for another break, charged across to the other side.
We skirted the airport, the giant planes fog–shrouded, only their lights visible, following the chain link fence. No place to hide a body. We came to a residential block running parallel to the airport. Turned right.
"What you looking for now, mahn?"
"Water," I told him. Thinking back to prison. Watching and learning. Studying the freaks. They're always magneted to water. I remember asking the Prof about it, one cold day on the yard, trying conversation to keep warm.
"How come the skinners always work near water, Prof?"
"It's astrology, schoolboy. The stars in the sky never tell a lie—you know what they say, you can find your way.
"Astrology is bullshit."
"No, bro', here's what I know. The true clue—the real deal. Inside, a man's not blood, he's water. That's what we are, mostly water. The moon pulls the water, the tide takes the ride. Same moon pulls on us."
"So how come the freaks…?"
"The moon's for seekers, schoolboy. Some it pulls strong, some it pulls wrong.
I knew there was water out there. Rikers Island stands just to the west of the airport. Nice name for a jail. I remembered hearing the water from my cell window. Emerson must have done time, must have been there too. He'd know.
The chain link fence made a ninety degree left turn. I looked up at the street sign. Nineteenth Avenue.
Big white metal panel on the fence, red and black letters: NO TRESPASSING.
"In there," I told Clarence, pointing.
The bottom of the fence had been pulled loose. Clarence held it up like a blanket off the ground. I slid through on my belly. He lay on his back, bench–pressed the fence off his chest, used his legs to push him under.
The jungle was thick on the other side. A clear path to the water, well worn.
Dampness muffled the airport sounds. Behind us, lighted houses, parked cars. Ahead, black water. I knew its name from the maps I'd read in jail—Bowery Bay.
The path disappeared. The undergrowth was belt high, cuppy ground below pulled at my feet. We pushed our way through, reached the edge. Thick wooden posts stood upright between cracked slabs of concrete. Scuffling noises, scratchy sounds. Rats.
"I don't like it here, mahn."
The Rock was straight ahead. To our left, the Hazen Street Bridge. The one that carried busloads of humanity every Visiting Day, some hearts full of pain, some mouths full of dope, to be exchanged with that first kiss, contraband–sweet.
We walked to the edge. Looked down. I found a fist–sized stone. Tossed it in. Listened for the sound.
"Deep water." Clarence.
"Deep enough," I said, watching the softly lapping current. Remembering how cons used to study the tide tables like it was the Bible. Rikers Island wasn't Alcatraz—plenty of guys had made it outside the wire, gone into the water and lived to tell about it, usually Upstate.
"This is it," I said to Clarence. "This is where he dumped the baby's body. Derrick's in there."
Clarence looked out into the night. His young man's voice fluttered in the dark mist. "No, mahn. I don't think so. I think maybe the devil has him."
31
M y Plymouth was waiting in the side yard of Jacques's joint.
"You'll tell him?" I asked Clarence.
"Don't you want…?"
"Tell Jacques, I'll be around, give him a call."
His mahogany face was set, eyes troubled.
"It's okay," I said. "All over now. We found the truth—if the baby's not in the water, he's in the ground."
"It wasn't the baby's body the old woman wanted, mahn."
"It's all that's left."
"No, my friend, there's one thing left."
"Better ask Jacques about that first."
"Do you know we love children, mahn? Our people?"
"Yes."
"My mother, she was handy with the switch, mahn. A strong woman." His pale tracker's eyes held mine. "And Mother, she had her men friends too. But never, never once, mahn, I tell you, would any of them ever raise a hand to me—it would be worth his life. I started this"—waving his hand panoramically in front of
We skirted the airport, the giant planes fog–shrouded, only their lights visible, following the chain link fence. No place to hide a body. We came to a residential block running parallel to the airport. Turned right.
"What you looking for now, mahn?"
"Water," I told him. Thinking back to prison. Watching and learning. Studying the freaks. They're always magneted to water. I remember asking the Prof about it, one cold day on the yard, trying conversation to keep warm.
"How come the skinners always work near water, Prof?"
"It's astrology, schoolboy. The stars in the sky never tell a lie—you know what they say, you can find your way.
"Astrology is bullshit."
"No, bro', here's what I know. The true clue—the real deal. Inside, a man's not blood, he's water. That's what we are, mostly water. The moon pulls the water, the tide takes the ride. Same moon pulls on us."
"So how come the freaks…?"
"The moon's for seekers, schoolboy. Some it pulls strong, some it pulls wrong.
I knew there was water out there. Rikers Island stands just to the west of the airport. Nice name for a jail. I remembered hearing the water from my cell window. Emerson must have done time, must have been there too. He'd know.
The chain link fence made a ninety degree left turn. I looked up at the street sign. Nineteenth Avenue.
Big white metal panel on the fence, red and black letters: NO TRESPASSING.
"In there," I told Clarence, pointing.
The bottom of the fence had been pulled loose. Clarence held it up like a blanket off the ground. I slid through on my belly. He lay on his back, bench–pressed the fence off his chest, used his legs to push him under.
The jungle was thick on the other side. A clear path to the water, well worn.
Dampness muffled the airport sounds. Behind us, lighted houses, parked cars. Ahead, black water. I knew its name from the maps I'd read in jail—Bowery Bay.
The path disappeared. The undergrowth was belt high, cuppy ground below pulled at my feet. We pushed our way through, reached the edge. Thick wooden posts stood upright between cracked slabs of concrete. Scuffling noises, scratchy sounds. Rats.
"I don't like it here, mahn."
The Rock was straight ahead. To our left, the Hazen Street Bridge. The one that carried busloads of humanity every Visiting Day, some hearts full of pain, some mouths full of dope, to be exchanged with that first kiss, contraband–sweet.
We walked to the edge. Looked down. I found a fist–sized stone. Tossed it in. Listened for the sound.
"Deep water." Clarence.
"Deep enough," I said, watching the softly lapping current. Remembering how cons used to study the tide tables like it was the Bible. Rikers Island wasn't Alcatraz—plenty of guys had made it outside the wire, gone into the water and lived to tell about it, usually Upstate.
"This is it," I said to Clarence. "This is where he dumped the baby's body. Derrick's in there."
Clarence looked out into the night. His young man's voice fluttered in the dark mist. "No, mahn. I don't think so. I think maybe the devil has him."
31
M y Plymouth was waiting in the side yard of Jacques's joint.
"You'll tell him?" I asked Clarence.
"Don't you want…?"
"Tell Jacques, I'll be around, give him a call."
His mahogany face was set, eyes troubled.
"It's okay," I said. "All over now. We found the truth—if the baby's not in the water, he's in the ground."
"It wasn't the baby's body the old woman wanted, mahn."
"It's all that's left."
"No, my friend, there's one thing left."
"Better ask Jacques about that first."
"Do you know we love children, mahn? Our people?"
"Yes."
"My mother, she was handy with the switch, mahn. A strong woman." His pale tracker's eyes held mine. "And Mother, she had her men friends too. But never, never once, mahn, I tell you, would any of them ever raise a hand to me—it would be worth his life. I started this"—waving his hand panoramically in front of
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