“Who the fuck is she?”
Yellow, who was still standing behind me, placed a hand on my shoulder. “Be kind. Avoid your normal pedantic, condescending tone. She can’t stand it.”
I was disappointed that the drinks I’d had downstairs were wearing thin, and Yellow’s comment pushed me toward surly. “You would know.”
Screwdriver said sharply, “Watch your mouth.”
Seventy raised a hand. “Enough. We’re all on the same side here.”
Any thoughts I’d had of revealing the gun to them disappeared. Either they knew I had it, in which case I’d be revealing something as obvious to them as my shoe size, or I’d be tipping my hand. Why I felt I had or needed a “hand,” I didn’t know. But I did, and I kept it hidden.
Seventy took hold of the cloth. With all the spontaneity of someone who had waited thirty-odd years to utter a line from a play, he said, “It’s time for you to see the next great piece of our puzzle.” Then he pulled off the cloth.
As I’d feared, I had to look at the Body, which had become a he again to me. He lay there, eyes half open, hands to his sides in a supplicant position, with an expression of almost willful acceptance of his fate. Practically shrugging at death. I’d witnessed supposed saints laid in tombs with less beatific expressions.
The Body’s beard resembled the Drunk’s, though more neatly trimmed. His clothes were rumpled and askew, revealing the parrot tattoo on his wrist. I looked quickly at Screwdriver’s and Seventy’s wrists to see if I could catch a sign of it there. They both somehow chose that moment to tug cuffs lower.
Yellow guided me forward so we all stood like the points on a compass. As we listened to the thunder, I glanced from Yellow, slightly hostile but also somewhat sympathetic, to Seventy, the elderly statesman of the group, to Screwdriver, who struck me as grim and threatening. I wanted to examine the Body’s face to see if he shared my imperfect profile but couldn’t make myself. “So.”
“Dipshit,” said Yellow as he took hold of the Body’s head. “So you’re looking at this.” He turned it to the side. At the base of the neck was a bullet hole—large enough for two fingers—with blue-black bruising around it.
Seventy pointed at the wound, his finger shaking at the end of a tremoring arm. “He was shot. We were shot. You will be shot.”
Yellow took hold of my shoulder. “You. You will be shot.”
I dug my hands into my jacket pockets and wrapped my right one around the too-heavy gun. It was slick under my fingers. My stomach tightened with disgust as I realized that everyone here was a liar. “Why didn’t you show me this earlier?”
Yellow straightened to our full height and said, “Because we didn’t show you until now.”
“It’s something we all remembered.” Seventy let go of the table. He vacillated between looking like the most frail and the most competent of us.
I said, “Shot in the back.”
“No.” Seventy, voice calm, hands shaking. “That’s the exit wound. Entry is under the chin.”
Screwdriver, apparently serenely capable of touching the Body as often as necessary, tilted the head so that I could see the hairs on his chin. What I noticed at first were the stray whisker clippings that rested on his collar, as if just trimmed. Screwdriver pointed to the hole lost in the beard. We all nodded.
I said, “Gun?”
“We don’t know.” Yellow shook his head. “Probably a .22.”
I knew nothing about guns. I should read up, I thought. “Do you know about guns?”
“Enough. I read up. Researched. Picked up a few things.”
“Picked up a few things about guns or picked up a few guns?”
He raised his eyes to me. “What?”
I’d said too much. “Nothing, I was just wondering. Never mind.” He certainly didn’t seem to know about the gun. In fact, he seemed rather confused. I kept my hands in my pockets, teetering between panic that I looked like I was hiding something and panic
Yellow, who was still standing behind me, placed a hand on my shoulder. “Be kind. Avoid your normal pedantic, condescending tone. She can’t stand it.”
I was disappointed that the drinks I’d had downstairs were wearing thin, and Yellow’s comment pushed me toward surly. “You would know.”
Screwdriver said sharply, “Watch your mouth.”
Seventy raised a hand. “Enough. We’re all on the same side here.”
Any thoughts I’d had of revealing the gun to them disappeared. Either they knew I had it, in which case I’d be revealing something as obvious to them as my shoe size, or I’d be tipping my hand. Why I felt I had or needed a “hand,” I didn’t know. But I did, and I kept it hidden.
Seventy took hold of the cloth. With all the spontaneity of someone who had waited thirty-odd years to utter a line from a play, he said, “It’s time for you to see the next great piece of our puzzle.” Then he pulled off the cloth.
As I’d feared, I had to look at the Body, which had become a he again to me. He lay there, eyes half open, hands to his sides in a supplicant position, with an expression of almost willful acceptance of his fate. Practically shrugging at death. I’d witnessed supposed saints laid in tombs with less beatific expressions.
The Body’s beard resembled the Drunk’s, though more neatly trimmed. His clothes were rumpled and askew, revealing the parrot tattoo on his wrist. I looked quickly at Screwdriver’s and Seventy’s wrists to see if I could catch a sign of it there. They both somehow chose that moment to tug cuffs lower.
Yellow guided me forward so we all stood like the points on a compass. As we listened to the thunder, I glanced from Yellow, slightly hostile but also somewhat sympathetic, to Seventy, the elderly statesman of the group, to Screwdriver, who struck me as grim and threatening. I wanted to examine the Body’s face to see if he shared my imperfect profile but couldn’t make myself. “So.”
“Dipshit,” said Yellow as he took hold of the Body’s head. “So you’re looking at this.” He turned it to the side. At the base of the neck was a bullet hole—large enough for two fingers—with blue-black bruising around it.
Seventy pointed at the wound, his finger shaking at the end of a tremoring arm. “He was shot. We were shot. You will be shot.”
Yellow took hold of my shoulder. “You. You will be shot.”
I dug my hands into my jacket pockets and wrapped my right one around the too-heavy gun. It was slick under my fingers. My stomach tightened with disgust as I realized that everyone here was a liar. “Why didn’t you show me this earlier?”
Yellow straightened to our full height and said, “Because we didn’t show you until now.”
“It’s something we all remembered.” Seventy let go of the table. He vacillated between looking like the most frail and the most competent of us.
I said, “Shot in the back.”
“No.” Seventy, voice calm, hands shaking. “That’s the exit wound. Entry is under the chin.”
Screwdriver, apparently serenely capable of touching the Body as often as necessary, tilted the head so that I could see the hairs on his chin. What I noticed at first were the stray whisker clippings that rested on his collar, as if just trimmed. Screwdriver pointed to the hole lost in the beard. We all nodded.
I said, “Gun?”
“We don’t know.” Yellow shook his head. “Probably a .22.”
I knew nothing about guns. I should read up, I thought. “Do you know about guns?”
“Enough. I read up. Researched. Picked up a few things.”
“Picked up a few things about guns or picked up a few guns?”
He raised his eyes to me. “What?”
I’d said too much. “Nothing, I was just wondering. Never mind.” He certainly didn’t seem to know about the gun. In fact, he seemed rather confused. I kept my hands in my pockets, teetering between panic that I looked like I was hiding something and panic
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