“And what truth is that?”
“Not too many years ago? Mary Simpson was the top dog dockside whore in all of Innswich. Christ, she’s had, like, eight or ten trick babies, man. She made a lot of money for me.”
Now it was my turn to smile at the bombast. “I’m supposed to believe you’re her panderer? Er, what do they call them now? Pimps?”
“Not is, was. About five years ago the bitch got all high-falutin’ on me.”
“I still don’t believe you. She enlightened me of her plight, regarding her husband who abandoned her. Certainly, the man was of less repute even than you.”
“Husband, Jesus.” He shook his head with the same grin. “If you believe that, you probably believed that War of the Worlds broadcast last October.”
Of course, I hadn’t believed a word of it; I’d read the book! But for what Zalen was inferring now? It’s just more of his loser’s game, I knew. “And now I suppose you’re going to tell me she was a drug addict, like you.”
“Naw, she never rode the horse, she was just crazy for cock.” He raised a brow. “Well, cock and money.”
“And this I’m supposed to take on the authority of a drug addict who would stoop so low as to sell pictures of innocent young pregnant women to degenerates.”
“There are a lot of ‘degenerates’ in the world, Morley. Supply and demand—there’s what your capitalism’s caused.” He looked directly at me. “You’d be surprised how many sick fellas there are out there who like to look at pregnant girls.”
“And you’re the purveyor—to support your narcotics habit, no doubt,” I snapped. “Without the supply, there becomes no demand, and then morality returns. But this will never happen as long as predators such as yourself remain in business. You sell desperation, Mr. Zalen, via the exploitation of the subjugated and the poverty-stricken.”
This seemed to ruffle a feather or two. “Hey, you’re just a rich pud, and you got no right to make judgments about people you don’t know. Not everybody’s got it easy like you do. The government’s building battleships for this new Naval Expansion Act while half the country’s starving, Mr. Morley, and while ten million people got no jobs. Redistribution of wealth is the only moral answer. What an apathetic military industrial complex forces me, or the girl in the back room, or Mary, or anyone else to do to survive is nothing you have the right comment on.”
An unwavering sorrow touched me with the self-admission that, on this particular point, he was correct. Perhaps that’s why his truth urged me to despise him all the more. Though obviously a proponent of Marx and Ingles, Zalen had quite accurately labeled me. A rich pud. I didn’t bother to point out my many acts of philanthropy; I’m sure an alienist in this day and age would diagnose my acts of charity as merely attempts to alleviate guilt. Eventually I replied, “I apologize for any such judgments, but for nothing else. Even if what you accuse Mary of is true, I could hardly blame her, for reasons you’ve already stated. I believe that she and millions of other downtrodden… and even you, Mr. Zalen, are essentially victims of an invidious environment.”
“Oh, you’re a real treat!” he laughed.
I knew I must not let him circumvent me, for that would only refresh my despair, in which case he would win. “I’m here for business regarding my pastime. Let us stick to that. I’ll also pay—say, five dollars apiece—for any quality photographs of this Innswich Point that you may have taken before the government renewal effort.”
His insolent grin returned, and that cocksure slouch. “You sure that’s all you want, Mr. Morley?”
“Quite,” I asserted.
“But, why? Back then, all of Olmstead, especially the Point, was a slum district.”
“Though I’d never expect you to understand, I’ve an interest in seeing the town as Lovecraft saw it, when it sparked the creative conception for his masterpiece.”
“So that’s your hobby, huh?” he mocked.
“Yes, and one, I’d say, quite harmless when compared to yours.”
He laughed. “Don’t knock my hobby, Mr. Morley. You know, pretty soon I’ll have to take a bang.” He slapped the inside of an elbow. “You should stick around to watch. It’d do someone like you good to see something like that, to look real hard right into the face of the only salvation that capitalism and all its hypocrisy leaves the poor.”
“Stop blaming your weakness on the American economic program,” I scoffed at him.
“And this book—” He held up Innsmouth again. “Pretty damn stupid if you ask me.”
“The likes of you would probably say the same of ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,’ Mr. Zalen.”
He clapped in amusement. “Now you’re talkin’! Coleridge was a junkie too! But Lovecraft’s Innsmouth tripe? He got the town all wrong.”
“It wasn’t about the town,” I nearly yelled back. “It was an intricate and very socially symbolic fantasy.”
“And he should’ve at least done a better job changing peoples’ names.”
I sat up more alertly. “Why do you say that? I thought it mostly the names of places he altered.”
“No, no, damn near everyone in town he insulted with all that. Remember the bus driver from the story, Joe Sargent? The real man’s name was Joe Major, for God’s sake. And the town founders, the Larshes, he changed to the Marshes. And then there’s always Zadok Allen. What did Lovecraft call him? A ‘hoary tippler’?”
“Zadok Allen was the piece’s most preeminent stock character, a 96-year-old alcoholic who knew all of Innsmouth’s darkest secrets.”
Another grinning stare. “You’re not very perceptive, are you? The real man’s name was Adok Zalen. Does that last name ring any bells?”
The implication astounded me. “Zadok Allen-Adok Zalen, and… your name, too, is Zalen.”
“Yeah, he was my grandfather. Lovecraft got him drunk near the docks one night with some rotgut he bought at the variety store behind the speakeasy. My grandfather died the next day—of alcohol poisoning from the booze your hero Lovecraft gave him.”
Could this be true? And if so, it begged the further question: how much of Lovecraft’s invention might be the actual invention of Adok Zalen?
“Did the world a favor, though,” Zalen prattled on. “Christ, my grandfather was older than the hills and not worth a shit. He was a liar and a thief, and it was time for him to go.”
“I commend you for the respect you have for your relatives,” I said with a thick sarcasm.
“Lovecraft was a hack. Seabury Quinn was a much better writer.”
I could’ve hemorrhaged! “He was nothing of the sort, Mr. Zalen!” My shout of objection sounded near-hysterical, for now Zalen’s deliberate hectoring was taking its toll. This was my literary idol, after all, and I would not stand to hear his name and talents sullied by this denizen pornographer. “Now do you have the pictures of the old town or do you not?”
“I got ‘em. Wait here,” and he got up and loped into the back room.
The nerve of him, I thought, truly riled now. What could he know about quality fantasy fiction? The more I speculated, the more I preferred to dismiss his accusation that Lovecraft may have contributed to Adok Zalen’s demise. He’s simply asserting these lies for the purpose of a negative effect. No different from his lies about Mary.