her.
Flood bouncing a baby on her knee. A fat little baby. Japanese screen in one corner of the room, daylight pouring in. A hand on her shoulder. Not mine.
Strega on my lap, wearing blue jeans and Elvira's
Zzzzap!
T–shirt. Crying. Me patting her, telling her it would be okay.
The Prof's voice: "Nobody knows where he's going, but everybody knows where he's been."
Candy: "Take the leash. Feel the power."
Me standing over Mortay in the construction site, gun in my hand. Blood–lust shredding the fear in me. Asking the wounded death–dancer: "You still want Max?"
Blossom's face close to mine, covering me with her body, moaning, her copper–estrogen smell filling the shark cage, machine–gun fire in the night.
Lily and Immaculata, walking down the street, each holding one hand of the same little kid, swinging him between them.
I woke up, shaking like the malaria was back.
35
I let Pansy back out to her roof while I took a shower. Dressed slowly, in no rush. Promised Pansy I'd bring her something back from Mama's.
But first, another look. Time to collect a bargaining chip to put on Wolfe's table. I beat the late–afternoon rush–hour traffic out to Queens. Needed daylight to face what I had to do.
The Plymouth rumbled to a stop on the shoulder of the Grand Central, right across from the highway mile marker I remembered from last night. I hit the emergency flashers, positioned the mini hydraulic jack under the frame, pumped the rear end of the big car off the ground, loosened the lug nuts with a T–handled wrench.
I pretended to rummage through the trunk, checking the space around me. Nobody stopped to help—this isn't Iowa. Traffic droned on my left. The jungle waited to my right.
I slipped on a pair of heavy leather gloves. Lined with a thin layer of chain–mail mesh, they'd handle fire or razors. The machete was Velcro'd to the back of the fuel cell, waiting. I took an army blanket–poncho from the trunk, pulled it over my head. One more 360 look around and I was into the jungle.
The leather bag was swinging from the tree, bursting at its seams, the afternoon sun glistening on the hide. It seemed to squirm with life—like a cocoon ready to birth. I climbed the steep slope, reached up. I could just touch the lowest tip—no good. I climbed to higher ground, draped the nylon loop to the machete around my neck, and pulled myself onto the tree. Crawled out a thick limb until I was close enough. Grabbed the rope in one hand and hacked at the knot holding it to the branch. Three hard shots and it came free. I crawled backward off the tree limb, holding the bag in one hand like a fishing line with slimy bait at the end.
I pulled the poncho over my head, wrapped it around the bag.
Carried it in one hand back to the car. Everything went into the trunk. I merged with the traffic, U–turned at the overpass, headed back to Manhattan.
36
D riving home against the traffic, feeling the heat of the voodoo bag behind me.
"When you're on the road, always look back cold." The Prof. Talking to me on the prison yard years ago. Reminding me how suckers think they have to travel to see what they left at home. Prison even makes you miss hell.
Everything I'd had in Indiana—a short–term lease on belonging—it was gone now. I was home. Driving through the war zone, bombarded by imagery. I flicked on the all–news radio station. A human beat his baby to death, cut the kid up, fed the parts to his German shepherd. The authorities took charge. Killed the dog.
They say when a dog tastes human flesh, it'll always seek more. A dog like that, you have to put it down. When humans get the same way, we give them therapy.
Liberals always know what to name things. To them, graffiti vandals are ghetto expressionists. Probably think mugging is Performance Art too.
The mayor was saying something about the city being a gorgeous mosaic—all the lovely colors. Trying to govern from the fetal position, wearing shades. It looks
Flood bouncing a baby on her knee. A fat little baby. Japanese screen in one corner of the room, daylight pouring in. A hand on her shoulder. Not mine.
Strega on my lap, wearing blue jeans and Elvira's
Zzzzap!
T–shirt. Crying. Me patting her, telling her it would be okay.
The Prof's voice: "Nobody knows where he's going, but everybody knows where he's been."
Candy: "Take the leash. Feel the power."
Me standing over Mortay in the construction site, gun in my hand. Blood–lust shredding the fear in me. Asking the wounded death–dancer: "You still want Max?"
Blossom's face close to mine, covering me with her body, moaning, her copper–estrogen smell filling the shark cage, machine–gun fire in the night.
Lily and Immaculata, walking down the street, each holding one hand of the same little kid, swinging him between them.
I woke up, shaking like the malaria was back.
35
I let Pansy back out to her roof while I took a shower. Dressed slowly, in no rush. Promised Pansy I'd bring her something back from Mama's.
But first, another look. Time to collect a bargaining chip to put on Wolfe's table. I beat the late–afternoon rush–hour traffic out to Queens. Needed daylight to face what I had to do.
The Plymouth rumbled to a stop on the shoulder of the Grand Central, right across from the highway mile marker I remembered from last night. I hit the emergency flashers, positioned the mini hydraulic jack under the frame, pumped the rear end of the big car off the ground, loosened the lug nuts with a T–handled wrench.
I pretended to rummage through the trunk, checking the space around me. Nobody stopped to help—this isn't Iowa. Traffic droned on my left. The jungle waited to my right.
I slipped on a pair of heavy leather gloves. Lined with a thin layer of chain–mail mesh, they'd handle fire or razors. The machete was Velcro'd to the back of the fuel cell, waiting. I took an army blanket–poncho from the trunk, pulled it over my head. One more 360 look around and I was into the jungle.
The leather bag was swinging from the tree, bursting at its seams, the afternoon sun glistening on the hide. It seemed to squirm with life—like a cocoon ready to birth. I climbed the steep slope, reached up. I could just touch the lowest tip—no good. I climbed to higher ground, draped the nylon loop to the machete around my neck, and pulled myself onto the tree. Crawled out a thick limb until I was close enough. Grabbed the rope in one hand and hacked at the knot holding it to the branch. Three hard shots and it came free. I crawled backward off the tree limb, holding the bag in one hand like a fishing line with slimy bait at the end.
I pulled the poncho over my head, wrapped it around the bag.
Carried it in one hand back to the car. Everything went into the trunk. I merged with the traffic, U–turned at the overpass, headed back to Manhattan.
36
D riving home against the traffic, feeling the heat of the voodoo bag behind me.
"When you're on the road, always look back cold." The Prof. Talking to me on the prison yard years ago. Reminding me how suckers think they have to travel to see what they left at home. Prison even makes you miss hell.
Everything I'd had in Indiana—a short–term lease on belonging—it was gone now. I was home. Driving through the war zone, bombarded by imagery. I flicked on the all–news radio station. A human beat his baby to death, cut the kid up, fed the parts to his German shepherd. The authorities took charge. Killed the dog.
They say when a dog tastes human flesh, it'll always seek more. A dog like that, you have to put it down. When humans get the same way, we give them therapy.
Liberals always know what to name things. To them, graffiti vandals are ghetto expressionists. Probably think mugging is Performance Art too.
The mayor was saying something about the city being a gorgeous mosaic—all the lovely colors. Trying to govern from the fetal position, wearing shades. It looks
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