made for comics. So, he sold the house and he got a place in Manhattan.

  ‘He was like Alice in Wonderland, or maybe the kid in Home Alone. He got a widescreen TV, and I’ll never forget his face when I told him he could watch porn on it, like he didn’t know that was possible or legal. I mean, he barely knew that television was possible or legal.

  ‘It was hard getting him out of his apartment for a while. He was just shy, kind of awkward. He knew he didn’t really fit in anywhere, so he wasn’t socialising and didn’t know anybody except me. And he was much too scared and self-conscious to try out at any of the comic companies. Then one day, I was at his place. I was chopping out a couple of lines, he asked what I was doing.

  ‘No. No, no drink, no drugs, nothing like that. He’d got no experience of anything. But once I’d introduced him to the Peruvian manoeuvre, it was like he finally found what he needed, you know? It gave him, like, confidence, so he could do all these things he’d never done before. He could have a drink; he could talk to women. He even managed to land a job at American for a while.

  ‘No, he did OK. He was enthusiastic about everything, he talked about Thunderman all the time, and he didn’t fuck up more than anybody else. And Brandon, Ralph Roth, those guys, well, we all thought Duckley was pretty entertaining. When he discovered conventions, it went off the scale.

  ‘Like, I remember this one time at San Diego, where we talked him into taking a trip down to Tijuana, see the sights, you know? We got the guy completely destroyed on tequila, then we took him to a show where this woman’s fucking a donkey. I mean, the look on Duckley’s face. It was priceless. Thinking about it, actually, that might have been his first con, that year’s San Diego.

  ‘What, this is your first con? Seriously? And your first time in Chicago? Boy, how about that! Here, this calls for another drink. Let me get you one. No, no, it’s good. I’m on expenses. Hey! Hey, over here? Get this guy another of what he’s having, OK? And another Pepsi for me. Thanks. Your first con. That is so great. No, no, I’m just laughing. I’m laughing because I’m happy for you.

  ‘Yeah, Duckley. So, like I say, being cooped up with his parents all those years, when he finally gets a taste of modern life, it’s like the guy goes completely berserk. He’s drinking, he’s doing a whole ton of coke – and porn! I never knew a guy watched so much porn. Funny thing – rather than all this getting him fired from American, like I thought, it’s what gets him an offer somewhere else.

  ‘Well, you know, he’d got this big reputation back then as the Thunderman-and-porn guy. He’s at one of these conventions, he gets talking to somebody who it turns out is Sylvester Lewis. He’s the number one guy at Mike De Matteo’s Bordello magazine, OK? He talks to Duckley for a while, he gets the idea for superhero porn, Bordello Comics, and making Duckley senior editor.

  ‘Yeah, I know, it’s crazy, right? This is a guy who, twelve months before, he doesn’t know what porn is. And it’s only through porn he finds out what pussy is. I’m not kidding. When Duckley tried dating, believe me, it was a fricking disaster. I mean, now he’s OK. We got him some numbers, these real nice girls, good postings on Craigslist, so now he’s OK. Back then, though …

  ‘What, the Duckley dating stories? Well, the best one – and this is ironic, because this is the one I end up getting the blame over, can you believe – the funniest one is Joanne Jackson. You heard of her, right? She handles foreign rights for City Comics. Anyway, she was dating Duckley, and he’s freaking out; he doesn’t know what to do. So, he knows I’m experienced, he comes to me for advice.

  ‘He says, “Worsley, you’ve done it with girls. What do they like? What am I supposed to do?” So I tell him – and this is a joke, right? I’m joking – I tell him that girls talk in a sort of code when they want sex, OK? You know, when they’re really turned on they tell you “stop”, or that they’re calling the police, but that’s when they really want you to give it to them. I mean, it’s obvious I’m joking, right?

  ‘But what happens, next convention, I got Joanne Jackson yelling in front of everybody, telling me I’m a pervert. Boy, she was so mad, and I’m saying, “Joanne, I was joking.” It was hilarious. It was obvious he’d told her, “But that’s what Worsley Porlock said I should do,” so right away I’m the bad guy. She still won’t speak to me, but, you know, it’s a funny story all the same.

  ‘So, that was the end of Duckley’s dating career. Like I said, we explained to him what prostitutes are – yeah, I know. Can you believe this guy? – and now he’s got that situation kind of under control. And he’s doing good at Bordello. I mean, he was saying money was getting tight a month or two back, but he must have figured that out, I guess. He seems OK for cash now, anyway.

  ‘Hey, look at the time. It’s only a quarter off eleven. Yeah, I know, I just didn’t want you to miss out on meeting your buddies is all. It’s OK, you still got time. The old Imperial – the Burgess now, you said – you go left out the front doors and it’s just a couple of blocks. Ten minutes, tops.

  ‘Anyway, it’s been real good talking to you. No, no, I probably won’t see you tomorrow morning. I’m leaving kind of early, and you’ll probably be up in your room, washing your hair or something. Huh? No, no reason. You just got good hair, you know? Nice, clean hair. Looks like you take care of it, is all I meant. No. No, you go on. You have a great night with your buddies.

  ‘And enjoy the rest of ChiCon, OK? I’m guessing, from the look of you, I’m probably going to be meeting up with you here next time, am I right? Maybe the next several times, who knows? Maybe I’ll even get to introduce you to Dick Duckley someday. Ha. Yeah. Yeah, you take care, pal. Left out the door, you can’t miss it. So long! Yeah. Yeah, see you next year. Bye. Bye …

  ‘Hahaha. Shithead.’

  14. ( July, 1960)

  One blue morning, in the days prior to becoming publicly Satanic, Sam needed a hearty meal before he could face work up at the offices on Lexington. Under a china sky without a crack, he danced, almost, on sparkling sidewalk in his tilted hat, his jacket slung over one shoulder like Sinatra; in his snazzy sunglasses the very spirit of Manhattan, that was how he felt.

  Like everybody there on the new decade’s doorstep, he was sure, Sam’s head was full of monsters. Monsters seemed like all he got to think about in those days, but at least Sam’s monsters looked great, drawn by Gold or Novak, so that all he had to do was dream up wacky names. Sometimes he’d change a word or two in the suggested dialogue that the artist pencilled in beside the panels, sure, but mostly it was names – Klorg, Vuxor, Zim Zam Zub, etcetera. Occasionally he’d need to come up with an adjective – say, ‘Vuxor the Unnameable’ – but, then, that was what writers did.

  The names were an internal jazz to which Sam shuffled, tapped and skipped over the crossing: Baragam, Vavu, Zar, Goragoom, Dadeet the Inconvenient. The bell he triggered going through the door was like a little cymbal tap or triangle, right at the end. The day was bebop.

  Just the air inside the deli, how it smelled and tasted, was a non-refundable advance on eating. Stepping sideways, awkwardly, into his favourite booth next to the entrance, Sam took off the hat and sunglasses to put them with his jacket on the plump sage vinyl of the empty seat beside him. Loosening his tie for looks rather than comfort, he lifted a finger to attract the waitress’s attention, then ordered pastrami, rye, eggs sunny side up and a pot of coffee, same way that he always did.

  Sam dug the reassuring atmosphere the place had, as if nothing much had changed since 1930. Rich brown wood stain, ivory tiles and dark green paintwork, with the coffee maker venting drawn-out sighs of hot exasperation somewhere in a busy kitchen. It was classical, the colour scheme, like an old-fashioned pharmacist’s, and for some reason always put him distantly in mind of his late mother. Casually, he cast an eye over the other customers, but it was just the same as ever at this hour of the morning. There were lots of guys his age or older, more than half of them in publishing or some related business, and no broads except the waitresses. Some kid around nineteen who’d got kind of a hipster look was perching near the counter. He glanced up at Sam expressionlessly and then went back to the paper he was reading. Probably he was a playwright, author, journalist, something like that, hanging around the big boys, hoping to overhear about some work, some other writer guy who’s just dropped dead, so he can pay his rent. Good luck to him, thought Sam. Good luck to all those struggling bastards who weren’t smart enough to be related to a publisher.

  His food arrived while he was inwardly debating whether Torgam was a better name than Targom. He thanked Hi I’m Judy, and had just lifted his cutlery in preparation for the coming battle when, like in the Bible, Sam Blatz heard a voice from nowhere. In that suddenly refrigerated instant, it seemed possible it was the voice of God, Sam’s conscience, telepathic aliens, or something else most people doubted the existence of. The tone was fatherly, concerned, and yet obscurely terrifying.

  ‘So, Sammy. How are things? Don’t look around. Just keep on with your breakfast.’

  It was someone in the booth behind him, and Sam wasn’t hungry any more. He waited a few seconds for his brains to end up topping his pastrami, then, voice trembling, ventured a question.

  ‘Say, am I OK?’

  The background conversation bubbled in its uneventful cauldron, and the remote coffee maker voiced again its scalding, damp frustration. The voice from behind was chuckling now.

  ‘Don’t be a fucking idiot. What, like someone who wanted to do that would do it in a crowded deli? Real-life situations, Sam, you have to think them through realistically, the way that things work in the normal world. It’s a good job you’re not a writer, that’s all I can say.’

  Sam’s mind was racing, trying to remember if there’d been anyone in the booth behind when he came in, or, if not, somebody who’d entered while he sat there, but this got him nowhere. Untouched, his fried eggs regarded him, their custard gaze slowly opaqued as if by death.

  ‘So this is not a mob thing?’

  His invisible interlocutor sighed, coincidental with the distant coffee maker.

  ‘No, Sam. No, it’s not. But since you raise the subject, how’s Frank Giardino working out, up at Goliath? Maybe you should have his Uncle Sal in, posing for one of those creature books you do.’

  He swallowed, and became aware of sweating palms gripping his cutlery, unnaturally tight, his knife and fork unmoving and bolt upright, like somebody waiting for their dinner in the Sunday funnies. It got worse, this conversation, by the moment.

  ‘You know about Giardino?’

  He put down his knife with a slight clatter, picking up his cup to gulp the just-boiled blackness back like lemonade. The voice was disappointed now, that of somebody talking to a child.

  ‘Oh, Sam, come on. Do you know about Klorg, the Mushroom that Walked like a Man? We know Frank Giardino, and his Uncle Sally, and all kinds of things. Of course we do. It’s like I said just now: we’re not the mob. We’re not the family, Sam. We’re the company. Ted says hello.’

  And just like that, Sam’s cranial floor gave way, and right there, in the summer deli, he plunged eighteen years into the cold splash of the 1940s. He’d joined up in ’42, but Sam had never been a Brooklyn tough guy like Joe Gold; never been someone you could imagine ducking bullets in the trenches. What Sam Blatz had been was smart, with a keen instinct for self-preservation, which made him a shoo-in at Signals Intelligence, where he sat listening in on everyone’s transmissions, sharing his discoveries with the Office of Strategic Services, as it was known in those days. Ted had been the name – or very likely not – of Sam’s phone contact at the OSS. In any other circumstances, it would be heart-warming, the way Ted had kept in touch from time to time since the cessation of hostilities, though at that moment, warmth was not amongst the many things that Sam’s heart was experiencing.

  ‘Oh. Right. So, uh, how are you guys doing?’

  Over by the counter, glancing up occasionally from his paper, the young Denny Wellworth overheard this, but assumed the question was addressed to Sam’s fried eggs. Oblivious to scrutiny, Sam stared out through the glass door, at the back and forth of ordinary schmucks along the sunlit street outside, and briefly wished that he was them. Licking his lips and sounding dumb in his own ears, like someone talking to a Ouija board, he sat and waited for the spirits to reply.

  ‘Us guys? Well, thanks for asking. I guess we’ve been doing pretty good, us guys, over these last ten years. We’ve worked as management consultants all around the world, places like Guatemala and Iran, the Philippines, providing them with more effective leadership because, well, that’s what us guys do, and all of it legitimate, above board. Other people’s countries, that’s within our remit. So, it’s just the idea that we might be doing stuff here in America makes people nervous, although, the way us guys see it, whether things are happening here or overseas is a grey area, a matter of interpretation.’

  Right outside, the sun squandered its golden bounty on a mongrel pissing up against a hydrant. People spilled like sauce over the street at a green light, and Sam could hear the power, blood and foreign war, its measured breathing in the booth across his shoulder. He desperately wanted to get back to christening monsters, but the man who wasn’t there had just stopped talking, and Sam felt the onus was on him to fill the silence, as the wheezing coffee maker couldn’t do the job all by itself.

  ‘I, I don’t know what you mean. How does—’

  The cask-aged voice cut in at once.

  ‘I’ll give you an example. Art, Sam. Let’s talk about art. I don’t mean the stuff you publish, where you pay those suckers twenty bucks a page. I’m talking real art, stuff gets sold for one, two hundred thousand dollars. Now, this might surprise you, Sam, but us guys, we’re not philistines. We keep up, Sam. We keep up with the arts world. You could say we’re patrons. Naturally, we don’t like everything we see. With art, you’ve got to show discernment, that’s my feeling. But to get back to what I was saying, what’s the nationality of art? Is it the place where it was painted, or the place that it’s a picture of? Is it the place that bought the painting, or the world that it will influence? See what I mean? We interfere with art, it’s a grey area. Like art, it’s open to interpretation, right?’

  Sam didn’t know where this was going, and he wasn’t sure he’d like it when it got there. Eyes fixed bleakly on his cooling breakfast, he concluded that the safest course of action was to only speak when it seemed absolutely necessary. So he swallowed some more coffee and said, ‘Right.’

  ‘Right. So, amongst the art we don’t like, there’s this Soviet stuff, constructivism. You’ll have seen it: three or four big Russian guys in undershirts, seen from below. Muscles all over, and all of them looking in the same direction, gulls sat on a fence, with stern expressions like they just saw someone wipe their ass on Stalin’s photograph. One of these big-chinned bastards will be holding up a sickle, and up in the sky there’ll be these jets on fly-past. “Dignity of Labour”, as they call it, and the art collectors, they’re all going wild about this stuff that’s basically an ad for communism. You can see, I think, how us guys might see art like that as lacking aesthetic value.

  ‘What we’re thinking is, how come there’s no art movement based on our ideas, on life here in America, do you see what I’m saying? How come capitalism doesn’t have its own art, as an ad campaign, when it invented ad campaigns? OK, it’s hard to make the people in line at a bank heroic, or the deadbeats on a Ford assembly line, but what about our product? What about our junk, Sam? Tins of beans and boxes of detergent, even shitty comic books. The stuff we sell, why don’t we turn that into modern art? So, what we do, we find guys making stuff we like – there’s Robert Rauschenberg, Claes Oldenburg, a couple guys like that – we spend a little money helping their careers and suddenly they’re big sensations. Pop art, Sam. Popular art. Remember where you heard it first.’

  Beyond the glass, big clouds had temporarily obscured the sun. Unhurriedly they dragged their bigger shadows down the street, wiping their grey on everybody’s eyes, so that life wasn’t quite as great as it had been a minute earlier. Trapped in a conversation that he didn’t understand, Sam edited his troubling reality to something that would work for Journey into Strange, where Agent Steel, let’s say, tells Sam that Spaktoom the Impossible is on his way to fry the world, and that Sam, with his special knowledge of these ludicrously named monstrosities, is the one guy America can turn to.