Nightbird by Edward Dee

the only reason he’d made
     the trip in the first place. He rarely used it, but this time he wanted verification of the impromptu interview he was about
     to spring on Trey Winters. Verification was the right word. Verification, because he didn’t trust Trey Winters. Not for evidence.
     Danny wasn’t in the evidence business. He wanted to set things straight for Gillian, tell her story. And after all, it was
     he she had called, nobody else. His uncle always said that life was a series of loyalty tests. He wasn’t going to start flunking
     them.
    He found the recorder under a menu for Chinese takeout. The batteries seemed strong. He popped in a fresh microcassette. Then
     he checked his messages: nothing pressing. He did have three new letters he assumed were from cops. Most of his recent correspondence
     were reactions to his Todd Walker police brutality story. Usually he opened them with a carving knife, turning his face away
     in case of a malicious surprise. But no time for that now; he was running late for his own surprise. He decided it would be
     quicker to leave the olive parked here and take the N train back to Times Square. The smell of burned toast wafted out from
     the coffee room. He shoved the recorder into his pocket.
    N o more two shows on Wednesday,” Pinto said. “One show, we quit. Go home. You did too much yesterday, showing off for those
     Swedish bitches. It’s no good for you. Then you take too many pills, and that’s no good.”
    Pinto had rubbed the entire tube of cream into Victor’s neck, arms, and back, and when the Russian wouldn’t massage hard enough
     Victor took over himself, his fingers pressing deeply into his flesh, kneading the muscle, digging underneath his shoulder
     bones, trying to squeeze the nerve endings themselves. The spasms were visible, the muscles almost jumping through the skin.
    “Shot of cortisone straighten you right out,” Pinto said. “I’ll drive you to the accident ward. One shot you’ll be old self.”
    “I have things to do.”
    “People to see,” Pinto said. “I know all about it.”
    “You know nothing; what do you know?”
    “I know something with you is always up. Trouble is coming, that’s what I know.”
    Pinto helped him get his shirt on. Victor wore a starched white shirt with a high collar. White shirts accentuated his tan,
     lit his face. He believed that a man with good skin should wear white, high around his face, especially turtlenecks. Victor
     could feel the warmth of the cream tingling on his skin, as if itching from a wool sweater.
    “I’m sorry about the act today, Pinto.”
    “Just go. Go to your important business. Thursday’s not so busy anyway. I’ll do a solo today. Not to worry.”
    The bone-deep pain returned in full before the D train left the Bronx. By the time he got to Times Square Victor was desperate,
     his white shirt soaked with sweat. He’d taken only one pill before he’d left home, thinking it would be enough. The pain had
     returned too quickly.
    He bought six little red pills from a pregnant woman in a doorway on Thirty-ninth Street and took three immediately. They
     weren’t his usual muscle pills, but by the time he got to the overhang of the hotel he was breathing easier.
    Victor realized that he’d caused his own problems yesterday, starting his act without warming up. Then he’d overdone it. From
     the beginning he was too keyed up, too jazzed from the events of the night before. He’d put everything into the performance,
     showing off for the crowd, tossing the bowling balls higher than it was wise to do. Showing them what a former Barnum & Bailey
     headliner could do. The women, he’d heard the women squealing with pleasure. They should have seen him in his trapeze days.
    Yesterday brought back the old days, and as always, he fed off the spotlight. But it was the end for him. Not even if a miracle
     took the pain away would he ever again beg an unappreciative street audience for loose