Dance of the Snows

No matter where I've lived in the city, I've always been able to hear the trains. Their dark moans sigh through the night air and always wake me, but I never seem to mind. I welcome their lonesome sound. I never hear the trains during the day, they only speak to me at night when I'm alone. They own the night.

Ever since I was a kid, I always loved the night. I was shuffled off to bed around ten o'clock, but stayed up for hours staring at the faint blue glow of my old Zenith, inching the radio dial, looking for distant stations. The Chicago stations always came in strong, but when the mirror of the ionosphere was just right, I could hear the weeping steel guitars of Nashville, Tennessee. The distant stations would only come out at night; they would crackle and fade with the approach of the sun. My favorite things always happened at night.

When I was sixteen I went to work for my father, cleaning his saloon for seventy-five bucks a week. I had to work seven days a week, working in the mornings before I went to school—but the day I graduated I switched to the graveyard shift. I began to live in the night. It wasn't much money, but the seventy-five did buy me a cheap sack of weed every week, kept gas in my Chevy, and the beer was always on the house. I celebrated my first night, grabbing a pitcher of beer and a bottle of Jim Beam, setting up camp in a booth next to the jukebox, where I could gaze at the blue-lit stars on the ceiling that formed the Little Dipper. After choking down a few harsh shots, I was all warm and fuzzy—like I was swaddled in a toasty mitten. I turned the lights down low, pumped a couple quarters in the juke, and listened to Sinatra swing under my own private stars. Frank always sounds better at night.

That night in the bar, something changed inside me. Maybe it was the Jim Beam, maybe it was Frank, but I've never been the same. I became obsessed with chasing those distant stations and moaning trains. I started to take long drives at night, going farther and farther each time out. One night I made it to the state line, but I couldn't cross. I knew if I did, I could never come back. I met the state line at sunrise. I ran out of night.

“How far you get last night?” Cal said, his lips clamped down on a Camel. Cal's my best friend and we have the same conversation almost every Sunday.

“State line. I even cleaned out the old man's till last night, but I made it back before he got to the joint.”

“Are you nuts? How close?”

“Fifteen minutes.”

“Jesus Christ, Evvie, do ya wanna run away or end up in fuckin' emergency? What if your old man beat you to the joint? Then what?”

“Then I'd have to run.”

“Damn right you'd have to . . .” Cal lit up another cigarette. I swear, Cal would smoke in his sleep if he could.

“Run, Cal? You're gettin' pretty quick there, Chimney boy.”

“Evan?”

“What?”

“Aw, forget it. Got any—”

I tossed him the keys before he could finish. “Grab two,” I said. Cal fished a couple Grain Belts out of my trunk. We stared silently at the valley below us. It was stripped raw and gray.

“Jesus, Evvie,” Cal said, stopping to take a long pull off his beer. “If ya wanna run, just get it over with. What's with all this pussyshittin' around?”

“I don't know. I just like the drive, I guess—and maybe I'm waitin' for you to come with me.” I blew him a kiss. “How 'bout it, sweets? You up?”

“Go fuck yourself, you sick—”

“But I'm saving myself for you, bitch. C'mon, give us a kiss. . . .”

“You're a sick sonuvabitch, you know that?”

I met Cal when I was fifteen, when we both worked at the local pancake palace. I washed dishes after school for a lousy $2.05 an hour, and Cal bused tables. He used to send me the dishes. I could smoke back in the dishwashing pit when the manager wasn't around, so Cal used to poke his head through the service doors to sneak a few drags off me. Cal got caught one time stealing a puff off some guy's cigarette, when he got up to go to the can. Cal was a total fiend. We became good friends that summer, when we both ended up on the graveyard shift. We both volunteered. Cal was a night owl like me.

By New Year's Eve 1977 everything seemed ready to explode. There was an indescribable tension enveloping the town, and my restlessness grew. We were in the middle of one of the snowiest, grayest winters on record, and hadn't seen the sun since November. Tempers were short; everyone seemed nervous. The police were swamped with calls of domestic disputes and assaults. The old man's joint became a war zone. People walked with their heads down, removing all possibility of a wrong look. The old-timers dismissed it as merely cabin fever, but there was an insidious undercurrent to the tension, an unraveling in the town quilt that made it seem like everything was about to come undone.

I had plans to ring in the new year with Cal. Cal's cousin Richard picked us up fifths of bourbon and vodka, throwing in a chunk of hash to complete the package. I gassed up my '67 Impala and picked up a pack of heaters at Wes's 66. Cal lived right by Red Horse Lake, so we decided that would be a cool place to start. I parked it smack-dab in the middle of the icy lake, kept the heat blasting to cut a thirty-below windchill, and Cal cooked up the hash. We listened to the wind howl and watched the snow slowly blanket us into an arctic cocoon. We didn't say much and didn't bother with the radio. We just listened to the wind and the trains.

“Let's go to a movie!” Cal said, nearly jumping out of his seat and putting me into cardiac arrest. Cal loved the movies.

“Jesus, will you stop doin' that to me?” I said, feeling my heart jump from his sudden outburst. I knew we were going. When Cal gets a wild hair, he won't take no for an answer.

“C'mon, Saturday Night Fever is at the Warwick.”

The Warwick is the only real movie house left in town. There's a new multiplex out in West Sunset, but it's got about as much character as a curb. Christened the Oakhaven, it's the epitome of the mid-seventies commercial architecture boom that reared its grotesque head in the newly-developed west end of town, which heartlessly split Sunset Park into East and West, with East Sunset being the town proper, and West Sunset being its unwanted suburban stepsister. This much-ballyhooed suburban sprawl—with its soulless, unimaginative confections of cinder block and processed lumber—now repulsively squats on what used to be Witch's Woods.

With its glorious art deco facade of ribbed stainless and flowing red neon, the Warwick is the prettiest building in town. How it ended up in a steel and railroad town like Sunset Park—a town dominated by bland, crumbling brownstones and belching smokestacks—is a mystery. It was built in 1937, the same year Calvary Resurrection Church was being built. The old-timers joke that God got a little mixed-up and blessed the Warwick instead of the church. Sometimes Cal and I park across the street from the Warwick at night, just to bask in its warm, shimmery glow. I think the old-timers are right.

We stumbled our way out of Saturday Night Fever around a quarter to twelve, jaywalking Lawson Avenue in a nauseous, boozy reel, our tender, retching adolescence housing earnest young boners that were breaking out in night fever. Cal was a lazy-eyed white superfreak with shiny pants and platforms—squinting at the world through a sea of vodka and taped-up glasses; I was the salt of the glacial Plains—all jeans, boots, and blasted with bourbon. After one-eyeing the Chevy back to Cal's place, he made hash browns with turkey in a rotting, falling-down kitchen that smelled like a deep fryer, swirled with the airborne squalor of four runny-nosed boys who wanted junior shiny pants and platforms like their big brother. Cal was the oldest and he could make hash browns with turkey. His brothers call him Leftover Cal.

Cal is the head chef at the Holden household and the undisputed hash brown king. The Holden boys eat hash browns almost every day; hash browns with tuna, hash browns with chicken, hash browns with beef—which were always topped with the previous day's output, broadcast like fertilizer over the skillet field. Not a day goes by at Cal's house when someone doesn't ask for the ketchup. In the two years I've been going over to Cal's house, I've never met his mother or father. His father's in the Navy, but he never comes home. Cal says that he's having too much fun gettin' tattooed, drinkin' rum, and screwing island girls in grass skirts. The mother of the five boys is a picture in the hall of a giant bouffant hairdo—a ten-gallon coiffure with an Aqua Net-fastened white headband, neatly accessorized with white tire-hoop earrings that were in perfect proportion to her Jiffy-Popped coif. I'm sure she was wearing white go-go boots to match. Cal's got an invisible mom. Other than the picture, the only trace of her being there consists of half-smoked, lipstick-stained Bel-Airs in a Best Western ashtray, which the boys happily finish for her.

After ringing in the new year with hash browns and turkey, I felt like going for a walk to clear my head before I cleaned the joint. I went back to Lawson Avenue, parking about three blocks from the bar, kicked the snow chunks off my car and crunched my way through downtown. . . . Woolworth's . . . Mueller's Apothecary . . . Rennie's Department Store. . . . I stopped across the Trinity Diner, an old railroad dining car that sits cockeyed on Fourth and Lawson. The Trinity is another mystery in East Sunset, namely, because it sits crooked—like it derailed and nobody bothered to move it; a drunken squatter cast off the tracks, determined to find a home. The normally drab brownstones looked renewed and seemed to have a revitalized spirit, with the Christmas garland, wreaths, and lights dancing with the swirling snow. As I crossed Sixth Street, I could see the Warwick, just in time to see its neon glow flicker out slowly, like it was fighting to stay lit.

“Hey, Evvie! You gotta clean the joint tonight?” a voice snapped from across the street, jarring me out of my fog. “Hoo-hoo! C'mere, ya lil' bastard, give ol' Happy Harry a hug!”

“Happy” Harry Reynolds is the deejay from Sunset Park's only radio station, KSUN. Harry is the self-proclaimed “Voice of the Sun,” with his trademark “Hoo-hoo!” punctuating his corny jokes and stories, and the old western swing and honky-tonk he played every night until he signed off at ten. Harry charged over from across the street, all hunched over with his pointy New Year's hat, like he was flashing back to his football days, about to make a tackle. Harry was a legendary football star at Harding High. He also had the biggest head I've ever seen on a man. They had to special-order a helmet to fit him. He had a head like a mushroom cloud.

“Hoo-hoo! Happy New Year, boy!” He hugged me so hard I almost passed out.

“Hiya, Harry. Happy New Year.”

“You won't believe it, boy, you just won't believe it! I never seen nothin' like it! Hoo-hoo! Is your old man gonna be steamin'!”

“Harry? Harry!” He kept shuffling, jiggling, and panting, his pudgy hands squeezing my shoulders. He was dancing. “Harry!”

“What?”

“Nice hat. Now—”

“Hoo-hoo! Ya like it? Happy New Year!” He gave me another hug. “Good to see ya, boy, good to see ya. Hoo-dolly! Is your old man gonna blow!”

“Gonna blow about what?”

Harry started to hum and hoo-dolly some more, then suddenly stopped. “Huh?”

“Jesus, Harry, what the hell you talkin' about?” Harry let out a belch that smelled like Tennessee. “Aw, Christ, Harry. . . .”

“Hoo-hoo! They blew it up!”

“They blew what up?”

“The bathroom!”

“Waddaya mean they blew up the bathroom?”

“Somebody threw an M-80 down the head!”

In the two years that I've been cleaning the joint, I've gotten used to the fact that drunken people just like to wreck shit. They cut up the bar stools and carve into the bar with their knives, break the bathroom mirror at least once a week, and always manage to piss all over the floor. With the exception of guys like Harry and a few other old-timers, the old man's clientèle primarily consists of guys in their thirties and forties, most of them divorced or soon-to-be divorced steelworkers whose lives consist of getting drunk, beating each other up, and missing every toilet in East Sunset. I always understood why they broke the mirrors; they simply reflected a truth that they didn't want to see. They had dead-end jobs in a dying town and numbed their reality by the glass. They were prisoners with drinking privileges.

I walked in the back door about two-thirty, and no-butt, baggy-eyed Artie was working on a vodka gimlet, sitting next to this faded leather-skinned blonde all done-up in Crayola makeup, who was working on the same. She thought she was pretty hot, shooting me a clumsy, sexually-charged look that resembled more of a seizure than anything remotely erotic. I guessed her to be about forty or so, but the last few years hadn't been kind. The bar was still wet, and Artie slammed the rest of his drink, gave the glass a shake and one more slurpy suck, and the glamorous couple were on their way. Artie didn't say a thing. I checked out Leatherface's ass as she tried to sexually sashay toward the door. Her gait was more stumbled than sexy, but enough vodka will turn you into a movie star. And she, too, was a no-butt like Artie. I could always tell who the hard-core alkies were by looking at their asses. They all had flat, scrawny butts; no curvature or shape, just flat plywood asses.

Artie never says much to me, or anyone else for that matter. He's got a lousy personality for a bartender, but he's too weak and lazy to handle the brutal rigor of the mill. He drinks behind the bar, but at least most of the money goes in the till. I bolted the door behind Rhett and Scarlet and made a beeline straight for the can. The smell was overpowering, like a backed-up, open sewer; a thick and acrid stench. I thought I was going to get sick again, but the shock of what I saw straightened me right out. I was used to the petty vandalism, but this was so ridiculous, so over-the-top, that I couldn't help but laugh. Harry was right. They blew up the goddam toilet. Except for about five inches of a gaping porcelain stump, the toilet was gone. Fine, glistening porcelain chips covered the ceiling, somewhat clustered over where the toilet used to be. In a way it was beautiful. I was awed by the power and artful form of the blast. I admired the physics behind this vandalistic masterpiece. My old man was not an art lover. Harry was right. He was gonna blow.

The old man usually gets to the joint about a quarter to six, except on Sundays and the occasional holiday when he'll sleep in till eight. I take advantage of his leisurely Sunday hours when I take my long Saturday night drives. It affords me plenty of time to make it back to the joint, get the money back in the safe, and start my cleaning routine. The old man never questions me about my start times, just as long as I have the joint cleaned up before we open. He knows I like to drink and screw around when I have the place to myself, but he doesn't care as long as the joint gets cleaned up.

Anthony William Cummings was born on April 25, 1924. He was a prompt and punctual arrival, born alive and fighting at exactly 2 A.M. He was delivered at home by a midwife, at the address of 453 Upper Levee, which is not the name of a street; it's a geographic location under the Narrows Bridge that was flecked with numbered rickety shacks down on the river flats. He spent the first ten years of his life growing up on the flats, scavenging coal on the railroad tracks for heat in the merciless winters, and fighting the floods every spring when the snowmelt overwhelmed the Baptism River. He once told me that he rowed to the schoolhouse every spring. Everyone called him Bill.

He served in the Army during World War II, mostly in the Philippines, but he always changed the subject when I asked him about it. After the war he became a cop, but was dismissed from the department after roughing up too many arrestees. He had a violent temper and a devastating right hook; his reputation as a tough guy was sealed when he killed a guy in a fight outside an old cop bar downtown. He was off-duty at the time. Since he was a cop, the whole matter was cleaned up nicely. Other cops testified that the guy pulled a knife on him and that it was self-defense. One of his cop buddies was nice enough to volunteer the knife. It took five cops to pull him off this guy. He beat him to death.

I was popping the Delta Queen pretty hard when the old man came through the back door, uncharacteristically late at eight-thirty. The Queen's my favorite pinball because it has a high threshold for pain; you could throw a full cross-body block into it and she still wouldn't tilt. The pinballs in bars take ferocious beatings. Your average arcade model wouldn't last a day in the old man's joint.

The old man's morning routine is no-nonsense and consistent: Coffee, safe, tills. As usual, he didn't say a word to me. He's on total autopilot in the morning and doesn't like to be fucked with. I turned off the machine the instant I saw him. The Queen's a caterwauling, bing-bonging dervish that's about as subtle as a state fair midway. The only bells the old man wants to hear in the morning is the ching-ching when he rings out the tills. I wanted a beer, but didn't dare take one when he was around. I waited until he checked out the day's receipts before I sprung the masterpiece on him.

He looked happy as he rang out the tills. I can always tell how good business is by how much shit is on the floor—when the shit's high, the money's good—and it took me three trips to get it all in the Dumpster. He turned and surprised me with a stiff, business-like “Good morning.” I took a nervous breath and sprung the news.

“Uh, Pop?” I started sheepishly. “Uh . . . how's business?”

“Fine.” I hate his cold “fine's.” “Any damage?” This was not an unusual query; he was used to my damage reports—usually just broken mirrors, bent chairs, and the dead glass count. I could barely breathe.

“You better check out the men's can.”

“What—another fuckin' mirror? Jesus Christ!” He slammed his cup down and came out from behind the bar. He could snap just like a mousetrap. “What the fuck is wrong with these people?” The mirror was surprisingly intact.

“It's the toilet, Pop,” I nonchalantly said.

“Is it plugged? What—don't you know how to use a fuckin' plunger?” He whirled his taut fiery body toward the can. I figured the shock of the masterpiece would shake him up enough, so I went behind the bar and grabbed a beer. I figured he wouldn't notice.

He shoved the door open with his thick hands, slamming it off the wall behind it. The door reversed with equal violence, but its path was soon soothed by the door's closure, catching it about four inches from the jamb, then tranquilly releasing it to its resting place. The instant I cracked the beer, it was as if I threw a switch. A surreal silence hung over the room, like everything stopped. I couldn't hear the whir of the coolers and compressors; traffic ceased; the air was clotted with stillness. Dead calm.

The linen dispenser was the first to go. Beautifully timed and punctuated by a snarling primeval growl, its aluminum body met the cold pissy tile with a shivery crash, then was slowly tortured by the size 10 steel-toes the old man preferred, soccering it off the walls before mercifully finishing it off with a stomp to its galvanized heart. He then took to the sink, a valiant warrior that would not succumb easily, being heartily reinforced and tempered by previous action. He grunted and wrestled until it finally capitulated, opening its jugular, then defiantly challenged the floor drain with a stream of bilious profanity to keep up with the porcelain warrior's severed artery. The coup de grace was the mirror, its crash overshadowed by a heavy thud. He smashed it with the sink.

I have never met anyone in my life who spooks me more than my old man. He is the most volatile heart-attack-of-a-man that ever scorched this earth—but he is not without humor. He came out of the bathroom smiling, flipping around a piece of a broken faucet handle. The human wrecking ball then looked at me and deadpanned: “Evvie—call the plumber.”

“You think one's gonna be enough, Pop?”

It just slipped out. It was an instinctive, smart-alecky retort that I regretted the second it left my lips. I started to cringe as he took a step in my direction. His nostrils flared, his eyes creased; his right hand began to ball up. Then he suddenly released, the corners of his mouth turning slightly upward. He looked down, then softly rolled his left hand over his wavy pile of black hair, like he always does when he's thinking. He let out a minute snicker at first, then a muttering laugh, shooting me a cockeyed look to remind me of how lucky I was and not to push my luck. The rigid tension coolly exhaled. The old man went behind the bar and poured himself a three-finger shot of Jack Daniel's. He slammed the shot just like they do in the old Westerns—a quick, seamless motion without a hint of grimace. Everything about the old man was tough. He walked and talked and drank like a hard-ass. Nobody wanted to tangle with ol' Bill. He's not that big of a guy—a shade under six feet and 190 pounds—but he was mean and knew how to fight. I knew he was thinking about the artist and what he was going to do when he found him.

I woke up around two in the afternoon and grabbed a Coke out of the fridge. It burned like hell all the way down, I grabbed another, and shook loose a cigarette out of my crumpled pack. A little stub of a party favor spilled out of the pack, so I decided to give Chimney boy a ring to see how he was feeling. Cal has a phone right next to his bed and he picked up on the first ring.

“What?”

“Waddaya mean, 'what?' Can't you say hello like everyone else?”

“Fuck you, Evan—I'm sick.”

“We got leftovers, Chimney boy. Wanna come out and play?”

“You gotta be fucking kidding. Aren't you hungover?”

“A little. C'mon, man, we've had worse. I worked it off. C'mon, get up—I got a story to tellya.”

“Did somebody die?”

“Just get up and I'll tellya.”

“I told you I'm fucking sick! I'm not going anywhere. Are you deaf or just stupid?”

“What?”

“Ahhggh! You're such a fucking asshole!”

“Hey, Cal, why don't you say 'fuck' a couple more million times. What—are you a fucking sailor or something?”

“You are the biggest asshole—”

“If you don't get up, I'm comin' over.”

“Asshole.”

“Popeye!”

“I'm going to kick your ass.”

“Just take a shower and get up. I'll be over in an hour.”

“Asshole.”

“C'mon, you'll feel better after you kick my ass and have some breakfast, okay?”

“Yeah, whatever.”

I shouldn't have called Cal “Popeye,” but it always gets him riled up and out of the house. He always calls me an asshole when I do it, but it's a sacrifice I can live with. Besides, it's nice to hear him say another curse word other than fuck. I like variety. I suppose it's kind of mean, considering he does have a bad eye and all, but it works better than any alarm clock would, and I can't stand staying in my house any longer than I have to.

I live in a plastic house. There's plastic on the furniture, plastic on the carpet, and even plastic on the garage floor, from where my parents park their car, to the entrance into the house. My Chevy isn't even allowed in the driveway—oil spots are verboten. This is anal retentiveness of the highest order. Follow the path, never stray from the path, be the path. There are no pictures, no personal effects, nothing to suggest that this is a home where people live, love, and breathe freely. Model homes look more lived-in than our dipped-in-formaldehyde homestead. It's in West Sunset.

Cal lives in a dump in East Sunset on Sixth and Michigan, right up from the lake. The houses are old and real; lived-in and died-in. The streets have real names—not those phony froufrou names like “Woodhaven” and “Briar Willow,” like they have in West Sunset. We used to live in the old neighborhood, and even had a front stoop where I used to sit all the time when I was a kid, but we moved when I was about thirteen. I really miss the old house. I used to hang out at the lake, on Monkey Hill, and walk the railroad tracks nearby. There was no plastic.

I made it to Cal's around three-thirty. He was still hurting pretty bad and wanted to try to eat some breakfast. Vodka always tears you up. He gave me a hard shove, called me an asshole again, and we were off to the Trinity for a late breakfast. We always sit in the back booth by the window, so we can watch the cars and see who's walking by.

“You boys gonna have anything besides coffee today?” I hate it when Marnie's working. Roxy usually works Saturdays and she's a total knockout.

“Where's Roxy?” I said.

“Prob'ly gettin' knocked up by her scuz-bag boyfriend.” Just the thought gave me an erection. “Are you gonna order or not?”

“Rough night, Marnie?” Cal came to life. Marnie always looks like it's been a rough night.

“Do you want anything or not? I got real customers.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Give us a sec, willya?”

Cal started working on his coffee. “Well, asshole, you dragged me out of fuckin' bed again, hows 'bout tellin' me what's goin' on?”

“Tells y'all whuz goin' on? What—are you a fuckin' southern sailor now?” Cal started to laugh. “Well . . . somebody blew up our bathroom last night.”

“What?”

“You gotta see it to believe it, man. Honest to God, there's nothin' but a porcelain stump. It's gone. We're the only joint in town with a toilet on the ceiling.”

“Waddid the old man do?”

“He finished her off.”

“Waddaya mean?”

“He totaled the rest of the men's can.”

“Get out!”

“I'm tellin' ya, man, the old boy went absolutely nuts. You know the old man, ol' Bill just blew a gasket. If I heard right—I was just sittin' at the bar when he went in—it sounded like he started with the linen machine, booted it around for a bit with the steel-toes, then the crazy fuck goes after the sink! I mean, just tears it completely off the wall, just swearin' and wreckin' shit like a motherfucker. The boy just went total apeshit, man. Oh, and get this: He saves the mirror for last.”

“Huh. They didn't get the mirror last night?”

“She was a spooky night, Chimney boy.”

“Who did it? Who was workin'?”

“No-butt.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Does he ever? He's got a new chick, though.”

“Is she as fuckin' ugly as he is?”

“She looks like Leatherface in Chainsaw.” Cal started to howl. He loved Texas Chainsaw Massacre. People were starting to turn around. Marnie came back to check on us.

“Are ya ready to order?”

“Is she as pretty as Marnie?” Cal said with a snicker.

“Oh, much, much prettier than Marnie,” I whispered back. Marnie stormed off without even refilling our coffee, but we were laughing so hard we didn't care.

It took us about fifteen minutes or so to calm down, then I had to go up to the counter and sweet-talk Marnie into giving us some more coffee, assuring her that we were actually going to order something. Cal and I ordered a couple tuna melts and turned our thoughts to the rest of the weekend. There was nothing going on.

Cal wanted to hear more about the old man. He's as scared of the old man as I am, but he also finds him endlessly fascinating, in a depraved sort of way. Whenever I tell Cal the barroom lore about the old man's roughhouse style of management, he's always probing for more details; for more blood—almost as though he was sorry he missed it. Cal's seen the old man in action a few times, and seemed to enjoy it a little too much. His interest went beyond the natural curiosity that is wedded to brutality. He liked it.

“I can't believe you stuck around,” Cal said. “Shit, I would have hightailed it out the back door.”

“Bullshit. You woulda been in the bathroom watchin' him.”

“Oh no. I don't wanna be around your old man when he's on the warpath. Not when it's just him and me. He's just too freakin' nuts. Weren't you scared?”

“I don't know,” I said with a shrug. “I think it was that deer-in-the-headlights kinda thing, ya know? I just couldn't go. I even grabbed a beer for the show.”

“You know what I think? I think you're as nuts as he is.” Cal shook his head. “Christ, how did we end up in such screwy families?”

“We should all get together for dinner. You could make hash browns.”

“Hey, I'm serious, Evvie. Stop fuckin' around with your old man. I swear, it's like you got a death wish or somethin'. Remember what happened when you got busted for weed? What was waiting for you when you got home?” He ran his finger down the one-inch scar on my left temple. “Remember?”

“You know what the weirdest thing is, Cal? Whenever the old man's raging—I mean, ever since I was a kid—I just sit there . . . like I'm paralyzed or in shock or something. I just freeze. . . . I don't know, maybe I'm just too damn scared to move. But I still do the same goddam thing. I can't figure it out.”

Cal is always warning me off about the old man. He scolds me at times, not unlike a mother scolding a willful child, but it's a role that suits him naturally, although he wasn't given much of a choice. Cal's mother is rarely around, and he never knows where his father is, so he's used to taking care of his four little brothers. Cal has a shitty life, but he never complains about it. He's done it for so long it's just second nature to him. Cal's only nineteen, but he seems a lot older. But he's still nineteen.

We were starting to squirm on our cushionless wooden perch at the Trinity. Although the booths inside the diner afforded an inviting view of the avenue, they did little to provide comfort, being little more than benches with hastily tacked-on backs—greasy white planks designed to discourage leisurely coffees and idle conversation, but their ergonomic failings seldom deterred Cal and me. We worked through three pots of coffee and plenty of idle chatter, but wholly ignored what I really wanted to talk about: About moving on and shaking the dirt of this town; packing it up and in and tearing down the road as fast as 350 cubic inches could take us. I had no particular destination in mind, I just wanted to be anywhere and everywhere but here.

I always sensed a surrender in Cal, a giving-up; an acceptance of what he thought fate had in store for him. For as long as I've known him, he's always had to hold things together, and his words always reflected his sense of duty. But his eyes spoke a different language. I could see a lusting, yearning rush in his eyes whenever he heard the trains. I knew that deep down inside him, beyond the scar tissue of everyday living, he had the same stirrings that I had when he heard that sound; that it was so much more than just the sound of cold mechanization. It was the song of our souls. A song of hope and possibility, of better lives and new worlds—worlds bursting ripe with promise, just waiting to be picked. But Cal's longings were always choked off by his sense of duty. He wasn't ready to let it go, and the flashes of hope that I saw in his eyes were always dashed by anger, then resignation. I never pushed him on the subject. Cal was only doing what he thought was right. I respected what he was doing, but I hated the circumstance that forced such a heavy burden on such young shoulders. The buoyance of his youth was thickly chained by the thoughtless indifference of his mother, who was little more than a glossy eight-by-ten memory hanging crookedly in the hall.

We watched the darkness slowly overtake the day and the lights intermittently come to life from our window seat, transforming the darkness of a somber winter's day into a charmed surrealism. The lights and stars plinked on in small clusters as the busyness of the day waned, the clocks and Earth seeming to slow in their rotation. The genesis of night always calmed and soothed my restlessness, but with it came the dreamy stirrings that turned the plaintive sighs of distant trains into an unrequited wish. Everyday life was a cruel vivisectionist, relentlessly tearing at my desperate fading ghost.

“Hey, snap out of it!” Cal said, slapping his hand on the table. “Waddaya see out there anyway? C'mon, let's get outta here.”

We divvied up the bill and scraped together a stingy tip, then layered on the winter gear in anticipation of a cold car. As I was fishing around in my pocket trying to locate my keys, I heard the airy tinkle of bells from the diner's door, and turned around to take a look.

All I could see was the back of her head, but the hair was unmistakably Brynn's. Thick and lush like summer hedges, but crow-black and gently waved like a river current. She always reminded me of summer; of late-August starlight brushed with a moist, warm breeze. I flushed with a sudden sensation of warmth, and could almost smell the tepid green earth. We had kissed just two summers before, after stealing away from the clamor of a summer party in the woods. We were both sixteen, a little drunk, and already lamenting the loss of another summer, a lament deepened by the wafting flavors drifting in from a nearby county fair, its Labor Day consummation coming too quickly, too relentlessly; its confections bittersweet.

Brynn was with a friend, a beautiful summery blonde who thickened my memory of August. Her cheeks and lips were brushed with a frost of pink, her fair skin kissed by the cold breath of January. She smiled as she shook the snow from her hair, then tossed her head back, revealing a slender neck and the subtle oval of her almond-shaped face. Brynn spotted me and squinted curiously, trying to place the face that she hadn't seen since high school. It seemed to finally come to her, which prompted her to quickly whisper something to her friend, and they began to walk toward us. Cal was fumbling for something in his pocket, oblivious to what had just walked in the door, his back turned. He turned around right into the blonde, and mumbled something like, “Oh, blbb . . .” I didn't understand what he said, but I understood perfectly what he meant.

“Evan? Evan Cummings?” Brynn said, still a little unsure.

“Hey, Brynn, how ya doin'? It's been a couple summers, huh?”

“Yeah! It's so good to see you!” she said with a disingenuous enthusiasm. “Oh, remember that—oh, this is my friend, Lisa.”

We went through the obligatory introductions. Cal straightened up like he had a steel rod up his back, his eyes wide and drooling with prurient opportunity.

“So, ladies, what's going on tonight? Anything happening?” Cal said with a slight hint of sleaze.

“Well . . . as a matter of fact,” Brynn mischievously whispered, like she was divulging some kind of top secret State Department information, “Lisa knows these college guys who rent an old house in Easter Town, and they're picking up a couple kegs. You guys wanna come?”

Cal and I pulled up in front of the house around nine o'clock, but we stayed in the car for a few minutes while we finished the leftover stub from our New Year's jag. As soon as I cracked open my door, I could hear the hoots and hollers and beery Midwestern yells coming from the once-beautiful white Victorian. We shivered our way through the side kitchen door and started looking for people we knew. Cal spotted the kegs in the corner, and we shoved five bucks apiece into the stumpy keg-attendant's jar, picking up our glassware for the evening. Stumpy pointed us to a tequila bar set up in the living room, simultaneously belching and farting when he pointed, then laughed heartily into the sodden air, a hubristic display of his amazing talents. I was looking for Brynn and Lisa—or any women for that matter—but found nothing but football-shirted, dumb-looking jocks who looked like they'd rather fight than get laid. Then, coming down the stairs, finally someone I knew.

I knew Bob Steigman from high school, where we used to get half-baked in the parking lot before every biology class, which made frog dissection a little more interesting. Bob seemed more than a little shaky coming down the steps. He was hugging the railing pretty tight, but he had on his smiley party face, and it was a relief to finally see someone I knew. He was about three steps from the bottom of the spiral staircase when he saw me, and I went over to meet him halfway. Just as I got the words “Hey, Bob!” out of my mouth, Bob opened his, arcing a stream of runny vomit a perfect two and a half feet, showering the left side of my head, with two tributaries breaking off and warmly streaming down my back, slowly pooling at the back of my waist. I could feel a trickle making its way down my face, and I got a little taste on my lip. Just as Bob fell face-first the rest of the way down the steps, the stench of vomit overwhelmed me. Strange eyes began to focus curiously in my direction, anxious with the glint of fresh misfortune. A crowd started to gather; Bob lay at my feet. My first conscious reaction after the shock was pure fury, a snap, retributive reflex that overtook me and seemed beyond my control—a red violent wave that swallowed me whole, demanding satiation. I was about to satisfy this primeval hunger with a stomp of my boot, but Cal jumped in and stopped me, shaking me to snap me out of it, a look of dumbfounded shock and fear in his eyes, having never seen this side of me before. Frustrated, I dumped a full beer on my old biology pal, which didn't even raise a flinch. Then I saw Brynn and Lisa.

Brynn looked at me with the most horrid look of disgust I had ever seen on a fellow human being. Her face was all curled and crimped, like she was looking at a gaping, oozing sore, the stench causing her to hastily turn away, taking my hopes for a rekindled romance along with her. There were still people around me gawking and laughing, but their attention was soon turned to a scuffle that just broke out on the other side of the room—fresh meat for a ravenous crowd. Then I felt a soft hand on my elbow. It was Lisa. She tugged gingerly on my elbow and said “C'mon,” leading me to an upstairs bathroom, where she grabbed a couple towels and some soap and shampoo. She quietly closed the door behind her.

“Great party, huh?” she said with a sly smile, wetting a towel with some warm water and rubbing some shampoo in it. “What happened?”

“I ran into an old friend.”

“He musta really missed you to shower you with so much . . . umm . . . affection.”

“Funny. Hey, look—you don't have to do this. I'm okay, really.” The smell began to overpower the small room. “Hey, you got any perfume?”

“Yeah, in my purse. Why?”

“The spray kind?”

“Yeah. I think you need a little more than perfume, Evan—or is it Evvie? That's what your friends call you, right?”

“Yeah, either way's fine. How'd you know . . .” I started gesturing toward the foul air, and for her to get the perfume out of her purse. “Oh man, just crop dust this place, wouldja?” She started to laugh. “Go on, hit it. Just spray a shitload of it in the air.” She started to spritz the room. “It's not expensive, is it?” She nodded no, her laugh turning to an adorable snicker.

“That better?” she said.

“Well, I like musk better, but yeah, that's okay.”

“Funny. Smart-ass. . . .” She shot me a devilish, glinty smile.

She reached over to put the perfume back in her purse. Her back was arched like a perfect crescent moon, her slender legs elongated and tautly drawn together. A lemony wisp of hair fell down along her face, which she softly tucked behind her left ear. I felt a churning erotic ache in the pit of my stomach, a thick, blunting pang that made me reel and almost dropped me to my knees. I had never been so profoundly and physically moved by such beauty. She was achingly beautiful. I began to scrub.

Lisa and I spoke the same language. There was just something in the way she said things, a hint of coy, playful sarcasm that seemed to emanate more from her eyes than her words, giving everything she said a subtle subtext. Her beauty worked in much the same way, an inherent, transcendent beauty that went far beyond skin level. She radiated a warmth and caring that made me want to be as close to her as possible. The swirling eroticism that overtook me as I watched her was quickly giving way to something deeper. It was a purity and goodness of thought; of caring respect and admiration. I felt an overwhelming need to do something for her, to comfort her or make her laugh, to do anything to make her life better. The selfishness and opportunism of my youth was suddenly struck with the strangest of anomalies: Selflessness.

Short of taking a shower, I was about as clean as I was going to get, and we headed back downstairs. Cal was hanging out by the tequila bar, and judging from his rubbery body lean and thin-slit eyes, it looked like he had more than a few shots while I was away. Lisa got pulled away by some guy the moment we made it to the bottom of the steps. She looked at me and shrugged, mouthing “Don't go yet” as she was being dragged off. Cal looked pretty bored, but the tequila made him content with it. He moved like a drunken marionette when he saw me.

“Hey, Evvie! C'mere, you little stinky fucker. . . .” He gave me a stumbly bear hug and a gust of tequila in my face. “Ya gotta check this out, man!” He went over to this white pillar on the other side of the bar, grabbed the crosscut saw that was hanging by a spike and started sawing like a madman on the pillar. He was giggling and panting, his glasses shimmying side-to-side, his hair moving with the rhythm of the saw. Then he started to howl like a werewolf.

I couldn't keep my eyes or thoughts off Lisa. It looked like things were getting pretty heated with the guy she was talking to, then I saw him grab her arm and snarl. She wrestled away from his grip, lit into him with a few choice names, then hurriedly came in my direction. She looked a little scared, and I got the impression that this wasn't the first time he grabbed her like that.

“Evan, you better get outta here,” she said. Her breathing was short and rushed, her eyes wide and alerting.

“Why? What's up?”

She started to pull me away. “C'mon. I'll tellya later. Just . . . let's just go, okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” I said. The guy was talking to a couple of his friends and they were looking in our direction. My alarm went off. I went to grab Cal.

“Hey, Cal—let's split.” Cal looked kind of woozy. “C'mon, bud.” I grabbed his arm. “C'mon—right now. Trouble's brewing, buddy, let's make it. . . .” The guy who grabbed Lisa was looking straight at me. I knew the look. He started to come in my direction.

We made our way through the kitchen and bolted out the door. I could see the guy and his buddies through the kitchen window, and I told Lisa and Cal to haul some ass. As I was pulling my keys out of my pocket, I tripped over a shovel, falling face-first into the snow. Then I felt a boot in my ribs. I instinctively yelled for Cal and tossed him my keys, hoping he would read my mind and grab the Louisville Slugger I kept in my trunk. Lisa screamed “Frank!” and started heading back. Cal grabbed her and pulled her toward the car. I took another kick in the shoulder, and I knew this one was meant for my head, but missed. The shovel that I tripped over was within reach and I made a desperate grab for it. I grabbed the handle and wildly swung it around with everything I had, slicing Frank solidly in the arm, which forced out a wickedly painful scream. Then one of his buddies took over. I could see his leg winding up for the kick, but out of the shadows came a blur, and the kick never connected. Frank's buddy was getting wailed on by some guy out of nowhere. After landing three or four fierce shots into the guy's face, the shadow spoke: “Get outta here, Evvie!” I knew the voice and the voice somehow knew me. It was Bob Steigman. Someone must have dragged him outside and tossed him in a snowbank after he passed out, and the commotion of the fight must have aroused him. I slowly hunched my way to the car. Lisa helped me in the backseat and Cal spun out of there.

After hearing “Are you all right?” about ten times, I finally convinced Cal and Lisa that I was. My ribs and shoulder were a little sore and numb, but my thick jacket helped cushion the blows. The only thing passing through my mind was how grateful I was that the head-kick never connected with its intended target. I could feel the intensity of violence behind the kick. If it would have connected, I would've been in the hospital for sure—maybe even the morgue.

Cal was driving wild on the road, starting to swerve and spin a little too much, and he was starting to giggle, a sure sign he was pretty fucked up. I felt like a beer, and considering that I only had a sip or two before Bob launched on me and Frank tried to kill me, I felt like I deserved one. I told Cal to take it up to the overlook so we could cool out for a while.

I limped out of my car at the overlook, looking over my weathered, beat-up hometown, wondering what the hell I was still doing here. It looked dirty, bleak, and gray, its cheerless hard smokestacks belching wearily, reaching out of the ground like the decaying fingers of a corpse. I remembered lolling around in the drugstore just before Christmas, spinning around the rack of Christmas cards, their glistening Rockwellian idylls mocking me and making me feel so far away, so alien and cheated. I wondered where that world was.

We were all out of the car now and Cal grabbed a few beers out of the trunk. He was still pretty rubbery, taking a long pull off his beer as he staggered up to the edge of the overlook. He awkwardly climbed and balanced himself atop the short retaining wall, then cut loose a piercing, echoing howl that tore through the valley below. It was a hard, stinging sound; a sound brimming with pain and frustration, but neatly masked as celebration. After his purge he climbed back down to join us, but never made it. He decided to make a snow angel instead, which he found endlessly amusing. Lisa looked at him and shook her head, then looked at me for an explanation.

“Is he always like this?”

“You should see him when it's a full moon,” I said. Cal was in another world, but his goofiness took the edge off a really weird night.

Lisa rubbed her hand across my shoulder. “Are you sure you're okay?”

“Yeah, I'll live—but I'll feel every inch of it tomorrow.”

Lisa kicked angrily at the snow. “Goddam Frank. He's such an asshole. I don't know what I saw in that jerk in the first place.”

“You probably thought he was cute—well, when he wasn't puttin' the boots to anyone.”

“Well, it's sure over now,” she said. “Why are guys such creeps?”

“Do you want me to answer for the entire gender?”

“Yeah,” she said, smiling. “You think you could do that? I mean, why is it whenever you go out with a guy he thinks he owns you, ya know?” I shrugged at the rhetorical question. “I mean, just look at what happened tonight: All I did was just help you out a bit, just showing you where the bathroom was, and he starts freakin' out on everybody. You know what he's probably doing right now? He's looking for a fight—looking for someone smaller or for someone who's too drunk to defend themselves, just so he can kick the shit out of somebody. God! What the hell is wrong with people? They just sit around and laugh and wait for the next train wreck. I don't know . . . maybe it's just people in general. Nobody seems to care about anyone else. They'd rather laugh at somebody than try to do something to help 'em out.”

“It sounds like you're about as disillusioned with the human race as I am,” I said. “That's why you gotta have somebody you can count on, like me and Cal. I mean, if it wasn't for old Chimney boy here, I'd go goddam crazy. I know what you mean, though. Sometimes it just seems like nobody cares. Everyone's just lookin' out for themselves.”

Cal was still mumbling and snickering to himself. “He makes a pretty mean snow angel, don't he?” I said. Cal decided to join us. I threw down my hand to give him a tug.

“Evvie—hah-hah! C'mere ya lil' fucker, gimme a hug!” Cal said, rediscovering his feet. “Hey . . . hey . . . you all right, buddy?” He clumsily rubbed my head. “Hah, buddy, you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I think I'll live, Chimney boy. Thanks for the help back there.”

“Hey, for your information, I was protectin' the lady here.” He turned and looked at Lisa, then back at me. “Whoo! Damn, she's pretty,” he said in a not-so-secret whisper. “You guys wanna be alone or somethin'?” he giggled, then geared up for another howl.

“Oh no, you're not gonna—”

“Ah-ooooooo!” He turned and looked at Lisa again. “Hi.”

“Hi, Cal,” Lisa said with a soft laugh. “You okay?”

“Ah-ooooooo!”

“I think he's okay,” I said.

We piled in the car to warm up, the three of us scrunched together in the front seat, with Lisa in the middle. All the howling must have tired Cal out, who was soon snoring, his head resting on Lisa's shoulder. She seemed a little uncomfortable with it at first, made even more so by Cal's wandering hand, which seemed to want to rest in her crotch area, but she took it all in stride. We headed for Cal's to put him to bed.

After bouncing Cal off a couple walls, an end table, and a coatrack, we left him in the custody of his littlest little brother, Kym, a cute little kid with an even littler voice, whom everyone called Kym-gym. Like all the boys in the Holden family, he was much older than his chronological age, and it was especially funny coming out of Kym-gym, who always said the most grown-up things. After freeing Cal from the coatrack, Kym-gym told us to just “park him on the couch.” Then the nine-year-old proceeded to bum a few heaters off me, having exhausted his lipstick-stained supply.

Lisa was a little different when we were alone. There was a girlish shyness about her, a more reserved and taciturn manner that made me even more crazy about her. I asked her about her family, and she seemed to come from the same kind of background that I did—a cold, empty, loveless environment that just strips you of your humanity layer by layer, leaving you exposed and raw, making you feel smaller and less human; the world more formidably harsh and cruel. There was a long silence after we talked about our families. I just kept driving.

“Have you ever been anywhere?” she asked curiously, breaking the silence.

“Waddaya mean?” I said.

“You know—traveling around, other places.”

“No. What about you?” She shook her head. “Where do ya wanna go?”

“Everywhere. New York, London, Paris, Rome, Africa. . . .” Her voice trailed off as she went dreamily down the list. “Have you ever wanted to just take off? You know, with no destination in mind, just travel and see things, just to go?”

“Yeah . . . sometimes.”

I was stunned by hearing my own words, my most private thoughts and dreams. I had never heard the words spoken aloud and was uncomfortable by their exposure. It made everything seem farther away.

“God, Lisa, I've never been anywhere . . . I've never seen nothin' but here. Just the same damn picture and that same damn lousy smell. . . .” I could picture all the places that she mentioned, but I couldn't see myself in the pictures. “What about you? I mean, can you see yourself living here all your life?”

“God no—but what am I gonna do? I'm not exactly rich, I got a lousy minimum-wage job at the mall, I don't want to go to college . . . I mean, what I dream about and what is are two different things. It's either marry a millionaire or hit the lottery.” She laughed at the possibility. “You rich?”

“Not exactly. And I hate to break this to you, but there's no lottery in this state and the only millionaire I know of is the guy that owns the mill, and he's about ninety and on life support.”

“Killjoy.”

“Well, you can always work at the mill—union bennies, you know.”

“What about you? You'll probably take over your father's business, right?”

“I don't know, I just can't see it right now. . . . You know, sometimes—and this is gonna sound a little crazy—but I can't even see myself being older. I don't know what it is, but I can't even see myself being twenty-five. Sometimes I wonder if it's some kind of premonition or something, that I'm never gonna get older. I just can't see it.”

“Maybe we're not supposed to see it,” she said. “It's better that way, isn't it? Brynn and everyone else I know have all their lives planned right down to the wallpaper and the names of their kids. I don't know, maybe it's just how you look at it. I mean, I want a few surprises, don't you? What do you think it means?”

“I think it means we better do something quick to get out of this hole or we're gonna end up dyin' in it.” She shuddered at the thought. “I don't mean dying in the sense that you kick, I mean dying inside. In a way, I think it's worse. Maybe we can't see a future here 'cause we don't belong here. Maybe it's life's way of telling us to get out of here, to go after what we really want. I mean dying in spirit, living a life that you don't want.”

“Yeah, I think I know what you mean.”

“Imagine living a lifetime like that.”

We drove in silence again.

“God, I want outta here,” Lisa said, her voice clenched and desperate.

Suddenly, everything lifted up. I could feel an energy surge, a lightening. “Ooh, what I'd give to be on a plane,” she said, “just taking off to . . . anywhere!” It was like she was already there. “You know, whenever a plane goes by, I always just sit and stare at it, wondering where it's going and who's on it, ya know? I don't know, maybe someday. . . .”

She went back to that place. Someday.

After driving and talking for more than an hour, I asked Lisa if she wanted to see the old man's joint, telling her that we could sip a little wine in the office and maybe watch some TV. She agreed halfheartedly and somewhat suspiciously, but it was a yes nonetheless, so I headed for the joint. The old man kept some aftershave in the executive wash, and I could change into the plaid flannel that I'd forgotten the night before.

I pulled in the back lot a little before one, hitting a patch of ice and barely missing the car next to me, fishtailing to a very nerve-racking stop. I knew there would still be a crowd inside, but the basement door leading to the old man's office was right inside the back door, so I figured we could sneak right in without being noticed. Of course, I was wrong. Lisa would always be noticed. Every guy at the bar leaned and craned for a better view, their collective lean looking as though somebody had just picked up the front side of the building. A couple of the men were angrily shoved and slapped by their scorned, long-suffering women—women who had long since ceased being objects of affection, having become objects of abuse in the gutter of apathy and alcoholism. I let Artie see that it was me, and Lisa and I ducked in through the basement door.

I guided Lisa to the old man's office, where she was duly impressed with all the bottles of booze that were meticulously lined up on the shelves, with all the labels perfectly facing forward, like soldiers standing at full attention. She said wine sounded good, so I cracked open a bottle of Lambrusco and poured us a couple glasses. I excused myself to go to the bathroom and told her to make herself at home. I grabbed my musty flannel and headed off to the bathroom, where I laid on a little more soap and water, chased with a healthy splash of English Leather.

I could hear the TV blasting as I made my way back to the office. Lisa was circling her index finger around the rim of her glass, staring blankly at what sounded like some kind of horror movie on the tube. She had a languid, spacey look on her face and seemed to be somewhere else. She politely smiled when she saw me, not the look I was hoping for, but made up for it when she patted the open seat next to her, on the bench of an old booth that served as the executive chair. As I slid in next to her, she suddenly jerked and clamped onto my leg, grasping the inside of my thigh very high and tight, giving me an instant erection that was perfectly timed with a bloodcurdling scream from the damsel in the movie—a strange and perhaps egocentric irony that I found very amusing. Lisa was tuned into one of those bad English vampire movies, and Drac had just made his move.

We quietly watched the movie and sipped our wine, staying nice and close, with an occasional brushing of hands across each other's legs, and exploratory touches of each other's back, neck, and shoulders. During a commercial, she surprised me with a soft kiss on the cheek. I quickly upped the ante by turning into her, and we shared a brief but moist kiss on the lips. Then another. Pounding erotic surf began to crash off the walls of my brain . . . I became light-headed and libidinously drunk, raging hard and reckless, willing to do or say anything as the short-lived propriety of respect and selflessness was swallowed whole by the tempest. The pangs and aches returned. I leaned in a little harder.

“Can you drive me home?” she said, placing the words directly on my lips, pushing me back slightly.

“Aw, c'mon—right now?” I leaned in again. She pushed me back.

“Evan.” It was a parental pronunciation. The cold, austere calling of one's name, gravely serious in tone, designed to stop willful kids in their tracks.

The only waves pounding through my brain now were waves of profanity, running and crashing like high tides driven by manic lunar cycles, hammering and bruising my brain with fresh, new combinations that I'd never heard before—creative cursing worthy of a graduate degree. I was making them up faster than my brain could index them for future use, appending my sailor-like bile with ricocheting, undulating prefixes and suffixes, pounding out more combinations than Muhammad Ali. I feebly tried to change her mind.

“Aw, c'mon—it's early. Don'tcha wanna see how it turns out?” It was the best I could do on short notice.

“Evan, it's two o'clock in the morning,” she countered. “Besides, I know how it turns out.”

I momentarily flatlined.

“Is the wine not to your satisfaction?” Jesus, I sounded like Charles Boyer.

“Evan, look: It's been a long night and I just wanna go home—please.”

I needed a kiss for reassurance. I tried to buy a little time. “Okay, okay. Let me warm up the car.”

I was getting my bearings back. I grabbed my keys and went to fire up the beast, tripping up the steps in the process and opening up my knee. By this point, I was so ravaged by pain, puke, and retreating testosterone, that I just didn't care anymore. Let it bleed, I thought to myself, just let it bleed . . . I became defiant and determined; all I could see and taste were those lips. I made it back to the office without being shot or sentenced to life in a Turkish prison.

“Give it a couple minutes, okay?” I said sweetly. “Let it get nice and toasty.”

“Okay,” she said. “Come here.” She patted the seat next to her.

“Are you sure you can't stay for a while?” I said in my most convincing tone, sliding in next to her.

She parted her wine-moist lips, covering mine. I miraculously healed.

After getting Lisa home and cleaning up the joint, I headed home seeing nothing but blonde, but feeling nothing but pain. By the time I crawled under the covers, I felt like one giant bruise, with any sudden movement making me wince in pain. I slept most of Sunday, finally getting up at four in the afternoon, awaking to a soreness that was in full throbbing bloom. I gingerly made my way upstairs to grab some orange juice and the Sunday paper, then crawled back into my still-warm bed. I popped some aspirin and checked out the funnies, unable to get past a buxom blonde in one of the strips that reminded me of Lisa. I put the fire out again and went back to sleep.

I woke up again around eleven, eyes wide and nerves tingling with every inch of pain. The joint closes at midnight on Sundays, so I took to the aspirin again and did a few stretches to loosen up the bruise. I wasn't looking forward to stocking the coolers. It's a long haul from the walk-in downstairs, up ten steps, to the coolers behind the bar. But Monday's payday at the joint and I always get paid first. I collect first thing in the morning.

When the old man laid the grimy, beer-sopped cash in my hand, I started thinking about Lisa, and how many dates I could stretch out of seventy-five bucks. We hadn't set a date specifically, but we exchanged numbers, and I said I'd call her in a couple days. I tried sleeping for a few hours after I got home, but I'd slept too much on Sunday and really wasn't that tired. On a whim, just to say hi, I tried Lisa's place around noon, where a very stiff and prim woman told me that Lisa was “not available.” Mother. I figured Lisa was probably working, so just out of curiosity, I asked mom—who had a few questions for me before she would divulge any information on her beautiful daughter.

“I'm sorry, who's this?” she said firmly, but politely enough.

“This is Evan—Evan Cummings. I met Lisa—”

“Are you related to the Cummings that own the Little Dipper?”

“Yes, my father owns it.”

“That establishment should be shut down—nothing but trouble. Why, my husband must get three or four calls a week just to break up fights down there.” Great. Dad's a cop. And he probably knows about—“Didn't your father used to be a peace officer?”

“Yes, ma'am, he was.” Peace officer? For Christ's sake, what are they, Mormons or something? Honey, you don't know my old man—he was anything but a peace officer. I felt a sudden, strange surge of pride, like I was about to defend my old man.

“I'll have to ask my Fred if he knows him or not,” she said. Peace officer? My Fred? Man, this chick is freakier than Cal's superfreak platforms. “I'm afraid I can't divulge any information on my daughter's whereabouts. I'm sorry, young man. Good day.”

I was not encouraged by this call. If her old man's a cop, he most assuredly knows my old man, at least by reputation, not to mention that he's had a firsthand taste of some of the action that goes down at the joint. I was thinking that I probably wouldn't be meeting Lisa's parents anytime soon. Since I didn't get anywhere with Lisa's mother, and I suspected that her parents would now be looking out for my calls, it was time for a different tack. The problem was, the only person I knew who knew Lisa was Brynn. I went for the phone book.

I called Brynn's house, but there was no answer. Now I'd have to sit and stew on this all day. I thought about dropping in on Cal at work, but he'd be too busy with the lunch rush and wouldn't have time to visit. He still worked at the pancake palace, where he'd finally been promoted to host and the world of daytime employment. His career in the pancake business was going well, and he was closing in on the assistant manager's position.

Since I was wide awake with nothing to do, I figured I'd kill some time playing pinball down at the joint. Monday afternoons are pretty dead in the joint, but I still have to check in with the old man first, to see if he wants anything special done, and to get permission for my session. Once in a while, he'll put me to work cleaning up the basement or running some errands, and he'd always throw me a couple extra bucks. If he didn't have anything for me to do, then I could hit the pinballs. As I approached his office, I could hear some mumbling and snippets of conversation. The old man doesn't like to be disturbed when he's conducting business, so I waited a couple minutes outside his office. I naturally eavesdropped.

The only words I could make out came from the old man. I could tell there were two other guys in the office, but they were muttering like they had handkerchiefs over their mouths. I heard the old man say, “Are you sure?” a couple times, which piqued my curiosity. I decided to walk in like I had just gotten there, and didn't know there was anything going on. I'd seen the two guys before, but didn't know their names. They seemed kind of startled when I walked in, and I could see that one of the guys was cupping a few bills, which he shoved into his pocket the moment he saw me. Something was up. I said I was sorry to the old man, that I didn't know he was busy, and he told me to go upstairs and grab a pop or something. The two guys came upstairs five minutes later, both shooting me shady, clandestine looks, and I went back down.

The old man had that knowing kind of look. He was leaning back into his executive booth, his hands clasped behind his head, and he was luxuriating contentedly, smugly basking in some kind of knowledge that nobody else knew, like he had just gotten a hot stock tip or the inside skinny on a horse race. I asked him if he wanted anything done, he said no, and asked me to sit down. He usually dispatches me pretty quickly, so I felt kind of honored that he wanted to share something with me. He wanted to talk to me for a change. Something was definitely up.

“What's up, Pop?” I tried to sound nonchalant, but I was curious as hell.

“What would you think about a couple weekends off?” he said. “You've been working seven days a week for quite a while now, and I think you need a break.” He didn't look drunk. “Don't worry about the money, I'll pay you the same.” I was at a total loss.

“Uh . . . ya know, I really don't mind working—I mean, it's not botherin' me or anything.”

“Just the same, I want you to take a couple weekends off. I got this guy that needs a little work. . . .”

The way he said want made it final. The decision had already been made. I thanked him and asked him again if he wanted anything done. He didn't, so I asked him if I could hit the pinballs.

“Yeah, go ahead—but no fuckin' booze. If I find out you're gettin' served, there's gonna be some sore asses around here. Startin' with yours.” I nodded that I understood and headed upstairs.

I got a Coke from Ray the bartender, a crusty, forever-grumpy guy around seventy who works a few days a week for the old man. Ray gravelly mumbled something as he slid the Coke in front of me, like I was putting him out or something. I didn't pay much attention, and headed for my old favorite, the Delta Queen. After playing for about a half hour, these three guys walked in, cockily swaggering up to the bar for a few beers. Ray fetched the beers, then headed down to the phone at the end of the bar to buzz the old man. Ray went back to the guys, telling one of them something, and the guy headed downstairs. His buddies came over to where the pinballs were and pumped in some quarters. They were about thirty or so, and kind of tough looking. One of them bumped me as he was working over his machine—bumping me hard enough to warrant an apology, but he sneered at me instead. They were slamming their beer glasses hard off the table, and really working over their machine. I was getting kind of nervous around these guys. They seemed like real assholes, and I didn't feel like dealing with them, so I decided to leave after my game. I heard them talking about how they couldn't believe that some guy named Danny was getting a job, and especially after what he did or something, which was followed by loutish snickers and more glass slamming and pinball bashing.

As I was getting ready to leave, the old man came up with this guy to introduce him to me. He said his name was Danny, and he wanted me to show him around, because he was going to be the new weekend swamper. I shook his greasy hand and showed him where we kept all the janitor supplies, and what duties he had to take care of. He was a real jerk, saying something to me about how “nice it must be to be the owner's son,” and how I “had it made” and all that crap I've heard a million times before. A lot of people around the joint resented me, making snide little remarks like Danny's, giving me their envious, petty little looks, which I always just blew off. I could still hear Danny's buddies mischievously snickering, glaring over at me as I showed Danny around. I wanted to get out of there, and as soon as I finished with Danny, I took off.

I never feel like going home, so I just drove around for a bit until I got bored, then I dropped in to see Cal, hoping he could take a short break to talk for a bit. I sat at the counter and ordered some coffee and a piece of lemon meringue.

“So, whatcha up to today?” Cal said, slurping his coffee. “Hey, whatever happened with that Lisa chick? Didja get any?”

“Ooh . . . I got a nibble,” I said. “So I take her to the joint, right? We're sittin' there holdin' hands and shit, drinkin' some wine . . . and right when I think I'm gonna hit pay dirt—”

“Can you take me home now?” Cal said in a girlish whine, wriggling his entire body.

“How'd ya know?”

“You kiddin'? With a babe like that, you're lucky you even got a kiss. I mean, if I remember right, you did get puked on, dintcha? C'mon, man, you're lucky she even came within ten feet of ya.”

“Yeah, I spose,” I conceded.

“Didja call her yet?”

“Oh, get this: So I call her house, right? Mother-dear answers and starts giving me the third degree, asking me about the old man and shit, and it turns out her old man—'my Fred' she calls him—is a cop who's always breakin' up fights down at the joint. Then she said something about divulging information on her whereabouts or somethin' or another, and told me to have a nice day or something.”

“And . . . you called Brynn, right?” I swear, Cal should have been a cop.

“Yeah, but she wasn't home. I mean, I can't call her at home now—her parents aren't gonna let me through, so I gotta catch her at work. Oh, and check this: Not only does the old hag call her old man 'my Fred,' she calls him a 'peace officer,' too.”

“A 'peace officer'? Your old man?” he said with a hoot. “Ooh, sounds pretty damn freaky, man. So . . . ya find out where she works from Brynn and take it from there. It's your only shot.”

The dinner rush was starting to trickle in, so Cal had to get back to his post. I didn't get a chance to tell him about the old man giving me weekends off.

I was still scratching my head about the weird afternoon I had down at the joint. I kept running the sequence of events through my head, and my instincts told me that they were all connected. It was as if I had all the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle in front of me, except I was missing the picture of what the final product should look like. I had a little stash that I pinched off Cal, so I went up to the overlook to start putting the pieces together. The thing that was gnawing at me most was the old man. He knew something. His charity and concern regarding my welfare was just too far out of character. There was an underlying motivation belying his sudden good-naturedness. Then there was Danny and his buddies; they knew something, too. I had the picture when I bridged the two with the hush-hush office meeting.

He found out. Everything fit perfectly. The weekends off, the shady guys getting paid off in the office, and the conversation those creeps in the bar were having about Danny getting a job after what he did—and that job was at the joint. Danny was the artist. Now I understood the old man's charity and Cheshire cat smile. Danny was being set up by the old man. Danny was going to be all alone in the joint, the perfect opportunity for the old man to exact his own unique brand of rough-hewn justice. I kept thinking about the swaggering smiles of Danny and his buddies, thinking that they really put one over on the old boy. Danny's first night is Friday, after closing. Come Saturday morning, he won't be smiling anymore. Danny had been had by the master.

My mind kept popping back and forth between Lisa and Danny, between love and hate. The fate that awaited Danny intensified my feelings toward Lisa, until all I wanted to do was be near her beauty, to see nothing but goodness. But I was unable to escape the long shadow that such beautiful light casts; a shadow that was as much a part of me as anyone else. Although it was within my power to warn off Danny, I simply couldn't garner the sympathy that would allow that to happen. I was tired of being pushed around by jerks like Danny and his buddies, and coldly decided to let things lie. I told myself that it was out of my hands and I was just letting nature take its course.

It was around supper time when I pulled up in front of Cal's, but you never had to worry about interrupting anything as far as the Holden household was concerned. There were never any set times for lunch or dinner, or any kind of normal family routine. At Cal's house, you ate when you were hungry, you slept when you were tired, and you woke up when you woke up—and the presence of company wasn't about to deter the Holden boys from doing any or all of the above. I gave my customary two raps on the door and let myself in. The youngest boys, Kym-gym and Dickie Jr., were all bundled up on the couch watching cartoons, and Andy and Mattie were gone, probably out ripping somebody off. The first thing the boys always asked me was if I had any cigarettes or not, so before even a word was exchanged, I threw my pack of heaters on the coffee table, and both boys made a grab for them. I plopped down in the pukey tan chair next to the couch, sinking so far down in the chair that I might as well have been sitting on the floor.

“So where's Capone and Dillinger?” I asked the baby chimneys, who were puffing away furiously, crisscrossing their smoke rings and giggling.

“Who knows,” Dickie said. “Prob'ly stealin' a car or somethin'.”

“I hope they like prison food,” I said, “'cause I gotta feeling they're gonna be dining there a lot in the future. Does big bro know what they're up to?”

“Yeah,” Kym-gym said, “but they don't listen to nobody. Didja see what they did to my mom?”

Kym-gym came off the couch and headed for the hallway, motioning for me to follow. He flipped on the unshaded light and said “Look.” Capone and Dillinger had given their mom the Snidely Whiplash and blackened-eye treatment. It was kind of sad the way Kym-gym put it. He described it like it was something they actually did to his mom, the flesh-and-bone mom that I've never seen, and the mom the boys didn't see much of either. I wet my finger and wiped the edge of the mustache. It came right off, and Kym-gym acknowledged this, but said he wanted Cal to see it.

Cal came through the door about six-thirty, kicking his boots toward the hobbled coatrack in the corner as he shook the snow from his hair. His glasses were wet and instantly began to fog from the heat, and he twisted them off his head in a crooked motion, then squinted at us. He acknowledged the boys and I with a nod and started taking roll. He tugged out his shirttail and wiped his glasses clean to get a better look. Kym-gym was smoking one of my cigarettes, so he started in on me.

“Hey, c'mon, Evan,” he scolded. “How many times do I gotta tellya? Quit giving the baby your cigarettes—he smokes enough butts around the house.” Kym-gym took a few quick puffs, sending a swirling cloud into the air in defiance of his big brother.

“Yeah,” Dickie jumped in. “It'll stunt your growth. You don't wanna be four feet tall the rest of your life, do ya?”

“That goes for you, too, ya lil' Dick,” Cal snapped back. Dickie hates being called “lil' Dick,” but that's what most people call him. Dickie was about to talk back, but Cal stopped that with a quick look. Cal walked past my chair, giving me a sharp slap across the side of my head. “Stop giving 'em your smokes.” Cal snatched the butt away from Kym-gym, plopped on the couch and finished it for him.

“The perfect role model. . . .” I muttered.

Cal shot me a wink and continued with the interrogation. “Where's Andy and Mattie?”

“They just went by . . .” Kym-gym piped in, pausing with perfect comic timing for the payoff, “drivin' a Brink's truck.”

Everybody laughed but Cal, who could only manage a slight smile. Cal could still control Kym-gym and Dickie, but he was losing touch with fourteen-year-old Andy and fifteen-year-old Mattie. They were gone all the time and cutting school a lot, and when they did go, they spent half their time in the counselor's office for getting in fights, wrecking shit, and lifting anything that wasn't nailed down. Mattie was the instigator and a brazen thief; he even stole a trophy from the principal's office, just for the hell of it. Andy was a follower, and went along with anything that Mattie was up to. Mattie was also shaping up to be a pretty big kid, and was starting to throw his weight around. All the Holden boys have slight, willowy builds except for Mattie, who inherited the stockiness of his father.

“I bet I know where they are . . .” Dickie said, “but I'm not gonna tellya unless ya gimme a dollar.”

“I ain't givin' you a dollar, ya little liar,” Cal said.

“I heard 'em talkin' . . .” Dickie slyly intimated. Cal's curiosity grew.

“Well, I heard 'em talkin', too—but the price is five bucks,” Kym-gym shrewdly said.

“I know you're lying, ya little extortionist,” Cal shot back. Cal was looking intently at Dickie. Cal's pretty perceptive and he had a feeling that Dickie knew something.

“Okay, okay—I'll give ya a dollar. But ya gotta tell me first,” Cal said.

“I changed my mind,” Dickie said. “The price is five bucks.”

Kym-gym flashed an impish smile at Cal. Cal had had enough of the game. He quickly snatched Dickie by the shirt, pulling him up eyeball-to-eyeball.

“Listen, ya lil' shit! D'ya know anything or not? How 'bout I pound it out of ya?”

“You promised me a dollar,” Dickie said, unfazed.

Cal pulled his wallet out and threw it at him, getting up to reach for another cigarette. Both boys jumped on the wallet, tearing at it like sharks in a feeding frenzy. They each pulled out a dollar, then Kym-gym stuffed the wallet down his shirt. Cal wrestled with him, eventually tickling it out of him, amid Kym-gym's wriggles and snorts.

“There,” Cal said. “You little extortionists happy now? Spill!”

“They were talkin' about some T-shirt shop's basement window or somethin',” Dickie said.

“Before they left?” Cal said. Dickie nodded. “What time they leave?”

“Right before Evvie got here.”

The wheels started to spin inside Cal's head. He paced and smoked, his squinty eyes darting side-to-side, trying to make something out of the vague clue that Dickie had shrewdly traded for a little candy money. He looked to me for some input, but all I could do was shrug. He mumbled and stammered, whispering the esoteric flashes as they crackled out of his brain.

“Hey, Cal,” I said. “Isn't there some print shop downtown? I think my old man had some T-shirts made there once. You know, right by Rennie's.”

Cal didn't seem to hear me, then he suddenly straightened up. “God, I'm fuckin' stupid,” he said to himself.

Cal dashed into the kitchen, coming back with the phone book, flipping and slapping the pages as he paced and grumbled. He rested somewhere in the middle of the book. “Huh, there's only one. . . .” He headed for the phone in the kitchen, snatching up the receiver and extending his bony index finger into the rotisserie dial, still grumbling. He arpeggiated his fingers in rapid succession against the wall, waiting for an answer. He pounded out a nervous, kinetic rhythm, then abruptly gave up. “C'mon, Evvie, let's go for a ride,” he said, missing the saddle of the phone as he tried to hang it up.

We were about five minutes away from Quality Prints, the only print shop downtown, so we headed for Lawson Avenue. Andy and Mattie were on foot, so Cal figured that was our best bet. There are other shops in West Sunset, but they're too far and it's too cold of a walk. Cal felt strongly about his hunch. Andy and Mattie were out every night and they were always up to no-good. Car stereos, CB radios, breaking open vending machines—everything was ripe for the picking with these boys, who were imbued with a vigorous entrepreneurial spirit and a juvenile delinquent sense of capitalism.

It was a little before seven and dark when we pulled up. It was a cold, still Monday, and downtown was as empty as a freshly dumped garbage can, with the only exception being the old man's joint, which was full of hungover workers tending their wounds with the 2-for-1. We prowled around the closed store waiting to see or hear something, seeing very little in the cold pitch, and hearing only the squeaky crunch of our boots as we made our way through the snow. As we turned the corner approaching the back of the building, Cal spotted a basement window slightly ajar, with fresh footprints around it. He kneeled down and craned his head toward the archaic top-hinged window, raising it an inch at a time, wincing with every creak of the rusty hinges. I kneeled down beside him and leaned into the opening. We heard nothing at first, then we heard the faint bustle of perusal and hushed voices from the inert blackness.

“It's them,” Cal said.

Cal hadn't thought out the situation this far. His impulse was just to follow his hunch. Beyond that, he had no idea what he was going to do. We hashed out the next move on the spot.

“What are ya gonna do?” I whispered, pouring forth more steam than audible sound.

Cal gave me a quick glance, and without a word, decided. “Hold this.”

I held the window up as Cal lowered himself in feetfirst. Now I had to decide. Was I going to play sentry or was I going in, too? I gave a cursory read of the situation, and figured if the cops went by the alley and saw me hunched down by the basement window of a closed store. . . .

I lowered myself into the abyss. It was a short drop; with my body fully extended, it was only a foot or so to the basement floor. It was dark, but with my eyes adjusted to the night and a bleak ray of light emanating from the stairwell, I wouldn't have to feel my way around. Cal stood leaning into the stairwell, contemplating his next move. The stairway was steep and narrow, about nine or ten steps, and looked aged and rickety, and more importantly, creaky. One or two steps would send Andy and Mattie into a panic. Then again, any move at this point would be sure to shock the young criminals. I leaned on Cal, which gave him a start and forced his decision.

“Mattie! Andy! It's me, Cal,” he said, breaking the quiescent tension with a whispery yell, placing his foot on the first step.

We heard shuffling footsteps draw closer to the stairwell, and Cal started up the stairs. Mattie and Andy were waiting at the top, their incredulous expressions lurched over the stairwell.

“What the fuck are ya doin'?” Mattie tersely said, tendons quivering from the base of his neck through his contorted face. Cal jumped from the final step directly into Mattie, thrusting his hands hard off Mattie's chest, reeling him back a couple steps before he caught his balance and replanted his feet.

“I'm sick of this shit, Mattie—and it's gonna stop right fuckin' now!”

Cal and Mattie were chest to chest, chewing on each other with a hushed intensity. Andy stood close by, head bowed and reticent. I started to check out the shop, noticing first the biggest clock that I'd ever seen—about three feet in diameter, with thick strapping hands that shuddered with every movement. I was transfixed by this clock. It made me feel like a giant eye was watching and passing unforgiving judgment; an unblinking eye counting off the seconds and minutes, making me fidget and tense. I started rummaging through desk drawers and cabinets to take my mind off being watched.

I walked over to what looked like the main office desk. It was littered with ink-stained work orders and invoices, as well as a heavily soiled phone, desk calendar, and an old mechanical calculator, that reminded me of a Sherman tank. I was as spellbound by the calculator as I was by the clock. I had the absurd thought that they must be related, personifying them as perhaps cousins in some other-dimensional mechanical world. As I opened the top left drawer, I slowly revealed a photocopy of a black-and-white picture. It was a picture of a horribly beaten and bloodied black man, hanging from a tree. Underneath the grainy, grisly photo read the caption:

“A good nigger is a dead nigger”

I blurrily pulled the photo closer, adjusting and locking my eyes into the grain, wondering if my eyes were playing tricks on me. I was hazed and frozen, unresponsive with disbelief. It felt like the aftermath of a concussion, but a concussive shock brought on by a whistling blow of inhumanity. I started to wonder about the man's mother, and how a mother would feel to see her son's lifeless mutilated body hanging from a tree. I started to hear my father's voice, jokingly—effortlessly—referring to “jigaboos” and “spearchuckers” at the dinner table. I could hear the boozy, contemptuous voices of the bar, cascading their hateful epithets like turgid water over the falls. I saw all the faces and remembered all the words. With each memory flash I straightened; with each rush I angered. I started tearing through the rest of the drawer. Dog-eared pamphlets from the KKK, Aryan Brotherhood, and White Pride written in blood ink; swastikas, jackboots, Hitler, Goebbels—page after page of the sickening stench of hatred and death. As my fury grew, I began to see the shop owner—a fat-with-hate, ostensibly respectable white man with an ink-stained apron and a black, bilious soul. I wanted to beat him until there was nothing left but mashed bone and blood. I was overcome by anger and the need to violently lash back.

I frantically rifled the other drawers in the desk, yanking them out and haphazardly scattering their contents with a sweep of my hand before slapping them back. I pulled at the largest drawer on the bottom right, but it was locked. I looked for something to pry with, at first grabbing a steel ruler off the desk, but it wilted on the first pull. The failure enraged me even more, so I went on the prowl for something heavier. I needed to get into that drawer. What I needed was a crowbar or a heavy screwdriver, but there was nothing in sight. With each passing second my intensity grew. There was a printing press back from the desk, and as I turned to look in its direction, a series of levers and handles caught my eye, so I rushed over and pulled and twisted at everything, looking for the key. One of the handles felt loosely connected, so I yanked on it until it finally released. It was heavy-gauge steel and somewhat sickle-shaped, and having found the proper tool, I went to work, sliding it into the minute opening on top of the drawer and heaving with all my might. It snapped open, revealing a lockbox that I immediately went to work on, bashing its flimsy lock with one blow of my mighty staff.

My last blow against the steel caught everyone's attention. All eyes were now trained on me; incredulous, frozen looks of puzzlement, like they were staring at a pageant of freaks from a carnival sideshow. I glanced up long enough to know they were looking at me, then turned my attention back to the box. Nothing but dead presidents looked back. I grabbed the loot in one victorious grasp and shoved it deep and hard into my right front pocket. I went back to the boys, who were still locked in their vacuous gazes, and told them I was getting out of there.

I didn't bother to see if they were following me or not, but sure enough, they were right on my heels, squirming out of the small window like rats from a sewer. As I headed for my car, I looked back to see if Cal was following me. He kept looking back and forth between the boys and me, not knowing if he should follow me or reprimand the boys some more, who were distancing themselves quickly from their big brother. Cal started jogging to catch up to me. I caught a glimpse of Mattie in the distance, proudly showing Andy their haul from the robbery. It looked like their booty consisted of a handful of T-shirts.

Cal was huffing and puffing like a bellows when he plopped into the car. I tore off before he had a chance to slam the door, which jerked him toward the opening, and I had to grab his jacket to keep him from spilling out onto the street. We heard nothing but each other's adrenalized breaths for a block or so, then Cal, finally catching his breath, started asking questions.

“What the hell were ya doin' in there?” he said, fumbling for a cigarette.

Without a word, I reached down in my pocket and grabbed the cash, throwing it down in his lap.

“What the . . .” Cal let out a disbelieving laugh. “Jesus—Evan. . . .”

“Count it,” I said.

Cal was shaking his head as he pored over the bills. I took an occasional peek over, monitoring his progress. There were a lot of twenties, a few fifties, and a couple C-notes.

“Shit, Evan—there's almost eight hundred bucks here!”

“Well, we're partners, right?” I said. “Go on—take half.”

“God! You are just fucking unbelievable. . . . I don't believe this shit. . . .”

“Not a bad haul, hey, Chimney boy?”

“I was wonderin' what the hell you were doin' over there.” Cal started to look around in all directions. Cal can get kind of nervy sometimes, and the cash made him a little tense.

“Cal—relax, wouldja? Don't worry, nobody's followin' us.” He didn't seem too reassured. “C'mon. I got some beers in back, let's go cool out for a while.”

With that much cash on hand, I didn't think it would be a good idea to head up to the overlook. If the cops show and make us empty our pockets or check the glove box or trunk, they might stumble onto the cash, and we'd have some explaining to do. I headed back to Cal's neighborhood. Sometimes we park on one of the side streets by his house, but only in the winter. The cops cruise through there a lot in the summer to keep the noise down from all the parties. After settling down in a nice, quiet spot, we popped a couple beers. Cal still couldn't believe that I took the money, but he didn't object to having an extra four hundred bucks in his pocket. I didn't bother to tell him what motivated me to take the money. I just wanted to forget about what I saw.

I couldn't shake the image of the hanged man. It kept flashing through my mind, a nightmare that wouldn't allow me to wake. It seared its way into the deepest recesses of my being, and all efforts to purge the negative were hopelessly futile. It was a brand; a permanent, hateful smear that could never be forgotten. Every arbitrary flash was accompanied by the same barreling, onrushing burst of anger that I felt when I first saw the photo. My need to lash back was still intensely strong. My hatred for my hometown had risen to a higher level, and my thirst to escape it had grown even more desperate.

After having a few beers with Cal, I dropped him off so he could resume his parenting of the wayward teens. Cal wasn't about to let this thing go, and I knew things would get ugly at his house, so I passed on the domestic show. For some reason, I just couldn't bring myself to tell Cal about what I saw and how it made me feel. Usually, I can tell Cal anything, but something was preventing me from opening up about what I saw. Maybe I was just too confused and angry, but I also hadn't told Cal about what happened at the joint—with the old man setting up the artist for the big fall—and that was bothering me, too. Of course, we had a few other things on our minds at the time, so I tried to rationalize that that was the reason. But deep down, I knew there was more to it than that. I was starting to keep more things to myself now. I told myself that I would tell him everything later, but for the first time, I was starting to think about what I told him.

I tooled around for a while, but the wad of cash that was all balled up and bulging in my pocket was starting to make me a little edgy about the cops, so I decided to head home to drop it off. I hate running into the old man at home, so I toughed out the drive a little longer to ensure that he'd be in bed, so our home paths would continue on the parallel. The old man's rarely up past eleven on weeknights, but I always wait until eleven-thirty to play it safe before I walk in the door. My mom's usually up in the kitchen, but she never bothers to check if it's me or Charlie Manson coming through the door. I can't even remember the last time my mom spoke to me. The only difference between Cal's mom and mine is a question of dimension. I sometimes think that somewhere along the way, my mom must have inadvertently wrapped herself in plastic, too.

It was a typical Monday night cleanup at the joint. Monday is the easiest cleaning day of the week, mostly because the old man's clientèle is too beat-up and hungover to do any further damage. Whatever energy they had left was used to lift the medicine to their lips, healing themselves the only way they knew how, anesthetizing and readying themselves for another workday—much like the football player who gets his torn-up knee hopped-up just to make it through another game, knowing full well that it's only a quick fix, ignoring the long-term damage just to survive long enough to pick up another check. Worrying about tomorrow, tomorrow.

I was up early on Tuesday, waking up a little after noon, and started the day with a couple phone calls. I knew it was a long shot, but I tried Lisa's house again. Sure enough—

“Hello?” Mother.

“Hi, is Lisa there?” I said, using a higher-pitched and more cheerful voice, hoping to break through the front line. It didn't work.

“I told you not to call here, young man,” she said in a stern, pursed tone.

Actually, she hadn't told me that exactly, but the message was pretty clear now. I didn't know how to act to such resistance, but during the uncomfortable pause, a little good fortune came my way.

“Mom? Is that for me? Can you drive me to work?”

I straightened with excitement just at the sound of Lisa's voice, but it was still too far away, too distant. I needed that voice to be near my ear, to feel the damp warmth of soft breath that accompanied her words. Then the austere, smothering bitch of a mother hung up on me. Again. I grabbed my coat and headed for the mall.

I cruised the parking lot of this automaton palace—a soulless behemoth that had somehow fooled everyone into thinking that this was the place to go and be. I cringed at the very thought of stepping into this plastic, homogenized world, incredulous as to how it buffaloed the lowing masses into believing that this was the living embodiment of the good life. Back and forth I went, driving in front of the stores hoping to catch a glimpse of a beautiful blonde and her brown-bloused mother; of a dream and a dream killer—of a breathless rose and a dead plastic daisy. My white knuckles turned blue as my tension and anticipation grew, as the faux-brick facades of suburban milk and honey gleamed and waved in a sickening pageant. I found myself craving something beautifully dilapidated and old.

I spent the better part of a half hour cruising the parking lot. After that, I told myself another fifteen minutes, and after that was up, another ten. Five minutes into the last ten, I saw a blonde in the distance and sped-up to intercept, almost taking out a few pedestrians at the crosswalk. I was too late to catch up to the blonde, but at least I knew where she went in.

Now I was going back and forth on foot. I felt very out of place, but fully locked in my conviction and determination—and beginning to wonder if my pursuit was a manifestation of latent sociopathic tendencies. I caught a quick glimpse of summery hair at a small gift shop, and rushed over to take a look. As I closed in on the store I caught another glimpse, and this time she turned around. A pudgy pockmarked face looked back. I headed back to my car wondering what the hell I was doing.

I could feel the cold stale air as I approached the exit, but as I drew closer, the sun started to break through, streaming three bands of glorious light through the glass doors. I craned my neck toward the sun as I stretched, taking long, deep breaths of sunshiny air, purging the embalmed air out of my system. As I was crossing the parking lot to get to my car, I saw another blonde getting dropped off in front of a store, a few doors down. She was being dropped off by an older woman in a wood-paneled station wagon. I rolled my eyes and swore, then went to take a look.

There I was again. To and fro and round and round, peeking in and out of the stores of the free market bazaar—a jubilee of whitewashed microcosmic worlds of diversity, bleached and starched clean and upright, spun sparkly white for the American consumer shelf. Faux smells, sounds, and culture; clans and tribes brushed with white gleam and Ozzie and Harriet smiles—smiles that get broader and brighter with each purchase. Then I saw her. She was walking away from me, but I knew it was Lisa. She walked just how I imagined her walking, with a flowing dignified elegance, head held high in esteem, but not high enough to suggest arrogance. I jogged to catch up, never taking my eyes off her. When I got within twenty feet or so, I called her name. She turned around with a look of curiousness about her, which gave way to an exasperated look when she realized who it was. The look said it all; she didn't have to say a word. I knew instantly the moment she looked at me. I didn't stand a chance. Even though I knew, I went through a lot of trouble to get to this point, so I felt obligated to see it all the way through.

“Hi,” I said, hoping I was wrong about my chances.

“Hi, Evan—uh . . . how are you doing?” It was about as warm as one of the old man's business-like “fine's.”

“I tried calling you, but your mom wouldn't let me through.”

“Look, Evan,” she said, not even bothering with small talk. She wanted to cut straight to it and be done with it. “I had a nice time the other night, but I have a boyfriend, you know—and my parents know about the bar and everything, and they don't exactly approve. I can't see you.”

“'Boyfriend,' Lisa?” I came back with a little more sarcasm than intended. “You mean the creep who was grabbing at you the other night? Remember? The creep who tried to kick a field goal with my head?”

“You don't know him, Evan. He's not always like that,” she said unconvincingly. There was something eerily familiar about what she said, but I couldn't put my finger on it.

“Oh, c'mon, Lisa. The guy was a creep and the biggest asshole in the world the other night. What the hell changed?”

“Look, Evan, I just can't see you, okay? I gotta get to work now. Take care of yourself, okay?” She said the last few words as she was walking away.

Even though my plans for a great romance were dashed, I didn't feel as bad as I thought I would. The Lisa I was with the other night was a different Lisa than the one I just talked to. Maybe all the starry-eyed dreams she was so passionately and convincingly talking about were nothing but beer-talk. After a couple years of working in a bar, you begin to tire of all the ginned-up dreams and I-could-have-been-a-contender stories. They were nothing but talk—beery visions that clogged the air with good intentions, but were vaporized with one rotation of the ceiling fan. I was even getting tired of hearing myself talk.

I thought about dropping in to see Cal, but I just didn't feel up to it. I had a lot to tell him, a lot of things that I needed to tell him, but I just didn't feel like going into it all. I was feeling kind of sleepy and down, so I decided to just go home and sleep off the rest of the day. Come nightfall, it's like a whole new day and I always feel better.

I awoke to a full winter moon eyeing me through my only window, gently reminding me that night had finally come. I returned the glance for a few minutes, enjoying its peaceful glow in the dark quiet of my room, curling up the pillows tightly into my body as I basked in the sleepy warmth of my bed. Awakening to the moon does not compel and demand you into action like a sunrise; it asks nothing from you. The sun burns and beats down on you, commanding attention and order; the moon whispers its glows and brings calm to the night. Most people think of heaven as light. But to me, heaven is peace in the night.

My intentions were to grab a little rest and recharge, then I was going to ring up Cal and tell him everything that was on my mind. I was going to confess and explain; purge the weight of my conscience—I needed to get it all off my chest. But despite my good intentions, I also needed something else. A seemingly unknowable something, endless in its capacity to frustrate, but at the same time, strangely soothing. I felt like I was getting closer to some truth, something that I needed to know and understand. I looked to the moon for my catharsis. I was on the verge of discovery, but I wasn't the pursuer. It was seeking me out.

I kept to myself the next two days, not talking to Cal or anyone else. In a way, I was surprised that Cal hadn't tried to reach me, because we had talked nearly every day for the last two years. But Cal was going through some strange times of his own. He had a lot on his mind, and maybe we just needed a little time to ourselves to sort things out. When I dropped in to see him on Thursday, he looked at me strangely at first, like he didn't understand why he hadn't seen or heard from me. After he took care of a few customers we got reacquainted. As soon as Cal started in, I knew we were all right.

“You never call, you never write . . .” Cal said, playing it up big with mock tears and sniffles, “leaving me here to worry, not knowing if you're alive or dead. . . . ” Then he slapped me upside the head. “Where the fuck you been?” Yeah, we were all right.

“I've been out robbing and pillaging, punishing the wicked and unjust.”

“Yeah? Where's my cut, asshole?” Cal's boss caught the last word, shaking his finger at him and saying, “Watch the language!” Cal flipped him off as he was walking away, slipping in another shot under his breath: “Fuck you, ya piece-a-shit cunt.” I cringed when he said it, then he turned and looked at me, giving me a sly wink and smile. “Asswipe.”

“So,” Cal continued, “whatcha doin' this weekend?”

“I don't know,” I said. “But I got the weekend off.”

“Get out. How'd that happen?”

“The old man hired a part-timer to cover the weekends. He said the guy needs a little work and I need some time off.”

“Your old man said that?” he said with a bemused snort. “Christ. Was he drunk?”

“I do believe he was sober,” I snootily replied. “But there's a little more to it than that...” Cal's eyes widened, waiting for the details. I obliged. “Remember New Year's Eve? When they blew up the toilet at the joint? Well, the old man found out who did it.”

Cal exhaled a long whistling breath, imagining the possibilities. “Oh man—I wouldn't want to be that guy,” Cal said. “But I don't get it: What's that got to do with you getting weekends off?”

I let him stew on that thought for a few seconds. It still didn't come to him. “Guess who he hired?” I said.

Cal got into character again, this time playing with his imaginary crystal ball, but his curiosity got the better of him. “Okay, okay, I give up. Who?”

“He hired the artist.” Cal still didn't quite get the whole picture. Of course, I was playing with him a bit, because it was fun to watch his mind work.

“Is your old man slippin' or what?” he said.

“Nope. Devious as all get-out,” I said. “He knows exactly who he hired.”

Cal had all the pieces now. “Oh, Evan—he's gonna fuckin' kill him! Christ, what a setup...and the guy has no idea?”

“Not a clue. Couldn't happen to a nicer guy, too. I met him—shit, I even showed him around. He came in with a few buddies and I heard 'em talking. A real bunch of assholes, too. You should of heard 'em; they were all laughin' it up, thinkin' they pulled one over on the old boy. I tellya, Cal, you should have seen the look on the old man's face. That old cat is gonna bag that weasely canary this weekend.”

“He's workin' Friday and Saturday night, right?” Cal said.

“Yep.”

“So, waddaya think? Is he gonna take him out Friday or Saturday?”

“Well, Chimney boy, you know the old boy pretty good. Waddaya think?”

We looked at each other and both said: “Saturday.”

Yep. That was just the old man's style. Give Danny just a little sense of security, let his cockiness build up a little more before springing the trap. As volatile and impatient as the old man was, when he had you, he could wait you out—waiting for the perfect moment to pull the trigger.

“Hey, Evan—this is gonna sound a little sick, but what the hell, I'm a sick fucker anyway—have you given any thought to, you know, bein' the fly on the wall when all this shit goes down? I mean, would it be possible—could you pull it off if you wanted to?”

“You would have been a great Roman, Cal,” I shot back. “You are one sick baby. Waddaya think this is, a spectator sport?”

My self-righteous condemnation of Cal's morbid curiosity was pure bullshit. Ever since I figured out what was going on, I was thinking the same thing. Danny and his buddies were little pricks, and I wasn't averse to a little karmic comeuppance. I'd also done some thinking on how I could pull this off, and it was possible. Tricky, but possible.

“Well, Mr. High-and-Mighty, sorry if I offended your sensibilities. But you still didn't answer my question: Couldja? Hah? Couldja?”

“You're a sick and twisted individual.”

“C'mon, tell me the truth: Couldja?”

“Okay, okay. Maybe.”

When I told Cal “maybe,” I really meant maybe. Getting in wouldn't be that much of a problem, because Artie was used to me coming in and sneaking down the basement to hang out, and he never says anything to anybody. The plan was pretty simple: We'd sneak in, hide out in the old man's office until he came in, and watch from the top of the basement stairs, where there's a hastily cut peephole in the thin paneling for spying on light-fingered bartenders. When you remove the duct tape fastened paneling piece, you can see the entire front room of the bar. Nobody knows about the hole except me and the guy who designed it—the old man.

Now, the problems: If the old man totals Danny on Friday, our plan is screwed. There's no way we could pull off the trickiest part of the plan two nights in a row—the getaway. If we're going to get away with this, I figure we only have one shot at it. Another problem is keeping the old man and Danny out of the basement, at least long enough to suit the purposes of the plan. My plan for keeping Danny out of the basement was simple and credible: I'd leave him a note saying that I wanted to rotate the stock in the coolers upstairs, so he wouldn't have to bring up any beer Saturday night, thereby giving him no reason to go down the basement. Keeping the old man out of the basement isn't quite so tidy and easy. If he sticks to his usual pattern, it won't be a problem, because the old man always takes care of a few things upstairs before he heads down the basement. He puts the coffee on, gets the money out of the safe, then rings out the tills. With Danny there, he might shift his pattern a bit. If he alters his pattern and heads down the basement first, we'd be screwed, and would have to hide-out sooner than anticipated—and probably not only miss the show, but increase our chances of being caught. The whole plan is hinged on keeping the two upstairs. If Danny gets curious about the basement for some reason, or the old man breaks from his usual pattern, things could get ugly. But the old man is a creature of habit, and Danny would appreciate being relieved of the most laborious part of the job, giving him more time to appreciate and indulge in the perks of having a saloon all to yourself.

The getaway aspect of the plan is the most precarious. If things go like they're supposed to, after watching the old man total Danny, we would head back downstairs and hide behind the staircase, which has good cover provided by two ice machines at the base of the steps, and the enclosed furnace room on the other side. A perfect hiding place. We would wait for the old man to head to his office, which is on the other side of the basement, then sneak up the steps and out the back door. The steps are fairly new and have very few creaks. We should be able to get up the steps undetected, but the heavy steel door is rusty and creaky, and when the place is empty, you can hear it open and close from the office. But a good dousing of oil and a few adjustments on the closure and hinges should alleviate the problem. I would take care of the door and the note to Danny on my last night, before my first—and probably last—weekend off.

I filled Cal in on the plan when we got together that night. I also gave him the skinny about what went on with Lisa, and actually managed to have a few laughs over it. I still hadn't told him about what went on at the print shop the other night, but we had so many other things to talk about, and it felt so good to just shoot the breeze and have a few laughs, that I tried not to dwell on it. I told myself that I would tell him eventually, but I still had some doubts.

I took care of all the details I needed to take care of at work, later that night. I was especially concerned about the door, and I worked on it for a good half hour to get it just right. I checked out the stairs for creaks, stepping on different parts of the steps in search of the quietest path. They weren't entirely creak-proof, with the third step being the noisiest, so I planned our path accordingly, committing it to memory. I left Danny a note in the janitor closet and told the old man my plans for rotating the stock. He told me that it was long overdue and a good idea. The details of the plan were now in place. Now it was up to the old man.

It was my first night off in months. The last time I had a night off was when the old man had to shut down for a day, to install some new coolers upstairs. Cleaning the joint every night was just part of my routine, a daily fact of life that I had gotten used to, and something that I didn't think much about. I never considered my job a hindrance. In fact, it helped soothe and relax me in a very therapeutic way. It gave me a chance to be absolutely alone; a chance to bask in the ambiance of a lonely dark saloon in the quiet of night. I could think, wish, and dream under my own private stars, and an open bar and jukebox were left to my discretion.

After sleeping off most of Friday's daylight, I took a long hot shower in preparation for Friday night. I lingered for almost twenty minutes in the shower, breathing the thick steam deep into my lungs, letting it consume and loosen my body that was still feeling the aftereffects of the beating I took the previous Saturday. I had no plans to speak of, only that I was going over to Cal's and we'd take it from there. Cal's a regular nine-to-fiver now, a Monday-through-Friday guy who likes to blow off steam and a good chunk of his paycheck on Friday and Saturday nights—a true-to-form weekend warrior. I knew Cal had a rough week. He told me that he put in forty-seven hours for the week, but was grateful to get the overtime. Not only had he had a long workweek, but he tussled with Capone and Dillinger all week, a situation that was far from resolved.

I made it to Cal's around seven or so, and he still hadn't made it home yet. Kym-gym and Dickie Jr. were bundled up on the couch as usual, and as their custom, hit me up for some heaters. Cal always gets pissed when I give them smokes, but I just can't say no to these two and they know it. Of course, they always try to push the limits of my generosity, asking me to sneak them a couple beers—knowing full well that I work in a bar and usually have a case cooling in my trunk. But that's where I draw the line with the baby chimneys.

Cal walked in the door about a quarter to eight, doing a little impromptu soft-shoe as he whistled and peeled off his winter layers. He was in a great mood, obviously glad that the week was over, and was ready to put it behind him. He didn't even bother with the pleasantries, lowering an imaginary gun at me and uttering one word: “Beer.” He asked the boys if they ate anything, was glad to hear that they did, and I tossed him a cold one. He popped the top and took a long thirsty pull, letting out a rapturous sigh of release, purging a week's worth of tension from his overburdened shoulders.

After relaxing a while and downing a couple beers, he motioned for me to follow him to his room, grabbing his jacket on the way. When we got into his room, he pulled out a wrinkled brown lunch bag, slamming it into my gut like he was giving me a handoff. I curiously opened the bag to discover, not surprisingly, another bag—a sandwich bag with about four finger's worth of weed in it, that was still wet with some spittle on the seal of the bag. Just as I suspected, Cal had done a little shopping with his hard-earned pancake money. He told me to spin one up, then casually mentioned that I missed something. As he started to pull his work clothes off, I took another look in the lunch bag. There was a sloppily folded piece of notebook paper at the bottom of the bag. I unfurled the paper, revealing four purple tablets affixed to some wax-like paper.

“Didja find it?” Cal said from across the room, pulling an album out and cueing it up on the turntable.

“Yeah,” I said. “What is it?” Jimi Hendrix started blasting from the speakers.

“Purple Haze, baby!” Cal shouted, curling his upper lip and gyrating to the obvious Hendrix choice. He turned down the stereo a bit. “It's purple microdot. You know, acid. Didja eat anything?” I shook my head. “Well, I better fix you a sandwich, 'cause believe me, you don't wanna take this shit on an empty stomach—it'll run right through ya. And trust me, you'll have a fuckin' nightmare running through your brain at about two hundred miles an hour if you don't have anything in your gut.”

I had never done acid before, and was more than a little apprehensive. I had heard about the bad trips people sometimes had, stories about people jumping off buildings thinking they were Superman, or people cutting themselves up all to hell going through plate glass windows. But Cal seemed to know what he was doing, appearing to be cautious and respectful of the powerful drug. I was trying to reconcile between my lust for curiosity and adventure, and my healthy fear of the chemical unknown. I didn't know what I was going to do.

Cal fixed me a salami and cheese sandwich, carefully cut and nicely presented on a paper plate, with some potato chips and pickles that he swiped from the restaurant. For all I knew, everything probably came from the Palace. What Cal felt he lacked in salary, he more than made up for with employee theft. The sandwich was fresh and delicious, and Cal watched over me like a mother to make sure I ate everything and was satisfied.

“There. Feel better?” Cal said with a motherly-smug, purse-lipped look. He was in character again, this time starring as my mother. I pictured him in a wig and an apron. I could even see him in pearls.

“Oh, shut the fuck up, mommy.”

“Do you have clean underwear on?” he said, continuing with the characterization.

“You look very lovely today, Mrs. Cleaver,” I Eddie Haskelled. “Oh, mom?”

“Yes, dear?”

“May I have my acid now?”

“After you clean your room.” Sometimes we just don't know when to quit.

“Cal? Do you have any idea how fuckin' weird we are? Christ, if people only knew....”

“Okay, okay,” Cal said, resuming regular programming. “Are ya ready?”

My apprehension grew stronger the more I thought about it. I always thought that I was pretty adventurous, but when Cal asked me if I was ready, I discovered a line in my psyche that I hadn't known existed, a limit to how far I'd go to numb and escape reality. A few beers and a little weed to soften the stark edges of my existence was one thing, but psychedelics represented an unpredictable beast, a distorted, foreboding unknown, a loss of control that I wasn't comfortable giving into.

Cal casually halved the acid paper and nonchalantly pulled off one of the tabs, but ceremoniously stiffened as he carefully placed it on the tip of his tongue, as if he was giving himself Communion. He handed me the other half, neatly folding up the other tabs for future use. As he was heading back over to the turntable to put another album on, I let my apprehension get the better of me, quickly crinkling up my dose and shoving it into my pocket.

As Todd Rundgren's A Wizard, A True Star weirdly snaked out of the speakers—an acidy package of hallucinogenic music and cover art so freakishly strange that the addition of a psychedelic to the experience seemed superfluous—Cal checked back with me to see if I dropped the bomb. I didn't want him to think that he was tripping alone, which might cause him to freak out when the ride got intense, so I told him that I did. For once, I felt like the responsible one, looking out for him for a change. I could keep a reasonably sober eye on him while he ventured into chemical wonderland.

Cal seemed perfectly normal for the first half hour. We were just sitting in his room, listening to some tunes and having a couple beers. Then, as is always the case when Cal gets loopy, came the giggles. His movements became unnatural, almost kind of floaty and slow-motioned, moving much like you'd move underwater. Then he started playing with the Rundgren album cover, curiously studying the weird shapes and expressionistic images, twisting and turning the cover at different angles, maximizing the experience. He then set his sights on me to see how I was making out. His eyes looked monstrous, dilated to the point of appearing totally black, looking doll-like and frozen. Cal's discolored, lazy right eye was especially menacing, appearing sick and grotesque, like it was made-up for a horror movie. I thought he was going to say something to me, but suddenly his attention was drawn elsewhere. He was just spacily looking around the room enjoying the chemically altered scenery, intermittently darting his hand past his face in awe-inspired wonder, whispering something about “trails.” Then he abruptly put his headphones on and checked out for twenty minutes, occasionally grinding his teeth and making strange whooshing sounds to the music.

After his check-out session, Cal asked me if I was up to driving. I told him that I was, so we grabbed our jackets and headed out the door. I was glad to get out of Cal's room. Watching him trip was one thing, but the last few minutes of his session he started pawing at himself, making me very uncomfortable in the process. Cal was obviously unaware of what he was doing, and I was unaware of the aphrodisiacal qualities of the drug. It made me wonder what sex might be like on acid, and the first image that raced through my mind was a vagina turning into a snapping beak of a giant squid, causing me to shudder and tightly cross my legs. The image reaffirmed my decision not to take the drug. I conjure up enough disturbing images when I'm sober. Acid would push me off the cliff.

Cal was in total wonderland. He was obviously having a blast being driven around, just enjoying the scenery. God only knows what he was seeing, but the bare, gangly trees fascinated him. He mumbled something about The Wizard of Oz, and a few minutes later he said, “How'd you like it if somebody grabbed your apples?” then laughed hysterically for ten minutes. He was totally oblivious to the fact that I wasn't tripping with him. He was in his own world, just enjoying the ride.

After driving around for an hour or so, I headed for the overlook. Cal had been tripping for an hour and a half, and seemed to be coming down a bit. I had always heard that acid trips usually go on for six to eight hours, sometimes forever if you believe some of the apocryphal sixties' lore about the unpredictability of the era's LSD. I figured the stuff Cal took was on the watery side, paling in comparison to its sixties' brethren and mythology. Of course, some of my knowledge about the drug came from episodes of Dragnet. The drug episodes of the show were always my favorite. If Dragnet was your only source, you'd think that anyone who took a hit off a joint would end up in a straitjacket, foam at the mouth, and rant psychotically and eat bugs, like Renfield did in Dracula.

“You still seeing trails?” Cal said, still in the dark that I chickenshitted out of the trip.

“Nah, everything's just kind of fuzzy,” I fibbed.

“Yeah, weird, isn't it?” Cal lazily said. I figured things had to be fuzzy in Cal's mind. “Everything seems to have an aura, like there's some kind of energy force surrounding everything.” It's the deepest thought I'd ever heard him utter.

“Pretty mystical there, Chimney boy.”

“Can you see it? There's like a blue halo surrounding everything.” Cal turned and looked at me. “Except you.”

I dismissed Cal's chemically induced mysticism as just an illusional acidic vision, but his last aside struck a chord in me, touching on a note of truth as to how I really felt. I did feel like I was fading; I felt beaten, and in a strange way, felt like I was in danger. The pragmatist in me rationalized that Cal's vision of me was pure coincidence, just part of his hallucinatory experience. But he touched on a nerve, a feeling that I had about myself, a desperation and fear that I kept well-hidden. I briefly entertained the notion that maybe Cal had tapped into something, into some recess or dimension of the mind that allowed him to see visions. I had read that the use of mind-altering substances have been used for generations by shamans, seeking spiritual enlightenment and soothsaying powers. But Cal was no shaman. He was just a kid from East Sunset burning on acid.

We left the overlook a little after ten. The cops usually do a drive-through between ten and ten-thirty, so I figured we'd better get out of there. We went back to Cal's place, where we hung out watching the tube with the baby chimneys the rest of the night. Mattie and Andy were out, and I knew things were bad between Cal and the boys because he didn't show any interest in their whereabouts.

Cal was pretty pensive the rest of the night. He must have had eight or nine beers, and with each beer he came down a little closer to earth. After three or four hours, the intense effects of the acid had pretty much run its course. His trip was pretty light, and nowhere near what I thought it would be. I was expecting him to be freaking out all over the place, but instead, he just saw some vibrant colors and trails, giggled a bit, and got a little mystical. I could tell Cal was tired, but he still had enough acid in him to prevent him from dozing off. I hung around until 2 A.M. When I left Cal's, the youngest boys were asleep on the couch and Cal was sunken into the ratty recliner, just staring blankly at the TV, devoid of all expression and energy.

It felt strange being home at two-thirty in the morning. I had the queerest feeling of unease, like I was somewhere I didn't belong, somewhere I wasn't supposed to be. I thought that maybe I simply wasn't accustomed to being home that time of morning, that I was just off my regular schedule, a mere aberration in my routine. But as much as I tried to listen to my rational self, I couldn't shake the discomfort; I felt restless and squirmy. I had to get out of there. I quietly made my way up the basement steps and headed for the door.

As I crept across the living room on my way to the front door, I heard some noises coming from upstairs. It sounded like typical nighttime jostling at first, just some restlessness and bed-creaking that seeped through the quiet house. As I was reaching for the door I heard some voices—agitated, sinewy bits of intonation that arrested my attention, stopping me cold. I headed up the three steps toward the kitchen, closing in on the upstairs hallway that reverberated the angry disharmony. As I leaned into the hallway the sounds became more pronounced, ricocheting off the thin walls, making it sound like three or four people were jumping on the bed, with an intermittent thud of the headboard echoing off the wall. The clangor of nightstand knickknacks falling and tumbling into each other was thrown into the angry mix, creating a discordant symphony. Then I heard a suppressed scream, a choked off, almost too-scared-to-scream scream, followed by a pattering of footsteps across the wooden floor. The door flew open and the shadow of my mother rushed out. Just as she was coming into view, her head snapped back, as if she was being jerked by a violent ghost. But the ghost had an all-too-familiar voice, bursting through the hall: “Not this time, you fuckin' bitch! Oh no, not this—” The door slammed behind the fury and the dissonant symphony lunged into its next movement.

My first thought was to call the cops, but my second was that it was a bad idea. I could charge up the steps and pound my chest with righteous indignation and be the bearer of justice, thus heroically saving my mother—whom might even thank me, maybe even talk to me—but I was ill-suited for the role of hero. As the horror played on, all I could think of was burning the house down to the ground.

I knew I had to do something, so I began my ascent up the stairs, hoping that something would come to me. The only thing I could think of was to just simply make my presence known, hoping that would be enough, so I decided on the simplest approach I could think of: The innocent interruption. I quickly got into character; I turned all my thoughts to meekness. I was an innocent little choirboy, incredulous to what was going on. I heard a noise; I just wanted to make sure they were all right. I sweetly tapped on the door.

“Mom? Dad?” I asked pleasantly, taking my voice up a pitch to get the desired choirboy effect. The struggle quieted slightly, and I repeated my query, this time drawing out the tones even more gently, giving it that extra sprinkle of sugar: “Mom? Dad? Are you all right?”

Someone came off the bed and rushed toward the door.

“What are you doin' here?” the old man snapped, poking his head through a crack in the door.

“I'm sorry, Dad. I just got home and heard some noise, and I just—”

“Go to bed.” He firmly closed the door behind him.

I went back downstairs and sat in the dark, hoping it was over, but quickly reconciling the fact that it was over just for the night. I wondered how many times he'd done this before; how many times those horrible sounds had filled this house—and how many more people he's going to terrorize and mercilessly slit before he's through. I thought of my mother, and for the first time, began to understand her coldness, her utter indifference to everything around her.

I got in my car and drove. If you asked me where I went, I couldn't tell you—all the roads were the same to me now and their names no longer mattered. I drove down two-lane roads, four-lane roads, one-ways and interstates; up parkways, swerved around boulevards, and slinked through angry black alleys. I drove fast and hard, like I was being chased. I went home in the morning when I was sure the old man was gone. My mother was quietly lost at the kitchen table, staring into her cup of coffee, softly rocking it back and forth. She didn't even bother to look up when I came in the door. It was like I didn't even exist.

I sprang up anxiously early Saturday afternoon awaiting the news. The old man was due back anytime now, and as much as I didn't want to see or talk to him, I had to in order to know what was going on. If he didn't say anything to me, I knew Cal and I had a date at the Coliseum. I heard the door slam.

I could hear his footsteps above my basement room as he walked in the kitchen. His footsteps had a distinct and prolonged heavy creak to them, a sonorously thick and portentous plod, like a slow-moving giant. Just as I got up to head upstairs, my phone rang. I knew it was Cal.

“Yeah?” I said in a nervous hush.

“Is he home yet?” Cal quickly whispered back.

“He just got home. I'll call ya back, I'll call ya back.” I hung up before he could say anything else.

I headed for the kitchen. Of course, I had to have a reason for being there, so I went about fumbling in the fridge, poking around at this and that, waiting for somebody to speak. There we were, one big happy family in the kitchen, and nobody saying a word. The old man sniffed at the pot of coffee that was on, and after curling up his face at the aroma, shot my mother a look like it was all her fault, then grumbled as he went about making a fresh pot. My mother was unenthusiastically perusing the classifieds, looking for nothing more than a diversion from the old man. I lingered for a couple minutes, poking around and waiting for the word. The old man had nothing to say. We were on.

I called Cal back and told him the news. He took the news in an easy stride, like it was something we did every day, then quickly changed the subject. I thought it was strange that we didn't seem to want to talk about it. Even though I knew we were going to go through with it, I think, deep down, we had some misgivings about it. I knew it was wrong to make a spectator sport out of someone's violent misfortune, but there was also part of me that demanded some kind of reparation. I hated people like Danny and his buddies because they were crass opportunists that preyed on weakness and vulnerability, even when it wasn't necessary or expedient to their needs. They took advantage just because they could. They were the kind of guys that ripped off little old ladies and kicked their cats on the way out; they were the bullies in school that took geek lunch money. They couldn't be reached by reason or touched by the merits of simple human decency. I had always tried to hold onto the optimism that there was always a sliver of good in all people; that there was some way to penetrate or uncover this callused shroud. My once strong sense of optimism was now dim and ghostly. I saw Danny and his buddies the same way I saw the old man; the racist printer; the epithet-throwing beer-talkers who seemed to hate everyone and everything. My outlook was becoming increasingly jaundiced and narrow. I now subscribed to the notion that the only way to reach these kinds of people was to get down in the trenches with them—this, they understood. Bayonet to bayonet; natural selection. I had always prided myself in rising above the fray, that I would never stoop to their level. In a way, what I was doing was worse. But I was going to do it anyway.

I picked up Cal and we headed to the Trinity for some lunch. Cal was surprisingly bright and renewed, having sloughed off his pensiveness from last night. It was an unseasonably warm January Saturday, with a thick fog swallowing the tops of the hills, its curtain slowly lowering toward total consumption, insatiable and unsatisfied.

We slid into our favorite booth and were promptly greeted by the Miss America of waitresses, the absolutely devastating Miss Roxanne. Roxy was so beautiful and exuded so much sexuality that you had trouble remembering your name around her. Men were reduced to utter retardation in her presence, stammering and fumbling ceaselessly, struggling and striving for a monosyllable. Roxy was about five feet seven and one hundred twenty-five pounds, and looked to be a perfect 34C. But it was the rich chestnut hair and eyes—this ineffably soft, creamy warm chestnut—that devolutionalized you into a primordial lump. Her skin radiated a sun-kissed light mahogany, dewy and rich.

Roxy had a boyfriend named Jerry Moline. Jerry was a shifty, pockmarked Lothario with lengthy, gangly arms that dangled from his shoulders like drapes hang over a window. He had a reddish bulky nose and chronically bloodshot slate blue eyes, that peered from the belfry of his six-foot-two-inch frame. Roxy saw something in Jerry that eluded everyone else in town. He was far from handsome, shiftless, and smoked pot by the bale—perfect husband material if your idea of an estate is a double-wide trailer. But Jerry had something that every guy in town could only fantasize about during fevered masturbation: He got to suck up every inch of this sunburnt beauty. Jerry was the envy of every guy in town.

As we watched the fog slowly lower over the avenue, Cal and I breezed through simple-minded banter and cup after cup. We split a club sandwich and fries, trying to stay cool whenever Roxy came back to check on us, whom by now was suspicious of our copious java consumption, but showed she was flattered by a knowing smile. But the contrast of being surrounded by so much beauty and breeziness, set against the thickness of fog and the dark loom of violence, was starting to weigh down my conscience. I had played through my mind all the aspects and implications of what we were about to do, but the more I thought about it the more entangled I became in the throes of confliction. But no matter what I thought or how I felt, I knew I was going to go through with it. For some reason, for some unexplainable, nonsensical reason, I knew it was something that I had to witness. Maybe I needed to be face-to-face with the harsh reality of truth. Then again, maybe I just wanted a little justice of my own.

We made it to the joint a little after midnight. With Cal behind me, I cracked open the back door, which unleashed the roar of the well-oiled Saturday night crowd, allowing us to slip down the basement unnoticed. We set up camp in the old man's office, then I headed back up the steps to douse the main basement lights. I rechecked the path up the steps I had planned for our pivotal escape. Not a creak could be heard. Now all we had to do was wait.

Cal cracked open his medical bag and pulled out a spliff that was as fat as a Camel straight. I obliged him with a light from my freshly filled Zippo, its high flame whipping and swirling from the force of a nearby heat register. We lapped up the smoke, heat, and fumes, distancing and cocooning ourselves like we had done so many times before. The floor above us creaked heavily and slowly, the weight of seventy-five people shifting and swaying in a collective drunken dance. The incessant creaking was sporadically punctuated by thunderous clodding and the occasional boom, usually just a heavy workboot stomping down hard and reverberating downward, but the more pronounced booms were bodies hitting the floor.

After working about halfway through the thick spliff, we were sufficiently fogged and dizzily florid, not only from the drug, but from the ceaseless gale of broiling heat pouring from the register. I closed the vent, then went to grab a couple beers out of the walk-in as Cal flipped through the channels looking for something to watch. He settled on The Legend of Hell House, and we were immediately sucked into the film's creepy, ethereal pace. As we sat in the dark, cozy glow, I felt safe and comforted, like how I used to feel when I watched spooky movies with my dad when I was little. I remembered him cutting my toenails as we watched Frankenstein or The Wolf Man, and he'd always pick up a pizza or some White Castle's for the show. He was my dad back then, but somehow, somewhere along the way, something went wrong. Maybe I was just imbued with the warmth and safety of being a child with his father, and I couldn't see past this comforting idyll. Back then, it never occurred to me to look for anything wrong. But as I look back, the signs were always there; I was just too young to read them. My mother always seemed to be out of reach, never taking part in any of our rituals. She was always out of the room, and I can't even remember one thing—not one lousy thing—that we did together as a family unit. She went about her motherly duties, making sure I was fed and properly clothed, and gave me medicine when I was sick. But it seemed to be done more out of a sense of obligation than love.

The movie was over around two-thirty. We were so wrapped up in the movie that we hadn't noticed the silence. I turned the TV off and we cocked our heads upward and listened: The din of the boozy crowd was gone; the mighty creaking of the barroom floor had ceased. The only sound fighting the silence was the constant hum and whir of coolers and ice machines. Then the distinct sound of a barstool grating against cold tile scratched the silence. It was followed by footsteps.

I can usually tell what's going on upstairs by the sounds that filter down to the office. You can guess the size of the crowd by the creaking and the din; the unique boom of a body thumping the floor; a fight by the quick, heavy footsteps and brusque rumbling. You can tell who's winning a football game by keeping track of the groans and cheers. The footsteps we heard were echoey and pronounced; a solitary walk. Danny was upstairs.

The footsteps silenced our every movement and, for a moment, we just sat quietly and listened, gazing upward as if we could see them. We were about three hours away from anything happening, and I could tell it was going to be a long, fidgety wait. The footsteps were cautious and unsure, but evenly paced; they seemed otherworldly and tense, eerily loaded with portent and predestination. What I was hearing and feeling wasn't just Danny's fate being foreshadowed, but mine as well. Those steps were walking toward me. I began to feel closed-in and cornered.

The second thoughts that had been with me the last few days were getting stronger. Judging from the look on Cal's face, his once ambivalently loose attitude toward the situation now showed more seriousness and concern. He kept looking up toward the sound as if he was lost in it, trance-like with wonder. The gravity of what we were doing was finally hitting home.

“You still wanna go through with this, Chimney boy?” I waited a good five seconds for an answer.

“I don't know, man,” he said, still gazing upward. “I mean, I don't even know this guy . . . and I know what your old man's gonna do. . . . Listen to that—” We became quiet. “It sounds like a clock, don't it?” Danny's footsteps sounded like a large clock ticking away in an old cavernous room.

“You know, we can leave if you want to,” I offered. “I mean, we'd give Danny a start, all right, but we can get up right now and head out that door.”

Cal picked up the thick resined stub from the ashtray and lit it. He inhaled slowly and deeply, poring over the option.

“Well?” I said. He still didn't reply. We listened.

I decided to leave it up to Cal. He now had a more realistic grasp of the implications of what we were doing, and realized that it wasn't just a game for our amusement. We sat silently while he worked things over. Then we heard the back screen door slam, causing us both to jump. I figured Danny was just making a Dumpster run, but suddenly there were pounding footsteps on the floor, like someone was stomping to get the snow off their boots. But it sounded like more than one person. Then we heard voices, rowdily loud and drunk. Danny decided to have a party.

Now we were stuck. If it was just Danny upstairs, we could leave with no problems or ramifications. But if we left now, Danny would probably assume that I'd tell the old man about his little soirée, and he'd be out of a job. I knew the old man warned him about having parties on his dime, and Danny and his buddies would probably assume the worst, and take it out on Cal and me. Of course, he was going to lose his job anyway, but he didn't know that, and it really didn't matter. What mattered was what Danny would think now, and I knew the answer. He would have nothing left to lose—and knowing Danny and his buddies, they would take great satisfaction in putting the boots to us.

“Now what?” Cal said, not quite grasping the fact that we were stuck.

“We're fucked, that's what,” I said. “If we try to leave now, we'll probably get wracked. Shit, if we wait till after they leave, Danny'll think he's fucked—and if he survives what the old man has in store for him, he and his buddies will come lookin' for me. It looks like we're here for the duration, Chimney boy.”

“Well, so much for leavin',” Cal said.

“Is that what you decided?”

“Yeah.”

We resigned ourselves to the reality of the situation. But we had one other option to explore, one more shot of hopping on the high road: We could choose not to watch the carnage. We could simply hide out until it was over, then make our planned escape.

“Let me get this straight,” Cal said, suddenly agitated. “If we go upstairs we're totaled, right?” I nodded yes. “Even if we wait till after they leave, you think they'll come lookin' for you?”

“Believe me, Cal, I already had one run-in with these fucks. They're not exactly nice guys. Don'tcha get it? Even if we leave after these guys split—and especially after the old man works Danny over, 'cause he's gonna think I tipped the old man off or somethin'—they're gonna come lookin' to settle with me.”

“Unless your old man tells him why he's beating on him, which would take you off the hook,” Cal said seriously, then laughed when he realized the absurdity.

“Yes, Cal—I'm sure the old boy will make it absolutely clear to Danny why he's kickin' the livin' shit out of him.”

“Well, you never know.” We burst out laughing.

Actually, when I thought about it, the old man just might say something in the heat of the moment, but I wasn't willing to bet on the old boy giving a full explanation, thus exonerating me in the process. We had a good laugh over it, with Cal taking it to the limit, pretending to be the old man beating on a guy, giving outrageously detailed explanations for every punch and jab. But when the laughs were over, he turned ice-cold.

“You know what I think, Evvie?”

“God only knows, Chimney boy.”

“Fuck them,” he said with a heartless snarl. “Why should we give a rip about what happens to these assholes? Do ya think they care about anyone else? Do ya think they'd think twice about kicking your face in? Or mine, or anyone else's? All this bullshit about doing the right thing, taking the high road—trying to be better than everyone else—what's the fuckin' point? They don't care about you, so why should you give a shit about them? Ya wanna know what I really think? I hope your old man comes stormin' in here and wipes the floor with all of 'em! And you know somethin'? I'm gonna enjoy every goddam second of it. Fuck them.”

I was stunned by Cal's vehement diatribe. But it was more than just frustration with our predicament that caused him to blow. It was a visceral, lashing harangue, coming from years of simmering frustration kept under constant pressure. It came from a place so deeply and perfectly hidden, that it seemed to take Cal by surprise, like he hadn't known that all his feelings of disillusionment over the years were being stored somewhere inside him.

“Christ, Cal, who the fuck you mad at?”

“I'm sick of assholes like these guys making everybody's life miserable, that's who,” he snapped back.

“Oh. Is that all?”

“Yep,” he said, his arms crossed, acting like a kid who refuses to be budged.

“So, you're a Roman again, hey?”

“Goddam right, man. Throw 'em all to the fuckin' lions. You gotta problem with that?”

“Why, no, General Patton. We'll use those sons of bitches' guts to grease the tracks of our tanks. We'll be like razors—no fuckin' mercy.”

“Goddam right. Get me a fuckin' beer, soldier.”

It was starting to sound like the joint was open again, judging by all the noise going on upstairs. Danny and the boys were getting pretty loud, stomping around like drunken cattle and rowdily screaming to be heard over the cranked-up jukebox. You could hear the bottles clanging in the speed rail, like someone was working the bar; barstools were being violently pushed around, with a couple hitting the floor. I started to wonder how long they were going to keep this up, and if Danny had any idea what time the old man came in. On Sunday mornings he usually sleeps in a bit, but with Danny working, I knew he'd be in early. I usually have the joint cleaned up by 6 A.M. or so, and I was guessing that's what time the old man would come in. Danny was under orders to wait until he arrived.

Cal and I passed the time by playing a little cards and watching some TV. We were nursing our beers, despite a copious supply, and tried to pay no mind to the soldiers staring down on us from the shelf. We knew getting out of there was going to be tricky, and didn't want to be too far gone when we attempted it. At a quarter to five we heard the screen door slam, then everything was quiet again. The party was over. The only sounds we heard now were the sounds of chairs being put up, the occasional knock of a broom digging in a corner, and the vacuum roaming overhead.

At five-thirty, we started cleaning up the office, removing any trace of us being there. I told Cal it was going to be anytime now, so I locked up the office and we got into position. Our best bet for hearing the old man's entrance was by the ice machines and furnace, right under the stairwell, where we were to hide until the coast was clear. The back door was just above us, so we'd be sure to hear him. I could feel the old man closing in; I knew he was close. I brought along a pen flashlight to help us get around in the dark, and I flashed it on Cal's watch: 5:50 A.M. We were hunched in our position, ready to pounce the moment we heard the sound of that door. We were silent and breathing in rushes, unconscious of the fact that we were periodically holding our breaths from the tension.

I pulled out my flashlight to check Cal's watch again. Before I had a chance to shine it on his watch, we could faintly hear a car in the alley, its wheels spinning on the ice. The spinning became louder and closer, its wheels now-furiously locked in a high-pitched whine, the engine gunning and straining, getting closer and closer. Then, in a momentous heave of horsepower and traction, it suddenly released—exploding an icy splash of twisting steel and shattering glass through the still, wakeless dawn. Cal and I let out startled gasps on impact, both of us knocking our heads off the stairwell.

“What the fuck was that?” Cal rushed out of his mouth in a terse whisper. We intently listened. Then we heard the violent boom of a car door being kicked shut, followed by boozy-loud, grumbling profanity. The screen door was thrown open with a careless yank, causing it to immediately slam back, its thin glass bursting in the cold air. We heard keys drop and more agitated grumbling.

“Oh Christ, he's fucking drunk!” I hoarsely whispered to Cal.

“Where's your light? I think I'm bleedin',” Cal said, rubbing his head. I shined it on his hand. It was smeared with blood. “I think I hit a goddam nail. Fuck!” He slapped me on the head with his blood-stained hand.

“Wudga do that for?”

“It's your fuckin' fault!”

The old man was struggling to find the keyhole. His keys jangled and scratched at the metal door, interrupted by light thuds as he pushed and leaned into it. The dead bolt clicked. We were ready at the foot of the steps.

“Wait, wait,” I said to Cal as he started to move. “He might come down.”

The old man started making his way toward the bar with plodding, uneven steps. We stealthily made our way upstairs to our vantage point, with Cal following my lead. I removed the paneling piece and we craned and scrunched our heads together in front of the opening. The front room was in perfect view.

Danny was casually leaning against the bar by the first bartender station, one of two, and closest to the back door. “Good morning, Mr. Cummings,” he ingratiatingly said with a polite glance before turning away, arching over the bar to grab the mix-gun to freshen his drink—a showy gesture meant to suggest that he was drinking nothing but pop all night. The old man walked toward Danny in a silent, deliberate pace. Danny was straining to scoop up some ice from the bottom of the ice bin when the old man reached him.

Without a word, the old man cocked his right, twisting his body back like a discus thrower, taut as a catapult before release. He unleashed his savagery with full force, pummeling a jackhammer right into Danny's kidneys. The blow snapped Danny back, sending his freshened drink airborne into the bar's low overhang, ricocheting back and shattering on the bar's surface. Danny quickly gasped for a breath, then lurched forward, slumping heavily on the bar. A steady stream of liquid piddled to the floor, faintly echoing in the silence. Danny lay writhing in shock on a bed of broken glass. Unsatisfied, the old man snatched a handful of hair from the back of Danny's head, tugged him back a foot, then rammed his face into the edge of the bar, opening up his face with a resonant crack, sending a spray of blood in every direction but back. Cal recoiled and began to retch, covering his mouth as he turned away from me. Danny lay prostrate on the floor, blood slowly pooling around his head. The left side of his face was exposed, his features grotesquely blurred in split flesh and blood. His mouth was slightly agape; his body unnaturally contorted, his legs splayed. He appeared frozen; eerily still. The old man looked down at him with a bloodless indifference, his gaze cold and hollow. He backed up a step and paused without movement, anchored still and lifeless. Then he suddenly burst forward with a quick, compact kick, striking Danny around the nose and left eye, then hovered directly above him, which temporarily obstructed my view. He curiously flicked his right foot around Danny's face with a bemused snort, then backed away. Danny's left eye dangled along the side of his face, hanging by a few sinewy threads.

The old man casually wiped the blood off his shoe on Danny's pants, then stumbled away from the motionless body, inspecting himself for blood stains as he headed behind the bar. Cal was sitting at the bottom of the steps trying to regain his composure, as well as the equilibrium in his stomach. He had refrained from vomiting, but was overcome with shock, his head buried in his lap, his face hiding behind his hands.

The old man pulled out a six-ounce seltzer glass and yanked the pourer from a bottle of Jack Daniel's. He filled the glass about three-quarters full, sloppily gulping it down like water, then wiped his mouth with a swipe of his blood-specked sleeve. He must have been drinking all night, which made me wonder about my mother, and how much destruction he left behind. He was monstrous and predatory when he was drunk, and anyone who crossed his path or looked at him wrong was in mortal danger. He was volatile enough when he was sober, but he was totally without conscience when he was drunk.

He took another healthy gulp of sour mash then came out from behind the bar. He paused for a moment when Danny came into his view, then staggered toward the body. He awkwardly poked at Danny with his foot, almost losing his balance and joining him on the floor. Danny didn't respond to the old man's strangely gentle prodding. More than five minutes had passed and Danny hadn't shown even the slightest movement. I'd seen people knocked unconscious before, but after five minutes or so, there's usually a hint of movement, a slow writhe as they're coming around or some kind of twitch or spasm. Danny appeared totally inanimate.

I felt like I wasn't even in my body anymore. Everything was too surreal. What was unfolding in front of me was movie-like in appearance, but it didn't seem like I was watching it with my eyes. It was visionary in an unconscious sense, but an interior manifestation that seemed to go beyond my mind's eye. It was as much feeling as it was vision. It seemed revelatory; a realization—awareness.

The old man nudged Danny again, this time with a little more authority. Then, as if he was going to fully erupt again, really laid into him—landing a thudding, rib-breaking boot into his side. He started kicking him wildly, again and again, virulently spewing through his clenched teeth as he pummeled the body: “Ya fuckin' piece of shit! How do ya like that, hah?! Ya fuckin' worthless little cunt! Hah?! Hah?!” The old man stopped abruptly. The blood pool around Danny's head was hideously smeared, his eye slowly rolling back and forth on his cheek.

The old man was maniacally huffing and puffing, trying to catch his breath through his still-clenched jaw. He was sweating profusely, wiping his brow with a sweep of his open left hand. His face was tense with fury and adrenaline, and had turned a vibrant beet red. He rested his hands defiantly on his hips, fixing a cold gaze upon the body, his legs boldly spread, his chest heaving in and out. He suddenly turned toward the back door—a dead-on look in my direction—like he was looking straight at me. I gasped with the unexpected look, an unblinking malignant stare that was no longer human. It was a bloodless, satanic look; utterly fiendish and perfectly evil.

The look was a foreshadowing. He grabbed Danny by the back of his collar and started dragging him toward the back door, like he was dragging a garbage bag to the curb. I braced at the movement and headed down the stairs before he got any closer. I pulled Cal up at the bottom of the steps and led him behind the ice machines so we could take cover. Cal was lifeless, totally in shock; unresponsive and dead on his feet. The old man fumbled for his keys at the back door, which froze us in our tracks. The screen door banged a few times as the old man struggled getting Danny out the door, then it was quiet. Then we heard a thud followed by a booming slam—the distinct sound of a trunk closing. We heard the car start, then some scraping metal, like his bumper was partially hung up on the guardrail that went around the perimeter of the parking lot. We waited a few minutes in silence. The old man was gone.

“Hey, you okay, man?” I asked Cal.

“No, I'm not fuckin' okay. He killed him, Evan, he fuckin' killed him. I know it, I just know it—and the screaming . . . God, the screaming. Your old man's crazy—”

“C'mon, we gotta get outta here.”

“God, he fuckin' killed him. . . .”

Cal was definitely in shock. I was too numb to think about any of it, and my only thought was to get out of there. I pulled Cal by the sleeve and led him upstairs. As I walked up the steps, I wondered if I was going to look. I did—a cold, hard look. I lingered at the sight of the smeared dirty pool, crazily thinking that I wanted to touch it, to see it firsthand and up close. I needed to reaffirm that what I saw was real; it was as if I doubted my own eyes. I needed to drive it all the way home, to burn it into my brain.

Cal had his head down, standing limply in front of the back door. His shoulders were stooped and his arms dangled lifelessly, an abject lifelessness, emaciated to the core. I opened the back door and we both took long, deep breaths of the cold fresh air. We slowly made our way up the three steps leading to the parking lot. The section of orange guardrail where the old man crashed was caved in and missing some layers of paint. We inspected the damage silently for a moment, and as I moved in for a closer look, I saw a grisly testament to what I had just witnessed: an eyeball in the snow. Cal noticed that I was looking down at something, and curiously came over to take a look. It was the last thing he needed to see. He quickly turned away and walked briskly toward the alley. Just as I caught up to him, he broke into a light jog. When I caught up to him again, he started running.

We were running down the alley as fast as we could. Cal was running desperately, trying to put as much distance as possible between him and what he just saw. He was moaning, almost crying; struggling to go faster and faster, and I could barely keep up with him. He seemed to be running for his life, and he couldn't get away fast enough. I yelled for him to slow down, but it only seemed to make him go faster. But the more I ran, the better I began to feel. I felt like I could have run forever.

I had parked about three blocks away and we were closing in quickly. Cal was slightly ahead of me, and I began to wonder if he was going to stop at the car. It felt good to run and breathe in the cold air. It had a temporary cleansing effect; a cathartic, burning purification, expunging the horror of what I had just witnessed. Cal made it to the car first, collapsing heavily on the trunk. He was sprawled across the trunk, the left side of his face pressed against the cold steel, trying to cool the fever from his breathtaking sprint, frantically trying to catch his breath. I made it about thirty seconds after him, my temples viciously pounding from the unanticipated race. Cal's face was turned away from me, and he seemed to be crying through his struggling breaths. The coolness was soothing, and we rested against the trunk until we caught our breath.

“What are we gonna do?” Cal said, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

“I don't know, Cal. I just don't know—”

“We gotta call the cops, man, we gotta call the cops—that crazy fuck's gotta be locked up! We just witnessed a murder, Evvie—”

“We don't know that.”

“Waddaya mean, 'we don't know that'? Christ, Evan, he just dragged a fuckin' eyeless body outta there! What—are we supposed to check for a goddam pulse? Pull your head outta your ass, Evvie.”

“Leave my ass outta this.”

“Don't even joke—”

“What the fuck do ya want me to say?! You think it's that easy, that black-and-white? Think about this for a sec: We're talkin' about my old man here, remember? My fuckin' father! Christ! Let me think for a sec, wouldja?”

“What the hell is there to think about, Evvie? He fuckin' killed someone!”

“Well, try this: Think about explaining what we just saw to the cops. You don't think the old man's got a story all cooked up? The ex-cop? Think about the old man and how he's gonna react to all this. Just think for a sec, wouldja? Do ya think the cops are just gonna listen to our story and just go and lock him up? Jesus Christ, Cal, you're talkin' about me going to the cops and telling them that my old man's a murderer! Where's that gonna leave me? They're just not gonna go and lock him up until they investigate it—then I get to explain to the old boy why I accused him of murder? We're talkin' about turning everything upside-down here, man. Christ, just let me think for a sec, wouldja?”

“Listen: If we go to the cops right now—while the trail, the blood, the eye and everything else is still fresh—they gotta lock 'im up. But we gotta do it now, Evvie—right fuckin' now. If we wait, everything's gonna get screwed up, and it's gonna give your old man a chance to cover his tracks. C'mon, man, we gotta do it now.”

I needed time. I needed to stop time. Everything was spinning out of control and there were just too many angles to think about. I knew Danny was dead—Christ, even Cal knew he was dead and he didn't see half the things that I did. But everything else was shrouded in confusion. Cal saw everything so clearly; to him, everything was simple—but the problem with Cal's black-and-white interpretation was that it wasn't going to be his life that would be turned upside down. Very little would change for him. But absolutely everything that I'd ever known would change for me.

“I can't do it, man. I just can't—”

“Waddaya mean ya can't fuckin' do it? Christ, Evan, you don't have a whole lot of choices here!”

“You didn't hear a goddam thing I said, didja?”

“God, I don't believe this shit! You're totally missing the big picture here. Now you listen and listen fuckin' good: He murdered someone, Evvie. He fuckin' murdered someone. Yeah, I heard what you said—and you can come up with all the goddam excuses you want, but you just can't explain it away. Don'tcha get it? None of that shit even comes close to matterin'.”

“You mean it doesn't matter to you—”

“Oh, c'mon, Evan!”

“No, you listen, man: You get to walk away from this shit with just a bad goddam memory, but my whole fuckin' life is screwed.”

“Bullshit!”

“Bullshit nothin', man! If you get off your goddam self-righteous horse for a minute and listen, some of this might sink in!”

“Fuck it. I'm callin' the cops.”

Cal turned and took off up the street. He walked quickly and defiantly at first, but then broke into a run. I had to catch him. I yelled for him to stop a couple times, but he refused to listen. He had a pretty good head start on me, so I really had to move to catch him. He turned and saw that I was coming after him, and picked up his pace. An oncoming truck slowed him down a bit, so I sprinted as fast as I could to close the gap. I was within twenty yards and yelled for him to stop again, but again he refused. Now I was furious.

Cal lost his footing in the snow trying to pivot, slowing him down just enough so he was within range. I was charging at full speed when I caught him, tackling him in the middle of the street, sending his glasses flying.

“You're gonna fuckin' listen to me, goddammit!” I screamed, huffing and puffing as I flipped him over. Cal slugged me with a surprising right.

“Like hell!” he yelled, flailing away at me with some wild punches.

“Sonuvabitch!” I nailed him back with a solid right on the nose. He started bleeding. “Dammit, Cal. . . .” He kept swinging away. I took one square in the left eye, making me dizzy. Now we were both just swinging away.

“Okay, okay, okay!” Cal finally said, throwing his arms up for a cease fire. We were exhausted and bloodied, sprawled on our backs in the middle of the street.

“Goddammit, I'm bleeding again,” Cal said with a weary chuckle. “Hey. Check your head. I think I opened ya up.” Blood trickled down from around my left eye.

“Yeah. Thanks a fuckin' lot. Are ya gonna listen now?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Nope. But we do. . . .”

“Oh great, here it comes—hop the bullshit train.”

“No, listen for a sec, wouldja? Now, if we did absolutely nothing, I mean, absolutely nothing, do ya really think the old man would get away with this? I mean, he was pretty drunk and sloppy, right?”

“What are ya gettin' at?”

“Look: If Danny's missing, someone's gonna eventually file a missing persons on the guy, right? And he was last seen in the joint, right?”

“Yeah. So?”

“So the cops are gonna come sniffin' around eventually, and that body is gonna pop up somewhere. Now, the old man's good, but I don't think even he's that good.”

“Let him do himself in, is that what you're saying?”

“That's exactly what I'm saying.”

“I don't know, Evvie. Your old man's pretty tight with the cops, and he's gonna know exactly what they're gonna ask him—and he's gonna have all the right answers to give 'em.”

“He was too sloppy, man. He's gonna trip himself up. Look, all I'm sayin' is to just let everything take its natural course. C'mon, man, I need time—everything's just happening too fast. C'mon, man, please.”

“Aw, Christ, Evan, I don't know. . . .”

“It'll all work its way out, man. You'll see.”

“And what if it doesn't? Then what?”

“Worry about that later.”

“Goddammit! No, no—you listen: I want a deal. If it looks like he's gettin' away with this, we're goin' to the cops with our story. Deal?”

“I don't—”

“Deal?” He balled up his fist and cocked his arm back.

“All right, all right. Deal.”

The nightmares made me afraid to fall asleep. For three days, the Daliesque nightmare of the eyes taunted my subconscious relentlessly, turning even the shortest of naps into journeys of horror. Disembodied eyes swung like pendulums from sinewy human strings, rolling and spinning across mutilated, misshapen faces, unrecognizable and mask-like; blood pooled and deepened, slowly surrounding my shoes. I watched motionlessly as they were swallowed by a pool of red. The echoing crack of flesh and skull punctuated the stillness at will, as did the gnashing, raging screams of the old man, which seemed to crackle like hot bolts of lightning. The dreams ended quietly, seemingly mercifully, on a silent frame of white. Then I'd see the eye and begin to run down an endless alley flanked with dilapidated garage-like structures, with long peels of white paint dangling lifelessly from their sides. I knew pigs were being slaughtered inside, but there was nothing I could do about it, which made me intensely angry. Then I would wake.

I managed to steer clear of the old man until Wednesday morning. He purposely came in early to see me, dispassionately passing along the news that Danny didn't “work out” and that I was back on weekends again. I nodded that I understood and headed for the door, wanting to distance myself from his discomforting presence as quickly as possible. As I reached for my keys, I was jolted by a piercingly sharp slap on the bar, which made my right arm jerk and spun me around, as if I had been abruptly manipulated by a puppeteer. The old man glared at me slyly, his meaty left hand lying flat on the bar, a white envelope underneath. I had missed payday, and the old man waited stilly, expecting me to retrieve it. His eyes never left me as I approached, and as I drew closer, the more he seemed to enjoy his sick manipulative game. As I reached for the envelope, he raised his fingers to let me slide it out from underneath his palm. Then suddenly he closed the trap, his hand easily swallowing mine, his fingertips still cold, his palm warm in the center. It seemed to be an act of both sadism and love, an ill mix of bonding and manipulation. He told me to get some sleep.

When I arrived home at six-thirty there was a cab waiting in the driveway. My mother was in the kitchen, her red cashmere coat draped around her chair, and two suitcases and a cosmetic case waited by the front door. She let out a startled gasp when she saw me and nervously turned away. Both her eyes were blackened, her bottom lip split and unevenly fat. Judging from her reaction, she was obviously shell-shocked—and obviously leaving. When I put my foot on the first step up to the kitchen, she vehemently waved me off, waggling her hand to prevent me from coming any closer, her head self-consciously bowed in irreparable shame and degradation. I wanted to comfort her, to tell her everything would be all right, but she needed to heal herself, and nothing was all right. I stood awkwardly in the silence, helpless in my inability to do something—anything—that would do anyone any good. The arctic January gales howled sharply and invincibly, turning my helplessness into abject despair.

Cal and I were in another cooling-off period after the incident. When I stopped in to see him at work later that afternoon, we had little to say, and our visit was contrived and tense. He briefly asked me if the cops had been around yet, but I had nothing new to report, which seemed to frustrate and anger him. I asked him about Mattie and Andy and how things were at the house, but he had even less to say about that. It seemed like everything was in a million pieces around us, and no one knew where to start to put things back together again. I told Cal I'd call him later, but he didn't seem to care whether I did or not.

I had planned on having lunch at the Palace, but the tension between Cal and me was too much, so I decided to stop at the Trinity for a sandwich instead. I was surprised to see Roxy covering for Marnie, whom had apparently overdone it on her weekly bowling night. I was one of the few customers in the diner, and Roxy seemed to prefer my company to the pair of old-timers in the corner, who were nursing their coffees and working over their cribbage board. The sky blue waitress uniform suited Roxy incredibly well, hugging her tightly and sexily, with a hemline hovering two inches above her deeply bronzed knees. I couldn't look at her without getting an erection.

Roxy was pretty chatty. She had little to do work-wise, and seemed to be enjoying my company. I was glad to oblige. I was consciously struggling to keep my eyes on hers while we talked, but the impulse to roam was overpowering. When I thought I could get away with it, I would drink in as much of her as possible. She was wreaking havoc with my brain chemistry, and I was almost stoned from all the chemical secretions inundating my body. She made me light-headed and woozy, and the rushes I was getting made me flush with excitement—resulting in an incredibly painful and constant erection that made my stomach ache. When too much coffee forced me to head for the bathroom, I had to pull out my shirt to conceal my arousal. Urination was equally painful and comical. Not only did it burn like hell, but the hellfire was split into two streams—forcing me to make a choice as to which stream to deposit in the urinal, and which stream was going to hit the floor. I was hoping that she didn't have to clean it up at the end of her shift. I don't think she would have understood the simon-pure flattery behind the mess.

Our conversation was lighter-than-air. Wonderfully jaunty and jejune, it had all the seriousness and nutritive value of cotton candy topped with whipped cream and a maraschino—crowned with yellow sunshine sprinkles. I don't even remember what we talked about. The words just seemed to float away into smiley-faced pillowy clouds the moment they hit air. It was a strangely ironic respite, but I basked in the breezy ephemera, welcoming the sweetness like May sunshine. Roxy seemed to be savoring every cavity-laden bite.

Things were going so well with Roxy, I decided to take a chance. I steered the conversation toward her love life, curious to know what-was-what with her boyfriend, Jerry, the pockmarked, slack-jawed Lothario whose presence in Roxy's life baffled everyone in town.

“Hey, how's Jerry doin'?” I said, a cut to the chase as subtle as a falling brick.

“Oh, you know, he's okay, I guess,” she shrugged unenthusiastically. “He's outta town for a few days—down south, I think. Pickin' something up, if you know what I mean. . . .” I did. Jerry scores the best weed in town.

“He doesn't go across the border, does he?”

“You mean Mexico? Nah—not even Jerry's that stupid,” she said with a knowing laugh. “Hey, what's this? You're not a cop, are ya?”

“Yeah. FBI.”

“Yeah? Waddaya do when you're not bustin' people?”

“Chase pretty waitresses.” She started to blush.

“Ever catch one?”

I wasn't sure if we were still engaged in our breezy conversation or if we crossed the line. It was hard to tell with Roxy, who treated everything from nuclear war to ice cream with the same degree of casualness.

“Hey, you doin' anything later?” she said.

I had a ready reply. “Not a thing. Wudga have in mind?”

She said she was off work in an hour or so, and asked if I didn't mind sticking around, so I could give her a ride. She hinted that Jerry left her some “KGB,” which I assumed was some kind of weed, and that we could spark a little up and just hang out. She knew I always kept some beer in my trunk, and charged me with providing the refreshments.

Roxy and Jerry shared a little efficiency right off Michigan Avenue, about a block or so from Cal's place. Judging from the decor, I assumed Jerry was the hasty decorator. There were these grimy, cheesy tapestries hanging on the walls and the ceiling crookedly, in no particular pattern, and some equally tasteless blacklight posters of Hendrix and Santana. The skull and Harley poster nicely complemented the haute ornamentation. Then there were the beads. On the walls, adorning the doorways, and apparently a new addition, draped over the couch, waiting to be added to the collection. The two windows in the place were covered with heavily-tarred and frayed bamboo curtains. It was like an opium den from a B movie. There was a strobe light on one of the stereo speakers, on the other—the crowning glory of the Calcuttan theme—a hookah. If she put on Ravi Shankar, I might overload. She excused herself to change.

Roxy came out in a blue argyle cardigan, buttoned to the top, but with no shirt or bra underneath. She had on a threadbare pair of jeans with a blown-out knee, and fuzzy gray wool socks, bunched up around her ankles. My stomach was beginning to ache again. She cleared off the coffee table and pulled the hookah off the speaker, centering it perfectly on the table. It was a lovely Gorgonian centerpiece. She checked and topped off the water level, and pulled out an old aluminum serving tray from under the couch. She pulled a few choice buds that she had laid out previously to dry out a bit, and loaded up the hookah's charred wooden bowl. There were four hoses snaking out of the pipe, and I whimsically thought of the blue caterpillar from Alice in Wonderland, imagining being able to form letters and words when I exhaled the illicit smoke.

We were incredibly cozy and warm on the couch, seeming to sink deeper and deeper into it with each passing quaff. The sweetly pungent smoke made me dreamy and warm, a few beads of sweat moistening my hairline and upper lip. Roxy's neck delicately glistened with perspiration, radiating a warm sheen that released the honeyed aroma of her mahogany skin. We were leaning heavily and drowsily into the soft cushions, relishing the quiet and warmth of the smoky room. It was an easy quiet, like the quiet I always experienced with Cal, simply enjoying the peace and not feeling obligated to fill the dead air. Without a word, we started to snuggle in a little closer to each other, luxuriating in the coziness, content with an intoxicated glow.

My leg was lightly brushing hers and we kept snuggling in closer and closer. She leaned into me with her shoulder, turning her face to meet mine, and softly kissed me; not deeply, but moistly and curiously, exploring me, testing me. I could fully feel the warmth of her body, my senses filled with her scent and the softness of her skin. The kisses became deeper and more fevered; I could feel her breasts knead into my chest. Her full lips tugged and pried at mine, tasting like sweet wild berries. Then she pulled away unexpectedly, and while coyly biting her bottom lip, started on the top button of her cardigan.

She unbuttoned the cardigan deliberately, slowing the pace with each passing button, masterfully controlling each maddening moment, keeping the sweater closed, revealing only a slight valley of glistening skin as the sweater clung to her. She smiled playfully through the process, aware of exactly what she was doing, and doing it to absolute perfection. My head felt tight with a thick, heavy pressure, getting so uncomfortable that I imagined my head exploding from the unrelenting strain. As the last button came undone, I moved forward, reaching inside the sweater at her shoulders, pushing it back slowly. It felt like the light of heaven revealing itself for the very first time.

The teasing and heightening of anticipation was over. It gave way to animalistic devouring—clawing and groping, one pulling heavily on the other, bordering on roughness, muscular in its intensity. I roiled at her stunningly perfect breasts, indelicately suckling and tugging at her rich cocoa nipples, lapping up every inch of her velvety sunburnt flesh. I impatiently grabbed at the top button of her jeans, ripping them open and whisking down the zipper in the same motion. The fever cooled slightly as the jeans came undone, slowing to a deeply thick passion, dense in its depth and blurred intensity. Our movements became more savoring, slowing so we wouldn't miss a second. I gently slid my hand into her jeans, feeling a moist, burning warmth, gingerly caressing and exploring over the top of the damp cotton before sliding deeper underneath. Unsatisfied because my movement was confined, I hastily got up and tugged her jeans off.

She let out a satisfied purr when she came unbound, pleased with the freedom of movement which allowed her to spread her legs widely, draping her left leg over the back of the couch. Her sweater was still partially on, but she gradually wriggled it off, tossing it carelessly on the floor. I was still fully clothed, and starting to broil under the increasing heat. My sweatshirt was sticky and clinging, but I had a serious case of hotfoot that was driving me nuts, so the socks came off first. As I pulled off my sweatshirt, I felt her warm, soft hands squeeze against the small of my back, exploring around my waistline, making her way around to the front of my jeans, then running a lingering feathery touch from north to south that brought me to within an inch of release.

The only clothing between us now were two thin layers of cotton and I halved that with one seamless pull. But as I explored her, I was struck by a giggling, incongruent thought—of my Aunt Mary's poodle and how it used to feel when I petted it. I was audibly snickering now, but the more I tried to restrain it, the worse it became, until it finally gave way to a burst of out-and-out laughter. I couldn't believe I was doing this now, and Roxy looked more than a little puzzled. I quickly cooked up a bullshit story about something funny I heard as I smothered her in kisses and laughter and, thankfully, it got me off the hook. I don't think she would have been amused at having her pubic hair likened to the head of a toy poodle. The seriousness of the passion was now infused with a little silliness, and what inhibitions or anxieties that were left were now completely torn away.

We became intense again in a nanosecond. She was gently rubbing and occasionally grasping me over my briefs, teasing me with the anticipation of skin-on-skin, until finally tugging them off. Within a few strokes of her hand on my raw skin, I exploded wildly, covering her stomach and breasts in pearly beads and puddles that were quickly smeared into both of us. The pressure had been building for twenty minutes or so and the release was incredible, intoxicating me with a drowsing light-headedness. I was up again in a minute and began to climb on top of her.

I was stoned out of my mind with pleasure. Roxy was so stunningly beautiful that I wasn't plagued in the least by even a smidgen of performance anxiety. As soon as I came, I was immediately up again, just craving her ravenously, wanting more and more and more. There was no awkwardness or embarrassment, no guilt or worry. It was pure carnal pleasure, consequences be damned.

We spent what was left of the gray January afternoon stoned and naked, degenerate in the most prurient and pure sense of the word. We would break from the carnage periodically to take a few pulls out of the hookah, then hop back on the sinner's swing set. After a few hours of pagan play, we wrapped ourselves up in a couple blankets and slept heavily through the dusk. We awoke two hours later and did it all over again.

I sleepwalked through work, with barely enough energy to get the job done. I slept for a solid seven hours when I got home, waking around one in the afternoon and, as usual, anxious to get out of the house. I stopped by to see Cal, but he was pretty busy and didn't have time to talk. I told him I'd call him later, and decided to stop down at the joint to play a little pinball—but mostly to check on the state of the old man.

I poked my head through the doorway to the old man's office, giving my customary two or three soft raps to see if I could enter. He looked and sounded like he always did, but I got a chill when he reminded me that I was working weekends again. I don't know exactly what I was looking for, but I was expecting something different about the way he looked, or maybe a sound of regret or guilt in his manner or voice. He didn't mention anything about my mother leaving, perhaps thinking that I had so little contact with the woman that maybe I didn't notice. I received permission to go upstairs and hit the pinballs.

As I was heading toward the basement steps, somebody was coming down to see the old man. I paused about ten feet away from the foot of the steps, watching the thick-legged, heavily-booted figure slowly reveal himself one plodding step at a time. It was a tortoise-like whiskey walk, but sober enough to be cautious down the steep stairwell. The face registered with a vague familiarity. It took me a while to put a name on the face, and by that time he had already slurred mine out. He obviously knew me more than I knew him.

“Hey, Evan, how ya doin'?” he said leadenly, peering down at me through his heavy lids. He closed the gap between us quickly, as if to corner me.

“Uh . . .” It finally came to me. “Roger, isn't it?”

He gave me an uncomfortable once-over with his bleary eyes. He was close enough that I could smell the whiskey and a wisp of rancid body odor. I was next to the wall, and he moved in even closer. I could feel the warmth of his rye breath as he leaned ham-handedly against the wall.

“Whatcha up to?” he said, not bothering to wait for an answer. “Up to no good, I hope...”

He leered and almost purred when he talked. I didn't know much about this guy, but my flight response was kicking the shit out of me. I tried to back up a little, but he followed.

“Hey, I gotta head upstairs,” I said nervously, trying to squirm away.

He grasped and squeezed my left bicep. “Hey, what's your hurry? We might be doin' a little work together.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, I was just goin' to see your old man. I heard 'im mention that he wants the coolers swamped out. It's a two-man job, you know. C'mon, I'll bring a little smoke—it'll be fun. I hear ya like to party. . . .” The leers were lingering a little too long on my crotch area.

“Funny, it was a one-man job last time I did it,” I said defiantly.

His slack bottom lip quivered in anger. He straightened his husky beer-gutted frame to intimidate me. “I always heard you were a little prick,” he clenched out, rubbing his thick bicep that bore a Texas-shaped scar of a large tattoo removed. He squinted through his wire-rimmed glasses and mopped the saliva around his misshapen mustache. “Ya spoiled little bastard—ya gotta problem with a guy lookin' for a little work?”

“It's up to the old man,” I said. “Get away from me,” I sneered, swerving around him and heading upstairs.

He got the last word in as I hit the stairs. “Fuckin' little prick.”

I bellied up to the bar and asked Ray for a Coke. He gave me the usual huff and roll of the eyes, like I was putting him out. There were about a half dozen people at the bar. One of them was a sweet, blond-wigged woman of about fifty or so—sweet until her fourth Cutty and water, when she sprouted horns. Everyone called her Big Lee, and this ostensibly sweet, unassumingly quiet middle-aged woman turned into a bawdy stripper when properly lit. More than once, she's been found writhing in delight on her back in the women's lounge, stripped to her circus-tent skivvies and gleefully whirling her proportionately-sized bra above her. Nobody seemed to mind much, and most folks humorously enjoyed the show, taking a quick peek inside the women's can whenever she was in character. Eventually, someone would get her dressed and she would resume her spot at the bar, where she would go into phase 2 of her drunk: the meaner-than-a-rabid-dog-having-a-bad-day phase, where she would snap at anyone within snapping distance, often luring victims with a brief sweetness before taking off an arm or a leg.

As I was waiting for my Coke, Lee offered me a very nice, “Hiya, sweetie,” and I returned the greeting. She motioned for me to come closer and asked if I'd like to “buy a nice lady a drink.” I gladly obliged, happy to see a friendly customer after my bout with the creep downstairs.

I didn't know what phase Lee was in. I assumed that she couldn't have been that far gone that early in the day. She was sweet, and we exchanged pleasantries and polite small talk while we quaffed our respective cocktails. She then steered the conversation toward my love life, asking if I was seeing anyone, and if I thought so-and-so was cute and what I thought of this and that. Then her eyes started to wander. I was beginning to feel like I was hanging from a meat hook, with prospective customers inspecting my grade.

“Waddaya think of me, honey?” she said lewdly, suddenly cupping her prodigious breasts with both hands and pumping them up and down cartoonishly. “Not bad for an older woman, don'tcha think?”

“Ah . . .” I nervously laughed. “Ah, their lovely, Lee.”

She made a quick grab at my crotch. “Let's see what you got!”

“Hey! Get away from me!” I backed up out of reach.

“What's the matter—you queer or somethin'?” I was too shocked to respond. “Yeah, I seen you hangin' around with your little faggot friend. You're nothin' but a bunch of fuckin' little queers!”

Lee's diatribe turned everyone around. The looks I was getting were hardly sympathetic; there were malevolent sneers and chuckles, full of resentment and suspicion. They enjoyed my misfortune. I began to walk away.

“Yeah, walk away, ya butt-fuckin' little faggot—ya little queer son of a bitch!”

Before I was ten feet away, Lee started in on her next victim, a scraggly old D-horn who was trying to shake the shakes with the mound of loose change in front of him. She kept shoving him and calling him a loser and a bum, then frustrated with his lack of response, abruptly slapped his pile of change all over the floor, sending him desperately scavenging.

I seemed to be making all the wrong turns today. I suddenly wasn't in the mood for a pinball session, and headed out the door to the back parking lot. I had a few hits in the car, trying to shake off the weird day I was having, imagining how wonderful my future would be down at the joint.

I caught a glimpse of a squad car going slowly down the alley, and snuffed my pipe with my thumb and stashed it. I let out a sigh of relief after they went past the parking lot entrance, but then they abruptly stopped—and started backing up into the lot. I was parked at the far end, and they didn't seem to notice me. Two officers climbed out of the squad and gave the area around the old man's car a long, studying look. They checked out the mangled guardrail curiously, then the old man's car, comparing the damage to each. Then they went inside the bar.

My mind raced with thoughts of whether or not the cops knew anything. Judging from their curious behavior, it seemed like they did. Then again, cops are naturally curious and vigilant by virtue of the duty they perform. The more I thought about it, they were probably, well, just being cops. I felt a little uncomfortable and conspicuous hanging around the lot, so I decided to take it around the block a few times. I drove around for twenty minutes before making a pass down the alley. They were still there. I checked back ten minutes later and they were gone.

I hesitated momentarily about going back into the joint after the rough outing I had just had. But, as usual, curiosity carried the day, so I went in. The old man was casually leaning back in his office booth chomping on a cigar, and seemed quite contented and pleased with himself.

“Hiya, Pop. I was just about to take off,” I bullshitted. “What were the cops doing here?”

“Somebody filed a missing persons on that Danny guy. The boys were just here to ask some more questions,” he said matter-of-factly, coolly rolling the cigar back and forth in his mouth with his thumb and index finger.

“What happened?”

“The little bastard bolted with eight hundred bucks of my money, that's what happened.” His word against Danny's. And Danny wouldn't be available for comment.

“Didja tell 'em?”

“Well now—what the hell do you think? I reported it first thing, Sunday. Hey, I already been through this goddam drill. Enough already,” he snapped. My interrogation was over, but at least I knew his cover story.

“Hey, didja hire that Roger guy?”

“Why would I hire that goddam fruit?”

He was his usual short-and-sweet self. I'm sure he handled the cops brilliantly, with a lot of backslapping and swapping of old war stories. He had a believable cover story. Danny was a ne'er-do-well punk, and it wasn't much of a stretch to believe that he ripped off the old man. But there was a body out there somewhere. And bodies have a tendency to turn up.

I checked out the Trinity to see if Roxy was working, but I could see old battle-ax Marnie through the window, so I kept on going. I didn't have Roxy's number—since I was a little too preoccupied at the time to think about it—so I had to resort to a rude drop-in. I buzzed her apartment.

“Yeah?” a gruff voice belched through the scratchy intercom. Jerry was back.

“Uh . . . hi. Jerry? Uh, you don't know me—I mean, you might have—this is Evan, I've seen ya at the Trinity. . . .”

“Evan?” He asked Roxy for some help. “You know some Evan guy?” Her distant voice sounded like muffled Morse code. I couldn't make out a word.

“Oh yeah,” he enthusiastically said. “”Waddaya want?”

“I was wondering if you had—”

“I don't.” Dead air.

I stood quietly in the vestibule, sighing as I looked at the shrouded sun disappearing into the horizon before driving off in its direction. I flipped on my lights and welcomed the dusk, taking great care in keeping my car square on the westbound straightaway. Cal wouldn't be home for another two hours or so, and he wouldn't have much time to talk with the dinner crowd streaming in, so I took it up to the overlook.

It was peaceful in the twilight and I had the place all to myself. I was feeling empty and disconnected, not knowing what to think about anything anymore, and I just wanted to curl up and sleep and forget about everything. When I was a kid, I used to sit on our front stoop and dream of having the power to make everything stop; to freeze everybody in their tracks, so I could just walk around, go in this house and that one, and walk in all the stores and do anything I wanted. There would be nobody there to scare me or watch me, and I always thought that would be the ultimate freedom. Whenever someone asked me what I would wish for if I had three wishes, that one would always be first. I closed my eyes as I dreamed of my childhood wish, and soon dozed off.

I awoke to the sound of something smashing into my car. I could see a slushy, foamy liquid streaking down the passenger window, followed by some yelling and pounding kicks against my door. I saw a yellow car next to mine, and tried to make out the blurry faces through the foggy glass. Beery war cries and more smashing glass accompanied their kicks. I tried to start my car but it wearily groaned, just short of starting. I didn't know how long I was asleep, but I had left the radio on. The battery was weak.

“C'mon out ya little pussy, let me finish what I started!” a voice angrily snarled, as more kicks boomed against the cold steel. It was Frank and his buddies, and they sounded drunk and hell-bent on a little revenge. They were viciously pulling on my door handles trying to get at me, but my doors were locked. I figured I had one last chance to get the beast started, so I stomped my pedal all the way to the floor and cranked it. It sputtered and coughed then suddenly sparked, roaring to life. I slammed it into reverse with my foot still to the floor, causing the wheels to spin furiously, so I let up on the gas, but I was still spinning. Thinking I was getting away, they began to kick harder and faster, pounding on my roof and trying to kick my windows out. I started to rock it, slapping it back and forth between drive and reverse until it caught, but it hurtled me forward into the retaining wall. I hit reverse as soon as I hit the wall, using the momentum and caroming backward. The abrupt motion backward caught one of the drunks off guard, and I heard a resounding thump as I tried to get away. I wasn't about to stop and see if anyone was hurt. I underestimated their thirst for revenge the first time around, but now they'll really be gunning for me. I caught a glimpse of the guy in my rearview mirror. He was on the ground, his buddies huddled all around him. They were swearing out more revenge as I sped away.

My heart was still in full gallop when I pulled up in front of Cal's. I had managed to squirm out of another close call with Frank and his buddies, but knew my luck was running thin. I had inadvertently made the situation worse trying to save myself, and resigned myself to the fact that they'd be back. I tried to look at the plus side, that at least I knew they were coming, an advantage I didn't have the first time around. I also knew how the barbarians would arrive: in a yellow '69 Camaro SS, which I got a pretty good look at when I was hightailing it out of there, and there weren't too many of those around town. Of course, my car would be as easy to spot as a tuxedo in the old man's joint. They already knew it without the bruises.

I curiously inspected the beast for damage under the streetlight, and it looked like an entrant for a demolition derby. The fenders and door panels were overwhelmed with boot-sized impressions, and streaks and globs of frozen foam sprinkled with shards of brown glass ran in and out of the hollows. I was grateful that all the windows and lights were intact, but knew I would be too easy to find in the marked car. I needed some new wheels.

I relaxed a bit as I made my way up the long walk leading to Cal's front door, warming to the comfort of a safe refuge, escaping the pall of a perilous day. I smiled as I heard the familiar sounds of the noisy household, the sound of brothers good-naturedly chewing on each other, trying to be heard over the loudmouthed TV. But as I drew closer, the sounds were strained and tense, filled with fevered shrills and struggle. I listened closely as I neared the door. Cal and Mattie were at it again.

I decided to go in. Normally, with that intense of a fight going on, I would have left. But with Frank and his buddies probably prowling all over town looking for me, I needed a place to cool out. I wasn't crazy about the idea of butting into a Holden domestic, but I was short on options. I had tried on previous occasions to mediate Holden family squabbles, but my refereeing just agitated the situation; I was interfering with Cal's unique brand of parenting. I knocked a few times and waited, hoping that the presence of somebody at the door would cool things off a bit.

I had to let myself in, and immediately had to sidestep Cal and Mattie, who came tumbling toward the doorway, each with a white-knuckle grip on the other's shirt. They took turns twisting and slamming each other against the wall, bowling over the coatrack and a nearby end table, sending a lamp crashing to its death. It was a wordless, punchless match, seeming to be more of a struggle about control than anything else. I cautiously squirmed my way to the couch, joining Kym-gym and Dickie, who were all bundled up in the corner. They giggled when I joined them, and started patting down my jacket looking for my heaters, occasionally cupping their hands to their mouths to shout one-liners at their pugilist brothers.

“Ya pussy, hit 'im already,” Dickie said with a chuckle.

“Yeah. Hit 'im with a hammer,” Kym-gym added.

“Beat 'im with the coatrack.”

“Yeah—the lamp, too.” Then they would look at each other and snicker. Andrew wasn't in the room. Kym-gym said, “The little pussy's in his room.”

“Pus-say!” Dickie shouted toward his room.

Cal and Mattie finally let go of each other, with Cal getting in the final shove before turning away and rushing toward his room. He came back with his jacket and said, “Let's get outta here.”

“But, Cal . . .” I said, not getting a chance to explain my situation, but he was out the door by then. I met him at the car.

“Christ,” Cal said with a bemused laugh, looking over the damage to my car. “What the hell you been into?”

“That's what I was trying to tellya. I ran into Frank and company again.”

“Who?”

“Remember—the party? With Lisa's boyfriend?”

“What happened?”

“I was snoozin' up at the overlook and woke up to those clowns kicking the shit out of my car.”

“Well,” he said, checking me out, “except for the one I laid on ya, looks like you're not any worse for wear.”

“Yeah, I'm all right. But there's something else.”

“Oh shit—now what?”

“I hit a guy trying to get outta there.”

“Uh . . . waddaya mean, 'hit a guy'?”

“With the car.”

Cal threw up his hands, exasperated. “Waddaya mean ya hit 'im with the goddam car? Didja kill 'im? Run 'im over? What?”

“I just kinda bumped him.”

“Aw, fuck—let's get outta here.”

“But, Cal—”

“Don't worry, I know a place. C'mon.”

Cal knew what I was worried about, even though I didn't explain it to him explicitly. I told him to keep his eyes peeled for a yellow Camaro, but he was too preoccupied to show any concern. The fights with Mattie were really wearing him down and it was the last thing he wanted to talk about. We drove in silence most of the way, interrupted briefly with an occasional “Take a left” or “Turn here” from Cal.

We were heading for the river. Cal told me to take a right down this service road that I hadn't noticed before, and I clicked the high beams on and dropped it into low gear, slowly coasting and twisting down the unlit road, wondering if I would make it back up. We parked on the flats, about twenty yards from the railroad tracks and a good fifty yards from the river. We quietly paced around with our heads bowed, sticking close to my banged up car, bracing against the icy gales that whipped through the river valley, Cal lost in his thoughts, and me trying to make sense out of mine.

I could feel the rumble of a distant oncoming train, which changed my mind about heading back to the car to warm up. We waited in silence, looking in its direction as the rumbling and clamoring of cold steel-on-steel slowly overpowered the howls of the valley. I was accustomed to the faraway moans of the trains, their soothing tones cooing through the night air with a gentle plaintiveness that always made me still with wonder. Up close, the trains lose their gentility; they no longer sigh and moan, but scream and overpower. They domineer with a ruthless tyranny, eating up the tracks and everything in their path. They are sheer onrushing power, a relentlessly unstoppable chain of steel.

We strayed away from the car and squared ourselves to the train's direction. It was a hundred yards away and closing fast, its throbbing pulse rumbling the earth under my feet, sending shivers through my legs up to the pit of my stomach. The dangling piece of trim on my car's left fender oscillated in tandem with the car's flimsy aerial, convulsing wildly in all directions. I could feel the train's sooty warmth brush my face, the sweet smell of grease floating in on its current. Cal let out a whoop as the first car crossed our path, and continued to howl and scream as the string of cars roared past, seeming to sweep out all the frustrations that had cast an almost inescapable shadow over his life.

The line of cars seemed to go on forever. I turned my focus to the cars that had already passed, watching them disappear into the horizon, wondering where they were headed. Cal was watching them come; I was watching them go. It was a true reflection of our perspectives and personalities. Cal, the realist, facing things head on, and me trying to escape it—looking and wondering what was ahead and down the road, helplessly beguiled by the desire for something better. As the last train passed, a comfortingly familiar and distant sigh echoed through the valley.

We retreated to the car to warm up a bit, shivering quietly and impatiently as we waited for the car's thermostat to open and start blasting some heat. I flipped the radio on to pass the time, but turned the volume down to avoid the irritatingly cheerful jingle that bounced from the car's raspy dashboard speaker.

“What's going on with the old man?” Cal said in a weary voice, like he already dreaded the answer, but had to confirm it.

“Somebody filed a missing persons on Danny, so the cops came sniffing around the joint. The old man told 'em he ripped 800 bucks off him and split. That's all I could get out of him.”

“Well, that's just great,” Cal said with a thick sarcasm. “Guess we didn't see that one coming, did we?” I didn't have a response. Cal slid down in the seat a bit and twisted off his glasses. He rubbed his eyes and put his glasses back on, paused for a moment, then turned and looked straight at me: “I wonder what happened to that eye?”

It was as if he dropped a brick on me. The memory was vivid, the picture burned into my brain. But I hadn't thought about it in terms of just lying in an open parking lot—just lying there, waiting for somebody to discover it.

“God, Cal, the cops were right there, nosin' around the parking lot—but I don't think they found anything. Nah, they couldn't have. If the old man didn't catch it, it's prob'ly been run over a hundred times by now. Then again, they were checking out the lot pretty close—especially around the old man's car. I don't know, ya think they might know something?” The possibility straightened Cal up. “Who knows, maybe the missing persons was bullshit and the cops were just fishing. Maybe they know something, maybe somebody saw something.”

“Hmmm . . . I don't know . . . at least I don't think so,” he said. “I mean, if somebody saw something, they'd prob'ly have him locked up by now. They were prob'ly just bein' curious, you know, just sniffin' around, bein' cops. Ya think they asked the old man about his car?”

“I don't know, he cut me off. All I got was the robbery story.”

“We shoulda called the cops—”

“Willya get off that shit? It's too goddam late anyway.”

“Yeah, yeah. C'mon, let's go.”

“Where?” I wasn't crazy about the idea of driving around. I felt relatively safe where we were.

“Got a flashlight?” he asked.

“Yeah, in the trunk.”

“What say we check out that parking lot?”

“What say we don't—I don't wanna chase your sorry ass down the alley again if we find anything.”

“God—do you ever quit?”

“Only when I gotta—”

“Shut up. Drive.”

I crept up the hill slowly in low gear, which drove an impatient Cal nuts. He thought I should have taken a big run at it and gun it up the hill, which probably would have gotten us stuck, but he was just in a hurry. Whenever Cal had an idea or wanted to go, he wanted it right now, and now he wanted to play cop. I didn't know what he thought would be accomplished even if we did find something, the chances of which were extremely remote, at best. What Cal really wanted was to see the old man get nailed, and thought he was somehow moving the karmic wheel of justice by doing something, even if realistically it wouldn't make a bit of difference. He wasn't exactly going to keep the disembodied eye as a souvenir, and he wouldn't violate our deal about going to the cops—at least not yet, and this worried me. This thing was eating Cal alive, and I was having doubts as to whether or not he was going to hold up his end of the deal.

I should have fought him on it, but I wasn't up for another battle, and I needed to be careful in how I handled Cal. I figured if I gave into his curiosity, it might cool him off for a while and buy me a little more time. I would've preferred to stay put and keep a low profile, but it had been a few hours since I had the run-in with Frank and the boys, and hoped that they were tired of looking for me, at least for the night. I was trying to keep everything balanced. I felt like I was walking a tightrope—but everyone was throwing rocks at me, trying to knock me off.

I was hypervigilant driving around town, eyes wide and lucid. If I spotted anything remotely yellow, I was going the other way. I drove slowly and took as many side streets as possible. It should have taken us ten minutes to make it to the joint, but I stretched it to twenty. I tossed Cal a joint to shut him up while I dillydallied. By the time I pulled into the alley behind the joint, I had made up my mind to go shopping for new wheels, first thing in the morning. I knew this wasn't the total answer; I was sure Frank and the boys knew about the old man's joint, and knew that I worked there, which made me a pretty easy guy to find. But I was going to make things as difficult as possible for them. A new set of wheels was a good start, but combined with moving around my comings and goings and parking patterns, I could at least frustrate them and wear them down a bit. I was merely buying more time.

I cracked open my trunk and handed Cal the flashlight. “There ya go, pal—happy hunting. I'll get my track shoes, just in case.” All I got from Cal was a malevolent glare.

There was a beat-up old Caddy in the old man's spot, and Cal had to get on his belly to peek under the sagging hulk. I stood watch as Cal poked around the rusty tank.

“Hey, check it out,” he said, straining to reach something from underneath the car.

“Ooh, you sick—”

“No, no—it's not that. . . .”

I curiously hurried over to see what he discovered. He pulled out a well-worn leather wallet. I crouched down next to him as he checked out the contents.

“Hey, rich guy—three whole bucks,” he said, putting the booty in his pocket. “Finders, keepers.” He checked for the ID. “You know this guy?”

“Ah . . . nope.”

I watched as he guiltlessly rifled the rest of the wallet. He pulled out a picture of some girl, shining the light on her for a closer look.

“Ooh, pretty—ugly,” he said with a snicker. She was a frizzy-haired, shovel-nosed beauty. Her eyes must have been three inches apart, with penciled-in eyebrows arching like skinny horseshoes over the top. She was a beaut. “Man, talk about gettin' hit with the ugly stick. . . .”

“C'mon, be nice,” I said, trying not to laugh.

“Man, put a box on it—return to sender,” Cal deadpanned, then obviously amused over his trenchant one-liners, erupted into a full-blown laughing fit. He was on his back, gripping his sides and writhing in the snow. Whenever he started to slow down, he took another look and started all over again. He was utterly beside himself, occasionally interrupting his laughter to farcically kiss and sweet-talk the picture.

“Well, well, well,” a grave voice slit through Cal's laughter, bringing it to an abrupt stop. I turned to the direction of the voice. The yellow car that I was hoping not to see was blocking the mouth of the parking lot. Four men were solemnly standing by the side of the car staring down at us, about fifteen yards away. Frank was out front, leaning on a baseball bat. Cal and I were backed against the guardrail in the corner of the lot. We both got up and quickly looked around for a possible escape route. We were cornered.

“Ah, you fags plannin' on goin' somewhere?” Frank said, tapping his bat on the ground a few times. Then he looked straight at me and coldly added: “Batter up.”

They knew they had us and relished in taking their time about it. They stood in the tense silence, obviously enjoying heightening our terror. I locked into Frank's eyes; it was like having a rifle scope trained on me, and I was dead center in the crosshairs. Cal was an afterthought to be handled by Frank's buddies.

We were outnumbered four-to-two, but at least I had a weapon—a police-issue flashlight that I inherited from the old man. It had a good heft to it, and was about a foot and a half long. I tightened my grip on the handle and hoped for at least one good shot. Used properly, this thing could drop an elephant. It was black steel and must have weighed a good two or three pounds—capable of giving any lead pipe a run for the money, but it didn't have the reach of a bat; I'd have to be in pretty tight to get a shot in. They started to move in on us, and Cal pulled up to my side. He had this incredibly steeled expression on his face, looking brave and determined. He wasn't going down without a fight.

My heart was racing with adrenaline, my breaths shallow and tight. I was scared, but decided my only chance was to just go apeshit on these guys and inflict as much pain as possible. I was anticipating Frank's first move and how I was going to block it. It would be almost impossible to escape the reach of the bat, but if I could somehow block it or jam him so he couldn't get in a full swing, I might be able to get one killer shot in. If I could disable him for a second, then I'd get in as many head shots as possible. Frank started to raise the bat to his shoulder, zeroing in on me. Just as I braced for contact, a deafening gunshot exploded the silence, freezing everybody where they stood. A sharp, intense pain knifed through my left ear, causing me to grab it to make sure it was still there.

I turned to Cal and looked straight into the broadside of a nickel-plated snub-nose. He had the piece lowered on Frank, its still-smoking barrel trained right on his face. The cocksure look that was just on Frank's face had washed away into an arctic white. They slowly started to back up, with Cal keeping pace with them all the way. Cal masterfully stared them down, keeping the gun trained on them, rock-steady and cool. He backed them right up to their car and they hurriedly filed in. I managed to get my shot in, whipping my flashlight at the car, slamming it into the once-unblemished rear fender, leaving a hefty and extremely satisfying dent. I knew it wasn't over with these guys, but at least it was done for the night. They sped off down the alley.

Cal looked at me and let out a heaving sigh of relief. He was pretty shaken up, but you never would have known it from the coolness he exuded in handling these guys. He looked like he was going to collapse.

“Jesus, I gotta stop hangin' around you,” he managed to get out between shaky breaths. “You're gonna get me fuckin' killed, yet.” He bent over, his hands on his knees, taking some deep breaths. “Christ, I need a drink. Let's get the hell outta here.”

Cal shoved the piece back into his pocket and numbly made his way toward the car. I grabbed my emergency kit out of the trunk and tossed him the bottle—100-proof peppermint schnapps. He slumped in the front seat, shaking down a healthy swig.

“Take it easy, man—it's over,” I said, trying to offer a little comfort.

“Is it?” He looked at me grimly. “They'll be back. Count on it.”

“Yeah, I know. . . . By the way, how long you been carrying a piece there, cowboy?”

“Lucky for your ass, since tonight. You'll never guess who I pulled it from.”

“Is that what the big wrasslin' match with Mattie was all about?”

“You got it.”

“Where'd he get it?”

“Who the hell knows. Enterprising little juvie, isn't he? You should see his closet—it's like a fuckin' warehouse. And Andy just follows him around like a shadow, the brainwashed little zombie. I don't know . . . I give up. God, everything's just goin' to hell—then there's you,” he said with a slight grin. “Is there anyone in town who ain't after your ass?”

“Shit, I even got you takin' pokes at me. Who's left?”

“Yeah—I tagged ya pretty good, didn't I?”

“Yeah, yeah. Where to, cowboy?”

“Just drive.”

We seemed to be running out of places to go. Cal was sick of dealing with all the grief he was getting at home, and we probably wouldn't be hanging out at the joint anytime soon. Even my last refuge—driving and hanging out in my car—was becoming a chancy proposition. But I was going to change that the first chance I could. My car was my home away from home; it was the only place that I could truly call mine. I could never accept that being taken away from me. Never. Even if everything was crashing down around me, I could always find hope and solace on the road. If I had to pick up some new wheels to keep that hope alive, that's what I'd do. It was the only thing I had left.

We parked on the lake for a while, then I dropped Cal off around one o'clock and headed for the joint. I parked on one of my favorite, little-used side streets, about three or four blocks from the bar, just to play it safe. I knew a lot of nook-and-cranny spots, and I was going to use every last one of them to throw Frank and company off the scent. Cal had really upped the ante by pulling that gun. And Frank didn't strike me as the kind of guy who was easily bluffed.

I awoke Friday afternoon and immediately went for the paper to check out the classifieds for used cars. I had a limit of about 500 bucks, so I wasn't exactly going to latch onto a beauty. I was pretty much bound to the “good runner” category. There was one “great runner” for 450 bucks at Irv's Used Auto Sales in West Sunset, but it was a Ford. I would have preferred a Chevy, but the pickings were pretty slim and I wanted a car now. It was worth a look.

Although I was there to check out the Ford, I dawdled around the lot checking out everything else. Most of the cars were fairly new and out of my price range, but it was fun to look around and do a little tire kicking. There wasn't a salesman in sight until I started checking out this green '68 GTO ragtop. It was like he was teleported to the scene. All of a sudden there was a balding, heavyset man with furry sideburns and a loud unknotted tie asking me how I was doing. I wistfully glanced at the GTO one more time, swallowed the lump in my throat, and asked him about the Ford.

It was as bland as unsugared, unbuttered oatmeal. Plain mashed potatoes. Totally devoid of even the slightest ornamentation, it was a 1968 Ford Galaxie that had the misfortune of having grocery-bag brown chosen for it from the color wheel. It had scantily tread blackwall tires, no door trim or moldings, and was about as exciting as a ten-nothing ball game in the bottom of the ninth. I probably lingered on the Goat a minute too long.

“She ain't much to look at,” the salesman said, flattening down the three strips of hair that greasily crossed his fat head, “but she'll give that Goat a run for the money.” He waddled to the front of the car, his double knits chafing with every step. He opened up the hood. I assumed he was Irv. I assumed Irv was insane.

“You know what that is?” he said, exuberantly waggling his finger at the engine. It looked impressive enough, but I shrugged just the same. “That, my friend, is 425 horsepower at 6000 rpm. A 7 liter, V-8 ball of pure hellfire. That, my friend, is a 428 Interceptor.”

He started her up and goosed her a couple times. It snarled and growled like a mad grizzly. It sounded pissed off; defiant. It was perfect. No further salesmanship was necessary.

“I got 350 bucks,” I yelled over the snarling revs.

“Find another fifty in your pocket and you got yourself a car.”

“What about my car?” I said, pointing to the beast.

Irv found a great deal of mirth in my query. “I'll do ya a favor, kid, and take it off your hands,” he said, laughing heartily and shaking his head in disbelief.

“Deal.”

It was an old highway patrol car, which explained its lack of aesthetically pleasing qualities. Irv told me to keep an eye on the oil, so I assumed it burned some or had a leak, probably both, but I didn't care. The second I heard the throaty rumble of that power plant, I was sold. Irv was right. She wasn't much to look at, but with 425 horsepower, a four-barrel Holley to feed it, and beefed up suspension all the way around, I could live with it—and the plain-brown-wrapper look suited my needs. I headed straight for the interstate.

Sometimes I hear angels. It doesn't happen often, but whenever I have a particularly moving, revelatory experience, I have a sense of being swathed in a gilded heavenly light, warming and protecting me in a metaphysical quilt, making me impervious to the slings and arrows of the world. The angelic voices seem to rain down with the light, giving me an incorporeal sensation, as if my mind and body momentarily separate. In a way, it seems like a wake-up call—like somebody or something is telling me to pay attention; that this is important, something to remember; a message to heed. My rational self reconciles these experiences as being nothing more than a manifestation of brain chemistry—an endorphin-charged moment that probably has little or anything to do with God. The images, more specifically, are angel-like; the light is heaven-like. When I think of the experiences I was having when my angels appeared, I'm pretty much forced into ruling out the Almighty—because I don't think God sends down the choir when you discover the secular joys of having a fully stocked saloon all to yourself, or the glorious beauty of Roxy's perfect tits. Nor would he approve of my latest revelatory experience: opening up a 428 Interceptor on the interstate. Perhaps the angels were of the fallen variety, sent from the opposing team.

It was like being strapped to a rocket. When I stomped my boot down on the accelerator, there was about a two-second hitch—as if the car was giving me a chance to change my mind, like it was making sure I wanted to do this. You could feel the power accumulate; the front end of the car slowly started to rise as that four-barrel opened up, and I could feel a pressure pushing me back, like a giant hand was pressing me into the seat. It snapped me down the highway like a catapult.

I kicked it down at sixty miles an hour. Within a blink, I was doing 110, with no bottom in sight. I backed it off at 120; I wanted to bury it, but I wasn't about to attempt 140-plus miles an hour without a crash helmet and a roll bar. This thing had wrath-of-God power. I had a new weapon and ally in my arsenal. I found a sense of empowerment and comfort fused into 428 cubic inches of screaming American muscle. I felt like nothing could touch me.

After my test drive, I dropped by Wes's 66 to top off the tank and check out the car's vitals. I burned off a half quart of oil during my run, so I picked up a few extra quarts and tossed them in the trunk. My new weapon was going to be hell on gas and oil, but considering what this baby could do, the costs were negligible. The tires were a little thin, but at least they held air. They'd do for now, but if I was going to open up this demon on the interstate, I wanted reliable rubber. A blowout at 100-plus miles an hour could be fatal. I checked out Wes's selection of retreads, but he didn't have what I needed. He said he'd poke around for me and told me to check back in a few days.

I headed up Lawson Avenue after I left Wes's, and decided to drop in on Cal to show him my new wheels. As I went by Rennie's Department Store, I spotted a familiar wood-paneled station wagon parked out front. I knew it was Lisa's mom's suburbmobile, because I remembered the distinctive crucifix that hung from the car's rearview mirror. I pulled over about three car lengths ahead of the wagon, so I could monitor the car through my rearview—hoping that Lisa was with the dead plastic daisy that kept hanging up on me.

After about twenty minutes my patience paid off. Weighted down with a half-dozen shopping bags between them, mother and daughter made their way to the suburban woody. They loaded up the wagon and took off slowly in my direction. Lisa was in the passenger seat, and I anticipated getting at least one good look at her dizzying beauty and, once again, wondering what could have been. I honked my horn just as they were about to pass me, hoping she'd look in my direction. Our eyes locked briefly, and I could see the look of recognition in her eyes. She turned away just as quickly, just like my mother did that morning she left. She had a black eye, too.

It was the look of shame that gave it all away. I knew the black-and-blue was courtesy of Frank. I knew all about Frank. From the first time I saw him make a snarly grab at Lisa, I knew what he was capable of. I think Lisa knew it, too, but she acted in predictable accordance with the plastic suburban credo: Appearance is everything. From the houses to the malls to good-looking, affluent boyfriends, it's all about the facade. Character and reality are tertiary qualities. My disdain for anything suburban stems from its sheer hollowness; its unreality. Its soullessness. Lisa's head-burying rationale toward Frank was the perfect example. Everything on the surface looked right. The right clothes, the right car, the right look—enough affluence and abundance to dress up the monster within.

I plopped myself down at the counter of the pancake palace and ordered some coffee, eyeing the pie carousel in search of the perfect piece. I couldn't make up my mind, settling for a heater to go with my coffee until the impulse struck. Cal must have been in back on a smoke break, taking his usual double—two heaters back-to-back, and always lighting the second one with the first. Cal always told me that was the proper procedure for a true double. He was the Zen smoking master; a prophet, the King of Fiends. I waited fifteen minutes, and still no sign of Chimney boy. The waitress who refilled my coffee asked me if I was in to see Cal, and informed me that he called in sick. I headed over to Cal's.

Nobody bothered to answer the door at the Holden household, but the door was unlocked, so I let myself in. The place was trashed, and I figured Cal must have had another round with Capone and Dillinger. I crept around the uncomfortably quiet house looking for signs of life. It was the first time I heard absolute quiet in the house. This wasn't just a coincidence of no one being home; the place struck me as being evacuated. As I made my way down the hall toward the bedrooms, I gave my customary greeting to Mrs. Holden, but she smiled back through broken glass. Somebody had taken a poke at the picture. It looked like somebody had punched her square in the nose, and the spidery cracks in the glass spread across her distorted face and mushroom-cloud hair. She demurely smiled through the broken glass and black Magic Marker smudges from the boys' last show of love and respect.

I checked out the younger boys' rooms first, but they were nowhere to be found. I approached Cal's room gingerly, catching myself walking on my tiptoes, the absurdity of which seemed so ironically strange, of trying to be so quiet in such a usually boisterous house. Cal's door was closed, so I tapped gently and called his name. I heard a grumpy slur, which I took as an invitation to come in. Cal was in bed, his glasses and shirt off, sloppily propped up by some ragged pillows that were hopelessly yellowed, looking as though they were picked up from under a bridge. He had a tired sneer on his face and a loose grip on a mostly spent quart of skid row vodka, which he repeatedly, but unsuccessfully, tried to rest on his thigh. The snub-nosed, nickel-plated Smith & Wesson .38, that probably saved my life the night before, lay by his side, its cylinder disengaged. It was loaded.

“Waddaya want?” he slurred out obnoxiously. “Here. Wanna drink?”

“Yeah, sure.” He thrust the bottle in my direction. It was an old-world Russian vodka, by way of Cleveland. “Still buying the good stuff, huh?”

“Does the trick,” he said.

I took a swig. “I stopped by the Palace. I hear you're not well.”

“Yeah, guess ya could say that.”

“I didn't hear the weather guy say anything about tornadoes in the area,” I said, motioning toward the disaster that lay outside his room. “What the hell happened?”

“I kicked that little fuckin' mobster out. I don't know where the pint-sizes took off to. Guess they're sick of all this shit, too.”

“Looks like someone took a poke at mom,” I said, referring to the picture.

Cal held up his right hand and made a fist, twisting it around, studying all the cuts and scrapes. “Yeah, she was here today . . . shackin' up with some horn in Easter Town now. Threw her ass out, too.” He picked up the gun and started playing with the open cylinder, spinning it slowly, admiring the smooth action. It seemed to soothe him.

“Taken a liking to the gun, I see.”

He suddenly snapped the cylinder shut. “Yeah—saved your ass last night,” he shot back, straightening up for a second, then drifting off with a faraway look. “Yeah . . . a lotta justice in this baby. . . .”

Cal's mood ambled senselessly and arbitrarily. One minute he'd be pensive and distant, then suddenly he'd turn angry and vengeful. Everything was overwhelming Cal. It just wouldn't let up and give him a break; he couldn't catch his breath. To top it all off, he gets a visit from his mother—probably the bedrock of all his frustration. Cal was strong and levelheaded, but he was finding his breaking point.

I tried to tell him about my new wheels, but he didn't seem interested. I couldn't even get him to take a look. I tried to take his mind off things, trying to get him to talk about anything, but he just couldn't be reached. I didn't want to leave him this way—especially with a loaded gun around—so I just hung around and did what I could. Eventually, I dragged him to the kitchen to scrounge up something to eat. After a while, Kym-gym and Dickie came home, which gave Cal one less thing to worry about. The youngest boys were making a special effort to behave around their big brother. I'd never seen them so polite and respectful. They knew and appreciated the struggle Cal was having with Mattie and Andrew, and were going out of their way to prove they weren't going to add to their oldest brother's burdens. I kept working on Cal, trying to get him out of the house, but he wouldn't hear of it. He was still trying to hold things together.

I went from one cheery household to another. The old man wasn't spending much time at home lately, so I didn't have to worry about running into him. We didn't exactly have an idyllic father-and-son relationship before, but now our interactions consisted of five or ten minutes of uncomfortable silence in the morning. He was spending more and more time down at the joint, and when he got bored with his own bar, he'd hit a few other spots in town.

I walked around the abandoned house trying to conjure up a fond reminiscence, but came up empty. But there was something different about the house. It was simply a feeling at first, a sense that something had changed. I thought maybe I was missing the presence of my mother, but I quickly ruled it out; although she did have corporeality, she was essentially as invisible as Cal's was. As I put my foot upon the first step leading up to the kitchen, I felt something foreign. The step was soft and gentle instead of the usual hard and cold. Under my stocking feet, for the first time ever on those steps, I felt carpet.

It was gone. The living room, the family room, all the pathways going to and fro; all the company furniture—which never once felt the sensation of a company ass—was finally free. The plastic was gone. I inhaled deeply through my nose, sucking up the sweet smell of liberation; air that breathed easier, its oxygen infused with character and warmth. I studied and caressed the unveiled furniture. My god, it had impressions. Somebody had actually been sitting on the company furniture. The chairs, the couch—either the old man had a party or he was making a point of sitting on every piece of unshackled furniture. The lampshades were freed from their scabbards; the ashtrays actually contained ashes. The coasters were gleefully tossed into a careless pile in the corner.

The old man was removing the memory of his wife. Although it was somewhat funny that he did it, it also reminded me of just how empty and sad our family existence was. There were no pictures of her or of them to turn over or wistfully put away, so the old man did the next best thing, discarding what reminded him most of his estranged wife: The plastic. The old man never intimated in the slightest that the plastic even bothered him. But all this time it was gnawing at him.

As I continued to roam the site of the Plastic Emancipation, I started to wonder about my mother. I had no idea where she was, and I was sure the old man hadn't heard from her either. I felt like I should have been missing her, but the feelings just wouldn't come. And that was exactly it: I was supposed to be missing her. I was judging my lack of feeling by somebody else's standard. Most sons would miss their mothers when they disappeared. But for me, it was like trying to miss something that was never there. For her sake, I was glad she got out. I was sure that wherever she was, she was undoubtedly safer. Living with the old man is like living with a live grenade.

I still had four or five hours to kill before I reported for duty, and didn't want to chance running into a greased old man, so I hit the road. Cal was out of commission for the evening, so I was on my own. I drove by the Trinity hoping that Roxy was on duty, but all I could see through the fogged diner windows was the frumpy shrouded image of battle-ax Marnie. I kept on going.

By the time I made it to the diner I had only one thing on my mind. My fantasies about Roxy were getting so vivid and intense that I thought I was going to have to pull over to douse the fire. I had to see her, so I concocted a cursory plan so I could stop by her apartment. It was a beautifully simplistic plan, yet reasonable and plausible: I needed some weed.

I buzzed apartment 3G and waited anxiously for an answer. If it was Jerry, we'd do a little business; if it was Roxy, I'd obviously ask for Jerry. Roxy took the call.

“Yeah—who is it?” Even poor audio couldn't impede the amatory coo of her delicious voice.

“Hi, Roxy, it's Evvie. Is Jerry around?” I loved the ironic, double meaning of my inquest. Without another word, I was buzzed in.

I took the three flights of stairs two steps at a time, utilizing the slingshot effect off the railings on the turns, using the momentum to propel myself upward. I couldn't get up those stairs fast enough. I reached the third floor huffing and puffing, making my way down to the end of the narrow, dimly lit corridor. I paused in front of 3G and took a deep breath, wiping my sweaty palms on the back of my jeans. I gave the door three quarter-note taps, soft enough so as not to shock or disturb.

Roxy opened the door fully, which I took as a welcoming sign, and greeted me with a warm “Hi.” She had on an oversized cream-colored sweater and a gloriously-fitted pair of tattered jeans. The familiar wool socks bunched loosely around her ankles brought back a vivid memory of our last meeting, a memory that came easily and powerfully. She looked a little sleepy and was slightly flushed, like I had awoken her from a warmly bundled, quiet slumber. Like everything else about Roxy, even a disheveled appearance suited her well. Roxy could radiate sexuality through a full suit of armor.

She said she was sorry that Jerry wasn't around to help me out, and offered me a glass of wine and a seat on the blanketed couch, which I was sitting on before she was done tendering the offer. I leaned slowly and deeply into the couch, drowning in its sumptuous, mouth-watering warmth, breathing in her essence that doused every thread, making me feel heavy and narcotized. She returned with the wine, a hearty red that made my eyelids even heavier as I drank in its deep burgundy color with my eyes. She reached under the couch for the tray of contraband, and filled a yellowed ivory pipe with a perfect taw-sized bud.

She gave me the honors, handing me the freshly-packed pipe that looked like it had a green spider stuffed in the bowl, with scraggy reddish green hairs creeping over the rim. I didn't know where Jerry did his shopping, but his bud put all others in town to shame—an indubitable nolo contendere compared with the bags of dead brown crap that made the rounds about town. Jerry had the three-hits-and-you're-flatlined KGB ganjola market all to himself.

The first hit went straight to my feet and began to slither up my leg. By the time I exhaled my third, it was closing in on my cerebellum. By the time I sparked up my after-dinner heater, I was a fuzzy wool sock. Roxy kept pace hit-for-hit, and in accordance with the three-hits-and-you're-out rule, smartly put the singed spider down. She wriggled cozily inside her baggy thick sweater and tucked her feet underneath her. After pulling the blanket in closer, she reached for her glass of wine, cupping it carefully with both hands, like a priest reverently handles a Eucharistic chalice. We settled woozily and contentedly into the couch, sharing “mmms . . .” and various other indecipherables of secular delight as we slowly moved in on each other.

After communicating like grunting animals for ten minutes or so, I decided to take a stab at a little conversation—with ulterior motives firmly in place.

“So, where's Jerry off to this time?”

“Oh, he got skunked last time around—somebody screwed up or something—so he's giving it another try,” she said, not seeming to care one way or the other.

“On the road again, huh?”

“Yeah, that's Jerry. Always lookin' for the score.”

“Well, at least it gives us a chance to chat. I've been thinkin' about you, ya know,” I said softly, touching her arm sincerely.

“Oh, that's sweet,” she said politely, but without much feeling. “You are pretty cute, ya know.”

“Remember the other night?” I said, slowly removing the thin veil with the large holes in it.

“What are you getting at, Evan?” she seemed to ask honestly.

“You know, I've just . . . been thinkin' about you.”

“Oh,” she said, “do you mean this?” She hiked her sweater up, revealing her beautifully perfect breasts.

“Ah . . .”

She gave me a good long look.

“Well, you can fuckin' forget it, ya little creep!” she snapped, closing heaven's gate with a defiant tug. “You're just like fuckin' Jerry. God! Is that all you guys ever think about?”

“Ah . . .”

She stormed off into the other room, slamming the door behind her. The fire had been doused.

I groaned as I peeked out my window Saturday afternoon, greeting the start of my weekend at about twelve-thirty. It was another gray day, made even grayer by the cloak of morning fog that hadn't quite burned off yet, a superfluous mouse-colored layer that seemed to lower the cloud ceiling to right above the treetops. It was an unnecessary compounding that turned a cheerless sky into a dismal one. The clouds already had it covered. They didn't need any help.

I rang Cal up to see if he was interested in a little pinball session down at the joint, but he was still in a funk, and the nasty hangover he was nursing was going to keep him in for most of the day. I was on my own again, but decided to make the best of it, and headed down to the joint. I checked in with the old man as usual, cautiously poking my head into the doorway of his office to see if it was all right to enter. He motioned me in.

“Come here—I needja to do me a favor,” he squeezed out of his mouth, which was preoccupied with a fat cigar. He rummaged through the papers on his cluttered desk. “Here.” He handed me an invoice. “Ball shirts are ready, go pick 'em up.” He pulled out his checkbook.

“Gonna try it again, huh?” I said, looking over the order.

“Yeah, if I can get these lazy fucks off their dead asses for two hours a week.”

My eyes made their way up to the letterhead. “Quality—”

“Right down the street. Think ya can handle that, chief?” he cracked, handing me the check. I knew where it was. The owner was nice enough to finance my new wheels. “Go on—before he retires.”

I was finally going to meet the Grand Dragon of the local KKK chapter, who unwittingly moonlighted as a financier to the youth automobile market. My stomach started to knot up all over again as my mind began to replay what I saw that night.

The bells that greeted me as I opened the front door to the shop had a sickening sunniness about them, a welcoming that ran counter to my previous experience there. They were bright and cheerful, inviting all who entered with a friendly chime, that seemed to guarantee a pleasant experience. I approached the counter uneasily, an uneasiness that grew steadily worse as I looked around the shop, recognizing the cold industrial furnishings, then attaching a sickening, hate-filled memory to each respective piece. The giant clock with the thick shuddering hands particularly unnerved me, eyeing me steadily, seeming to note my every step, like it recognized me. I could see the desk out of the corner of my eye, and the fittingly stained handle of the top left-hand drawer that contained the insidious seeds of hatred, waiting to be broadcast into the furrows of clandestine jackbooted farmers. The rushes of memory shot through me like firebolts from an angry sky, sparking a noticeable tremor in my clammy left hand, that gripped the now-rattling invoice.

The sound of footsteps approached the counter from the rear of the shop. They were light and quickly paced, totally unlike the leaden, dragging steps that I imagined. The crown of a graying man came into view, a little thin on top, but well-kempt, brushed back neatly and pleasantly. He came out from behind the bulky printing press in full view, offering a genial, “Can I help you?” that sounded grandfatherly warm, initiating the inevitable eye contact that made me wince with dread. Here I was, face-to-face with the man whom I imagined beating into mashed bone and blood—the man whom I felt could not be punished or tortured enough—and I couldn't conjure up an ounce of retributive vengeance. His picture simply didn't fit into the frame of hate. He was more of a favorite uncle type; somebody's grandfather.

He had these incredibly warm, round brown eyes—eyes that exuded gentility and greeted you like a cordial handshake. He was an inch or two shorter than me, and carried a slight, friendly paunch that added to his couldn't-hurt-a-fly appearance. His hair was a chalky gray, anchored by wispy feathered sideburns that fanned up over his ears. He introduced himself as Murray, extending his indelibly stained hand to grasp mine, topping off the shake by pressing his left hand over the union. I completed the convention, introducing myself. He was not the man I imagined. For a second, I thought he might be hired help, but his name was right there on the letterhead: MURRAY HALVORSON, PROPRIETOR. His was not the face of hate.

“What can I help you with, Mr. Cummings? Ah, the ball shirts for the bar,” he said, answering for me, heading for the storage shelves filled with boxes by his desk. “How's ol' Bill holding up?” he asked, his back turned to me, checking for the right package.

“Oh, he's holding up all right, I guess.”

“I sure like your dad, he's a good ol' guy. Tough sonovabitch, too—but you probably already know that,” he said with a laugh. He came back with the package. “Let's see . . . that'll be $69.73 with the tax.” I handed him the check. “So, the old man got you workin' down there?”

“Yeah. I'm the cleaning crew.”

“Yeah? Well, you look a little young to be workin' the bar. But I'm sure your dad will getcha in the saddle eventually.”

“Well, I'm in no hurry, Mr. Halvorson.”

“Please, call me Murray.” I nodded. “Yeah, she's a pretty tough joint, all right. But your old man sure keeps 'em in line.”

I searched and sifted through all his mannerisms looking for a hint of the bilious monster that I knew was underneath. It was a futile search and I came up frustratingly empty. His cloak was impenetrable; a seamless construction of such sunny congeniality and grandfatherly warmth, that if I didn't want to expose him and beat him into a primordial ooze, I'd want to jump on his lap on the front porch swing and share lemonade and cookies, and tales of the old fishin' hole.

My blood started to pump harder and hotter as my frustration grew. I wanted to charge over to that top left-hand drawer and let the monster out of its box, hoping that it would turn on its keeper, and I could do some justifiable finger-pointing. My flair for the dramatic grew out of desperation and the insidious shroud of injustice—a seemingly inviolable shield capable of stopping everything that the underfunded arsenal of decency and humanity could throw at it. It was like trying to shoot a spitball through a brick wall. I decided I couldn't walk away from this without a little satisfaction. I decided to bait him and flush him out.

“Yeah, the old man—I mean, my dad's got his hands full, all right, but things are takin' a turn for the worse. We've had some, well . . . new customers coming in lately, and the regulars aren't taking it too well. Customers from across the river, if you know what I mean...”

I cast my line in the fishin' hole. He circled the bait slowly, the softness of his eyes taking on a slight edge as he eyed the bait.

“Yeah, I think I know what you mean,” he said cautiously. “Much trouble?”

“Well, nothin' during the day, but they've been trickling in at night, lately. There's been a few fights.” I brought the old man into it for a helpful clinch. “My dad says it's been getting worse since they finally connected the interstates last year. I guess it cut right through the heart of the Annapolis neighborhood. I guess he used to work that neighborhood a lot when he was on the force. I can't think of it, but the cops used to call it something else. . . .”

“Yeah, your old man knows it, all right. The cops used to call it . . .” he looked around then whispered, “The Black Belt.”

“Yeah, that's it.”

We shared a compatriotic smile.

“He's right about that neighborhood, too. It scattered those . . .” he looked around again, “spearchuckers all over town.”

It was my turn to look around and whisper. “My dad used to call 'em that, too.”

We shared a little chuckle.

“Your dad had a few other names for 'em, too” he snickered, gleefully shaking his head. “Oh, your dad had more names for 'em than you could shake a spear at.” I wanted to jump on his lap so he could tell me more. “Oh, your dad could sure come up with 'em . . . Mau-maus, jigaboos, spearchuckers, headhunters, spooks. . . . Yeah, he could sure come up with 'em, all right. I sure like your dad—he's a great guy.”

As I was listening to him rattle off the litany of epithets, I kept looking for it, but it never materialized. I thought his eyes would turn colder; I expected his voice to take on a malignant, sinister tone. Instead, he became Murray, the Friendly Racist, spinning lazy summer afternoon yarns of front-porch hate—told with such an ease and poignance, that he might as well have been telling me how he courted grandma. He was a perfect machine.

In my naiveté, I expected an outward manifestation of the beast. I thought it could easily be spotted, as visible as a white hood or a swastika. I wasn't expecting a Trojan horse. It was always the KKK and the neo-Nazis under the Klieg lights; visible, almost cartoonish armies that, for the most part, operated free of subterfuge. You knew who they were and exactly what they stood for; their uniforms were worn on the outside. Murray was a soldier in a branch of service that chose the shroud of secrecy over the hood. He belonged to a much more nefarious, subversive brigade. It was a phantom army, whose march couldn't be heard. A phalanx of ghosts.

We ended our tête-à-tête as pleasantly as it began. He thanked me for the patronage, we smiled collegially, and parted company. I left with a box of ball shirts that would eventually be stained with more beer than grass stains or sweat, and wondering if I should call the man I just met Uncle Murray, or hurl a Molotov through Uncle Murray's window.

I dropped the package off as instructed, and the old man checked the order. “How's Murray doin'?” he asked, slicing through the packing tape with a zip of a razor.

“He's doin' fine. He says hi.”

“Ah, I like Murray. He's a good guy.”

They were just a couple of good guys.

I weighed my options as I wrapped up business with the old man, who was nice enough to give me the green light for a pinball session, but I changed my mind when I saw Big Lee snarling into someone at the bar, just itching to gore someone with her horns. Cal was out of commission for the day, and I screwed up things royally with Roxy, so my options were pretty slim. There was a four o'clock showing of Saturday Night Fever at the Warwick, so after a little Saturday afternoon time killer of ripping up and down the interstate, I decided to check it out one more time.

Saturday Night Fever was just about at the end of its run at the Warwick, so I had the theater all to myself. I sat in the middle section, about six rows from the back, stuffed my bag of popcorn snugly into the fold of the neighboring chair, and started working my beer up through the straw, having dumped the syrupy confection they tried to pass off as a Coke. I kicked my winter boots off, balled up my jacket for a pillow, and put my feet up. The house lights dimmed slowly, and the emerald plush of the velvet curtains disappeared with me into the darkness.

The film was no match for the incongruent reels of madness playing in my mind. I was inundated with around-the-clock showings, chained to a theater seat of mind, straitjacket-strapped, bound beyond my control. They were movies that I didn't particularly want to see—like how Alex was bombarded with reel-after-reel of violence in A Clockwork Orange, a film that had a two-day run at the Warwick before being run out of town. It disturbed the sensibilities of the townsfolk so severely that people picketed the theater. I was beginning to understand the collective nerve that it touched. It reflected a too-close-to-home truth that nobody could bear to look at. A collective turn of the head that thought it would all go away if nobody looked. I was stuck with the role of Alex. My eyes were propped open; I was forced to look.

I kept drifting in and out of the moment. My eyes were trained on the screen, but I was looking at something else. I saw disembodied eyes looking toward heaven in the cold dirty snow—blank stares of shock that never saw it coming; young black men dangled like red bulbs from frosty Yuletide trees; faces cracked and split, clotting the dirty air with a vermilion mist, wiped clean with a casual swipe of a sleeve. Handsome wavy-haired monsters stalked and scorched the earth, clearing the obstacles with the glee of a ten-year-old kicking a pop can down Main Street. There were blackened eyes that refused to look, wishing it was all a bad dream that would just go away. The images came in blurry rushes and waves, a kaleidoscope of fun-house imagery played to the grinding pulse of a disco soundtrack. I gave in to the multiple showings, which eventually made me woozy and heavy-lidded. Exhausted from the tumult, I fell asleep.

I was jolted awake by the sound of a crash, but was in too much of a fog to know what was going on. I heard a distant wail of a siren closing in fast, but it seemed to be coming from the outside. A clamorous shrill of anxious voices filled the theater, bringing my attention to the screen. The boys from Bay Ridge had just smashed into Barracuda headquarters to rumble, the shattering of glass awakening me from my wonderfully dreamless slumber. The siren screamed past the theater, its needle-sharp pitch splitting my ear before becoming distant again. As I was coming into full consciousness, I heard a sputtering clatter coming from behind me. The film began to skittishly jerk, its images becoming crooked and deformed, oscillating the on-screen violence with a strobe-like expressionism. Certain frames would freeze, then wildly pulsate, shaking with such a hyperviolence that it looked like the screen would explode. The film finally came to a dead, cockeyed stop. It was a blurry, silent freeze, capturing one of the boys in mid-punch, his jaw set like granite, eyes narrowed in a strained fury. The smell of burnt celluloid wafted through the theater as wisps of smoke shadowed on the screen, shrouding the blurry image in a surrealistic fog. The face melted away slowly, dripping down the screen. Then everything went black.

I sat in the blackened silence for a few minutes, its stilled air tainted with the smell of stale popcorn and the acridity of burnt plastic. As I walked out into the dusk, I could hear the buzz and crackle of the Warwick's neon coming to life, as I walked out from under its sign. It was a chaotic awakening, having a mad scientist's laboratory quality to it that jump-started the mad reels all over again. I was drowning in the imagery, and the visage of the melting film dove in with the other swimmers, joining the neural riptide that was slowly pulling me under, making me wonder if the flailing struggle to try and stay above it was worth the trouble.

The sign was still fighting to come on as I was warming up my car. It would flash on momentarily, but it couldn't hold; as soon as it catched, the flickering would start all over again. I became entranced with its valiant struggle to life. The vacillations and amalgamation of the various letters became increasingly neurotic, as if each letter gave up on the whole and decided to fight independently. Nonsensical combinations flashed and went; there was no order or repetition. Sometimes only parts of the letters would illuminate, seemingly transposing into different languages. The pulsing neon chaos came faster and faster, caught in a loop that was churning the inert gas into a kinetic frenzy. I became dizzy and bleary from the onslaught, my brain searing in a white heat from the kinesis. I could hear multiple sirens baying through the valley, folding in and out of each other like weave from a loom. The silhouette of two dogs humped madly in the alley as a young couple's rarefied bliss boiled over into a screaming argument, totally indifferent to the gutter carnality that was an arm's length away. Two stocking-capped boys tugged and pulled at each other on the sidewalk until they toppled onto the cold cement, mittens flying, tempers fully engaged. Three squads whooshed by with a flash and a scream, and as I turned to my left to watch the rush, I noticed that the sign had finally settled. A pulsing glow of red letters spelled out WAR.

The sirens seemed to wind down just down the road, so I decided to see what the commotion was all about. Three squads were lined up side-to-side in the middle of Lawson Avenue, lights whirling silently, highlighting the large flakes that were just beginning to fall. They were right in front of the joint.

I drove down the alley to see if the old man was still around, but he was gone. I turned around in the parking lot and headed back to the front of the building to spectate. It was probably just another fight, but it must have been a particularly nasty one, because most skirmishes in the joint were handled internally. Within ten minutes, the cops emerged from the joint, but with nobody in tow, which seemed to be the cause of some debate amongst the officers. They lingered on the sidewalk, hashing it out for five minutes or so before finally deciding to leave.

The huge flakes were accumulating quickly, laying a placid blanket of fluffy white over the sullied, icy snowpack. Calm winds allowed the downyflake an untroubled descent, and I curled up under the covers. I was a frightened child with a monster under the bed, where kinder logic suggests that if the monster can't see you, he can't get you. I locked the doors and pulled the covers over my head.

The sound of terse redlined voices made me peek out of my quiet shell. A labored swipe of the windshield wipers uncovered four or five faces, but before I could finish my count, they were joined by four or five more, spilling out of the joint in a hurry-scurry fashion, like agitated bees from a hive. Hands went up and feet planted in familiar stances, with some of the combatants removing their shirts in a hubristic pageant, obviously meant to intimidate, but coming off as more ginned-up posing than intimidation. Partners were carelessly chosen, based mostly on proximity, and they squared off to the faint sounds of Tchaikovsky's Waltz of the Flowers, courtesy of a classical radio station that I like to listen to when I'm in my cocoon.

Fights either start in a brawling, confused rush out of the blue, or as a tentative exhibition that turns into a brawling, confused rush once a punch is thrown. This was of the latter variety, and extremely tidy and orderly as far as street fights go. It was a shirts and skins match and no scorecards were necessary. They bobbed and moved their fists in a circular manner, moving nicely with the rhythm. The karate guys made their skills known, with two or three of the participants fashioning the stance; coiled, but wobbly—like drunken cobras.

The orderliness and choreography vaporized with the first punch. The dormant but glowing embers of the tempest were stoked, and the twisting flames cooked the air with madness. Arms and legs were tangled like pretzels, trying feverishly to break free to maim and let blood; bodies were strewn and hurled into skull-cracking walls and gashing rusty fenders. Disembodied hubcaps bashed heads and faces; loosened door trim lashed and tore at flesh. Car bumpers and knees broke noses and teeth as the boiled blood spilled and pooled, besmirching the freshly fallen blanket of white.

The melee spread quickly, splashing onto the street. Two knives glinted under a streetlight, and the combatants swiped tentatively at the air with unmistakable looks of fear, not wanting to go this far, but already committed. Onlookers gawked and delighted from next door, their faces smooshed together in the neighboring restaurant's picture window, tight as a fresh billiard rack. The window needed almost constant wiping, as the hot breath of the reincarnated Romans kept spoiling their view. The sirens began to scream into the night once again, and the players who'd had enough started to scramble. A bloodied face pressed against my window, begging and praying to God for the horror to end—only to be mercilessly dragged off by the hair and finished before the peacekeepers arrived, leaving a smear of freezing red down my window. The matched skirmishes began to break off into a free-for-all, with the wounded and weak being singled-out and pounced on by a still-hungry pack. The police came from both ends of the street, scattering most of the combatants down alleys and between buildings. There was one match still going strong. It was a brutally one-sided affair that consisted of a guy repeatedly bouncing his opponents face off the hood of a Buick Electra. He kept bashing his face in until the cops dragged him off.

The cops bagged four of the players right off the bat, but only needed to cuff the Buick aficionado. The other three cooperated nicely, sprawled lifelessly over a snowbank waiting for pickup. The meat wagon lumbered its way up the street. Squad after squad poured into the area, setting up a perimeter to catch the strays. They skittered out of their cruisers, scrambling down alleys and sidewalks, peeking out from their own shadows from the corridors between buildings. Doppelgängers of blue poked out of every nook and cranny, from behind every garbage can and stray cat. A swirl of red lights encircled me, making me feel like I was trapped inside a copper's cherry.

Shadowy figures scurried in and out of the periphery. Clipped, alarming voices accompanied the specters, voices pinched tightly from the cold air and adrenaline. A handful of cops huddled in front of the joint, and their discussion and assessment of the situation soon turned into some heated finger-pointing. Their voices followed suit, beginning to rise and snap in the keyed atmosphere, which begat a frustrated push and shove. They tugged and pushed each other in the scrum, and a couple sharp jabs ignited from the pile. The meat wagon crew quizzically looked on as they gurneyed the mangled bodies into their rig. The gawkers were squealing with delight from inside the restaurant's window. They were getting their money's worth.

One by one the squads began to disperse. The gawkers retired to the dining room to finish their dinners, and the meat wagon closed up shop and headed down to emergency. I let the snow blanket me again, but it couldn't cover the clotted streaks of frozen red that stared at me through my passenger-side window. I was so weary and bleary-eyed from seeing red that everything I looked at seemed to have a reddish hue to it. I grabbed a pile of crumpled napkins from my floor and went to work on removing some of it. The snow was too cold to be of any use as a solvent, so I resorted to spitting on the window to dissolve it.

The sidewalk was a splattered morass of blood and twisted auto wreckage, viciously thrown and ground into the snow. The larger pools of red devoured the flakes as they fell, recasting the steaming red into a pallid pink, but slowly healing under a peaceful white. I was transfixed by the metamorphosis, hoping for some vicarious healing, purposely ignoring my distasteful task. I scoured blindly and furiously, diluting the cold blood with snow, spit, and muscle. I begged and pleaded the heavens for bigger, heavier snow. I wanted avalanches and blizzards—a wrathful, cleansing deluge of apocalyptic white. I finally looked to see what kind of job I was doing. The window was clean. The blood had moved to my hands.

The screen door to Cal's place dangled crookedly and creaked under its lopsided weight. It clung feebly to a lone bottom hinge, merely delaying an inevitable fate that would soon bring it down under the disproportionate strain. The meek westerly breeze, that was once incapable of moving the large flakes, was now being slapped by wicked gusts out of the north, which fiercely slammed the door against the house with icy echoing cracks. It was the coldest of sounds. A sound of emptiness and disintegration; of hopeless desolation. Not a glimmer of light emanated from the house. It looked haunted and abandoned.

I pulled my sticky gloves off as I crept toward the front door. The white fleece lining of my gloves were moist from perspiration, but sticky from the dark soil of a stranger's blood. I shoved the gloves into the large front pocket of my jacket and washed my hands with some fresh snow. My hands were icy and pale from three or four washings in the cold soap, and appeared clean. But there was a sickly gumminess about them. They didn't feel clean.

It was like walking into a condemned house. I gave a few soft taps and an “Anybody home?” as I pushed open the door, only to be greeted by the gurgling water that was passing through the radiators. I walked deliberately through the house, trying to sidestep the debris that seemed to cover every inch of the floor. Everything in the house looked like it was knocked off its moorings. Every lampshade and picture was crooked, as were all the chairs, couch, and tables; newspapers, cans, and bottles were scattered, crushed, and broken. It smelled of dried-up vomit and rancid kitchen grease. The once-lovely go-go picture of Mrs. Holden lay in the middle of the living room floor. It was impaled by a ceramic obelisk that one of the boys had made in school.

There was a weak strain of light casting a shadow in the darkness of the hall, and I tracked the source to Cal's room. The light was from a naked forty-watt, screwed into an overturned lamp on a corner desk. Cal was in the same position that I found him in yesterday, only more slouched, dirtier, and drunken. He was so far gone that I felt I had to introduce myself.

“Hey, buddy-boy, up for a visit?” I said quietly, pushing away a few boxes to clear a path to his bed.

“Oh . . .” he said, straightening himself up a little, struggling as he reached for his glasses. I grabbed them for him and plopped down next to him. He needed a bath as much as he needed detoxification. He focused in on me and finished his salutation: “You.”

“Glad to see me, huh?”

He let out a disgusted burst from his nostrils for a reply.

“How're things on the front?” I said, fishing for another monosyllable.

“War's hell. . . .” he slurred, doubling his previous output.

“Where is everybody?”

He answered me by looking for his bottle. He had polished off the first quart of vodka and dumped it off the side of the bed. I was rolling it back and forth under my boot. He was a good halfway through the second, and a third was on the dresser.

“Where'dja get all the hooch?” I asked.

Cal took a sloppy, drooling swig. “Ritchie. Here—twist one,” he said, pointing to the plate of bud that was on his nightstand. Cousin Richard was a good supplier, but not much in the communication department. His verbal output consisted of a series of grunts and nods, but he seemed downright loquacious compared to what I was getting out of Cal.

I tried to draw Cal out a little, to get him beyond his miserly rejoinders, but I had to hold up most of the conversation. I babbled on about my two meetings with Roxy, and even managed to get a laugh out of him, when I told him of my bungling ineptitude during our aborted second tryst. I tried to keep the conversation light, avoiding all potential sore spots, but I was fast running out of material. The sore spots had us surrounded.

As I floundered trying to keep the one-sided babble going, I became increasingly uncomfortable with Cal's stare. He kept glaring at me with a fuming, disgusted look, and soon most of my conversation was aimed at the floor to avoid his glare. I tried to shake it off and keep the breeze blowing, but it was an unnerving, grating stare, a fingernails-down-the-blackboard irritation that I could no longer ignore.

“Christ! Enough with the evil eye already! If something's on your mind, just spill it! I'm sick of fucking talkin' to myself anyway.”

“It's been a week,” he said coldly.

“It's been a week what?” I snapped.

“Yeah, figures. Forgot about it already, didn'tcha? Yeah, that's about par for you, Evvie. Forget about it and it all goes away—just look the other way.”

I returned the punch. “No, I'll tell you what figures, Cal: Your life's just a drunken, fuckin' hell and ya want a little company—”

“God, you're a fuckin' idiot!” He gunned the bottle across the room, shattering it against the wall.

“Really, Cal? Is a week gonna make a damn bit of difference? What do you care if the old man gets nailed tonight or next week? Yeah, don't worry ya drunken fuck, I'll be joining ya soon enough—”

“Unbelievable.”

“Why the push, Cal? What's the hurry? Danny comin' back?”

He pounced from his slouch and took a wild swing at me, a drunken punch that I mostly ducked, grazing me on the side of my head. He fell off the bed and opened the spigot full, unleashing a bilious string of expletives as he tried to get up and take another poke at me. He was too drunk to hurt anybody, so he jabbed with his mouth instead.

“I'm callin' the fuckin' cops!” he shrieked madly.

I grabbed the phone and tossed it on his chest. “Here! Go ahead, call!” I screamed back. I pulled his last bottle off the dresser and dropped it in his lap. “Here ya go, bud. Knock yourself out.” I stormed out of the house, not knowing what he'd do.

I sat in my car outside Cal's, frantically pumping from our confrontation. I was wound so tight I could hear my heart fibrillate. Every little noise was making me jump, and when that screen door cracked against the house, it was like getting hit with a thousand volts. Every nerve in my body was raw and fully exposed.

I heard an angry muted scream and the sound of dishes or glasses breaking. The din was peppered with a gush of profanity, making identification of the source relatively simple. I rolled down my window for a closer listen. Cal was taking apart the rest of the house.

I hopped out of my car and moved cautiously toward the house. He was screaming incoherently and seemed to be destroying everything that crossed his path. The assault moved from one room to another and became increasingly sporadic, ebbing and flowing as he tired and purged the venom. Slowly, he quieted; the stretches of silence became longer, but would suddenly burst as he discovered untapped layers of frustration. After a few minutes of calm, I thought he'd finally reached bottom. But he had one more burst in him and he purged it by proxy. The wicked report of a .38 rang out into the night.

The shot echoed in two or three waves, spreading and disintegrating as it reached through the quiet neighborhood. One by one, neighboring houses popped to life, a strange choreography of light that moved almost perfectly, straight down the line. Heads started to peek out of front doors and gossipy whispers of curiosity filled the block. I was too stunned to do any logical deducing of what the shot meant or what I should do, but I was suddenly uncomfortable standing in front of the house. I reacted by heading inside.

I peered into the house through a slight crack in the door, pausing for a few seconds to listen. Everything was quiet, so I pushed open the door just enough to squeeze my body through sideways. The putrid stench of the house was now infused with a smoky sweetness from the fresh gunshot, an ironic improvement in the air quality which made it easier to take. With each step I would stop, look, and listen, and have to remind myself to breathe. It took me a couple minutes to move from the entryway to the living room. I could have walked a block in the time it took me to move five feet.

As I was closing in on the hallway I called out Cal's name. I didn't plan on the urgent whisper, which caught me by surprise, like a sudden hiccup. There was no response to my call. I was hugging the wall pretty tight, with my back up against it, moving forward like a sidewinder. I paused just as I was about to turn the corner to go down the hall. I had a rotten, stomach-acidy taste in my mouth, and the tension was making me nauseous. I turned the corner and looked straight into a shaking gun barrel.

“I could blow your ass away,” Cal said through a tense jaw, cocking the hammer back, “and not spend a day in jail.” He was quavering, but his tone and glare was pure ice. He looked snapped and ready to blow.

“Come on, Cal, please . . . put it down,” I eked out nervously. “C'mon, man, I'm sorry—I'll do anything you say.”

Cal was developing an acute twitch in his neck and his shaking was becoming more pronounced. With the hammer pulled back, I was more afraid of being shot accidently. I was a nervous twitch away from having my face blown off.

“Yeah? Sure ya will, Evvie. . . . You're so full of shit, ya make me sick. . . . Anything, huh? Pick up the phone,” he ordered with a bitter grimace, motioning toward the kitchen with his chin. I followed instructions. He kept the gun on me as he followed, three paces behind. The receiver to the wall phone was off its cradle, swaying slightly, its head gently tapping the floor. “Pick it up.”

I picked up the phone and pressed down the cradle to get a dial tone. The phone was dead, so I repeated the procedure, holding it down a little longer. It was still dead. “I can't get a dial tone.”

Cal snatched the phone out of my hand, backing me up a step with a wave of his gun. He banged the head of the receiver on one of the prongs of the cradle then listened. He banged it three more times and listened again. Still, nothing. He bashed the handset violently against its base and let it drop. He clenched his teeth and grunted crazily, shoving the gun toward me, his arm fully extended and quivering maniacally. He looked far enough gone to pull the trigger. I closed my eyes and waited for the shot.

I didn't plead, drop to my knees and beg or look for God. I didn't do or think anything. I simply waited. I was in an almost meditative state, where everything was warm and serene, a sublime blanket of comfort and blurry numbness that was pulled over my head. I wondered if I was dead.

Then somebody, somewhere, hit the metaphysical brakes. My eyes popped open wide and clear and my heart reengaged as I braced for impact. I wanted to go back to where I was, but I couldn't remember how to get there. I was back looking at the crazy eyes of a lost friend and a shaking gun. I looked straight into the black eye of the barrel.

“You always get away with it, don'tcha?” Cal said wearily. “Always gettin' off the hook—you and your fuckin' old man.”

Cal was played out. Holding up the gun was chewing up his last ounces of energy. His eyes were heavy and his speech was getting thick. He looked ready to drop.

“Nobody's gettin' away with anything, Cal.”

Cal's eyes flashed in disagreement. “What the hell do ya call it, then? I'm so sick . . . of your . . . bullshit!”

Cal pitched the gun across the room as he spit out his last syllable. It slammed into a kitchen cabinet and went off on impact. The savage explosiveness of the report ripped through the house, instantly piercing then muffling my ears, like I was suddenly underwater. Two ricochets zinged by as fast as electric current. The bullet hit the fridge first, then skipped off the linoleum right by our feet before burying itself in the drywall.

It was too close of a call for me. After standing momentarily in the shock of the aftermath, I ran for the door. Cal stood much the same way, but didn't react until I was going through the door, feebly pleading “Evvie. . . .” as I crossed the threshold. The lights were plinking on again, and the same heads peeked out their doors and windows as I drove away.

The sound of sirens still weaved in and out of the valley, having kept an almost constant vigil throughout the night. The wailing had gone on for so long it seemed fatigued, droning on to yet another call, a futile exercise that succeeded only in producing another report to add to the file. The air was saturated with the weary groan of attrition. It was nothing but a war.

The sound kept coming and coming from all directions. It swirled like a barber's pole and tortured like a ceaseless drip. It began to grip me in a vise as the sound burrowed into me deeper and deeper, until it no longer entered through my ears, but seeped through my skin. I was whirling in a light-headedness and everything was shrouded in a red fog. The mad reels kicked in again, crackling and hissing the Daliesque images across my brain. The twisted deformations triggered an instant nauseousness, causing me to throw up on the dash. I heard a crash and a blast of a horn, then everything went black.

I awoke on my back in a bright white room filled with whispering voices. A lone siren was loud and close, but I was too disoriented to tell where it was coming from. It seemed to come from above me, but stretched out its tentacles as it reached the top end of its pitch. I screamed and tried to get up as it was about to grab me. A pair of fat hands pressed me down at the shoulders, and a steady voice told me it was all right.

The fat hands were attached to a set of blue arms, which were attached to a fur collar, which was attached to a cow-sized head with a walrusy mustache. I lifted my head to see more, catching a glimpse of two other blue men, one bandaging the head of the other, before my head started to spin and the walrus became upset.

“Stay the hell down!” the walrus snarled, flashing a bright light across my eyes with his finger.

“Turn it down,” I thought I said, but I wasn't sure if I said it or thought it.

“Turn what down?” the walrus said with a shake of his mustache and a bemused snicker.

“The . . . the tentacles. . . .”

The other blue men laughed.

“What the hell is this kid on?” one of the blue men said. “God, what a fuckin' night....”

“Don't move, okay?” the walrus said. “You're gonna be all right.”

“Where's the demon . . . Interceptor?”

A blue man with a bandaged forehead hovered over me. “He's up on seven,” he said, turning to the walrus. “Have psych check this kid out.” The walrus nodded his mustache.

I was pulled out of the white room and given a ride through the snow, but it didn't last long. I was in a bigger, whiter room now, and the blue men handed me over to some white men with flashlight fingers who gave me another ride. They poked, whispered, and hovered, then someone stuck me and I fell asleep.

I awoke to a blinding head and the smell of antiseptic.

“How are you feeling?” the blinding head said, his crown reflecting brightly from the overhead fluorescent. He was smiling suspiciously with mustardy teeth and powerful breath. “I'm Dr. Sloan, Evan. How's that head feel?”

It felt big and thick, throbbing and cloudy. It came out in much simpler terms.

“My head hurts.” He nodded, waiting for more. “Where am I?”

“You're at Miller—Miller Hospital. You hit your head in an accident.”

“Where's my car?” I tried to prop myself up. My arms were strapped down.

“Take it easy, just take it easy, now,” he said, pressing me down to hold me still. “The restraints are there for your own good. You were flailing pretty bad when they brought you in, and the doctor gave you a sedative to calm you down. Just take it easy, now . . . ” I was becoming more uneasy every time he said it. “No, I don't know where your car is. Now, you have a mild concussion, Evan, and I want you to just take it easy for a bit . . . just take it easy, you're going to be fine. Here, take these—they'll take care of your headache.” He put a red and white capsule on my tongue and gave me some water. He gave me another. “There ya go...just take it easy...”

He started floating around my bed.

“You know, Evan, when you jar the brain like you did—albeit mildly in your case—the mind reacts to the trauma in some very strange ways. In severe cases, there can be some memory loss, but in mild cases, such as yours, sometimes, well, the trauma can trigger some very strange reactions, such as nightmares or very vivid dreams. One of the nurses told me that you were having a fitful sleep, and I came in to check on you. Do you remember what you were dreaming about?”

“No, I don't think so. I can't remember.”

“That's okay, Evan—and it's not uncommon. You were given a sedative to calm you down and not remembering what we dream about is hardly unusual.”

I began to worry about the way I was being questioned, and wondering God-knows-what I might have said in my sleep.

“Are you a shrink?”

He rolled right past my query.

“Do you remember anything at all?”

“No. I can't think of anything.” I must have said something. “Was I talkin' in my sleep or something?”

“Are you sure you don't remember anything?”

“I told you—”

“Anything bothering you?”

“Yeah. Can ya undo these straps now?”

He rolled right past that one, too.

“Anything at all?”

“I toldja—”

“I see. Okay, Evan, you just take it easy for a while and get some rest. Someone will be in to check on you later.” He made an abrupt scribble on a clipboard and whisked out of the room.

My mouth was still open, awaiting delivery of the words to all the questions I had for the blinding head, but he was in the hall by then. He was greeted in the hall by two blue men and a trench coat man, who glanced at me suspiciously before anxiously pulling the doctor aside with a tug of his sleeve.

I had my body and neck stretched to the limit, craning toward the hallway to catch a word or two, but they were out of sight, and there was too much hallway-bustle going on to make anything out. Scurrying white figures with shuffling little feet and bustling whispers zipped by my window, kicking up the antiseptic air with their starchy shuffle. It was air trying to be pleasant and clean, but left the impression of an overly perfumed whore who hadn't had her after-work bath yet. Distant yowls and drooling rants echoed through the bright corridor, screams that were red with madness until soothed with a cool lithium blue. Some of the quieter inmates paraded past my window, being walked like gimpy dogs. I closed my eyes and let my head fall to the pillow.

I kept my eyes closed and tried to sleep, but I couldn't tune out the madness. It became thicker and madder as the night deepened, becoming increasingly urgent and desperate as it gasped and clawed at the diseased air and the unknown of night. It foamed and banged on its cage as the delicate thread of sanity was gleefully being pulled by some invisible monster who relished and thrived in the unraveling. The screams and hyperventilated moans were inescapable, and I began to fidget and grind my teeth; my straps seemed to tighten. The harder I tried to tune out the sound, the more penetrating it became. I had the strangest sensation of being lured and seduced into its vortex. I felt closer and closer to joining them.

“Evan? You awake?” I opened my eyes and felt a soft hand on my shoulder. “How are you feeling?” She was pretty, around thirty or so, and smelled like the seventh floor.

“I feel okay. When can I get out of here?”

“The doctor wants to take another look at you first. Just take it easy.”

I gulped the scream that was coming up my throat. “Dr. Sloan?” I squeezed out through clenched teeth.

“No, Dr. Benidt. Dr. Sloan is the—Dr. Benidt will be in shortly.”

“Why am I in the psych ward?”

Five seconds of silence and a stare.

“Dr. Benidt will be with you in a little bit. He'll explain everything to you.”

“Look—can ya at least undo these straps? They're driving me . . .”

She waited for me to put my foot in the rest of the way. “That's up to the doctor. Now, do you need anything? A glass of water? A bedpan?”

“Yeah. How 'bout a smoke?”

“The doctor will be with you in a little bit. I'll check in on you—”

“Well! How are we feeling?” A blank-faced white figure appeared. His face was large and pasty, overwhelming his small, weak features. His eyes were like two pen dots on a fresh sheet of paper. He tried to read with them.

“How's that head feel?” the clipboard said. I wasn't sure if he was talking to me. Nurse Pretty disappeared. “Let's have a look.” He shined his finger in my eyes. It smelled like ketchup. “That's a nasty little contusion you got there. How do you feel? Headache?”

“Yeah, a little.”

“Mm-hmm. Anything else?”

“No—look, I feel all right. Why am I up here, Doc?” I said, motioning toward the straps. He paused, thinking about it.

“You were fighting everybody when you were brought in.” He looked down at the straps. “We weren't sure what was wrong with you, and we always restrain difficult patients in order to treat them.”

“No, Doc—why am I up here? This is the psych ward, isn't it?”

Sometimes my voice is invisible.

“You ever do any drugs? Hallucinogens? LSD or PCP—angel dust?”

“No!”

“Marijuana?”

“Well, no—I mean, yeah, maybe a little—”

“Which is it?”

“Look—I smoke a little weed, okay? It's not exactly dust or acid—I never touch that shh...stuff.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah, I'm sure.”

“Then what were you doing carrying around a tab of acid in your wallet? The police found it. You know, Devon, we can't help you if you continue to lie to us—”

“But—”

“Your behavior was indicative of a hallucinogenic experience, and judging from the reports we received from the paramedics and the police, and the fact that you were in possession of LSD, that's why you were brought up here. Now, your tests came back negative, but you're dealing with some powerful chemicals, Devon—chemicals that have been known to produce flashback experiences. We'd like to keep you overnight to make sure you're all right.”

“You mean, up here?”

“No. We're moving you down to three. But first, there's somebody from the police department who wants to ask you a few questions. I'll be back in a little bit.”

He went out into the hallway and nodded to someone. It was the trench coat man. The clipboard observed from the hall, arms folded. The trench coat entered.

He was short and wide, but had a small head that didn't seem to match his body, looking like an aftermarket replacement for his real one. He had salt-and-pepper hair with a little red in it, and narrow-set gray eyes barely separated by a pointy sliver of a nose. He toddled when he walked.

“Well! Evan—how you feeling? I'm Lieutenant James from the SPPD,” he said pleasantly, extending his meaty hand. “Oh, sorry,” he said, noticing the straps, withdrawing his hand and wiping it on his gray flannels. “Hey, Doc—are these really necessary?” he said to the clipboard, pointing to the straps. The clipboard came back in the room and unshackled me.

“There. That's more like it. Now we can relax and have a nice chat,” the trench coat said, dragging a plastic chair slowly across the room, never taking his eyes off me. He made the chair disappear when he sat on it. He scooched it closer to the head of the bed.

“Well, Evan—ah, you comfortable?” I wasn't, but I nodded anyway. “Look, Evan, I'm gonna get right to it: We got you on possession of a controlled substance—LSD, no less—and we can probably throw in a reckless driving, and you had some empty bottles under the seat. And, oh, we dug a pipe out of the glove and a roach out of the tray, just so you know.” He turned up a pursed smile when he finished, leaning into me a little, waiting for a reaction. He seemed very pleased with himself.

“Are you going to arrest me?”

“Well, that's a distinct possibility, don't you think, Evan? Of course, we're more concerned with you healing up first, but the Doc says you're going to be just fine.” He repeated the smile and leaned in a little closer. “But that's not what I want to talk to you about. . . .”

The chair reappeared. He clasped his hands behind his back and slowly toddled away from me. He turned and came back.

“Does the name Danny mean anything to you?” I involuntarily straightened up when he said it. He noticed my reaction. “It does, doesn't it?” I could see his eye in the snow.

I had to respond. I only knew one Danny, and I wasn't sharp enough to create a fictional one. I went with the old man's line on Danny.

“The only Danny I know of is the one the old man hired at the bar a week or so ago. He ripped him off and split. He's still missing, isn't he?”

“Yes he is, Evan—he's still missing. Is that all you know about him?”

I felt a shiver.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

He turned the screw.

“'Pretty much'? You mean there's more?”

“No, I mean, that's it—”

“But you implied more. Is there?”

“No—”

“But that's not what you said, is it?”

“No, but—”

“You're saying there is, then?”

“No—”

“Which is it, Evan? You either do or you don't. It's a simple question, Evan. I'm just going by what you said.”

“No.”

The chair disappeared and he scooched.

“I think you do, Evan. . . .”

He let it burn in. I could feel the heat of his breath on my ear and cheek. He was blowing on the coals patiently and evenly, waiting for a flame.

The chair reappeared and he toddled.

“Daniel Patrick Gentry . . . DOB 20 April 1951, Mason City, Iowa. Five feet nine inches, 167 pounds, brown on brown. Skull and crossbones tattoo, left bicep. One-inch scar, right temple. Last seen Sunday, 9 January 1978, 1:40 A.M., Little Dipper Saloon. Reported missing Wednesday, 12 January 1978.”

He fiddled silently with some items on the shelf across the room, his back turned. He puttered and poked, occasionally letting out a “hmpf” or a “mm-hmm” as he inspected the supplies. He added an addendum to his police report.

“Anything you'd like to add to that, Evan?”

“Look, I only met him the one time—when I was showing him around the joint, showing him where everything was. That's all I know.”

He turned around. “Well, he must have made quite an impression, Evan.” He turned up the toothless smile again. The coals were white-hot, about to flame. “I mean, for you to talk about him so much. . . .”

The chair disappeared but he didn't scooch. He made a fat steeple with his hands and waited. I went up in flames. He warmed his hands by the fire.

It was over. I thought of telling him everything, starting with my birth, but I probably told some flatfoot about it already. I must have babbled from the scene of the accident all the way up to the seventh floor. It all made sense now; the grillings from the blinding head and the clipboard, and now the trench coat was poking at me, finishing me, making sure I was well-done. I was carrying around an emotional weight that my conscience could no longer shoulder. I unconsciously removed it. The trench coat leaned into me slowly and tightly, his lips almost touching my ear.

“You were in on it with him, weren't you?” He pulled away to get the reaction from my eyes. I didn't give him the saucers he expected. Instead, he got an incredulous squint.

“What?”

“What was it? Fifty-fifty? Sixty-forty split?” He was still smug and pleased with himself. A wonderful sense of composure suddenly blanketed me. I still couldn't believe it. I must have given some incoherent disinformation.

“Why would I rip off my old man?”

He looked at me like it was the most moronic question he'd ever heard. “Easy money, my friend, easy money. You really didn't think you were going to get away with this, did you? This thing stinks of being an inside job—and an amateurish, botched job at that. It was either you or the bartender, and his story checks. Somebody opened that safe, and it sure as hell wasn't your old man. Only two people know the combination to that safe—and guess who that leaves?

“Now, your old man claims the bartender must have forgot to make the drop Saturday night, but a funny little clue dropped into my hands when I talked to that bartender on Sunday: the two keys to the bottom plate of the safe that he forgot to drop in the slot, when he made that drop on Saturday. That money was in the safe, no doubt about it, and at least a half dozen people saw him make the drop. Now, Danny's racked up quite a dossier as a thief, but he's no safecracker. That leaves you, my friend. Care to hear more?”

“Sure. Why not,” I said, still tallying up the long row of numbers he just gave me. He was still missing a few.

“Then there's what you said to the officers at the scene of your little fender bender. You just happened to be mumbling about some guy named Danny, something about an eye on the parking lot, about making the state line and—this is really interesting, Evan—you mentioned something about splitting some money, and you just happened to mention a specific figure: 800 dollars. Coincidence, Evan? Of course, you were pretty out of it and said some pretty wild things, but one of the officers—I believe it was Officer Gentry—found what you said pretty interesting. I mean, considering his younger brother is missing, and considering where he was last seen, and who you are. He just put two and two together, and here we are. Adds up pretty nicely, don't you think?”

I thought he was going to pat himself on the back for a job well done. He looked at me for a reaction, but I didn't have one to give him. The clipboard was still looking on from the hall, arms folded like a genie, and he was soon joined by two white figures who aped his pose. The trench coat noticed the three white genies and sensed it was time to go.

“By the way, Evan, you recently picked up a new set of wheels, didn't you? I bet you saved long and hard for your new ride, huh?” He patted me on the leg. “I want you to think about what we talked about, Evan, and get yourself a good night's sleep. Oh, and Evan? I'll stop by tomorrow to see how you're feeling. Good night.”

The chair reappeared and he toddled.

The three genies came in and prepared me for transport, adjusting and fiddling the equipment silently. After deeming their puttering sufficient, two of the genies backed away in unison, and the other began to push me toward the hall. Being flat on my back, all I could see of the hallway was the ceiling. A long row of fluorescent bars stretched out like lines on a highway. It was thirty-seven humming, buzzing bars to the elevator. I made my descent down to three.

The smell was roughly the same, only not as thick. My new room was identical to my old one, except this one had a private bath and one of those cold industrial clocks, the kind they use in prisons, factories, and schools—unfriendly timekeepers that remind you of every second. I was transferred into a much more comfortable bed, and after some more fiddling and a check-in by a sullen Broom Hilda-type nurse, I was left alone. It was quiet and not as late as I thought: A quarter past midnight.

Physically, I was feeling better. My head still had a dull throb to it, but I was well-rested and itching to move around. I started moving my arms and legs to make sure they still worked, and propped myself up in the bed so I was sitting up straight. I flexed and stretched and began to wonder what was outside my door. I tested my legs cautiously, standing next to my bed. A walk to my private bath verified that I could move. I started looking for my clothes. I was checking out.

My clothes were nowhere to be found, but I came across a pair of blue scrubs in one of the drawers and tossed them on my bed. I took a peek outside my door and quickly studied the corridor. It was quiet; no scurrying white figures or gimpy dogs out for a drooling stroll. To the left, toward the end of the hall, I spotted the sign for the stairs. To the right, about thirty feet down, was the nurse's station. I had a hunch that I would get one more visit from Broom Hilda, so I went back to bed with my traveling clothes and waited like a good little patient.

At 12:40 I heard a starchy, echoey chafe shuffling in my direction. It was Hildy, and she stuck her puckered face in the doorway, begrudgingly asking me if I needed anything. I told her my feet were cold, and asked her if she could get me a pair of socks or something. She left for about a minute, returning with a pair of surgical booties, which she tossed on my bed. They were better than socks, having a little patch of tread on the soles, and at least I wouldn't have to go out into the cold night barefoot. I didn't have a coat, but I could put up with the cold better than I could put up with being locked up in Bedlam with scurrying white figures, strolling gimpy dogs, and toddling trench coats. I listened to Hildy chafe her way back to Nurse Central, and began to wriggle into my traveling clothes. Checkout time was one o'clock.

I poked my head out of the doorway and looked both ways two or three times. Other than an occasional voice, and various beeps and rings coming from the nurse's station, it was quiet. I removed my booties, which were a little too scratchy on the cold tile, took a long, deep breath, and scooted down the hall on the balls of my feet.

I made it to the stairs at the end of the hall, eased open the door, and disappeared into the stairwell. I hurried down the icy concrete steps to the main floor, peering through the wire-reinforced glass in the fire door to see if it was clear. The main floor was noisier and better lit, but I couldn't see enough of the periphery through the porthole, so I cracked the door for a better look. The main desk was close and to the left, about thirty feet away, and bustling with activity. To the right, about fifty or sixty feet away, I saw the most beautiful sight: snowflakes dancing in a yellowish light. It was a glass door, and there wasn't a soul standing between me and my freedom.

It was a side entrance, and I didn't know if the door was locked. It might have been a fire exit, maybe even alarmed, but it was my only shot. With the main desk so close, and so much activity surrounding it, there was a good chance of being seen. But this could also work to my advantage; there was so much busyness going on, it would preoccupy them, thus giving me some cover. The main desk was recessed slightly from the corridor, so if I stuck close to the wall on my right, I might not be seen. I told myself not to look back, no matter what, and started hustling down the hall.

My heart was flitting like a scared robin's and my eyes were shifting side-to-side—like one of those cat clocks with the moving eyes. There were several doors lining the corridor, most of them closed, but there were three close to the end of the hall that were open, casting a white slant of light on the industrial gray tile. I noticed a stainless steel coatrack on the opposite wall by the door, with a brown lump on the top rack. It was a blanket or an abandoned coat, but it represented warmth, and I was going to make a grab for it. I decided against getting fancy around the open doorways, leaving it up to chance if anyone was in there or not. I closed in quickly on the door, making a swift cut to the opposite wall to grab whatever was on that rack, made a spinning move that would have made any NFL running back proud, and popped the horizontal bar on the door. I joined the dance of the snows.

I had grabbed a woman's overcoat. It was a drab, lifeless brown, a little snug, but had a snazzy leopard collar. There were a couple quarters and a litter of pennies swaddled in lint in one of the pockets, and matching leopard trimmed gloves in the other. I put my booties on and tried on the gloves as I distanced myself from the kennels of Bedlam. The gloves were too small, but I managed to stretch them over my hands, which were reduced to scrunched up balls of suede, the empty glove fingers flopping in the wind.

I had no keys, no car, and no wallet—and was dressed like an escaped mental patient. I was too far from home or Cal's, but only a mile or so from the joint, but I didn't think I could cover the distance in time to catch Artie before he left for the night—my only hope for getting in the joint and off the street. I had enough cash for a phone call, and started searching for a phone booth to call a cab, which I would worry about paying for later. I found a phone booth about a block away from the hospital and rang up a cab. I huddled inside to fight off the cold.

My cab pulled up in a slushy skid, having utilized every second of the estimated fifteen minutes. I could feel the heat as soon as I opened the door and tumbled inside the toasty cab. He asked me “Where to?” and caught a glimpse of his fare in the rearview mirror, the sight of which turned him around to give me the up-and-down. I had a wad of gauze sloppily taped to the left side of my forehead, which hung over a slightly blackened eye, which was accompanied by an assortment of cuts and scrapes from previous action. He studied my wounds and fright-night hair, then turned to my traveling ensemble.

“Don't tell me: Cross-dressing medical convention?”

I didn't bother with a reply. “10-32 Wakefield,” I said. We started to roll. “Hey, got a smoke?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said, fishing a pack of Pall Malls out of his shirt pocket. “Here ya go, honey.”

The address I gave him was a block north of the joint. A quick dash through a few snowy backyards and the alley behind them would get me where I wanted to go. The clock on the dash had it at 1:35, which seemed about right. I started to work on my freezing wet feet as we drove, rubbing them vigorously to get a little circulation going, preparing them for their next mission. My head felt fat and still had a dull throb to it, but I was more concerned about catching Artie before he left for the night.

I snuffed the cigarette as we turned onto Wakefield Street and got ready to pop that door handle. He slowed down in the middle of the block and checked the meter, which was closing in on seven bucks.

“Here ya go. 10-32. That'll be—”

I popped the handle and ran in the opposite direction. The street was too narrow for him to turn around in, so if he wanted me bad enough, he'd have to catch me on foot. He opened his door and got out a “Hey!” but I had a good twenty feet on him by then, and made my cut through one of the yards. The snow was knee-deep, and my scrubs and booties offered little protection from the elements. There was a thin layer of icy crust just below the fresh flakes on top, and the jagged edges I created by tramping through the snow were cutting the hell out of my legs. I made it to the alley and cut through the joint's parking lot, heading for the narrow passageway that separated the joint from its neighboring building. As I approached the front of the building, my cabbie drove by, making a slow pass on Lawson Avenue, still hunting for his lost fare.

It was quiet in front of the joint, and Artie's cream-colored, flappy-fendered Chrysler Imperial was still parked out front. He was probably having his usual nightcap, but I wasn't up to waiting for him. I had very little feeling in my feet, and my scrub bottoms were wet up to the middle of my thighs and clinging to my legs. I had red streaks and blotches all up and down my lower legs. Everything looked clear out front, so I went to knock on the door.

I banged four times on the metal door and waited. I didn't get the answer I was hoping for. Five guys emerged from the side of the building to see who it was. I had interrupted their after-hours dope-smoking session, and when they got a closer look and realized who I was, they started in.

“Hey, check out the leopard boy,” one of them said.

A stringy-haired potbellied squat emerged from the pack. He had on a stained gray parka with mangy, matted fur trimming the hood. He came in close and flicked the leopard trim on my coat. “Yeah, I'm talkin' to you, kitty-cat. We always knew you was queen of the jungle,” he said with a phlegmy laugh. He made a quick, jouncy move, like he was going to hit me, causing me to flinch. He intimidatingly pressed me against the door with his body. He smelled like a moonshiner who hadn't bathed or shaved in a week. The ends of his greasy brown mustache were in his mouth. “You gonna let us in and buy us a drink, kitty-cat?”

The others liked the idea and started to gather around.

“Yeah, c'mon, kitty-cat. I could sure go for a beer.”

“Rowrr . . . meeeoww . . . C'mon, kitty-cat—buy us a drink.”

“Yeah, c'mon, pussy-pussy, let us in. . . .”

“Rowrr. . . .”

“Meeeoww. . . .”

The door suddenly opened and I fell into the vestibule, almost knocking Artie off his feet. He grabbed me hard, like he was going to toss me into the street.

“Artie! Artie! It's me, Evvie!”

He let me go and pushed me aside. “Hit the fuckin' road, shitheads!” Artie snarled at the pack. They backed off immediately. Artie held the ultimate, omnipotent trump card to hold over their collective heads: The power to serve or not to serve. Nine times out of ten, it was the only power he needed to keep these guys in line.

I was finally inside and walked toward the bar to grab a beer. The slam of that metal door was the best thing that happened to me all day. Artie had camp set up at the end of the bar, and anxiously returned to his just-freshened vodka gimlet. Under his cigarette pack was a travel brochure, with a beautiful panoramic of ocean blue and an endless stretch of white sand and swayed palms. The letterhead was obscured, but I had neither the inclination nor strength to reveal its location. It was warm and sunny and somewhere else, and that was all I needed to know.

Artie took a long look at me as he worked on his nightcap. “Christ—what the fuckin' hell you been into?”

“Just killin' off another Saturday,” I said, not anxious to go into details.

I pulled off my coat and started to inspect the damage. I pulled the legs of my bloody scrubs above my knees, feeling pinches of loose skin coming off in the process. My legs looked like someone took a vegetable peeler to them.

“Je-sus Christ!” Artie said, looking at my legs. He looked at my head then back at my legs. “I'm not even gonna ask. . . .” he said to his drink. “Christ, what a night. . . .”

I didn't have to ask Artie what kind of night he had. It was written all over his heavy eyes and thick furrows across his brow. He ran his finger longingly across the sand on the brochure, then raised his drink to offer a toast.

“Better days. . . .”

I drank to that.

I turned the thermostat up to ninety and rummaged through lost-and-found for something dry and warm. Amid the orphaned gloves, mittens, and a lone chopper, I found a lined flannel shirt that would do nicely for a top, and an old softball jacket that would serve for the way home. I used the flannel as a kilt, removing my scrub bottoms and hanging them up to dry in front of one of the heat registers. The old man kept a nice pair of boots downstairs for snow shoveling duty, and I used the lining out of the lone chopper and one of the mittens for socks.

I poked away slowly at my duties, but managed to finish up by 7 A.M. The old man came in at seven-thirty, gave me a brief but curious once-over, then got on with his life. I asked him for a twenty-dollar advance, which he gave me without question or comment, then I rang up the Diamond Cab Co.—having used up my good graces with the folks at Yellow Cab. In an effort to balance the karmic wheel and assuage my conscience, I bestowed my cabbie with a generous two-dollar tip.

I was counting on the spare key to the house being there, and it was—tucked inside the cracked front lamp to our house, buried under a frozen pile of burnt moths and flies that couldn't resist the light. The house was unkempt, dusty, and intolerably cold. I gave the thermostat a healthy nudge, but it seemed that no matter how high I cranked up the heat, I couldn't shake the chill out of my bones. I was hoping a steaming shower would thaw me out, but I knew it would only be a temporary fix. I was beat-up and terribly run-down. The chill was telling me that I was getting sick.

I spent most of Sunday under the covers, getting up only when I absolutely had to. I didn't have the kind of job where you could call in sick, so I rifled the medicine cabinet for something to get me through the night. I gobbled down some aspirin and some decongestant tablets, then headed to the galley to scavenge something to eat. The best I could do was a can of cream of mushroom soup and toast.

I had enough money leftover for another cab ride, and a phone call to Artie to let him know I was coming would get me in the joint. With my short-term problems solved, I began to focus on the more pressing issues that awaited me in the upcoming week. For starters, the cops would be looking for me to settle up some unfinished business—hardly a Herculean task, because I was pretty easy to find. My wallet and keys were gone, but I couldn't exactly check in with the hospital or the police station to try and retrieve them, at least without them retrieving me first. The cash loss was negligible, maybe three bucks tops, but there was the matter of my ID and some papers pertaining to the ownership of my car. But short of turning myself in, there wasn't a whole lot I could do about it. The loss of my keys wasn't a problem. I had spares to the house and my car, and there was an extra key to the joint in one of the cash registers, which I forgot to grab the night before.

Getting my car out of the impound lot was going to be a problem. At least getting it out without being arrested first. If they didn't already know it by now, the folks at the front desk of the impound lot would soon learn that I was wanted. If I waltzed in and tried to retrieve my car legitimately, I would probably be cuffed on the spot. The cops hate to get burned, and by my checking out of the hospital early, I'm sure I added several new charges to the list. A pissed-off cop can be extremely imaginative and prolific with the penal code. What I was thinking was going to make matters much, much worse. I was going to get that car.

I finished up work early and waited for the old man to come in. It was payday, and I was pleased that the old man was right on schedule, his key hitting the keyhole at exactly 5:45 A.M. He knew I wasn't there for a friendly father-and-son chat, so as soon as he fished the money out of the safe, he slapped fifty-five bucks on the bar, but he didn't bother to put it in front of me. I had to walk to the other end of the bar to pick up my paycheck. I called another cab.

After twenty minutes of waiting for my ride, I called the dispatcher back to see what the holdup was all about. All he could do was reassure me that someone would be out as soon as possible, and that they were extremely busy because of the snow. Six inches of snow had fallen within the last twenty-four hours, and the tow trucks were out in force, clearing away the snowbirds for the plows, which meant brisk business for the cab and towing companies. It also meant that the impound lot was buzzing with activity, with all the tow trucks coming and going, and plenty of angry car owners clogging and complaining around the front desk. It took an hour and ten minutes before I heard a couple impatient blasts of a horn out front.

“Where to, kid?”

“North side.”

“Boogie town? Impound, right?”

“You got it.”

“Fifth time this morning. . . .” We started to roll.

“Anywhere to eat around there?” I asked.

“Plenty—if ya like chitlins and watermelon.” I was sorry I did. “Good doughnut shop, though. Dixie Cream's kitty-corner from the lot. That where you wanna go?”

“That'll work.”

My fare came to $6.09. He rounded it down to six, and that's exactly what I gave him, getting a disgusted look in return.

The air was warm and sugary around Dixie Cream Donuts, giving me a Pavlovian reaction that drew me right inside. It was a moist, rich atmosphere, thick with a swirling aroma of butter and sugar and fresh cinnamon mingling with melted caramel. I pointed to a gooey confection in the display case and ordered some black coffee, sliding onto a seat at the counter. There were two pearly-haired black men, dressed in thick cardigans and bow ties, tucked into a booth next to the window. They were engrossed in a playfully antagonistic checkers match, plotting their moves between sips of coffee and pulled morsels of fried dough. Joining me at the counter was a man in gray coveralls, fresh off the night shift; a thirtyish woman with her two young charges, trying to get the boys to use their napkins instead of their pants—being eyed by a shabbily but neatly dressed middle-aged man, his olive fedora on the counter, humorously enjoying the woman's futile efforts. Strains of Duke Ellington's “Mood Indigo” emanated from an old Emerson portable behind the counter.

I planned to leave after my third cup, but a fourth was necessary to shake me out of the wooziness that the sugary atmosphere was inducing. The cold air and brightness of day picked up where my fourth cup left off, and I walked down the sidewalk to check out the impound lot.

It was an imposing gated fortress, surrounded by a ten-foot cyclone fence topped with a roll of razor wire, just to make sure. After twenty minutes of watching the comings and goings from a bus stop bench across the street, I saw a representative from every towing company in town pass through those gates. With the robust traffic coming in and out of the lot, the main gates were perpetually open. The office was housed in a large tan complex that resembled an aircraft hangar, with an open side entrance that allowed a look inside the nerve center, which was swelling with customers. I noticed the customers exiting the office with yellow sheets of paper, apparently some kind of receipt or claim tag, as they headed out to the lot to reclaim their vehicles. A lone attendant was working the lot, pointing them in the right direction as they yelled out the makes and models of their cars. With a steady stream of customers and incoming tow trucks to guide, he wasn't checking the validity of anyone's paperwork.

I started checking out the shops that dotted the main drag of the Annapolis neighborhood, hoping to find an office supply or stationary store where I could pick up some yellow carbon-type invoices, but there wasn't one. There was a hardware store close by, so that was my first stop. I thought it might be suspicious if I just walked into a store and asked to see if their receipts met my needs—thinking that someone might have tried this scam before—so I thought it best if I made a few purchases. I grabbed a few screws at the hardware store and asked for a receipt, but they were pale blue. The local paint store was next, where I picked up a cheap brush, but their receipts were white. Roosevelt Plumbing Supply: yellow, but too small—and I didn't need a small white plug for a sink.

I looked up and down the sidewalk for possibilities. I ruled out the smaller stores, because I needed an industrial or commercial-type receipt. Then I saw a guy crossing the street about a block away, carrying a roll of carpet on his shoulder, and what looked like a yellow document in his hand, flapping in the breeze over the carpet roll. I ran down the street to check it out. It was a flooring and carpet store, and I went in and prowled around. I saw the clerk tearing off a receipt for a guy at the counter, and it was exactly what I was looking for. I started browsing for something cheap. I spotted an assortment of thresholds in a box and picked out the cheapest one. It was $7.95, and I moved to the counter to make my purchase. He asked me if I wanted a receipt.

It took a half hour and about twelve buck's worth of stuff I had no use for, but I had what I needed. I stopped briefly at the bus stop bench, and as soon as I saw a few people coming out of that office, I tossed my purchases under the bench and hustled across the street to join them. One by one they told the attendant their make and model, and grumbled their way to their cars. I parroted their grumbling, frustrated demeanor, and prayed for the worn-out attendant to show me the way. I felt like howling with delight when he pointed me in the right direction, but I didn't allow myself to savor the victory. I had no idea if my car was drivable or not.

It was a sight with a sore eye and we seemed the perfect pair. The left front fender was wrinkled up a bit and my hood was pinched, but it looked like it would go. The radiator looked like it came through all right, and I'd have a new headlight in before nightfall. We had matching black eyes. The interior was unpleasant, with a nasty vomity smell and crusty residue on the steering wheel and dash, and it looked like every inch was picked over and thoroughly searched. The contents of my glove box were scattered all over the floor, and some of my carpet was pulled up, but I wasn't about to complain. I pumped the gas pedal twice and turned the ignition key. It grinded, spit, bucked, and shimmied, but roared to life with a huge plume of black smoke belching out the rear. I wasted no time in heading for the gate. I gave the overworked lot attendant a friendly adios, which he seemed to appreciate, and treated myself to that suppressed victory howl as I turned onto Annapolis Street.

The drive back to town assured me that everything was running okay, but it was a nerve-racking ride all the way. I knew I had to get off the street as soon as possible, so I decided to stash the Interceptor in Cal's garage, whether I had his permission or not. The lock on the Holden's ramshackle alley garage has been broken for as long as I've known Cal, hadn't seen a car in years, and was mainly used to house the overflow of junk that there wasn't room for down the basement. I would probably have to jockey around some junk to make room for my wheels, and it meant another cab ride or two in my future, but I wasn't about to be a sitting duck at home waiting for the cops to show.

I stopped by Wes's 66 to see about getting a headlight and checking the car's vitals before I stashed it at Cal's. Wes pulled a headlight out of an old Torino that was headed for the boneyard, and told me to help myself to some coffee in his office. He had it installed by the time I came back with a cup. After topping off the tank and putting in a quart, Wes mentioned that he'd found some decent retreads for me. He said it would only take a half hour or so, and that he had the time, but I told him that I was short on funds. I had about forty bucks left from my paycheck, enough to cover the thirty-five for the tires, but I needed the rest of my cash for another cab ride or two, and I planned on checking in to a motel for the day. He told me not to worry about it and that I could pay him later, so I told him to go ahead. He had me ready to roll in twenty minutes. I rang up another cab from Wes's, instructing them to pick me up at Cal's in a half hour.

It took five minutes to get to Cal's and another fifteen to make room for my car in his garage. I waited for the cab on the sidewalk stoop in front of Cal's house. I was worn-out from all the running around and being up all night, and I was beginning to lose the fight to keep my eyes open. I got up and started to pace around to stay awake.

All the shades were drawn at Cal's, and the only sound emanating from the house was the occasional rusty creak of the screen door, which had somehow managed to hang on through the storm. There was a dog yipping and scratching impatiently to come in down the block, and the mailman was drawing close, his muttering now within earshot, griping about the condition of some of his customers' sidewalks. I rubbernecked with each approaching vehicle, hoping it was my ride, but worrying it was a cop.

The cabs were still running behind, and watching the mailman go from door to door reminded me of every minute of it. He covered about two houses a minute, and I first noticed him about twenty houses down. He was right next door. He sifted through his bag as he crossed the yard, his lips moving to an unidentifiable song that squeaked out of the small transistor radio clipped to his hip. He shoved the mail halfway into the recessed slot in Cal's house, and let the lid clamp down on the letters, leaving them half exposed to the elements. As he whistled to his next stop, my cab pulled up to the curb.

I instructed my driver to take me to the Blackhawk Motor Inn, a motel on the edge of town, right off the interstate. Rooms were sixteen bucks a night, boasted of color TVs, and there was a cafe next door that was a favorite among the Peterbilt and Kenworth set. As we drove off, I took one more look at Cal's place, glancing in disbelief at how different everything looked. I could hear the mischievous clamor of four runny-nosed boys shaking the house to its foundation, and the beleaguered older brother futilely and laughably trying to restore order, until finally throwing up his hands in disgust and making more noise than all of them put together. Now the house was dead, its eyes closed; stripped of the very thing that was holding the dilapidated old house together. My thoughts shifted from lamentation to a drowsy daydream image of the house just caving in, folding into a mass of jagged, dusty rubble. As I was about to turn away, I noticed the mail was gone.

I laid my money down at the front desk of the Blackhawk and signed the register as William Johnson, the first name that popped in my head. I passed the cafe as I made my way across the parking lot on the way to my room. The smell of home fries and bacon made me hungry, but I didn't feel up to wading through the crowd at the busy cafe, so I decided to eat later. The room was cold and sparsely decorated with nondescript furniture and dime-store paintings. It was the kind of characterless furniture that you would find in a dollhouse, except these were facsimiles that hadn't gone through the miniaturization process. The walls were no match for the roar of trucks zooming up and down the interstate. The horizontal hold on my TV couldn't, and I was stuck with a rolling picture on every channel. I turned it off and picked up the phone.

Cal was always at work by 9 A.M. I figured it had to have been him who grabbed that mail, and I wondered if he called in sick again or switched shifts with somebody. I wanted to avoid another run-in with Cal, and I knew he'd hit the roof if he discovered my car in his garage, so I rang up the pancake palace to see if I could find out anything.

“Palace Pancake House, Ronald Thornblatt.”

It was Cal's nerdy, snivel-voiced boss. He always wore a white short-sleeve dress shirt with a fat brown tie, and carried at least five pens in his front pocket. His wallet bulged a good two inches out of his shit-brown polyesters. Cal made sure all his fellow employees called him “Ronny Horny Rat, Ronny Horny Rat” behind his back—scolding them if they didn't do it properly. You had to say it twice.

“Hi—Cal Holden, please.” Ronny Horny Rat Ronny Horny Rat

“Mr. Holden is no longer employed here. Who is this? Is that you, Cummings? Well, you tell him—” I hung up. Ronny Horny Rat Ronny Horny Rat

My twin bed was cold and stiff and the bedding was scratchy. The sheets and pillowcase had that industrial, sterilized smell about them, and reminded me of the place where I had just stayed the night before last. I ignored the smell and the din of traffic, and was soon fast asleep.

It was dark when I awoke and I had no idea what time it was. There was no shower in my room, so I splashed some water on my face, tried to get my hair to lay flat, and emptied my pockets to see how my cash was holding out. I had about nineteen in bills and a pocketful of change. I tucked away sixteen bucks to cover another night at the motel, and tallied up my change to see what kind of dinner I was going to have. The cab rides were really eating up my funds, and I could only ditch them so many times, so I decided to chance-it and grab my wheels. I wasn't crazy about the idea, but it was either that or stay holed up and starving in my room for the next day or so, and stealing cab rides to and from work. It was too early in the week to put the touch on the old man for an advance, but I had a jar of change at home that I could squeeze a few meals out of. I'd worry about the rest of the week later.

The cafe's walls looked like they were glazed with deep fat, but the cheeseburger and onion rings I almost ran into when I walked in the door looked pretty good. The waitress who was carrying the plate didn't appreciate being nearly broadsided by an absent-minded customer, but I told her I was sorry and everything seemed all right. I went with the cheeseburger and onion rings, which were both freckled with mysterious black particles, washing it down with some strong black coffee, which was topped with an iridescent slick of oil. I grudgingly left a small tip, along with most of my onion rings, and headed to the pay phone to ring up another cab.

I gave my cabbie an address that was a block away from Cal's and readied myself to move. The strong coffee and grease mixed with the nervous adrenaline I was pumping was making my stomach churn and upper lip sweat, and I was fighting off these nasty shivers that were standing up the hairs on the nape of my neck. As my driver closed in and slowed near the address I gave him, I dug in my pocket theatrically, like I was getting ready to pay him, making sure he noticed. I loudly ruffled the leftover receipts from my shopping spree for the clinch. He stopped at the address and hit the arm on the meter. Just as he grabbed his logbook to jot down a note, I moved.

My greasy fingers slipped off the door handle and snapped it loudly instead of opening it. This aroused the full attention of my driver, who now knew of my intentions. He tossed his logbook on the floor and hopped out of the car to come around to cut me off. My second attempt to open the door was successful, and I had a good five or six paces on the guy by the time he slid around the back of the car, which gave me three or four more. I headed for the nearest backyard with my cabbie in pursuit. He wasn't about to let me go without a chase, and he was keeping pace, being a little younger and fitter than my last victim. I came upon a cyclone fence and dove over it, doing a belly-flop version of the high jump, doing a quick roll and recovery, then cutting right. The fence must have slowed him down, but I pushed myself to go faster, zigzagging left and right through backyards until I hit the alley, then jumped another fence and hid behind a storage shed to catch my breath. I lost him. I sat in the snow, my back against the shed, and rested a minute. Then they let the dog out.

I couldn't tell what breed it was, but it was big, black, and charging. I did an anemic high jump back over the fence and ended up on my back, with the dog on the other side, barking and spitting in my ear. I had taken my last complimentary cab ride. I was tiring of the madness and felt like letting the cops and the seventh floor have at me. At least I'd get medicated, not to mention the daily walks if I was a good dog. I brushed myself off and started snaking down the alley toward Cal's garage.

I was guessing it to be eight-thirty or so by the time I made it to Cal's. The shades were drawn on the back kitchen windows and the lights were on. I watched for a couple minutes before I cracked the garage door, to see if he was rumbling around in the kitchen or not. Everything looked clear, so I opened the door.

Hearing my Interceptor's throaty rumble put me at ease. It was like hearing from an old friend, but there was little time to catch up on things because I had to get going. I closed the door as quietly as I could and made my way down the alley, turning up the side street that led to Sixth Street, the main drag that went through Cal's block. As I sat at the stop sign about to turn right on Sixth, I noticed a cab parked in front of Cal's.

I waited at the corner to see what was up. A few minutes later, Cal came stumbling down the walk and staggered into the cab. They took off and I followed. They were heading downtown, turning onto Lawson Avenue. The cab pulled over at a familiar address: 1045 Lawson. They were right in front of the joint.

I pulled up a few car lengths behind, wondering what the hell Cal was up to. He knew he wouldn't get served in the joint, but maybe he was drunk enough to try it. He paid his driver and spilled out of the cab. He dropped a bunch of change on the sidewalk, waving a drunken hand at it instead of picking it up. He disappeared into the joint. I sat in my car and waited, expecting him to be promptly shown the door. After five minutes and no sign of Cal, I imagined him giving Artie a hard time trying to get a drink, and probably giving some customers a bad time, too, which wouldn't stand, because they'd just kick the shit out of him. I wanted to find out either way. Cal was on a five-day drunk, with no end in sight, and didn't know what he was doing. I knew he'd throw a kicking and screaming fit if he saw me, but I wanted to pull him out of there before he got hurt. I headed inside.

I looked around the barroom for Cal, ignoring the dirty looks and mumbling and a familiar meow from one of the guys at the bar. I didn't see him. I approached the bar to ask Artie if he saw him. I got spun around by one of the customers.

“Hey, kitty-cat, how 'bout buying us that drink you promised?”

I was suddenly in the middle of the same guys that hassled me the night before. They circled around me and started pawing and poking at me, pushing me back and forth with their chests.

“Here, kitty-kitty. . . .”

“Meeeoww. . . .”

“Rowrr. . . .”

A roar of laughter coming from the back room turned their attention away from me, and they went over to join the gathering crowd to see what the commotion was all about. Big Lee was bawdily parading around topless in the back room, stripped to her skivvies and proudly twirling her bra over her head. She teased the mostly-male congregation, brushing up against them and anointing them with a brush of her bra, garnering several dollar bills in the process, which were shoved into the waistband of her plus-size underwear, until it looked like she was wearing a dollar-bill belt. I walked down to the end of the bar to talk to Artie, who was laughingly enjoying the show.

“Hey, Artie, didja see Cal come in here?”

“Yeah, the drunken fool. He knows he ain't gettin' served in here,” he said, still eyeing the show. “Yeah! Take it off, baby!”

“Where'd he go?”

The crowd roared as she tossed them her bra.

“What? All the way, baby, all the way!”

“I said, where'd he go?”

“Oh. He just went down to talk to your old man.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

I pushed my way through the tight crowd that had gathered behind me while I was talking to Artie, trying to make it to the basement. Lee was really putting on a show, and her legion of frenzied fans that I was bulldogging through didn't appreciate the interruption, and angrily shoved back. I paused for a few seconds when I reached the stairwell, as flashes of possible scenarios raced through my mind, none of them good. The crowd broke into a mighty roar as I started my descent. The juke was pushed to the limit, with the overdriven speakers pumping out a horribly deformed and distorted version of “The Stripper.” On the third step from the top, my worst-case scenario played out. I heard a tight popping sound, like a loud firecracker, from deep within the bowels of the basement. It was the sound of a 9mm pistol, and I knew of only one person who owned one. The hopped-up crowd wasn't the slightest bit fazed by the shot. It was immediately followed by applause. The show was over.

My inner voice told me to go up, but I found myself going down. I had this strange, trance-like feeling as I moved forward, as if I was sleepwalking or under some kind of hypnotic spell. It was like I was being drawn or pulled; an ineffable force was propelling me forward, and it seemed like all I could do was just put one foot in front of the other. I walked at the same pace, neither fast nor slow, and turned right at the walk-in, approaching the old man's office. I turned and squared myself in the doorway to his office and stopped. Cal was on his back, square to the doorway, his head resting inches from my feet. His posture was cross-like; his glasses on straight, eyes open and still, his mouth slightly agape. His nickel-plated .38 was in his right hand, loosely gripped. He had a single gunshot wound to the chest.

I turned my gaze upward and stared blankly at my father. He was standing stiffly, his legs spread and feet firmly planted, his eyes indifferent, locked cold and fixed. His right arm was extended fully, appearing still and forged, as if it was something fished out of a toolbox and snapped on, the right tool for the job. A Browning semiautomatic, grasped tightly and steadily, was trained at my chest. His left hand was pulling banded stacks of currency out of a bank bag, placing them prominently on the desk. His cover story and justification would be firmly in place by the time the cops arrived. I crouched down to Cal and moved my hand to touch his shoulder.

“Go on—pick it up,” the old man said flatly, motioning toward Cal's gun with a dart of his eyes. “I know you were here, ya little fuck—thanks to your little faggot friend here. Go on—James has got you pegged for bein' a thief anyway.” He shook his head in disbelief. “That stupid fuck. Can you imagine that?” He tossed the empty bank bag aside and stuck a stub of a cigar in his mouth. “What's it gonna be, chief?”

I rose slowly and started to back away, unable to break eye contact from his cold dog stare. I was two feet out of the doorway and still locked in, impotent in trying to break away. The floor creaked and swayed above me as beery swells of lascivious delight roared and swirled indifferently, not knowing or caring to know anything, except when 2-for-1 was over and who was drunk enough to go home with them.

“Yeah, that's it, just keep on going,” my father said. “And don't ever come back.”

I was backed up against a wooden pillar, the three of us all in line; a father, a son, an unholy ghost.

I broke the old man's gaze and looked down at Cal. I could hear his crazy howls and remembered the last night we were really together, the last time when everything was all right between us: howling at the trains down by the river. Hearing his howls again bolstered my strength and snapped me out of it.

Spotting the stacks of currency on the old man's desk sparked an idea that made me move. Accompanied by Cal's crazy howls ringing through my brain, I turned away and started to charge upstairs. My eyes were wide and aflame, my body steeled and taut, my jaw fixed like granite; my muscles hot-rolled steel. I felt like I could go through a wall. I yanked so hard on the railing going up the steps that I tore half of it out of the wall. I pounded my way up the steps.

There still was a crowd hanging around Artie at the end of the bar, and I muscled right through them trying to make my way to the tills, ignoring the shoves that neither bothered nor moved me as I cut my swath—and I had full intention of reciprocating every last one of them on my way out. I grabbed the bank bag next to the cash register and went about filling it. I worked from left to right, pulling out all the twenties, tens, and fives, passing over the ones to get to the big stuff: the cash drawer that was just to the right of the first till. The old man always kept a 1000 dollars in the drawer for cashing checks, and I snatched everything except the ones and the rolled change. I zipped the bag and started working my way out. Artie had a curious grin on his face as I moved toward him, and backed out of the way to let me through. I didn't have to bother with the crowd on the way out. They were busy with a rousing game of keep-away, as a naked, desperately grabbing Lee went about trying to get her wig back, which was gleefully being tossed among the crowd. I hit the back door because it was the quickest exit and rushed around to the front of the building to get my car. I fired up the Interceptor and slapped it into drive.

Every stretch of road has a distinct charm and personality all its own. Some are aesthetically pleasing, like a winding, hilly road that placidly unfurls through a forest, or a dusty country road that yawns through the Plains with no vanishing point in sight. With some roads, the beauty is not so easily seen, seeming to be nothing more than cold ribbons of reinforced concrete obtrusively carved out of the landscape. Their beauty is unique and not catered toward the eye; it is a beauty of distance and possibility. Theirs is a charm and beauty turned inside out, something found at the end of the road, not on it.

The on-ramp to the southbound interstate off Western Avenue is a quarter-mile stretch of unblemished concrete that slopes downward almost imperceptibly, at about a 2 percent grade. It is the most perfect stretch of road I have ever been on, being baby-bottom smooth, without a crack, patch, or pothole; you can't even feel the seams. Its slight grade makes your car feel faster, and its generous length offers plenty of room for overacceleration, making it a favorite among the muscle car set, who often start from a dead stop, lighting up their positracs halfway down the ramp. Whenever I make a run, it always starts on this unnamed stretch of road. It is hallowed ground, the road that leads to all roads, and I have never used it for anything else. It is 107.3 miles from the top of the ramp to the state line.

Three squads and an unmarked charged in tight formation up Lawson Avenue, and I pulled over as the flashing lights approached. They zoomed past, sirens silent, but the compressed pitch and roar of engines zipping by like bullets amply conveyed a sense of urgency. The swirling flashes of light left a residual blizzard of spots, like somebody popped off all four sides of a flashcube in my face. I knew where they were going and a check in my rearview confirmed it. I already knew what they would hear.

I turned onto Western Avenue and headed for the entrance ramp to the interstate. I pictured the scene in the old man's office, with the cops all around, nodding and believing as the old man took control of center stage, weaving his tale matter-of-factly and modestly, with the cops gobbling up every word. He was probably garnering a little sympathy to boot, considering his run of bad luck and all, with all these thieves in the midst trying to take what's rightfully his. He'd graciously get them coffee and they'd be apologetic, because of all the procedural hoops he'd have to jump through because there was a shooting. But he'd understand because he was one of them once and understood how the game was played.

The scene kept playing over and over in my head. The images and sounds were so startlingly clear and detailed, I felt like I was spying. There were a half dozen cops gathered around, nodding and discerning, shifting their weight from one leg to the other, their arms folded and palms moist. I could see their stifled yawns and overrubbed eyes; hear the brisk scratching of pen on paper—the police photographer straddling over the body for an overhead shot. They studied the position of the body and plausibility of the story with a textbook dispassion and suspicion, outwardly manifested in the neatly furrowed creases of their brows and the keen squint of their eyes. It all made sense and they purchased every syllable.

I turned onto the ramp and stopped. I closed my eyes and tried to think of something else, but I couldn't shake the scene and, worst of all, the old man's voice. I kept hearing it over and over, but I couldn't understand a word he was saying; it was just the sound of his voice, going and going, the same tone and modulation, torturing like a steady drip in the dead of night. I hastily flipped on the radio to chase it away, but got blasted with a shock of white noise. It silenced the voice, but triggered the most disturbing image of all: the chalk outline of Cal's body. I put it to the floor.

I held on tight as I screamed down the ramp, my hands clamped down on the wheel like rusted vises. I was holding on with everything I had, trying to purge all the madness by taking it out on the wheel and accelerator, pushing it down with such ferocity and tension that I could feel the rusted floorboard begin to give under the heft of my boot. I hit the interstate at a solid eighty-five miles an hour, but wasn't even close to being satisfied. I took over the middle lane, my foot like a brick on the gas, pushing it as hard as it would go on the deserted straightaway. The speedometer topped out at 140, but that was simply all they could get on the dial.

My brights picked up an upcoming bend in the road, and for a second, I considered not backing off. One abrupt tug of the wheel on that bend would put me into a roll, and at 140-plus miles an hour, I would disintegrate before I came to a stop. The thought took me by surprise; I'd had passing thoughts of pulling the plug before, but they were just brief flashes that were dismissed as quickly as they came. This was different, beyond the pale of passing thoughts—it was a consideration. I could see it; it was within the realm of possibility. I looked at my hands and could see the movement. Just one little tug and there would be no turning back. The stark visualization frightened me. It was the deepest, most bone-chilling level of paranoid fright that I'd ever experienced. It made me so scared that I didn't trust my hands. I took my foot off the gas and coasted into the bend.

I cracked my window for some cool fresh air and began to calm after a few deep breaths. All the racing and the unexpected reaffirmation of life had somehow purged the demon, and I settled into a nice steady groove of seventy miles an hour. At seventy, the Interceptor reached pure sublimity. This was a car built by and for the highway, and seventy was the perfect speed; the symmetric middle, the golden mean—the jump-off point that would take it from a humming, throaty purr of seventy to a roaring pounce as it tapped into its screaming top end. Its purring was contented and trancing, taking me into its comfort, making everything seem all right. With a jet of cool winter air soothing my temple, I locked into a rock-steady groove.

After a half hour or so of just being in tune with the road, the rhythm began to wane. I was on the darkest stretch of the interstate, with no streetlights or exits in sight, and I began to struggle to stay focused. I was in the middle of nowhere, a no-man's-land devoid of all light and life, the deep end of a still black pool that drowns you in cold silence and a long indifference. I kept looking in my rearview mirror hoping to catch a glimpse of some lights just to break the swallowing darkness, but it was like looking into a black starless sky. I turned to the radio for a reassuring voice, but I couldn't pull in a signal. It was as if I'd driven off the face of the earth.

The solace I had always found in the darkened silence was gone. It was always my refuge and haven; a protective shield from the razored edge of reality, an armored comfort whenever the world threatened to cut me. Ever since I was a kid, buried under a pile of blankets and staying up later than I was supposed to, it was always my place, a world in and of itself—a citadel that offered hope and the possibility of answers; harbor from a raging tempest. Somewhere along the highway I lost that place. Gone were the fortress walls that once protected me, and everything seemed to pour in. I could no longer hide or turn away. The freedom I always found in the darkness and on the road was replaced by cold hard truths that I could never outrun. Suddenly all the possibilities at the end of the road seemed unreachable.

By dead reckoning, I estimated myself to be about twenty miles from the state line. I wasn't keeping track of the odometer, but I had been on the road for at least an hour or more, and knew I was getting close. Although I had gotten off to a burning, manic start, the darkness of an unlit stretch of road under the shadow of everything else had beaten down my momentum. Now the miles clicked off slow, and I couldn't keep my eyes off the odometer. The miles became longer; the victories, smaller—until they didn't seem like victories at all. The miles that were behind me didn't make me feel any farther away than when I started. I thought the voices would become more distant with every tenth of a mile. But they were every bit as fast as I was.

The first town on the sign was Lake Hills, which is the first town across the border, tucked slightly to the west, seven miles over the line. It was always going to be my first stop when I finally cracked that wall, but it was a town that I'd visited many times before. They were only daydreaming visits via proxy, but I felt like I knew the town. My visits came courtesy of maps and imagination, and a small photo I dug up in an old travel brochure. It was a small town that offered gas, food, and lodging, a population of 1,171, and a twenty-five-foot wooden Indian hacked out of a giant oak, who welcomed you with folded arms and a shit-eating smile that only a white man would put on. I was eleven miles from Lake Hills, which put me a mere four miles off the line. It was a straight dead shot of open road flanked by neat rows of guiding, swan-necked lights. If you looked at it the right way, taking your eyes up from the road and into the horizon, it looked like an airport runway. Whenever I reached this stretch, I always leaned back in the seat and into the gas, wishing I could just pull back on the wheel and take off. But I always knew that when I made it this far, it was the end of the line, and I'd be turning back soon. It could have been the beginning, but I always chose it to be the end. After a while, I resigned these last few miles as a sublime finish; a rapturous flourish. The last notes of a final movement instead of an overture.

I leaned into the gas and seat like I always did, lifting my eyes to the horizon. The skies had opened up and unveiled its stars, their luminescence defying the darkness in rich clusters of pure, true light. I tried to hold on to the moment, but I couldn't shine as bright. Two weeks of pure darkness was snuffing everything out, and now it all poured in. The mad reels played over and over, and once again, I tried to outrun them.

I leaned harder into the gas and rolled down the window all the way, hoping a hard blast of winter air would clear my head and release the demon. I tried to get my courage up, urging myself on and on to keep going and going, pounding the wheel and dash until my dry skin split and blood rolled down my wrist. I cranked up the heat and the radio full bore, leaving a smear of blood over the glow of the dial. Make some noise make some goddam noise A voice cooked inside me until it finally blew, releasing an unfettered torrent of pent-up fear and rage blasting from my lungs. I purged and screamed until I had nothing left, then tried to unscramble the sullied radio to pick up the slack, willing to settle for anything that would come in and break the darkness.

Clearing skies had allowed the radio stations to seep through, and it didn't take more than a flick of the dial to hook into a clear signal. I picked up a newscast around the middle of the dial, and was grateful just to hear a voice other than the ones that haunted me. Go on, pick it up . . . Hey, kitty-cat . . . You know, Devon, we can't help you if you continue to lie to us . . . Have psych check this kid out . . . Meeeoww . . . Ya little queer son of a bitch . . . You were in on it with him, weren't you . . . Come on out ya little pussy, let me finish what I started . . . It scattered those spearchuckers all over town The broadcast consisted of the usual tally of a world gone mad. Bloodless tales of hate, murder, rape, and war, all delivered with a matter-of-record dispassion and professional aplomb. People were talked about like they were inanimate, tossed aside and dispatched like ratty old furniture. There was plenty to go around. The actuary tables would be adjusted. There'd be more tomorrow.

I changed the station, then stared at my hand in disbelief. It was an unconscious reaction, a movement typical and fitting of what I had become. My next reaction was just as unconscious and heinously automated: The rationalization. But with it came a crystallized clarity of what I was doing, of what I always did; a mechanism entrenched so deeply inside of me, that was so much a part of me, I didn't even know it was there: I turned away. I remembered thinking I was brave when I unflinchingly watched the old man take apart Danny, while Cal tried to regain his composure at the bottom of the stairs. I thought I was facing reality head on, but it was nothing more than morbid curiosity laced with a whisper of revenge. The bravery needed to come afterward, to face up to the hard truth. To look injustice squarely in the eye.

A flood of memories poured forth, as if all my past acts of cowardice and feeble attempts to rationalize and assuage were neatly cataloged and packed away, suspended in a divine patience, waiting for the right moment. A seemingly innocuous, unconscious movement had thrown open a door, and behind it lay the unflinching, stunning clarity of truth—which now refused to afford me the luxury of turning away. I started to think about Cal and everything he had to carry, how he shouldered his weight with a straight back and a clear eye, carrying his load humbly and honorably until it finally crushed him. I began to realize that I had helped push that last stone on his back.

The blurred, jagged outline of a large sign was coming into focus, and I straightened as it drew closer, realizing exactly where I was. I had never driven the roadway beyond the great sign, and I always wondered if the land beyond was as welcoming as the promise that it offered. It was a dark and unsure road and I was coming hard and uncertain, bags fully packed. At seventy miles an hour, I began to wonder what it would take to get me down that road. I thought it might be courage, then I changed my mind to cowardice, then providence, and eventually, nothing at all. I blew past that last exit before the line, looking up that long, lazy ramp, and in a flash of my mind's eye, I could see my car sheepishly crawling up that ramp like it always did, turning around to head back home. The thought sickened and weakened me and I just wanted everything to stop. I slammed on the brakes.

The shrill of hot fixed rubber on frozen concrete straightened me up like the sound of a dentist's drill. My path was as smooth as a scuffed knuckleball and about as steady as a paint shaker. I bucked, shuddered, and fishtailed, and through it all, managed to sing harmony with the screeching—emitting ineffable voicings from my mouth which I didn't think possible. I came to a crooked rest, my hands still fused to the wheel, and I huffed to restart the respiratory process. As my car sputtered trying to regain a steady idle and the heat and the radio blew, I began to look around to see where I landed. I could have touched the great sign. I closed my eyes and softly lowered my head to the wheel.

In news around the region . . . The badly beaten body of a man found Sunday in a landfill near Wilmington has been identified by investigators in Misquah County as a Sunset Park man. Sunset Park Police Lieutenant Robert James said the body of Daniel Patrick Gentry, 27, was discovered by an employee of the landfill and is being investigated as a homicide. Gentry was reported missing last Wednesday and was last seen about 1:30 A.M. on Sunday, January 8th at a Sunset Park bar. No suspects have been arrested in the case. In other news . . .

I slowly lifted my head and opened my eyes as the story unfolded. The words registered almost imperceptibly, but once they were digested, began to burn. All the layers of armor I had amassed now began to melt away. Suddenly all the madness of the last two weeks ceased being thought and memory, coalescing into a highly volatile fuel just itching to light something up. I was through with the endless deliberations and rationalizations that had come to enslave me, and began to straighten. My gaze was no longer deflective; my chin rose from my chest. My boot, resting lightly on the gas to keep my car from dying, now began to pump. I swelled with the throbbing rpm, rising with each defiant surge.

Serving the great Midwest from the middle of the dial, Radio 1-K, WMIN. It's 19 to midnight

A strange chill shivered through me when I heard the time, and my fever immediately cooled. There was something uncomfortably familiar about it, a remote darkness that resonated in that moment that somehow connected the past to the present. I looked in the mirror as if I'd find it there, looking so deeply into my own eyes that the reflection cast did not emanate from the mirror, but from somewhere inside myself. The image was somewhat clouded and distant, but I could see that it was a child, a vague remembrance of somebody I once saw or knew. But as my inward gaze gained focus and penetrated deeper, I was struck by a profound sense of déjà vu. I realized that the child I was looking at was myself. I was a little boy of six or seven, sitting in a darkened corner of our old house, my arms wrapped around my knees, rocking and cradling myself as a storm raged around me. I could hear the faint whimper of my voice, sniffling and frightened as I tried to console myself from the terrible screaming that tore through my entire body. As I fell deeper into the pit of my past, seemingly disparate fragments of recent memory began to crop up beside it. As I sifted through the remnants of past and present, the memories which I thought incongruent became two outstretched hands, each reaching out to the other, each desperate for the other's touch. As they forged their link, the raven valley that held the darkest of my fears—that impassable chasm where I hid my past from my present—had been traversed. I was struck with a remarkable clarity, and all the pieces began to drop into place. I understood the profound familiarity I felt when seeing my mother with a black eye, and how she ashamedly turned away from me. It was in her motion, how she put her hand up and turned, the way her head bowed in humiliation. She performed the exact same motion that night as I watched from that darkened corner, when I came into her view. I now knew the significance of that large clock in the printer's shop and what drew me to be so fixated by its size and thick shuddering hands. I remembered staring at a large clock that night of the storm, wishing I could stop everything around me—the root of my ultimate childhood fantasy of having the power to freeze the world. Suddenly I was back in time, becoming that scared little boy once more, and I could see the thick hands of that clock—the exact moment of that unrequited wish—the heavy deliberate step of the minute hand pushing off the eight. 19 to midnight 19 to midnight I was thrown back by the icy slam of the screen door as I sat in front of Cal's, the sound singeing my nerves like a high-voltage spike. It was the slam of the old man leaving that night, the violent crack of sound that seemed the perfect personification of his being: cold; bloodless; indifferent—the final note of a violent movement that left an indelible scar instead of a sigh of relief; a wake of heartless destruction and shattered lives and death. Cal died trying to stop him. My mother and I simply wished it would go away, and upon the inevitable failure of this naïve notion, tried to ignore it. Now we were trying to outrun it. But you can't outrun the boundless reach of conscience. I had hoped providence would bring him down and assuage me of the responsibility, but the wait had become interminable. I had to go back.

I drove back moderately and coolly, without much thought or expression. I knew I was going to jail and that things would get worse before they got better. I didn't bother with the details.

It was about 2 A.M. when I rolled back into town and I pored over my options. My deliberation was brief and the poring hardly necessary; a simple toss of a coin would have worked just as effectively. I could either go directly to the police station and save them the trouble, or get a room and wait for them to pick me up, which probably wouldn't take very long. I decided on one last night of freedom. I would pay the boys a visit first thing tomorrow. I headed for the last known address of one William Johnson. The Blackhawk Motor Inn.

I was ten minutes away from the Blackhawk and headed north up Misquah County 7. A quick jaunt on the interstate would have cut my time in half, but I'd had my fill of the Eisenhower Interstate System for the night. I had the road to myself until about halfway, catching a flash of headlights in my rearview mirror. When I took a second look, the lights were closer, and I looked a little longer. The gap that separated us was being closed quickly, and I got a spray of the high beams. A flash of red immediately followed.

The shock of swirling cherries left me dumbstruck and I didn't pull over right away. This type of behavior tends to vex the law enforcement set and virtually guarantees a more stern application of justice. Considering my recent history with the police, it wasn't a prudent choice. A blast of the siren was necessary to coax me to the side of the road.

There were two dark figures in the squad and they weren't moving. They were learning all about me, and all I could do was sit and wait. They had every light available to them trained on my car, leaving my cabin so awash in light it was like I had the sun in the backseat. Then both doors of the squad bolted open. Two dark figures crouched low and tight behind the doors, guns drawn. One of them barked.

“Get out of the car slowly with your hands up!”

I pushed open the door slowly and swung my legs out first.

“Hands up—hands out front!”

I had trouble getting out of the car without the use of my hands and used my right to push off the wheel.

“Get your goddam hands up!” the wheelman shrieked.

I managed to get on my feet, my hands held high.

“Lie facedown on the ground! Get down on the ground! Now!”

The street was cold, sandy, and damp and I didn't know what to do with my face. The tip of my nose and chin were poor supports for my weight, and were ground into the pebbly surface of the road. It was extremely uncomfortable, so I turned my head to the side.

“Facedown! Facedown! Spread your arms and legs!”

They converged on me in a life-or-death frenzy, their footsteps scurried and brushed. Their uniforms chafed with the urgent rhythm zip-zip-zip-zip-zip-zip and they jangled like they had loose change in every pocket. One of the specters swung around to the rear and kicked my legs out further, while the other took to the fore, his gun lowered to my head. I heard a light jingle come from behind me, then my left arm was swiftly pulled back and my wrist clamped. My right quickly followed. My shoulders were unnaturally pulled back and felt like they were going to pop out of their sockets. I was jerked to my feet and dragged arm-in-arm to their car. I was shoved in the backseat, tipping over and banging my head off the armrest on the opposite side.

I was informed of my rights as the wheelman turned the car around to head back into town. It was a silent ride the rest of the way, and I squirmed in discomfort all the way to the police station. I was jerked out and given the arm-in-arm again, and was dragged inside. I was printed, photographed, and read a list of my transgressions. Some of them I was familiar with, the others I would figure out later. I was given a nice pair of orange coveralls for pajamas and was shown to my room. A toilet and cot were provided for my comfort. It smelled of urine and stale cigar smoke with a weak twist of pine. I was the only guest. I went to bed.

Breakfast was a stiff cinnamon pastry and burnt coffee. As I worked on my breakfast and fought off the chill of the cell, somebody came to my door. I didn't recognize him straightaway, because he had changed since the last time we talked. He had switched from the thin trench to a more seasonable wool. The first volley was his.

“Well, well, good morning, Mr. Cummings, nice to see you again. Remember me? You stood me up on our last date. Care to hear why you're here?”

He pulled out a rolled up sheet of paper and unfurled it. He began to read.

“Possession of a controlled substance, reckless driving, DUI, open bottle, breaking and entering, auto theft, fleeing the law, resisting arrest—and then there's all this business with the robbery of your dad's place and Danny Gentry.” He looked up from the list and gave me a cold blank look. “Ring a bell?” He forgot about the print shop job. He turned and started his toddling routine. “Well, Danny finally turned up. . . .” He stopped and spun around. “Did you know that?” He waited for a response. I had one, but the words weren't there yet. “He turned up dead, Evan. We found him in the dump, beaten to a pulp. You know, Evan . . . we can hold you here for a long, long time. I think it's about time you told me what you know.”

“Did you see the body?” I said, dropped fresh out of the blue.

A flash of incredulity washed over his face. “Yes I did, Evan—”

“Was his left eye missing?” I coldcocked the Lieutenant. It was time to tell him what I knew. “You might wanna write this down. . . .”

He waved over one of the officers to open my cell. We took a silent walk down the corridor to his office. He broke out the coffee and an old Ampex reel-to-reel recorder. I asked for some cigarettes, and he pulled an open pack of Chesterfields out of his drawer and tossed them on the desk. He chided me for smoking, telling me how I'd regret it someday and how hard it was to quit.

I told him everything. How it started and how it brutally ended. How a capricious schoolboy prank festered and swelled into the loss of two young lives. I gave him a literal blow-by-blow of one human being taking apart another. I described the blood and the sounds and the expressions over and over, with everything I said being meticulously triple-checked for accuracy and consistency. I told him about Cal and what he was doing in the old man's office with a gun. He said he was sorry about my friend. I began to cry.

Two hours had passed in the Lieutenant's office before the questions stopped. For two hours he intently leaned into me from the edge of his chair, his elbows rarely leaving the desk. His questions branched out like a tree; one would turn into three; three into six or seven—then he would jump from branch to branch, never taking the same route twice. Now he quietly leaned back into his chair, lighting his first cigarette.

“Jesus. . . .” he said softly, leaning back a little harder into his chair. It was all he said.

“What's going to happen?” I asked honestly.

“Well . . . as far as you're concerned, you're staying with us for a while,” he said, leaning into his desk again. “I think it's best if you stay here while we conduct our investigation. Plus, you still have a lot of charges to answer to,” he said sternly, reminding me that all was not forgiven because of my statement. I sheepishly nodded.

“What about my old man? Are you going to arrest him?”

“That, Evan, is up to us now.” His stern look lingered. “I have to ask you one more question, Evan. . . .” He put his hands together as if he was going to pray. “Are you willing to testify against your father?”

“You mean . . . in court?”

“Yes, Evan, under oath.”

It would make everything final. It meant the end of my relationship with my father. Forever. Nothing could ever be done to heal that type of wound. Not the healing powers of time, not divine intervention itself. Despite everything, he was still my father; he was my blood. I could still see him holding my hand when I was a child, seeing me safely across a busy street.

“Evan? Are you willing to—”

“Yes.”

I was escorted back to my cell in the same quiet manner in which I was escorted to the Lieutenant's office. We walked a little slower this time, and Lieutenant James walked a little closer to me. As we walked, he placed his hand on my shoulder, patting it softly, then giving it a gentle squeeze.

“You did the right thing, Evan. You did the right thing.” Maybe I needed to hear it a third time to make me feel different. I wasn't very proud of myself.

For the next thirty-six hours or so, all I could do was think. I was given a few magazines to help pass the time, but all I did was stare at the words. I tried to sleep the time away and escape my thoughts, but all I managed to do was rest my eyes. I would sit for a while, then I'd get up and pace, then I would lie down and rest my eyes again. I was in a cell inside of a cell, from which there was no respite. It was a cell of mirrors and there was no escaping my reflection.

I marked the time by the arrival of my meals. I knew it was morning by the arrival of some kind of pastry, a sandwich meant it was around noon, and a second sandwich brought on the night. It was quiet most of the time, but even more so at night. It was as if the quiet was sleeping.

On Wednesday night, long after my second sandwich, I was roused by a fevered commotion down the hall. The echo of footsteps soon joined the commotion, and they hurriedly came in my direction. An officer arrived at my door with the key in hand, and promptly opened my cell. He motioned for me to come with him, but kept his eyes on the action down the hall. As I joined him he grabbed my arm, then rushed me off in the opposite direction. I asked him what was going on, but he refused to answer my question. I tried to look for myself, but he was moving me too fast; every time I turned my head, our legs would tangle, and he'd become extremely upset. Then a voice arose out of the clamor—a gnashing, snarling voice that I felt in the hollow of my stomach. Everyone called him Bill.

The winds were calm that Monday morning they buried Cal. It was a funeral that I didn't expect to attend, but Lieutenant James had surprised me with a visit early that morning, telling me that he could arrange for me to go, if I'd like. His gesture touched and humbled me, softening my mood with a reflection that was fitting of the still and somber day. Few words were spoken among Cal's friends and family. They would greet each other quietly and politely, but quickly succumbed to the uncomfortable silence that always follows before moving on to the next.

As I waited in the processional line to view Cal's body, I saw his mother for the very first time. She was thin and haggard, a look not uncommon in people who have spent too many years around smoky saloons, but she was neatly and conservatively attired, in a dark navy dress. She stood solemnly with her four boys, who flanked her on both sides in their usual pairings, with the older boys on her left, and the younger boys clinging tightly to her right. I was anxious as I took my steps toward the body, but made even more so by the icy glances I was getting from Cal's mother, who was made aware of my presence when Kym-gym pointed me out to her. Others glanced as well, but their looks weren't nearly as unnerving, and they were expected. They were always followed by gossipy whispers.

I had never seen Cal in a suit before, or his hair so perfectly combed. He looked handsome and polished in his gray pinstripe, with the clean white underneath beautifully setting off his aquamarine tie. His handkerchief was resplendently white, properly starched and crowned. I had rarely seen him without his glasses, and was struck by how different he looked. This wasn't how I knew him, but I found comfort in the unfamiliarity. It made it easier.

As I walked over to express my condolences to Cal's family, Kym-gym tried to break ranks to greet me, but was sternly restrained by his mother. I received my customary dirty look from Mattie, and Andrew, as always, was checking his shoes. I extended my hand to Mrs. Holden, but she didn't reciprocate; instead, she stared at me contemptuously, a look that said it was all my fault. All I could do was accept her wordless reproach and move on. The younger siblings were glad to see me, almost bounding in their tracks, wanting to jump all over me like they always did, but their mother wouldn't allow it. I gave each of them a little tickle in the belly before moving on. They wriggled and snorted just like they did for their big brother.

I stayed back in the crowd at the cemetery. I knew my presence was upsetting to Mrs. Holden, so I made sure I kept out of her view. It was the right decision, a reasoned and respectful decision, but it ate at me like an acid. I was surrounded by distant relatives and acquaintances in the back row, people who were whispering back and forth the most inane and rudimentary questions about Cal and his family, and wondering what they were going to be served for brunch. I knew Cal better than anybody there. He was my brother—and I was surrounded by strangers. It was the cruelest of ironies, but I stayed right to the end. That's what Cal would have done. My uniformed escort was waiting to drive me home.

I was released the following Monday, after thirteen days in custody. I was never given a hearing, never offered the use of a phone, or provided with any type of legal counsel. My stay was at the behest of the Lieutenant, who seemed blissfully oblivious to the American Civil Liberties Union. I had no complaints about the violation of my civil rights, suspecting all along that the Lieutenant was just making good on his promise that my transgressions wouldn't go unnoticed, and that when he felt I was sufficiently punished, the charges against me would be dropped and I'd be released. I also figured that he just wanted to keep me close, which wasn't too hard to figure out, considering his frequent visits to go over a point or two. All my suspicions were confirmed in our last meeting in his office. So was the arrest of the old man, but my stomach had already verified that. The old man was sitting it out at the county jail, having been transferred there shortly after he was brought into the station. The Lieutenant joked that we would have made lousy neighbors. I was free to go, but not without a subpoena. The trial of Anthony William Cummings would commence on the twenty-first of February.

For three weeks I knocked around like a ghost in my own house. I had no job to go to, my wheels, as well as the old man's, were impounded, so if I wanted to get out of the house it would either be by foot or taxi, and the latter would probably land me back to where I just came from. I scavenged enough cash for a few pizza deliveries, while the rest of my meals came out of cans. I was grateful for the well-stocked pantry, but quickly tired of creamed soups, green beans, and peas. I spent a lot of time rummaging through a hall closet upstairs, next to my parents room. It was full of old family photos, high school yearbooks and diplomas, as well as memorabilia from World War II. There was a scalloped black-and-white picture of my mother and father on their wedding day, informally taken and posed. My mother was a beautiful June bride in 1958, my father ruggedly distinguished and handsome. It could have come out of Life magazine.

The visitor's gallery was full the first day of the old man's trial, the first murder case to be heard in Misquah County since the “Summer of Love” murders in 1967—when Orville J. Hennessey took a shotgun to his wife and hippie son one sultry August afternoon. The atmosphere heated quickly that first day, with the unyielding prosecution wasting no time in tearing into the vividly colored and violent life of Anthony William Cummings. The defense checked every point with equal vehemence, and the exchanges boiled over often. The Honorable Amos T. Whiting did his best to maintain judicial civility, but the dog-and-cat quality of the proceedings left him in an almost constant state of red. Word spread quickly about the show, and on the second day, people had to be turned away.

I was on the stand for most of the second and third day, trying to stay composed while the more colorful moments of my life were brought to light. The defense had reduced me to being nothing more than a mere junkie, questioning everything I saw or heard as being a direct result of psychotropic substances. My recent entanglements with the law were neatly folded into the defense's recipe for character assassination, as well as my brief stay on the seventh floor. It was an effective technique, and the disdain from the jury box was palpable. The subtle, knowing look of delight in the old man's eyes was a little more obvious. The whole world now knew what a no-good, hopped-up psychotic louse I was. But it all paled in comparison to the story I told. The prosecution made sure that I went over every single detail in full, living color. Judge Whiting had to call a recess after I described the kick that removed Danny's eye. Certain members of the jury were so disturbed by the detail, that they started to uncontrollably squirm in their chairs. One juror had to excuse himself, covering his mouth as he hurried to exit the courtroom.

The prosecution went from strength to strength during the course of the eight-day trial. Between my eyewitness testimony and the solid forensic evidence that was uncovered, the district attorney had built a strong case to support the charge of second-degree murder in the death of Daniel Patrick Gentry. Traces of Danny's blood turned up everywhere the police looked. It was in the old man's car and at the joint; it was on the jacket and pants he wore that night. Fragments of skin were found embedded in his right shoe. But as strong as the murder case was—despite the proven, torrid brutality that was the life of Anthony William Cummings—no justice could be found for the loss of my friend. There was little the police or prosecution could do. Cal had gone after the old man with a gun, and the old man was simply defending himself. They couldn't even hang him with illegal possession of a firearm. In the end, it was deemed a justifiable homicide.

It took the jury thirty-eight minutes to decide the fate of Anthony William Cummings. On Wednesday, March 2, 1978, at two-thirty in the afternoon, the twelve jurors solemnly reentered an anxious courtroom to deliver their verdict. An austere, bespectacled woman of about sixty stood when asked, and in a steady, plain-spoken voice pronounced the defendant guilty of murder in the second degree. The prosecutor and his assistants shared enthusiastic handshakes and pats on the back. A clamor of whispers filled the room as the gavel pounded to restore order.

I sat numbly in my chair as the courtroom bustled. I felt no exultation or sense of relief, nor gratification of justice being served. Throngs of busybodies shared their delight and glee, buzzing like bees do around their queen. Two uniformed officers pulled up cautiously alongside the old man, prepared to do their duty in guiding him to his feet for the long walk. Not even defeat could remove the defiance in my father's expression. For him, lowering his head in shame wasn't even a possibility. He looked straight ahead as he walked, never averting his glance.

“Evan?” a voice softly spoke. The touch on my shoulder was even softer, turning me around. My mother demurely and sweetly smiled at me, running her hand gently through my hair. “Are you all right?”

“I don't know,” I said, not even thinking about the fact that I hadn't seen her in over a month, or that my father was a murderer who was probably going to spend the rest of his life in prison. I saw her as that June bride. “I don't know much of anything anymore. . . . How long have you been here?”

“I've been here every day, Evan.”

“When I was on the stand?”

“Mm-hmm—I should probably ground you, too,” she said with a light touch of laughter. She laughed. I never heard her laugh before.

“I think the police beat you to it,” I said. “Thirteen day's worth enough for you?”

“I'm sorry about Cal, Evan,” she said. I believed her. “God, I can't think of a thing I'm not sorry about. Listen—are you free to go?” Her voice lilted. “I need to talk to you about, well.... Come to lunch—I, I mean dinner—oh, just come with me? Please?”

She had been staying with her sister, Patty, since I saw her last, that morning with the taxi waiting in the driveway. I asked her about the picture I found. She told me that she hadn't looked at it since the day she put it away. It was bad right from the beginning. I told her what I remembered from that night in the corner, and I could see the horrible scene replay in her eyes. She had told me that she needed to talk to me, but I wasn't giving her much of a chance to speak. I knew she wanted to talk about the future, about new beginnings and fresh starts, but all I could see was the dirty road behind us.

Her plans were as simple and final as the design and purpose was of the guillotine. She wanted to liquidate everything wholesale, right down to the furniture. All vestiges of the last twenty years of her life were priced to sell, and no offer would be unreasonable. She would have had brain surgery to erase all memory of the last two decades if it was humanly possible. She even toyed with the idea of changing her name. What she wanted was a quantum leap beyond a fresh start—she wanted to be somebody else all together. But there was one part of her past that she could never escape, something that she couldn't sell or ever forget, something impervious to the passage of time and distance of miles: The boy with his mother's eyes.

Everything was leading up to me. I was the lone variable in her grand design for a new life, and judging from her discomfort as she tarried around the point, something she had obviously given a lot of thought to. It was comforting to know that at least I was being considered, and wouldn't be sold with the house. It had gotten to the point that just mere consideration seemed to be enough. She finally managed to stumble out the words. The words were small and simple, the very essence of brevity. But their simplicity belied the grandiose sweep of their denotation, a sweep that was in perfect congruence with the scope of her plan. She was moving to California. She wanted me to come with her.

There was plenty of time to mull around her offer, and I was rich in the abundance of hours and minutes. Just the thought of warmth and almost perpetual sunshine soothed and warmed me, as if I were already in it. I kicked it around for the better part of the following week. My romantic notions of a new life on the West Coast helped to pass the time nicely. I thought of it right up until the old man's sentencing hearing. Then all those thoughts just disappeared.

My mother's hand gripped my knee firmly and tensely the moment we sat down at the hearing. Her grip tightened and pulled as the hearing progressed, until our legs and shoulders were snugly pressed together. She whispered to me incessantly and nervously, working through her fear of something going terribly wrong, scared to death that the old man was going to walk on some technicality or get too light of a sentence. She was being sentenced as much as the old man was, but wasn't taking it nearly as well. He was as cold and still as a frozen lake. He would be that way for a long time. Twenty years to life.

My mother wasted no time in exercising her power of attorney. By the middle of April, the house and the joint had been sold, and the moving sale was on. Curiosity to see our now-infamous house brought a steady flow of customers, and the combination of like-new, plastic-preserved furniture at bargain prices guaranteed the sales. My mother worked the crowds masterfully, cutting deals with the tenacity and adroitness of a seasoned Washington lobbyist. The few items she couldn't sell were gladly hauled away by the Salvation Army, while the rest went into a Dumpster that squatted hungrily in the driveway. It gobbled up the refuse of our lives, soon to be regurgitated at the city dump.

I left with a duffel bag full of clothes, a few paperbacks, and my old Zenith thrown on top. My mother and Aunt Patty were waiting impatiently in the driveway, trying to hurry me along with a few honks of the horn. I took one last look around the empty house, unsurprised that my reaction was about the same as when it was furnished. There was no lamentation or pining over cherished family moments. I felt nothing and closed the door behind me.

The conversation between mouthfuls of Aunt Patty's delicious pot roast was jovial, but a little contrived in its breeziness. There was plenty of talk about California, which was usually accompanied by Uncle Norm slapping me on the back and telling me how much I was going to love it. Norm was Patty's second husband, a fat, heavily-jowled merrymaker whom I'd known as an uncle since he passed me the biscuits at the table. Aunt Patty was my mother's only sister, older by seven or eight years, but looked to be about fifteen years her senior. She was one of my Christmas aunts, someone whom I'd see maybe once a year, but hadn't seen in the last three. I wasn't going to get much of a chance to know either one of them. My mother's suitcases were already laid out on the bed.

After two or three cups of coffee, my mother asked me to join her in her room, so we could talk while she packed. Her pace hadn't waned since the sentencing hearing, and showed no signs of slowing down. I had never seen anyone so sure of themselves, so certain and confident in their purpose.

“How does San Diego sound, Evan?” she said cheerfully while neatly folding a blouse. “It's a beautiful climate, always warm and sunny—no more winters.”

“It sounds okay, I guess.”

“'Sounds okay'? Evan, it’s one of the most beautiful places in the country.”

She folded another blouse. My lack of response turned her around. She looked at me and grasped my wrists, pulling me closer. “Look, Evan: I know everything must seem to be happening too fast, and I know you've been through a lot. We've both been through a lot, honey. But don't you see? This is our chance, Evan—a one in a million chance. We're getting a chance to start over, to put everything behind us. People just don't get second chances at life every day, honey. It's your chance, Evan; your chance to finally get out of here and live a better life. Isn't that what you've always wanted? But you can do it right this time, honey—not just blindly run away from everything without a plan or purpose. This isn't running away, Evan, it's moving on, and there's a big difference. We have everything we need to make this a reality. There's nothing left to be scared of, honey. I know it must seem to be too much too soon, but it'll be okay. You'll see.”

She was right. It was the chance of a lifetime—a chance to finally live out the dream that had sustained me for so long. But everything had changed. The fulfillment of my wish seemed to be mine for the taking, but I began to realize that the wish had already been fulfilled. At its core, the dream was always about change; about wanting things to be different. I couldn't cope with the way things were, so I thought the obvious solution was to simply run away from them . . . from him. It was always the old man. I had been caged in the blackness of his shadow my entire life. It had been there since my first breath; before my first conscious memory. It had loomed over me for so long, that I was incapable of delineating its source. As much as I tried, I could never outrun it; there wasn't a distance it couldn't overcome. The long cast of darkness trumped the miles every time. It had to be removed in order for me to see it. The shadow was finally gone. I no longer had to run.

She gave me a thousand dollars and a kiss at the bus station. She had tried repeatedly to convince me to go with her, right up until she took that first step to climb aboard, but it just wasn't right for me. California was my mother's dream. You could see it dance and shine in her eyes, its rhythm pace the sunny jounce of her step. Her need to go was as vital to her survival as oxygen was to her lungs. She worried over leaving me, hoping I'd understand that this was something she had to do, that it was beyond a question of choice. I had never understood anything more fully. She made me promise that I'd come out to visit, and that she'd write Aunt Patty as soon as she was settled. I watched as the bus trundled and belched through the slush of the spring thaw. It disappeared into a rising sun.

I packed my bag the day I received my mother's first letter. It was a long two weeks at Aunt Patty's, and I was anxious to leave, but not until I had my mother's return address. I thanked my Christmas aunt for her hospitality, received one more slap on the back from my new fat uncle, and stepped into the long walk back to town.

I didn't even have to read the words of my mother's letter to know how well she was doing. Her letter was a breeding ground for exclamation points, which were grooved so enthusiastically into her script that they left Braille on the back of the page. In less than two weeks, she had snagged a job at an ad agency, found and furnished an apartment, and had a colleague asking her out to dinner. She was looking at convertibles.

We exchanged monthly letters and phone calls for about the first year. Sometime during the second year, our correspondence turned into a bimonthly affair. By the end of that year, it was only once in a while. It eventually eroded into the obligatory call during the holidays, and as the years passed, even that had stopped. We were right back to where we started from. Our goodbye at the bus station was the last time I saw her. She had the top down when she rear-ended a truck on the Pacific Coast Highway. There's an unopened letter from my father on my dresser.

What's it gonna be, chief?