NEW YORK, NEW YORK …
Walter Bullitt’s New York, 1968. Part-time U.S. government
provocateur and full-time heapcat Walter isn’t keen on the
assignment his employers are trying to toss him – no need to
mix with the Kennedys if you don’t have to.

… SO GOOD, THEY MADE IT TWICE
He also hopes the ghosts he’s been talking to lately are only a
side-effect of the recreational drugs. Then two women from a
different New York show up and tell him they aren’t. Now,
Walter saw When Worlds Collide but he never thought he’d be
starring in the road show, especially when one world is his and
the other is invisible – at the moment.

Altered states, dodgy times, warped futures, weirder pasts. It
must be Jack Womack World.




JACK WOMACK
is the author of the widely acclaimed Random Acts of Senseless
Violence. His short fiction has appeared in Omni as well as
various anthologies, and his journalism has appeared in Spin.
He lives in New York City.
            Voyager




Going, Going, Gone




     JACK WOMACK




     HarperCollinsPublishers
              Voyager
An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
     77-85 Fulham Palace Road,
   Hammersmith, London W6 8JB



      www.voyager-books.com

     A Paperback Original 2000
          135798642

  Copyright © Jack Womack, 2000

 The Author asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work

   A catalogue record for this book
 is available from the British Library



         ISBN 0 00 651105 8



    Typeset in Palatino Light by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
       Polmont, Stirlingshire

Printed and bound in Great Britain by
         Clays Ltd, St Ives plc
For everyone whose eyes I saw,
       above the mask
So where did we go wrong? Well, I figure the wrong-
ness was always there … So many terrible scenes
with – forget it, deactivate it, let it go, it is only in
your memory now, remove it. You have the power to
do it.
                               – William S. Burroughs
                                           May 12, 1997
                             ONE




Soon as I spiked I turned my eyes inside. Setting old snakehead
on cruise control always pleases, no matter how quick the trip. I
looked out the window for a minute or an hour or so, listening
to stoplights click off blue, orange, blue. Meteor showers of
Maryland-bound cars shot past down there on Connecticut
Avenue and I made wishes on their long swirly trails. It pissed
me bigtime that my innkeepers liked the guests to suffer silence,
and I made a note to bring along a hi-fi next go-round. I
thought I felt Metroliner vibes four hundred feet below me,
steady as a motel vibrabed, but it was nothing but blood doing a
sprint up my legs, trying to get to my heart before it was too
late.
   I’d just started examining the pattern of the tooled holes in
my wingtips – circles inside of stars, looked downright masonic
if you ask me – when I heard those jingle bells ring. In my
mildly altered condition it never would have occurred to me
that Martin would never blitz his own battleground, so I
jumped. Only natural considering my iffy relationship with DCs
boys in blue. Luckily enough, before I could make for the John
and drown my bagged cat I realized I was only hearing the
phone, and so I restashed my stash. Usually I unplug the ringer
at check-in, but this time it had slipped my mind. You always
risk clipping a good buzz in mid-hum, when you sign on for a
twenty-four-hour shift. Goes with the territory.
   »Morning,« I shouted at the receiver, trying to remember
which end was which.
   »Evening,« Bennett said. »Can’t you tell the difference?«
   »Six of one, half dozen of the other.«
   »Are you drunk?«
   »Dog’s on the leash,« I assured him.
   »You finish the distribution?«
   »Hold on.« My hand was getting numb. I’d put a tourniquet
round my arm with the phone cord somehow and thought I’d
better unwrap it before I could spontaneously amputate. »You
were saying?«
   »Was there anything left to distribute?«
   From afar Bennett came on like a Harvard Dillinger, but up
close you knew he was just another dental hygienist. On his
evolutionary scale I topped out around Fishhead level – try as
he might, he never cottoned to watching his boss treat me like
Future Man. Too bad for Benny but Martin and I went back
many moons, plus we had more in common than old Ivy
League ever would with either of us. »Cut the j’accuse,« I said.
»Produce reached the market.«
   »Speak English.«
   »Speaking.«
   »What about it, then?«
   »About what, my brother?«
   »Don’t brother me.«
   »Not to offend. I mean only in the broader sense.«
   »When’ll the wolves start howling?«
   »English, Bennett. Please.«
   »When should the roundup start?«
   I reviewed my own experience. »Body phase lasts maybe
twenty minutes. Then it calms down a little and you think
everything’s square. All of a sudden chemistry takes the wheel
and you park yourself in Mars orbit for nine hours or so, de-
pending on whether or not you ate beforehand. DuPont boys be
able to handle that?«
   »They’re capable men.«
   »You say so. Motto of a park ranger’s be prepared.«
   »Oh, hell –«
   Help.
   Without warning I found myself listening in counterpoint.
Side effect? Could be, but Bennett was a prankster. »You going
stereo on me?«
   »What are you talking about?«
   Help.
   Whoever was shouting help was broadcasting through a
separate channel. He wasn’t in the phone but didn’t seem to be
in my head either. I gave the room the onceover but I was the
only one on duty. Whoever he was he sounded like he’d been
sealed up in an oil drum. Possibly an unfortunate who’d run
afoul of one of Bennett’s less restrained subcontractors.
   Help.
   »That’s not you, is it?«
   »What are you on now?« Bennett’s words popped out of the
receiver; they were purple, and diamond-shape. Amazing how
long the effects last sometime.
   Help.
   »Help you what?« I asked. »Who’s out there?«
   »Walter!!«
   »What?« I thought it best not to go into a lot more detail;
things like this kind of disturbed Bennett’s peace of mind.
»Must be hearing things, compadre. Nothing to write home
about.«
   He hissed like a stabbed tire. »I’ve got a message. Think you’ll
remember?«
   »Try me.«
   »Mister Rollins says they want to meet you again tomorrow
morning for breakfast. It’s essential that you reconsider the
offer.«
   »Can’t oblige,« I said.
   »Essential, I said.«
   »I heard you the first time.«
   »Essential.«
   I knew my limits. He’d be putting the needle down again and
again till I finally got up and changed the record. »All right, but
tell ’em I got to charge a full day rate.«
   »Understood,« he said. »Meet them in the Willard coffee
shop, nine sharp. The Willard Hotel. It’s a hotel. Know the
place?«
   »Warren G. Harding shot his niece there, didn’t he?«
   »Nine sharp. Willard Hotel. We’ll be waiting. Think you’ll
need any help waking up?«
   »Not yours.«
   Bennett skipped the gracious goodbye pages when he took
his Emily Post lessons. Once he hung up I savoured the sound
of blood rushing past my ears. The seller goes where the market
calls but these assignments in DC were always a trial. Nothing
like a trip to the land of the two-headed men to remind you why
they dumped all that marble in a swamp. Nowhere else will you
get the lingering miasma and rotting vegetables that sustain
sound government. On a regular schedule the fen’s trolls burn
off excess gas. The glow attracts fools and children. The stench
overcomes them, the gas hits the blood like carbon monoxide,
the bog sucks them under. They’re done for. Stay out of politics,
my brothers, there’s no keeping clean.
   Bennett’s call had rung down the curtain on my mind’s
nightly adventure. Even though I considered taking it from the
top I noticed it was midnight, and since I’d been hit with this
unforeseen breakfast subpoena I decided I’d better take the
sensible road and toddle off to snoozeville. While shedding my
outerwear I let myself go blank. Listened to walls creak as they
eased their weary stones, heard the wind tickle the ivy’s dry
threads. I was stashed in the usual drawer, an N Street town-
house with 1850 skin and 1965 guts. Claims adjusters infested
the ground floor offices but the apartments were available for
government transients. I don’t know who crashed in my suite
when I wasn’t in town. Martin didn’t say, I didn’t ask. The joint
must have been classville in buggywhip days but the trolls had
been hard at work since. On a five-star scale I’d give the left-
overs a negative four. A junkman wouldn’t take the furniture if
you paid him. Turn on the faucets and take bets on what colour
the water’d be. Cockroaches big as chihuahuas and just as quiet.
Every morning rats raced through the groundcover out front to
the point where even a dead sober man would think the yard
was trying to sneak away from the house. Well, it was never
more than a couple nights’ flop to me and after all, I’ve done
time in places that made this look like the Savoy-Plaza. I’d just
started kissing the sheets when my unseen friend returned.
   Help.
   Definitely not Bennett this time. I tried hauling myself up but
it wasn’t easy.
   Help.
   Where was that boy? Somewhere on my left, maybe? Don’t
believe the yarns, there’s not much to be gained when you start
hearing people who aren’t there. »Yo boyo, your signal’s coming
in clear. Show yourself.«
   Help me.
   »No need to be shy,« I called out, thinking I’d pinned him
down on radar. I tiptoed to the bathroom and pushed at the
door. »Hey Livingstone. Stanley here.« No answer, so I flipped
on the brights and peeked in. »Anybody?« Nobody. Now if I’d
stayed horizontal I could have probably convinced myself that
the evening’s entertainment simply intensified those bad DC
vibes, but once up my reptile brain couldn’t be rubed. Maybe I
landed in the middle of one of those CIA campfire tales you
always hear. Those necrophiliacs had no need to unscrew my
bulbs, but they wouldn’t have cared. This was probably the kind
of fun they had when they weren’t out shooting Nixon.
   Help.
   I did a Norman’s mother. Nobody in the shower so I checked
under the sink. Bug city; ten thousand long-term leasees but
none of them were talking. Men of science test all theories, so I
stared down into the toilet bowl. In heightened states the sight
of running water calms me down, and the longer I looked in the
better I felt. Nothing but an unexpected side effect, I told my-
self. No telling what’ll bob up when the mind starts simmering.
In my more adventurous days I once dropped a little blue tab,
supposedly some derivative extracted from San Pedro cactus
buds. Maybe so, but all it did was make me sneeze uncontrolla-
bly for fourteen hours.
   Please help.
   I looked up and I saw them standing there. Almost there, I’d
better say. This was the first time I could eyeball somebody’s
front and glim their back simultaneously, but that wasn’t the
real mindbender. It was hard getting a fix on them because half
the time they were turning colours and half the time, shifting
into black and white. Made me want to shout focus at the
projection booth. He wore what looked like a Bellevue suit,
except the arms didn’t have those fashionable belts and buckles.
Just as well because if they had he couldn’t’ve lugged the doll.
His honey lay in his arms like a swoonstruck bobbysoxer. She
gave every indication of being out on a heavy nod. Under the
circumstances, mind you, I’d hesitate to say either one would
have bled if you cut them. From what I could tell he’d had it
hard wherever he’d had it, and she looked like she’d been
dragged by a truck from Cleveland way past Detroit.
   Please help us.
   Neither of them were flapping gums when the words came
through, but I heard him stone clear. The shakes hit me where I
stood and that’s a side effect I never get from that evening’s
particular family of chemicals. Closing my eyes, I tried to think
of something to say. When I raised my shades once more my
new pals were starting to fade. They didn’t seem to notice, but I
didn’t think they were too conscious of anything, to tell the
truth. Going, going, gone – and that was that for them.
    Somehow it was worse having them gone. I rolled back into
bed and listened hard. Even though I didn’t hear him anymore
it still took time before I could start copping Zs. What with all
the excitement I’d worked myself into a tizzy. I couldn’t shake
the notion somebody was hotfooting over my grave. Seeing
ghosts will do that, I suppose, and that’s the way I finally
chalked it up. Axe-murdered in this room years ago, probably,
and the walls couldn’t hold back on what they’d seen any
longer. Fortean phenomena, the logical explanation. Nothing
weird about it until it happens to you. Just one of those strange
things happening every day, like green snow or a frogstorm, or
buses showing up in threes.
    I couldn’t wait to get back to New York. Of course I didn’t
foresee I’d have guests along for the ride.

I cooled on my slab till roostertime, then rose and soaked my
head in sunshine. No distressing afterburn, I was pleased to
note – no neckache, no blurry vision, no need to brush one-
handed while propping myself up with the unused paw. While
scrubbing I decided to show up extra sharp for these boys. I
shaved close, played coathanger for my priciest suit. Sparkled
like a diamond in the rhinestone counter when I got there. The
Williard Hotel’s slavemasters weren’t big on face control, and
the coffee shop was almost one hundred percent DC riffraff.
Most looked nitrogen-poisoned, stumbling around blind with
walking bends, good for nothing but taking fingerprints or
filing them. I breezed through their midst and ignored the looks
the secretaries shot me. Martin and Bennett held court at a
booth in the rear. Most of the dregs on hand favoured official
federal government style. But my boys were men of taste, and
put on a Washington style show. Seven-layer silk ties, trifold
linen squares, cuffs overloaded with silver and gold; suits thick
as overcoats and shoes shiny enough to scare away the school-
girls.
    »Everything went exactly as you predicted, Walter,« Martin
told me. »Congratulations are in order.« My boss came on like
he always did, the head man in Statuary Hall. Bennett looked
like he’d sat on a pickle and couldn’t get it out. He eyed me as if
I were some evil bird swooping down to bag his waffles.
    »Muchas thankas.« Taking a load off, I signalled the waiter.
    »Sleep well?« Bennett asked.
    »Slept better.«
    »Too much on your mind, perhaps –«
    I lit into the mocha java the second Pierre set it down in front
of me, but that was a serious mistake. Gave my tongue third
degree burns and for a second I thought my throat was going to
seal up
    »Hot?« Bennett asked.
    »Beelzebub,« I said. »Like drinking the sun.«
    »You remember our associates,« said Martin, stretching out
his hand like he was introducing the dog act. »Mister Hamilton.
Mister Frye.«
    »Morning, my brothers.«
    The co-conspirators nodded and winked and I returned the
favour. Hamilton was silver-haired, silver-tongued and slippery
as wet glass. I don’t think he was a mammal. Old mellifluous
knew anything he served up had to drip with syrup, otherwise
it’d never slide down. His sidekick Frye seemed content with the
job of vestigial twin. If you taught a ferret how to walk on its
back feet and put it in a three-hundred-dollar suit, you’d have
Frye. He sat there emitting a series of sinister chuckles. Those
two were kingsize trolls but it was never clear to me what pre-
cise realm of the swamp they oversaw, and they seemed the sort
who’d like to keep it that way. Martin screwed a Lucky into his
holder. Bennett almost fell out of his chair, offering his lighter.
    »You get it?« he asked. Martin fired up and shot one smoke
ring through another.
    »The Willard used to be such a magnificent hotel,« Hamilton
proclaimed, oozing the grease of sociability. He knew if he came
on like Uncle Bob he’d get an invite to any Friday dinner. »Sad,
how much it’s changed over the years. You’re not old enough to
remember what this was, before it was a coffee shop.« I’d have
guessed nobody was. »It was a corner of the grand ballroom.
The ceiling and those walls are false, you see. My friend Donald
Cook’s graduation party was given here in 1926. Donald was the
son of Senator Cook, he died on the Brittannica.« I was starting
to wish I had. »An unforgettable evening. We kept our flasks at
the ready, filled with hooch. Whenever the chaperones turned
their heads we’d have a snort. I danced with Sally Patterson half
the night.« He went all cow-eyed, recalling the scent of long-lost
fur. »Fifty beautiful young men and women, learning the ways
of the world.« I suspected he placed himself pretty high on the
beauty scale. »The stage was there.« He pointed at the steam
table, where two Japs stood slinging hash. »Seven smoke musi-
cians. Real hot poppas from New Orleans, as we used to say.«
He burst out in soft song. »If the man in the moon was a coon,
coon, coon –«
   Hambone pursed his lips like he was spitting out watermelon
seeds. Frye made with the chucks: hmnf hmnf hmnf. Bennett
sighed; he probably spent half his life hearing about parties he
wasn’t invited to. Martin, like me, played icecube.
   »I did some stepping out back in Cambridge myself,« Ben-
nett said, at the same time eyeballing me. »Not very good at it,
though. Two left feet.«
   »I suspect you underestimate yourself,« Hamilton said.
   »Surely I wouldn’t have held a candle to you, sir.« Bennett
kissed most people’s feet because he was too short to reach their
ass.
   »Sweet memory is all that lingers once the ball is over, gen-
tlemen,« said the old codger. »So soon we forget.«
   If this went on much longer he was going to drag out the uke
and start yodelling. After he tossed off that little lyric from the
hit parade I was in no mood to foxtrot. »I’ve forgotten why you
asked me here, actually,« I said. »Not to cut you short, my
brothers, but I’ve got a train to catch.«
   »Mister Smith,« Hamilton said, speaking in my direction, as
if he’d been struck blind but suspected I had a quarter. (My
legal given is Bullitt, by the by, but I use a more forgettable
monicker for piece work.) »I want to offer you the opportunity
to reconsider our proposal. We think you’re our man for the
job.«
   »I don’t even know what your proposal is,« I said. I’d turned
them down simply because I hadn’t liked their looks; you get to
my level and you can start getting away with that, sometimes.
»Told you I like to see the sandwich before I bite down.«
   »Son, your qualms are understandable,« Hamilton said. »Or-
dinarily we’d have already enlightened you, but I fear a certain
restraint was and is called for in this situation.«
   »Restraint’s my middle name.«
   »So Martin has told me. And Bennett, as well.« Little mon-
goose glared at me with beady blue eyes. »All the same your
talents are such that we’re willing to make allowances for your,
uh, personal style.«
   »I appreciate your appreciation,« I said. »Need more than
that, though.«
   »In the fullness of time you’ll be provided with all necessary
information.«
   »Time’s filled up. Spill or I’m walking.«
   »Walter!« Martin looked ready to come down hard, but I
fired back my own daggers and he eased off on playing up the
Great White Father bit. Hamilton didn’t look any more or less
upset than he had when I’d said no, two days earlier. There was
something about this I hadn’t liked from the start. Since I wasn’t
officially on the payroll, and wouldn’t have been one of Martin’s
Bennetts even if I had been, I wasn’t covered with the kind of
insurance you have to have when you get too far out in the
jungle.
   »Hear Hamilton out, Walter,« Martin said. »It’s a very simple
proposition. Once you have all the details I’m sure you’ll change
your mind.«
   »OK, so let’s play catch. You going to tell me, or am I going
to have to guess?« Our waiter slunk back to top off the percola-
tions, but I shooed him away.
   »I always appreciate forthrightness.« Hamilton’s eyebrows
hopped like caterpillars doing a mating dance. »What would
you guess, if you guessed?«
   »This have anything to do with pharmaceuticals?« I asked.
   »That’s to be decided.«
   »Will I be playing the old sucker game?«
   »Could be.«
   »Sowing the seeds of disarray?«
   Hamilton dipped a shard of toast into a pool of yolk. »Do
you read the newspaper, son?« he asked, leaning over so far I
could count his fillings.
   »How else do I know what I’ve been up to?«
   Hamilton hooted. Hmnf hmnf hmnf, said Frye. They were in
on somebody’s joke, that was for sure. »Surely an intelligent
man such as yourself,« said the Grand Codger, »understands
that at moments sotto voce is preferable to fortissimo. You
understand the broader problems with which we constantly
grapple –«
   »We who?« I asked.
   »Is that a question, Walter?«
   »Who are you, anyway?« I asked. »Can’t quite put my finger
on it.«
   »Walter –« Martin started to say.
   »You don’t have J. Edgar’s thumbprint on you,« I said, think-
ing I’d better start sharpening the pencils. »Since you’re out in
daylight and aren’t moist, I can rule out CIA.« Hmf hmf hmf.
»You’re about as military as I am. My man Martin generally
doesn’t let on who pays for the groceries long as I make the
delivery. Usually, I don’t care. But truly, my brothers, all this
incognito cum laude is making my mind start to wander. Feel
like I’m in a tryout for Skull and Bones.«
   »You’re thinking of Yale, Walter,« said Bennett. »We look
like Yalies?«
   Martin glared like an icy road. For a minute I gave them the
benefit of the doubt, thinking they simply feared being taped al
fresco. In truth there’s no better place to talk trouble than out in
the out and about. Every time Martin and I faced off to swap
tales we took to the ozone, and hit the bricks. An old trick,
never fails to keep nosy parkers from tuning in on the party
line. It’s a subtle concept for the layman to grasp, and these two
clowns were no laymen. Just as I was starting to give in the old
gringo flipped me such a death’s head that I realized he was
doing the Miss Priss bit purely for entertainment value. I got the
notion he didn’t care who heard what he said, since he never
exactly said it.
   »Walter, are you aware of what happens this November?«
Hamilton asked.
   »This is February.« Hmnf hmnf hmnf said Frye.
   »Good things take time,« Bennett said.
   »There’s an election this November,« said Hamilton. »You’ll
be voting?«
   »Never,« I said. »99 bottles of beer on the wall. I don’t sing
along.«
   Hamilton made with the tut-tuts. »Possibly we’re not as cyni-
cal as you are.«
   »Try me.«
   »Are you familiar with the field of candidates? Does anyone
in particular come to mind?«
   He had me there, but I wasn’t going to let on. Thinking for a
second, the obvious name popped into my head. »President
Lodge.«
   »Thought we were going to have to cue you, Walter,« Ben-
nett said.
   »What about on the Democratic side?« Hamilton asked.
   »Usual suspects, I suppose. Johnson, Humphrey. Pritchard.
You think it’ll matter?«
   »You are cynical, son.«
   »Call me son once I’m in the will,« I said. »If I had to guess
I’d say Lodge’ll be re-elected. Incumbents always are.« Hamil-
ton eyed me like I was a puppy who wet the rug. »No?«
   »We’ll be clear on that by the end of next month, Mister
Smith,« he said. »But that’s no concern of yours.«
   »There’s a name you’ve forgotten, Walter,« Bennett said.
»Among possible candidates. Who do you think you’ve forgot-
ten?«
   I shrugged. »Gimme a phone book.«
   »An old family name,« Martin said.
   »But not that old.« The shift in Hamilton’s vocalese as he
purred his way into a growl made me appreciate the ease with
which this old coot could hop from his wheelchair and whip out
the shiv. Takes practice to glint like Jehovah when you’re wear-
ing a Brooks Brothers suit, but he had it down pat. »The Ken-
nedys –«
   »Them?«
   »Walter, hear us out.«
   »Not a chance. I’m no steeplejack. I work the ground floor
and mezzanine and I want to keep it that way. Not a chance –«
   Hamilton lobbed his dentures my way and flashed those big
blue peepers. »This would entail your serving in the traditional
agent provocateur position, Walter.«
   »Walter, you could do it in your sleep,« Martin said.
   »Probably done it in your sleep,« said Bennett.
   »There’s nothing to it –«
   All signs on this eightball pointed to no. Number one swoon
tune in DC was Never Waltz With A Kennedy. Once you in-
volved yourself, even with a third cousin of a third cousin, it
was only a question of time till Old Black Joe, reliable as na-
palm, caught you and dipped you in his deep-fryer. Giving his
public rap sheet the onceover could crack your mind like a
bullwhip, and nobody knew scratch about the deals that strayed
from the path en route to Grandma’s. His five boys couldn’t
match him except in pawing frails, try as they might and by all
indications they tried. Nature herself had taken the girls out of
the competition, there were five of them but every one strangled
themselves in the womb to keep from coming out. Every spring
through the thirties the Kennedy Curse struck anew. Once
between the cartoon and part six of Perils of Nyoka I caught a
glimpse of the gang in the »Ten Years Ago Today« segment of
The March of Time, filmed just before they went to London in
39’. They’d lost another one, the last. The boys wore black tie,
Rose shrouded her weeds. Old Joe pried the top off the blarney
jar and told the reporters Willa God, boys, all’s Jake but you got
to watch Willa. She’ll get you every time.
   »Not a chance, not one in a million.«
   »Walter, you need to hear specifically,« Hamilton started to
say, but I wasn’t listening. I heard something else.
   Help.
   Like I needed to see old brother Jell-O and his snoozy moll
just then. They hung out by the cash register as if intending to
clean out the till while a crony caused a distraction.
   Help us.
   Without signalling, my ghosts took the off-ramp and faded. I
told myself I’d kicked back too long in the tub last night and
was still pruny. But I wasn’t kidding anyone, the luck of genes
makes my system flush like a storm drain. Possible, though, that
this new product was time-release. That could bring any num-
ber of complications about on down the line. Might mean all
kinds of trouble uptown as well but the Dupont Circle boys
could find out on their own without a park ranger. Even now
their slammerful of potential perps were probably tearing the
roof off the drunk tank, ripping out the porcelain, shitting on
the ceiling, standing there franks in hand and howling for the
bastards to turn the northern lights back on.
   »What’s so funny, Walter?« I heard Bennett say.
   »Is he having a stroke?« Hamilton said.
   »Just weighing the odds against the house,« I testified, com-
ing out of my stew, laying both hands near but not on the Big
Book. »Pardon the trance.«
   »No question you’re the man for the job,« Martin said, and
then demonstrated the folly of total self-assurance. »You’re Irish
as they are, why wouldn’t it work?«
   Fortean ghosts were hard enough to bear but this took first
prize in the Stupid awards. Something must have short-
circuited in Martin’s head, or else he was feeling more comfy
around these characters than he had any right to be. He was no
more tater tot than I was, and he knew that as well as I did. Now
neither of us played the rules according to Hoyle, and while no
VIP players who might suspect ever admitted seeing us deal
with our spades hidden, we knew they always kept their guns on
the table. Couldn’t speak for my boss but I had no yen to scope
scenic Guatemala and the deeper south unless I had a return
ticket tight in my hand. It especially made me sweat buckets
when his idle comment provoked Frye into burping up some-
thing other than chucks.
   »Black Irish, maybe.«
   Bad, bad news. No question his superior snagged it, but old
Methuselah didn’t return fire. Martin’s mask slipped enough to
show me he knew he’d been bugging too frantic on the canyon’s
lip. »If you would hear us out, Mister Smith, you’d understand
what a valuable opportunity this could prove to be for you,«
Hamilton said, steepling his hands as if to pray to himself.
»Carpe diem. A new world hitherto unimaginable to you will
either open or close, depending upon your decision. May I
continue?«
   His picnic basket was starting to sit heavy on my grave. »Pass
the mustard,« I said.
   »What?«
   »Need to spread it on those fat slabs of spamola you’re slicing
off.«
   »Now, Mister Smith –«
   »I’m passing. Thanks anyway.« Easing myself up slowly, I
aimed a finger at the timepiece hanging on the wall. »Got to
roll, I fear, New York’s waiting.«
   »You strike me as an infinitely adaptable fellow of subtle re-
sources,« Hamilton said. The smile he gave me would have
shamed a wax museum. »Martin knows you’re the man for the
job. Perhaps we should agree to leave the matter open. It seems
to me you should be considerably more interested in hearing us
out than you’ve yet understood.«
   I understood he could probably corner the market in nasty if
he wanted, but I didn’t want to wait around and find out. »Tally
ho, my brothers, that train’s at the gate.«
   »I’ll be calling you,« Martin said.
   Didn’t look back as I strolled but I knew they kept me in the
crosshairs. Took the long way out through the lobby, to tell the
world I was in no rush. Soon as I was out of range I let my feet
do their business. Had the admiral outside whistle up a cab, and
two minutes later I was cruising up Connecticut en route to
DuPont Circle. Neglecting to stop by the stationhouse to give
the gang my regards I bounded down the escalator and hopped
the noon express. Settling into a crowded car I switched off the
seat’s radio and settled back, trying to put breakfast, that song,
those ghosts, everything out of mind. In two hours I’d pipeline
straight into Penn Station’s warm marble barn and then it’d be
hello, New York. I couldn’t wait.

Once I was back in the free world I wasted no time heading for
my castle. No sooner did I get there, though, than I realized I
might as well have left the drawbridge down. My greeting
committee floated above the corner of the living room, near the
window and to the left of the hi-fi.
  Help.
   What really made my bag rise this time was my quietude in
the face of this species of unnatural. Bad pennies are forever
turning up but not being surprised when you find them is
another matter indeed. There was only one thing left to try.
Hair of a different dog taken in ideal conditions proves an
unfailing remedy in most cases of aftershock, and I could see no
reason it wouldn’t work here. I have to be truthful and say I
don’t know how hard I looked. Unplugging the phone, I greased
and papered my Victrola’s spinner and slid a new needle in the
tone arm. Thumbed through the C shelf until I spotted the right
man. Lay down the shellac, grooved the point and let it spin. No
crime in listening. Never was.
   »Pastafazoola, Tallullah –«
   No crime in singing along, though the neighbours might dis-
agree.
   »Pass me a pancake, Mandrake –«
   No doubt about it, these palefaces weren’t hep to the jive. My
two ghosts took the hint and condensed. Suspected they’d be
back but that was then and this was now.
   Alone again I stashed the cash Martin’d slipped me for my
efforts in the strongbox, then pulled down my humidor to keep
a date with Mary Jane. Dressed her in something tight and
kissed her down to her toes. Got a Pepsi out of the fridge and
lent Cab my ears. Though I don’t teetotal I’m not one for put-
ting on the boozebag. Body trips leave me too full of that old
ennui. The ideal agents as I see it are the ones that take your
head off and let you hold it awhile. I cooped inside, content, till
delirious night came creeping through the streets. Then, after a
quick rinse and shave, I snatched up my wrapper and ankled
downstairs.
   Two blocks west on the slum end of Park was my crib away
from crib. Those up on their long-gone New York know the tale
of McGurk's Suicide Hall, famed Bowery hotspot of the gay
nineties, a most favoured lure for the addled and unsavoury,
whilom HQ of the fearsome Coney Boys. If you soaked
McGurk's in cheap black and Chinese red you'd get Max's. All
the ambience of an opium den full of Dada girls, though louder.
El perfecto, in the vernacular. No Packards lined the curb two
deep so I suspected the night's talent didn't attract the riffraff.
When I checked the marquee I saw that I was right, WELCOME
THE VELVET UNDERGROUND AND NICO TO MAX'S
KANSAS CITY. I'd head upstairs to revel after I perambulated
the lower depths to see who was where. Before I could go in I
noted out of the corner of one eye some character in a Rogers
Peet suit, passing out flyers at the corner. He had a small table
set up and a sign hung on the front, MAX YOUR PO IN-
STEAD, Some kind of anti-war gig I figured, and headed inside.
   Smoke of all notions hit me like perfume as I stepped out of
the ozone into the pressure chamber. Once my peepers adjusted
for night vision I made out the personnel on board. In the far
distance Warhola's full moon hair beamed through the night.
Candy and Jackie had been bookending him but now they got
up and were making for the stairs. Judging from the pudding
bowls at the far end of the bar I reckoned Mancusian talent
passing through town had dropped by to judge the competition.
Closer still huddled the usual gaggle of Brooklyn tomatoes and
Bronx bagel babies, decked out in their slickest Serendipity
flash. If you didn't choke on hayseeds those farmgirl charms
could warm the coolest heart. In the middle of the action were
my two most usual suspects, and I gladhanded cheer all around.
   »What's happening, hepcats?« I asked, doffing my homburg,
and calling for the drink that hits the spot.
   »Walter,« Trish said. »Where've you been hiding?«
   »Here there everywhere,« I said. We pecked cheek and did
the vertical rub. Trish and I were hard on the sheets not that
long ago but when she showed too much interest in how, ex-
actly, I harvested my cabbage, I took to the fields. Knowledge is
danger, knoweth the man, and I doubted she'd have approved
of my every escapade. Even so we remained tasty pals. She was
wanton that night, a flame-haired vixen, smoky and dazzling,
total Gernreich on the hoof. As I eased my paw down her
treacherous rear slope I found myself as always sliding across a
Lothrop and Stoddard unitock. Trish had spent her heedless
youth in a stately Wayne Manor out on the Philly main line,
and the domestication clung. »What's with the girdle, Myrtle?« I
said. »I'll need brushes to keep the beat on this tom-tom.« Our
compadre Borden lounged close by, swilling with a smile, his
fedora's awning hanging low. As usual he rode out in standard
Fourteenth Street undertaker drapes. Good to see he'd regrown
his chin shrub, made him look like a top shrink doing field
work. Over time I'd clipped my own hedge down to its most
nefarious essential. Kittens purr like mad when you brush their
fur with the old pussy tickler.
   »How deep's the scene, my brother?«
   »Subcutaneous,« he said, a man of select words.
   »You've been missed,« Trish said, playing bumpercars with
my hip.
   »Just a weekend cruise,« I said. »Felt like a month.« A sudden
flood of would-be cognoscenti streaming in threatened to do a
Johnstown on us. Felt like I was taking the Sea Beach Express on
the fourth of July. We started sliding our feet to the rear of the
bus, trying to miss the wave.
   »Care to divulge?« she asked.
   »Lips, ships,« I said, shaking my head. Realized, scanning the
room, that I half-expected to spot my silent Cals floating some-
where over the backbar, trying to find space before coming in
for a landing. Wished I’d upped the dosage on my nerve tonic.
»I earn my gold stars. You?«
   »Mother’s pearl,« she said. »You have to ask?«
   »When’s showtime?« No sooner did I wonder than I felt the
vibes ripple through the floor, and saw the lamps start to shake.
   »Shortly. Let’s move,« said Irish, and with Borden we carved
a path through the wall of superfluous flesh, making for the
ascent. »I’ve been on tiptoes all day looking forward to this.
They’re so fabulous.«
   »Utmost,« said Borden, playing jungle guide as he led us off.
»Utmost fabulousity.«
   Hard to slouch walking up stairs, but he pulled it off. »After
you,« I said to the beauteous one, keen to see what lay under
that doily she’d wrapped around her waist, but my chivalry
went begging.
   »My turn to take the scenic route,« she said, pointing up-
wards. »Scamper.«
   I did. Once we topped out we parked ourselves next to sweet
Candy and ever-charmless Ondine, near the front. The band
kicked off Venus In Furs and we let our heads fill up. The usual
goofball light show was in progress, the band looked as if it were
being attacked by yellow amoebas. Sterling stood there strum-
ming away, Cale did his Bob Wills on Seconal bit, crazy Angus
wandered back and forth whacking that Tibetan oildrum and
weaselly Lou glowered like a nine-year-old looking to get
spanked. Blondie sat off in the corner slapping her tambourine
and making with the teutonics. I was just starting to settle in for
a long decadent night when I heard Trish shouting at Borden.
   »New girls in town, must be.«
   »Tres wild,« Borden shouted back. »Canadian?«
   »Hardly,« Candy said; even though she tried to whisper, her
voice always carried. I turned in what had become an unexpect-
edly popular direction. That was it, listeners. I saw them, and I
was sunk.
   »Check the ensembles,« Trish told Candy. »These girls can
shop.«
   The little one – five four, near as I could tell – was severely
mod, and radiated cuteness. Hair Sassooned, eyes raccooned.
The white go-gos were strictly 1967 but I wasn’t going to argue
with the Nancy Sinatra look. Her mini kept riding up over the
shoreline but that gave her something to do with her hands.
Most inviting indeed, but that night it was hard not to savour
the lure of the economy size. At first I thought Little Mod’s gal
Friday was tall as Sterling, maybe six four. Then I realized she
was taller.
   »What’s that on her hip?« Borden asked.
   »Looks like a whip,« Trish said. »Gerard’s understudy?«
   »Nobody told me,« Candy said.
   Big Girl’s queenly strut distracted the audience and even the
band, but they kept playing. As she and Little Mod crossed stage
front Lou swallowed his lines but recovered nicely and nobody
really noticed. For the first time in her life Nico demonstrated a
facial expression. I guided my mouth towards charming Miss
Darling’s ear. »Candy, my brother sister. Is that a him?«
   She shouted into my own receiver. »Goodness, no. She’s
real.«
   »Seriously?«
   »The hands,« she said, glancing at her own, frowning.
   »Muchas thankas, my angel.«
   Where she wasn’t black, Big Girl was blonde. She drew her
crowning glory up in thick golden ropes tied in a topknot. Over
her birthday buxotica she wore beatgirl tights, though hers
covered arms as well as legs. She hid her hands in fingerless
gloves and her stems in boots of shiny shiny leather. No ques-
tion she was blessed in the torso department. The plastic shell
she’d squeezed herself into clung to her soft centre like frozen
chocolate. Knobs big as desk erasers tipped her rocket launch-
ers. Sunnyside up, she was unsinkable, and miraculous to
behold, but I favour mine over easy. When Little Mod aimed for
the stairs, Big Girl followed and I caught the full rear view in
Cinerama. You could stack a week’s dishes on that shelf.
   »My brothers. My sisters,« I mumbled, feeling that the win-
dow for action was a narrow one indeed. »The pink ray’s nailed
me. Please excuse.«
   »Don’t waste valuable resources, Walter,« Trish said.
   »Rugmuffins,« Borden muttered, giving them the fisheye as
they headed downstairs. »Tag team, I’d guess.«
   »You’ll be sorry if you try,« she said. »Those praying man-
tises will bite your head off.«
    »Tiny tiny,« I shouted as I left. »Tiny whips of leather.« Once
I’d barrelled back down to the first floor I swivelled in every
direction, trying to pick them out in the crowd until I caught
them in my beam. Wasn’t hard to spot the big one, archons
willing. The ladies looked like they were still fishing, and hadn’t
seen that I was ready to take the bait. I was just circling in for
the thrill when some Long Island desk jockey who’d mistaken
the place for an Automat came out of nowhere and made a
move on Little Mod.
    »You got a pencil?« I heard him ask her. She shook her head.
»I need to write down your phone number.«
    The little one looked at him like he was a dead cat. For the
first time I noticed she was packing some kind of transistor in
her hand. New model, I supposed, all black and shiny as Big
Girl’s boots. She had turned around to see what delayed her
little friend. El Dopo, figuring out that he wasn’t getting any-
where with his original target, now turned his attentions to the
secondary, with as much charm and success. »How’s the
weather up there?«
    I was close enough now to hear the full script. »Exit,« the big
one told him. She had the voice of an eight-year-old but the
lung power of a nursery. »Presence undesired.«
    »Excuse me?« he said, pulling a Bennett and going all smirky.
Just as I was ready to cut in on this dance my gut told me I
should hesitate, and I did.
    »Fly the coop,« Little Mod said. »Offer service elsewhere.«
    »You’re the ones look like you’re selling,« I heard him say,
obviously taking the wrong turnoff. »What is this, sugar? Only
dykes need apply?«
   Big Girl raised her little voice. Half the room turned to look,
and then the same half of the room turned deaf mute. »Mother-
fuck you,« she broadcast. I looked around for Max’s bouncers,
but they’d evidently taken the hen’s teeth route. The would-be
charmer deflated, somewhat, but he puffed back up in no time
at all. That was his mistake. He put his paws on Big Girl’s knobs
as if wanting to tune in the ballgame. »Look, honey,« he said,
pinching them, »you come prancing around like this and you
might as well put a sign on your ass saying, for sale –«
   Big Girl clicked her elbows against her sides as if getting
ready to have her posture checked. Two small metal umbrellas
suddenly appeared on the backs of the wiseguy’s hands and
snapped open. Looked like it was a carnival trick until I saw the
blood start to run down onto his cuffs. Big Girl licked her lips.
His knees buckled, but he was held in place. Maybe he wanted
to scream; maybe he couldn’t feel it, yet. My own interest in the
ladies was fading fast, and I thought I’d better get out while the
getting was good. I nearly had but as her would-be inamorata’s
knees started buckling, my personal interest faded like ink in
the sun. I’d nearly sneaked by them when Little Mod spotted
fresh prey. Looking in my direction, she tapped her moll’s arm.
   »Him,« I heard her say, staring directly at me. Big Girl made
with the elbows again; Casanova came loose and hit the floor.
Only then did he let out with a wail that would have deafened a
banshee. Onlookers gave him the Kitty Genovese treatment,
and pretended to sleep standing up. Before I could get any
closer to the door Big Girl had put me in her vice, and no mat-
ter how hard you run, you can’t get traction on air.
   »Pacify,« she said, hauling me up like a side of beef. »Pres-
ence essentialled, comprendo?«
   »Klaatu barada nikto,« I stuttered, unable to elaborate. »Your
place,« said Little Mod, leading the way. »Let’s go.«
                             TWO




Time was if the census man came rapping on my door to do the
rundown and happened to ask how I preferred to spend night-
time in my blue heaven, I’d have said working the dusk-to-
dawn shift, being held in a lovelock by a brace of pussycats.
Nothing like experience to set you straight. Let me be truthful,
my brothers, and pass along some useful advice: theory beats
practice when it comes to tag-team action, take my word for it.
   Nobody tried to stop us when we busted out of Max’s. Didn’t
know how Casanova was dealing with his new stigmata but
figured somebody was giving him aid and comfort. »Ease up,
sugarplum,« I pleaded. »Pretty please?«
   Big Girl showed me no mercy; just snarled like a werewolf
and kept me snared in a full nelson till we’d passed under the
Third Avenue El. Not fifteen minutes earlier I’d fancied going
to the mat with her two falls out of three but that was before I
knew I’d be wriggling with Gorgeous George. She gripped me
like an industrial press.
   »Shorty, please, let me out on parole,« I bleated to Little Mod,
but she pulled a Helen Keller on me and didn’t stop the parade,
rolling those hips like she was a state champ baton twirler.
»Uncle,« I cried. »Aunt. Cousin. Hey –«
   Eyeing our retinue a rheumy-eyed coot out for an evening
stroll gave us a headshake. »Kids,« he muttered. »Wait till you’re
drafted.«
   »Mute yourself,« Big Girl growled. Even under these outré
circumstances I wasn’t going to say her high-pitched howl
didn’t possess a certain unique appeal. »Submit identifiers.«
   »Smith’s the name,« I swore. »One of the Smith boys. You
picked the wrong man out of the lineup, girls.«
   »Truth us!« she roared. Sounded like Shirley Temple with
rabies.
   »I’m truthin’!« But she wasn’t buying it, and tied that ana-
conda tight. Big Girl could have strangled a dray horse one-
handed. Unpleasant feeling to know the street was somewhere
underfoot, but try as you might you couldn’t reach it. »Ixnay.
Lungs. Need ’em.«
   »Where’s your padding?« Little Mod asked me, still eyes
front. »Pad, meant. Where do you pad?«
   I gurgled and burbled like it was titty time for mother’s angel
and that finally caught her ear. Way her eyes bugged when she
turned and saw me made me guess my face was blue as new
dungarees. »Chlojo!! Nya!!« she shouted. Soon as Little Mod
made with the kibosh, Big Girl let the choke out. She shouldered
me hard with those concrete blocks she swung and kept me in
the express lane as we hit Second Avenue.
   »Qua?« said Big Girl.
   »Don’t rip him,« said Little Mod, circling round as she
stepped, shooting daggers at her pal. »Keep viable. Briskfoot
yourself.« I’d always considered myself a lingo major but I
might as well have been from Fiji for all I could decipher of
their frisky banter. »Your address?« the wee one asked. »Spec-
ify.«
   »275 East 18th. Number 8.« The ongoing shortage of oxygen
I suffered sent me into bendsville, and made me think tapping
the molasses would work. »Ladies,« I said, »your beauty steals
my senses. If you’d –«
   Big Girl put the airlift on me. »Mute!«
   »Stop already with the clobberin’ time,« I choked out as she
continued girlhandling my poor frame. »Give me a break –«
   »This it?« Little Mod inquired, bouncing up the stoop of my
abode. I nodded, flashing a goonpuss. Big Girl finally let loose
of me long enough that I could catch my breath, step forward
and part the waters.
   »Come up and see the etchings,« I said, seeing nowhere to go
but upstairs. They let me lead, keeping me from making a break
for it. My shack was a standard walkup the landlord redid in the
late forties, after they ferreted out the last of the Gashouse Gang
in order to cram in a few more cash-heavy Europeans. Ten
years later I lucked out, and found the place two weeks after
first setting foot in NY. Came here straight from Seattle, trying
to make my way to Morocco while it was still paradise, but of
course everybody knows that unhappy ending. Never caught
the Marrakesh train but breaks come and breaks go, and it
wasn’t long after when I overcame my disappointment when I
happened upon my natural metier, that is to say, pharmaceuti-
cal improvisation. As I threw open my door that evening, giving
these ladies full entree to wonderland, I tried to guess how long
before I’d know if the breaks I’d get that night would be meta-
phorical or actual.
    »Here’s the castle,« I said. »Make yourself at home. Not that
I’ve got much sayso.« After the rehab the kitchen was still meet
and greet central, and the first room you stepped into. The
bathtub, thankfully, was long ago banished to the far end of the
flat and therefore no longer pulled double duty as dish drainer.
The hens gave my place the deadpan, looking like cotillion debs
at an Irish wake. »Squalored,« said Little Mod.
    »Squaloriffic. One ten a month, can you beat it?«
    Big Girl filled the place like it was a dollhouse. A one-woman
mystery spot, she somehow took up twice the space than would
have seemed natural. After a fumble or two at the wall I found
the overhead. In Max’s my guests had profiled perfect but
landlord halos tend not to bestow a Hollywood glow. Little Mod
took on five or six years between blinks, and it surprised me to
see how dark pint-size was – Greek or maybe even Arab, proba-
bly, but in the wrong states that wouldn’t cut enough slack to
get served. A northerner, no doubt, or from the great west. As
for Big Girl, once I got up close her looks and her demeanour
made me sure she’d spent more than one summer in the Ladies’
Cooler over on Tenth Street. She plastered on the warpaint but
it couldn’t hide the scars. Poor girl had an express line running
along her neck and her face practically in HO scale. Shanked in
the shower, no doubt, by a short, jealous lifer.
    »Forgive impolitesse,« Little Mod said, throwing me a half
smile like she wanted me to catch it. »Haste wastes.«
    »What doesn’t?« Once they stopped trying to hurt me I
started feeling those manly tingles they aroused in me anew.
»Let’s get comfy.«
    »Where’s your public space?« she asked, seeing the single
kitchen chair.
   »Baby, once I’m across the threshold it’s all off-limits to the
declasse.« Big Girl elbowed me, not accidentally. »I’ll lead on.«
   We criss-crossed my crib, which was in its usual state of dis-
habille. In the frontest of the two front rooms I kept my books,
a couch, a lamp, the standard domestic accoutrements. The
other room was sanctumville, where I housed my shellac. These
old walls may have worn plaster couture but the frillies under-
neath were nothing but chicken wire. I’d spent big moolah
having solid oak shelves fitted to the brick underlay so as to
avoid collapse. Even so, whenever I came home with a new find
I feared the new disc would tip over the line, and my little blue
heaven would sink down to China.
   »Weight load’s borderlined,« said Little Mod, eyeing my
warehouse.
   »Six thousand, three hundred and four. All 78s.«
   »78 what?« Big Girl said, seizing a prize. There aren’t many
on the ball these days when it comes to America’s priceless
heritage, but that’s not news. It wasn’t her ignorance of the once
well-known that made me break out with nervous tics, but the
way her baby-voiced peeps counterpointed the sound of a dry
branch underfoot. Definitely didn’t please me to see her sud-
denly giving the onceover to the black half-moons in her paws.
She held them like a two-fisted pie eater.
   »Babycakes, you got to use silk when you’re shining up the
master’s voice.« I relieved her of her burden, fearful to see what
she’d sent to the hangman. My luck held, though. Bennie
Moten’s Kansas City Orchestra, She’s Sweeter Than Sugar. One
copy down, press-fresh at that, but I’d laid away three more in
stock in event of April showers bringing tears in May. In this
case it was still a heartbreak. Didn’t matter how many copies of
the record there might be, Bennie wasn’t going to come up out
of the ground with anything new.
   »Unintentioned,« said Big Girl. »Classify.«
   »Museumwear, Chlo. Populacra,« Little Mod said. »Re-
cords.«
   When she said records she might as well have been saying
polly want a cracker. Strange to say but somehow I just knew in
my bones that until she actually saw my prizes, wax platters had
been nothing but some philosophical concept she’d needed to
read about in college. Of course nobody pays attention to 78s
anymore except for those in the know, and you know who you
are.
   »Soundbites?« Big Girl asked. Before I could suggest that she
shouldn’t, Eulie nabbed one from the shelf and slid it loose. She
petted the disc like it was her favourite kitten. I turned on the
deathray but didn’t blow, not until I saw the label. Then I
lunged, and managed to wrestle it from her grip before she
started playing pattycake.
   »Ladies, ladies,« I said. »Toss me around, but not these.«
   I let out one king-size sigh when I realized how terminal the
damage might have been. Black Pattis are scarcer than dodos
these days but this beauty was ne plus ultra. Matrix number
8045, Hightower’s Night Hawks, Boar Hog Blues backing
Squeeze Me. Sounds like it was recorded underwater but no-
body kissed a cornet like Willie Hightower, and this was all that
was left of him. Snatching a shammy and a bottle of cleaner I
started lifting Little Mod’s prints. The gals gaped in my direc-
tion, fixated, as if I were pulling diamond rings out of my sleeve.
   »Purpose?« Big Girl asked, almost broadsiding me with her
veranda as she swooped down for the kill. Ordinarily, I
wouldn’t have minded tumbling into that great divide but the
task of maintenance required focus. I emerged from her shadow
and checked the surface – clean as a bald head.
   »Hand oil clogs the grooves,« I said. »Eats into the wax. Dig,
I’m not just a packrat but a preservationist. Just call this place
Preservation Hall.«
   I never saw two grown women look so stupefied and so an-
noyed at the same time, but I was rolling, and kept up the spiel.
»Libraries toss these babies out with the bathwater. Orphans in
the storm till those with a heart take ’em in. History in the hand,
only place it won’t get away. These aren’t like LPs, these bleed.
Scratch ’em and you cut out their tongue. Break ’em and one
more gets thrown over the side.«
   My audience seemed to get my drift, so I segued before the
yawns started. »Well, seat yourself, my dears. Let me tender
some perky libations.« They both stepped into the living room
and unsherpaed, putting their black bags on the floor. Big Girl
plumped down on a chair my grandmother left me and her big
keister smashed right through the rattan. She started wiggling
but it looked like a no go situation. I was wondering what to tell
the rescue squad when the chair frame cracked open like a
pecan, and she hit the floor with a powerful thump.
   »Hurt?« asked Little Mod. Big Girl hauled herself up,
frowned and kicked the two halves of the chair straight through
the apartment into the kitchen. Didn’t want anyone to trip over
them, I supposed. I didn’t so much appreciate her thoughtful-
ness as I did the fact that she hadn’t aimed the pieces at me.
   »Accidents happen,« I said. »Let’s try the divan.«
   Both of them sat down on the sofa. It moaned but didn’t take
the gas pipe. »Let’s make with the labels, why don’t we?« I
asked. »How do yours read?« They gave me a stare as if I was a
chinaman and they were the new white slaves. Downright
unsettling to see molls like these two showing the whim-whams.
»Call me Walter. Walter Bullitt. What do they call you?«
   »Eulalia. Call me Eulie,« she said. »Walter.«
   »Euphonious indeed,« I said, and, still standing, bowed low
to Big Girl. Didn’t imagine she’d let me kiss her hand. »My
petit-four?«
   »Chlojo,« she rumbled.
   »Pardon?«
   »Chlo for Chloe,« Eulie said. »Jo for Josephine.« They gave
each other a look, and nodded. »Chlojo.«
   »Music to my ears,« I said, judging that Eulie wasn’t the only
one showing tell-tale traces of the woodpile. When it came to
the colourbar Chlojo had hardly any coffee in the cream; but
there was another story being told when it came to the super-
structure. Impressed me that they seemed to feel so fancy free
when it came to coming and going as they pleased. »Gals, my
cat’s on its last life. You’d better fill me in on something …«
   »What?« Eulie asked.
   »Look, let me pledge my allegiance first. I’m no Royboy,
there’s no tattletales here. The skin game leaves me cold and my
sheets stay on the bed. But I can’t help but wonder about the
bloodline I’m picking up on here. Tell me Big Momma, what
boat’d Bigger Momma come over on?«
   Chlojo fisheyed me; then grinned, clam-happy to read the
book without using the dictionary. Her teeth looked false but
they also looked like they could bite through the Brooklyn
phone book. »Jadish,« she said.
   »What?«
   »Swedish and Jamaican,« Little Mod explained.
   »Nice grouping,« I said; I can always spot the spots. Of
course this was a talent anyone born to the colours knew in
their bones: it was tricky to function in the modern world
unless you could tell at first look how black white might really
be. »I’m cool. Want to make sure you know you’re not the only
ones with your hand in the tar.« They gave each other a quick
corner look and then turned their gaze back to the main attrac-
tion. »You two on a diplomatic gig?«
   »Diplomatic?« Eulie asked.
   »I’d like to see the hotel clerk tell her no dogs need apply,« I
said, pointing at Chlojo. She didn’t pick up my thread that time,
though; she and Eulie just sat there staring at me like they were
at a county fair and I was in a jar. Maybe I was off on the dip-
lomatic guess; they didn’t seem especially American but they
didn’t act like foreigners either, at least not from any of the
countries I was familiar with.
   »Well, fill me in, ladies,« I went on. »Much as I like to let my
imagination run wild I doubt you’re here to brush up on your
orgy skills. What is on the menu anyway? Is this the appetizer or
are we already having dessert?«
   »I’m sorry?« asked Eulie. »We’re dining?«
   »Nya, Eulie,« Chlo said, her big marble eyes shining like
black suns. »Explicate presence. Detail.«
   I winked at Chlo, who may have been somewhat antisocial
but at least seemed hep to the jive. Sad to say she didn’t wink
back.
   »Have you experienced hallucinations lately?« Eulie asked,
pulling her drumsticks up on the sofa and spreading them like
she was keen to be stuffed. »What you believed to be hallucina-
tions?«
   That was a difficult situation, my brothers. Try as I might to
be gentlemanly, I couldn’t help sneaking peeks down between
her legs to see what they were wearing in Tierra del Fuego.
»Could be,« I said. »Depends on the produce.«
   She shook her head. »What’s meant?«
   »Business-class tickets out of Bittersville,« I said. »Mind mas-
ters only, got a cold war going with the bodybreakers. Can’t
stand cokey joes, speedsters, redheads. Only junky I ever saw
handle the stuff was Old Bill –«
   »Which drugs?« Eulie asked.
   »Psychedillies. LSD-25, 34, 65,« I said, and ran through the
repertoire. »Mescaline and or peyote, fly agaric, ergine,
ibogaine, yage, psyilocibin derivative and in the natural state,
virola, so forth, so on. Then there’re the government beasts I
test-market prior to distribution, DMT, STP, BZ, THL, VMC –«
   »Have you seen a specific vision?« she asked. »Two people?«
   »Stallion and mare?«
   Eulie blinked, and then her bulb lit. »Gendered accordingly,
AO.«
   »Who’s asking?« An undesirable notion crept into my mind
like a cat burglar and now it was my turn to shake with the
whim-whams. What if Bennett was having a go at working the
pimp side of the street? Could be he’d gone flakeola, and started
up his own ops unbeknownst to Martin? That runaround
always landed on the offbeat for somebody. Bennett couldn’t get
me to do anything I hadn’t already done, but the way they lulled
me into sociability made me tell these sisters in blood more
than I ever wanted Bennett to hear. Entrapment, no doubt. B-
boy looked in the files, found a pair who’d blown their cover,
brought ’em into the office and gave them the opportunity to
keep passing unhindered.
   »Who we represent?« Eulie asked.
   »You got it.«
   Chlojo gave me a sly eye and chirped, »Society for Psychical
Research.«
   I played back everything I’d squawked to them about. After
running through it I realized I wasn’t as in deep as I’d feared I
was. That comment I made about having a hand in the tar
might sound fishy to a fisherman, but something that vague
could be talked away, especially if I called Martin on his hand.
Back in the catbird seat: I decided to just act natural and lay off
the code.
   »That so?« I asked. »So are they ghosts or Fortean phenom-
ena?«
   »Fortean?« Chlo asked. »Define.«
   »Paraworldly,« I said. »The unlikely and unexpected, but
with basis in fact. Lake monsters, abominable snowmen, polter-
geists, fish falling from the sky –«
   »Unusual coincidences, living pterodactyls, cows giving birth
to sheep,« Eulie added, sharing a fast stare with Chlojo.
»Forteana.«
   »Well? Which are they?«
   »Uncertain,« she said. »They aspect both. Investigation war-
rants.«
   »Whatever they are, how’d you know I needed an extermina-
tor?«
   »We centred upon disturbances in the field,« Eulie said.
»Prompting interest.«
   »What field?«
   Ignorance being bliss, she kept me happy.
   »So why do they want to give me their business?« I asked.
   »Coincidence, undoubted,« she said. »You’ve seen them
here?«
   »Today,« I said. »First time I saw ’em though was last night,
in DC. Then again this morning.«
   »Washington, DC?«
   »Know the place?«
   Eulie looked less than slaphappy. Chlojo lifted her head like
she wanted to give the ceiling a onceover. She had as many scars
under her chin as she did on her face, and it struck me she’d
been through major trauma. Car wreck? High-school chemistry
experiment gone haywire? Crazy boyfriend? She was put back
together pretty well, considering. Maybe she used to work as a
lab rat for a Palm Springs nip and tuck man. Some scalpel
jockey honing his blade on the riffraff before trimming the
dowagers. »Saw here when?« Eulie asked, leaning forward, legs
apart. »Oh,« I said, »before I went to Max’s. I spun some plat-
ters and they hightailed it.«
   I subtly began to fold up in the middle, because my southern
inflation was starting to become a little too obvious. I was
damned every which way and up with these gals. Didn’t matter
if I tried not to go on beaver patrol with Eulie; I’d slide my eyes
in the opposite direction and there I’d be, gazing deep into
Chlojo’s posturepedic couture. Their six of one and half dozen
of the other was knocking me way past blueball into mood
indigo. The worst of it was that no matter how much these two
were giving me happy pants, not knowing who they really were
or why they were really here made me feel like a cat in a bag
listening to the riverboats getting louder.
    »You see them now?« Eulie asked.
    »Nowhere nohow,« I said. »They weren’t much for tunes.«
    »We need to execute necessaried tests. Is that acceptable?«
    »Sure,« I said, »don’t let me get in the way.«
    She nodded to Chlojo and they started unloading their
    gear. I picked up her empty satchel thinking at first it was
    leather but finding out soon enough it wasn’t leather or
    plastic. Whatever it was, it looked expensive, so I guessed
    the stuff was one of those new miracle space age things like
    Tang. Eulie positioned a set of twelve little black blocks on
    the floor and started tapping each of them in turn with a
foot-long black rod. The tip of the gizmo was round and I
couldn’t help wondering if Trish had been right, and my unfor-
gettable guests were little miss muffets after all. Sad story indeed
if true but I thought I’d wait till all evidence was in before
passing judgement. Eulie stroked the beast’s sides in the ex-
pected manner as she tapped each box. The tip lit up with a
pink glow like a car’s cigarette lighter. She aimed her rod my
way, and it was hard not to flinch.
    »Chlojo, position in accordance.« She snatched up the boxes
and laid them out in a semicircle on the hearth, in front of my
bricked-up fireplace, on the hearth. »We’ll ready en momento.«
    The little one was a charmer, no doubt; impressive as I might
have thought Chlojo to be at the getgo, the longer I was around
her the more I found myself developing a soft gooey centre for
the wee missy. She had some trace of an accent; sounded famil-
iar. »You two New Yorkers?« I asked.
    She shook her head. »Jersey.«
    Farmer’s daughters going hogwild in the big city: that ex-
plained their fashion parade if not the goofball behaviour. You
may take the girl out of Secaucus but you can’t take Secaucus
out of the girl. My nerves started doing that jingle-jangle-jingle;
I knew if I was going to keep playing host with the most I was
going to need relief.
    »You ladies wouldn’t drop your drawers if I fired up, would
you?«
    »What?« Eulie asked. Chlojo finished lining up the boxes and
stood up. I took a pinch and a Bugler from the stash at hand
and started up a one-hand Detroit roll.
    »Herbifaction,« Chlojo said to Eulie.
    »Of course.«
    »Muchas thankas,« I said. After giving the bone a quick lick I
flipped up the crystal on my Doxa Firelight and clicked the
bottom stem; the fire flowered up from the face and I listened to
the sweet music of popping seed. »Pause that refreshes,« I
mumbled, drawing south until the fume soaked the alveoli; then
I let the north wind howl.
    Chlojo gave me a loan shark’s grin. Sticking her fist into her
bodice she tugged out a change purse. Squeezed it open, and she
extracted a bud the size of a bing cherry. She held up her treat as
if expecting me to beg.
    »Lovely one, I’m used to Manhattan grade,« I said, stepping
over to be polite. »No need to cop my muggles off eighth-grade
hoods at the Nutley Dairy Queen –«
    Live and learn. When I took a whiff of that bud of hers I
blasted off through mere proximity. Before I knew what hit me I
was one with the floor, overcome by g-force. My head felt like
the Babe had knocked it into the upper deck, and even though
my blinds were drawn I saw the saucers swooping down to get
me. »Valentine,« I heard somebody say before realizing it was
me. When I finally returned to the solid world, a minute or so
later, I saw Chlojo flashing a truly sinister rictus. Eulie was
holding my shoulders, and demonstrating far more concern
than her duplicitious sidekick.
    »What is that shit?« I asked, feigning a semblance of coher-
ency. Clearly no playground was involved here. Only explana-
tion I could figure was that these gals had big brothers in green
overseas, and they loved their siblings dearly. »Vietnamese?«
    Chlojo sized me up as if deciding where to kick me next. »Se-
caucus.«
    The yen was on me; I somehow had to reserve acreage on this
produce. »Not bad,« I said, lifting my hand and seeing fourteen.
»Would you ladies care to share and share alike –?«
    »Chlo,« Eulie shouted, passing her big buddy the rod, dis-
tracting us for the moment from considering profitable co-op
schemes. »Positioning. Formation ninety percent sure. Ready
yourself.«
    »AO,« Chlojo said, pointing the rod directly at the small
boxes. The rod’s tip began shining fire-engine red.
    »What? What is it?« I asked.
    »They’re seeable, Walter?«
    I shook my head, and realized I shouldn’t have. It still didn’t
really feel attached to my neck. »Nope.«
    »Walter, how many hours since initial contact?«
    »Uh, twenty hours?« As I drifted back and forth over the en-
hanced plane it struck me that I should be more candid about
my state, the night before. »First time I saw them I’d just
dropped something vaguely psychoactive. Would that –?«
    »You’ve known similar alteration during successive show-
ings?« Eulie asked, extracting what I thought was a white busi-
ness card out of a pocket I hadn’t seen. When she held it in
front of the boxes the card got bright pink spots all over as if it
had chickenpox.
    »No more than usual.«
    »Conceivably facilitated,« she said. »Wouldn’t generate.«
    »Eulie,« said Chlojo. »There.«
    Each little box started putting out a deep blue shine, looking
like they were heating up, though since I wasn’t dripping I
could tell they weren’t. After ten seconds or so the shine intensi-
fied and something like St. Elmo’s fire outlined the fireplace
mantle. There were two lamps on in the room and one in the
record chamber and all of them suddenly started putting out
black light. Our skin turned deep purple and the gals’ teeth went
all snowy. Place looked like some California head shop. When I
touched the walls I felt static electricity giving me that door-
knob in winter feel; an ozony perfume filled the air, the kind
that comes up when a rainstorm suddenly ups the ante, and
bolts start belting down from the lords above.
   »This going to hurt the records –?«
   »Are you sighting, Walter?« Eulie asked. I watched my ecto-
plasmic pals begin to gel in the far corner of the living room.
»Walter?«
   »There she blows,« I said, pointing.
   »Shield, Chlo.«
   They both reached up into their dos as if primping for com-
pany. Eulie pulled out a small round box and popped it open.
This evidently was just the moment for them to put in contact
lenses. Now I’ve always been under the impression cheaters
were glamorizers, but the look theirs gave them weren’t so
much Rita Hayworth as Lon Chaney. They were yellow, with
spots and lines. Seemed impossible to see through but I guess
they did.
   »Godness,« said Chlojo. I think she’d met her match. The
rod’s knob shone like the headlight on the midnight express.
Their geiger counter, or something, started clicking out a
mambo beat.
   »Walter!« Eulie said, sounding touchy. »You recognize?«
   »None other.«
   My airy pair, as always, didn’t seem to be up on the news that
we were close at hand. They just hung there in the corner like a
painting you could walk all the way around; looked sealed in
lucite. I took advantage of their lassitude and gave them a closer
one-two. I’d have put the dude at my age, thirty or so. From the
look of him I guessed he’d been standing on Everest when
somebody pulled it out from under him. The buttons on his
jacket were gone, the lining hung down all raggedyass; his pants
were wrinkled as Grandpa’s kisser. The shoes didn’t matter,
they kept fading in and out. His dreamgirl was a goner, no
wondering about that. Couldn’t tell exactly what did her in but
judging from the bruises I’d think somebody’d played xylo-
phone on her with a pair of meat tenderizers. She’d been a
luscious morsel once, though, and her face wasn’t touched. Her
eyes were shut. His weren’t. I don’t know what he saw but he
didn’t seem to like it.
   »Scrolling?« Chlojo asked.
   »AO,« Eulie said, putting her card underneath the end of that
red-hot rod. »Ratio coordinates verifying. Wave accessibility
doubling, enter primary codes –«
   No need to eavesdrop; I might as well have been putting the
glom on Armenians. Impossible for the layman to get much of a
grip on the wonders of science. Wished now I hadn’t cut those
paraphysics classes during the six months I cooled my heels at
the U of Washington. Knowing the basics would have let me be
more hep to their jive. They did their chores as if this was the
kind of thing they did every morning before breakfast. I settled
back in the purple gleam to soak in the zen of the moment. Just
then the phone rang. The gals sprang hurdles when the jingle
bells started clanging and the ghosts took off on a fade. Eulie
and Chlojo glared at me; in my state of heightened enlighten-
ment I wasn’t too clear on what I was supposed to do. »An-
swer!« Chlojo shouted, starting toward me. I snatched up the
receiver and bleated a hasty salute.
   »What’s shaking?« Trish’s lovely dulcets charmed my ear in
reply. La Fabulosa never fails to send me express, but on this
evening, at that moment, I’d have been a lot happier if she’d
gone to play stickball on somebody else’s block. »Cat got your
tongue? Speak up.«
   »Basta,« I said, going low-toned and sultry so she’d think I
was in the midst of heavy loveseat action. Chlojo and Eulie were
getting frantic with their machinery but the ghosts weren’t
sticking around. »Not talking. Loose lips, ships.«
   »Don’t feed me that huggermugger.«
   »Unavoidable, fabs.«
   »You hotfooted it so fast out of Max’s you beat the smoke out
the door. Give me the dirt, handsome. You get anywhere trying
to shift into babe-o-luscious or did those fair maidens put on
the brakes and toss you out on the curb?«
   »Ixnay on the usciouslay,« I chided.
   »You mean they’re still there?« The amazement in her voice
annoyed me, but there was no need to get into it here. »Both?«
   »The sixty-four thousand dollar question.«
   »It’s groovitudinous?« she asked.
   »Maxima.«
   »Mea maxima groovitudina.«
   »Must run,« I said, knowing she rarely recognized hints
when she heard them. »Tally ho.«
   »What’s the protocol in this situation?« she asked. »Draw
straws?«
   »Flip coins,« I said. »Look, haste wastes. We’ll chat anon, bet
on it. I swear.«
   »You’re so sexigismal.« She whinnied a king-size horselaugh.
»Fill me in later. Don’t need the liner notes but I got to see the
cover.«
   I clicked off and cradled.
   »Sorry, sorry,« I told my house guests. Chlojo popped her
contacts out and gave me a look that could fry eggs.
   »Forgotten, forgiven,« Eulie said, shrugging. »We’ve quanti-
fied theoreticals. Cease and rebag, Chlo.«
   Big baby slung the satchel over her arm and dropped in the
boxes like she was scooting along on cotton detail. Eulie slid the
rod and her card back into her bag and pressed the top shut.
»You’re rolling?« I asked.
   A pause. »Leaving, yes. We’ve questions still, but have ba-
sics.«
   »Will you let me in on why these two have such a heavy jones
for me?« I asked. »This is my castle, after all, I’d like to know
who keeps hopping over the moat.«
   »You’ve nexused,« Chlojo said, stonepussed.
   »I’m what?«
   »You’re centring the phenomenon,« Eulie said. »Unexplain-
able, presently.«
   »Lucky me.«
   »We’ll visit again. Possibly without notice. Acceptable?«
   »We can work something out,« I said, sidling in closer so she
could better appreciate my own charms. Maybe it was only
Chlojo’s wicked muggles in action but the notion stuck in my
head that I’d never met any kitten with her kind of purr. It
wasn’t just the white boots; the pink ray shone on her with a
vengeance and I was rocking with a steady roll. I was willing to
cut her some slack even if she was one of Bennett’s. »When?«
   »Depends on circumstance,« she said. »Walter, I’m question-
ing. How do you work?«
   »Whenever I need to but I don’t make it a steady habit,« I
said. »Long as you keep your time in to a minimum the boys in
the boat might keep you on the line but they’ll never haul you
in.«
   »No, I’m confusing you,« she said. »What is your job?«
   Mighty peculiar line of inquiry if Bennett’s goal was to find
out something he didn’t already know. Granted, he might not
have filled her in on what my gig was even if she’d asked. »Free-
lance work,« I said. »For the government, mainly. Acts of
chemical interference in the national interest.«
   She stared at me. »That’s necessaried?«
   »You’d be surprised,« I said. »In return I get considerable
leeway when it comes to how I spend my free time. Listen,
there’s something I got to ask.«
   »What?«
   »Let’s say you’re Greek, maybe Sicilian. Just for the sake of
saying it.«
   »AO,« she said, frowning. »Why?«
   »But Chlojo here owns up to being half Jamaican. How does
she get by without constantly getting run down by the blood-
boys?«
   »Uncomprehended,« Chlojo said. »Bloodboys?«
   Eulie smiled like she’d finally gotten the punchline. »Chlo,«
Eulie said. »Recollect preparatory briefings. Foreseeable dissi-
militude.«
   Chlo nodded. Neither of them answered my question. »Wal-
ter, would you favour us?« Eulie asked.
   »Love to,« I said. Couldn’t beat these two when it came to
keeping mum. If they weren’t Bennett’s gals that was probably a
plus. Truthfully I was getting to the stage where I’d start going
not just out of the way for Eulie, but completely off the map.
»How so?«
   »Would you demonstrate a record?«
   »You mean you want me to play one?« Both of them gave me
the go-ahead. »Got any favourites?«
   »Nada,« Eulie said. »You select.«
   Strolling casually to the wall I pondered the choices. Chick
Webb or Charlie Christian? Barbecue Bob or Blind Lemon?
Maybe put on the mountain boys to get a different kind of
missing? Grayson and Whitter or Tom Karnes, in that case? Or
go lightheaded and pick Ted Weems and his Orchestra? »Na-
gasaki« as done by Billy Costello, the guy who did the voice of
Popeye? Inspiration hit me and I slid out one of my faves. The
gals circled me like buzzards, eyes wide, while I performed the
rituals. After laying the disc on the papered plate I positioned
the needle and let Geeshie Wiley spin.

             If I die, if I die,
             In the German War,
             Pleeeeeeaaase take my body
             Send it back to m’ mother’n’law

   Geeshie, like a lot of us, still had a certain freedom of move-
ment back at the end of the twenties, on into Depression days.
Geeshie was one of those angels who dropped down at the hotel
where the music man was staying long enough to cut a few
platters before sailing back into the sky. Left a better taste in
your mouth to picture it that way, at least. In any event Geeshie
disappeared on her own long before the bloodboys could take
care of it for her. I had both her records, all four sides. Found
one in the Seattle Salvation Army. Twenty years later found this
one, the best, Last Kind Word Blues, in a junk shop on Allen
Street. After that, no more Geeshie. No more of any of them,
only their records, and those marvellous labels: Grey Gull,
Electradisk, Puretone, Resona, Columbia, Melotone, Radiex,
American Odeon. My people preserved – sweet, black, and
shiny.
   During the third instrumental break Eulie spoke. »It’s famil-
iared, I’ve heard.«

             The Mississippi River,
             it’s deep and it’s wide
             IIIIIIII can stand right here,
             See my face on the other side.

   »Who is it?« she asked when the song ended.
   »Geeshie Wiley,« I said, lifting the disc up, reclothing and
reshelving it with all the respect Geeshie deserved. »Where’d
you hear it? Wasn’t ever on a comp, far as I know.«
   »These are all like that?« she asked, gesturing at my wall of
sound,
   »Most aren’t that good. Some are. A few better but not
many.«
   They started toward the kitchen. Eulie looked better to me
then than she had all night, if only because she was getting
ready to take off. Call me an idiot, it wouldn’t be a new experi-
ence. These mantraps may have been hazardous as hungry
tigers or Southern cops but she’d put enough of a hex on me
that I was no longer fretting over it, at least not too much. »We
kind of got off on the wrong foot. You sure you got to rush off?«
   »Presently,« she said. »We’ll return.«
   »What about your phone number?«
   I was really digging that goofball baffled look that her face
took on so often. »It’s unlisted,« she said, after a second. »I’ll
contact.«
   »Got you.« Hadn’t gotten her yet, but if I had any say in the
matter I would.
   »Walter, make note of when they return. Record how often
you see them and where, and when.«
   »When they return?« I asked. »Not if?«
   »When,« she repeated. »We’ll be touching, Walter.«
   »In touch,« Chlojo muttered.
   »I mean we’ll be in touch.«
   »Either way sounds good to me,« I said, and before I could
say anything else they were out the door. »Either or. Whatever.«
   Even though I hotfooted it, by the time I got to the windows
in the front they’d already disappeared. Hated to see such sweet
delights hit the bricks, but if there wasn’t pain in life the pleas-
ure wouldn’t count for shit. In lieu of carnal life I lay down on
my sofa, feeling the imprints they’d left, and reached into my
stash to roll up a nightcap. All the lamps still worked so I sup-
posed the lightshow hadn’t DCed the AC. Sad to say, the phone
was also still working. After letting it go four or five rings I took
a long drag and decided to see who was so persistent at that
time of night.
   »Been thinking about our offer?« Bennett, naturally. Privacy
wasn’t a concept he took much stock in.
   »Don’t be a worrywart, my brother. Wears away the stone.«
   »No worries here, Walter,« he said. »Any worries on your
end?«
   »Can’t say there are –« Taking another draw, I realized I
hadn’t ascertained the provenance of Chlojo’s supernatural
produce. Hoped Bennett’s phone call was merely one of the
aftereffects.
   »There will be,« he said, trying to do Bogart, failing misera-
bly. »You can’t imagine. I can.«
   »You got a licence to use that imagination?« I asked. »By the
way, what’d you send those cookies over to see me for?«
   Silence. »What the hell are you talking about?«
   »Bennett, you’ll get no Oscars playing the coy miss,« I said.
»There’s no fooling a fooler, my brother.«
   He sighed. Nothing I tried seemed to prompt him to hang
up. »The hell with you. Do what we ask or you’ll be sorry.«
   »What is it again I’m supposed to be doing? Refresh my
memory. I get distracted when roller derby queens put the
strongarm on me.«
   »You’re incoherent, you idiot.« No doubt about it, those ba-
bies weren’t his. That lifted my happy heart a little higher. »Get
back on the wagon before it’s too late. Remember what we
talked about this morning? In Washington?« Another pause on
his end. »You remember being in Washington?«
   »Haven’t blacked it out yet but I’m trying,« I said. »Bennett, I
told you and Martin and those two nightcrawlers, I’m not
having anything to do with the Potato Famine and I mean it.
Bug off.«
   He hung up. I laid the receiver in the cradle and panned the
room. My two ghosts hadn’t wasted any time; they’d come back
for an encore now that the crowd had thinned out.
   Help, he said, or at least I heard it being said. Remembered
he’d kept the lid on while the girls were here but could be their
gizmos put the quietus on him. Seemed like I was going to have
to get used to these two moochers, but as long as their being
around brought back the livelier pair, I could handle that. I’d
started to take a final toke on the nubbin when he came up with
a fresh line.
   Walter, he said. Help.
                            THREE




Having old see-through tuning in on my nom de guerre and
trying to make with the small talk like he’d cornered me at a
party made me come down with one bad case of chicken pox,
accent on the bird. Didn’t think it’d set a good precedent if I
started letting ghosts get the upper hand, so after the first time
he called for Philip Morris I went all tastee freeze on him,
suspecting that if I made any kind of move he’d really start with
the chitchat. Seemed to me the only way to play this was by
going easy on the shuck and jive; tried pulling a maitre’d act
instead, acting like he was trying to crash the list.
   »Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?«
   Walter.
   »Must be some confusion. I’m one of the Smith boys.«
   Help.
   »Kind of losing my patience here,« I said, the challenges of
ethereal plane communication seriously messing with my head.
»Who are you? You got a name? A handle? What’d your mom
call you?«
   Now he threw the Silent Sam treatment on me. Seemed to be
giving me the beady eye but it was hard to say for sure. I tried
tiptoeing a little to the left to see if his look followed but it
didn’t, he stared straight on like I was still there. I trotted be-
hind him, and then popped up on the right. Not a glimmer of
recognition in the boy.
    Walter.
    It came clear to me that even though he knew I was there and
even had a grip on my monicker, the advantage was mine when
it came to who knew where the other was hanging out. I leaned
in a little closer to him but didn’t notice anything I ever read
about in the ghost stories – where he dangled wasn’t colder than
anywhere else in the place. I wasn’t feeling any vibes that I
didn’t ordinarily feel; not a hair on my neck was even thinking
about rising. Now that I had him under the microscope I saw he
wasn’t giving me the beady eye; what I couldn’t see for sure was
if he had eyes. Where they should have been there were just two
black tunnels in his head that went somewhere you knew you
wouldn’t want to go. His comrade in arms still lay there in his
arms, staying noncommittal. I imagined if she’d known, she’d
have been just as happy to be out of it.
    Help me.
    »My brother, you got me at a disadvantage,« I said. »If I’m
going to scratch your back, you ought to least pretend to scratch
mine.«
    It was pretty obvious though that he wasn’t in any shape to
scratch anything. Giving up on the old college try I left him
behind and walked into the kitchen, feeling the call of the gut –
realized I hadn’t chowed since I was on the train to NY. Before I
opened the icebox I took a peek to my rear but they’d not left
the front room. Nothing like breakfast at midnight; I turned on
the radio and turned in WNEW while fixing myself Adam and
Eve on a raft. Nightbird was clearly in a heavy Zombies mood
but I could deal with it. As I put away the snacks I let my mind
wander, not that it wasn’t always a challenge to keep it leashed.
Thought about those girls, especially peewee. Chlojo had those
rococo qualities, but she was a moody miss and besides I never
felt much at ease with ladies who looked like they’d as soon bust
your lip as kiss it. Now that I’d had a chance to see both close
up, Eulie was the one I’d –
   Walter.
   Train of thought skidded off the tracks again. He lounged in
the doorway, striking the usual pose. Got bored in the front
room, I supposed, and came to see what was doing out here. I
offered them eggs, but they weren’t buying. Just when I thought
they were going to do their hang-dog act all night they started
fading from the floor up, as if somebody was taking an eraser to
him. Ten, fifteen seconds – no more – and they vamoosed.
   Now I don’t spend much rehearsal time on the Big Book but
at least I know the lines. The BB tells us after you catch the last
bus to tomorrowland you have to make a pit stop at demiurge
central before they let you up on the high ground. The archons
and fiends of this world know they can’t keep you there forever,
so they make you miserable as they can while they got the
chance – it’s their metier. I’d always had doubts about this
theory, not being as much a believing man as my father was, but
I had to admit once I got a gander at my ghosts I was willing to
buy it. Judging from the looks of those two I wondered if the
demiurges hadn’t figured out a way to hold onto passers-
through indefinitely.
    »Hello, out there,« I hollered. Nothing. Decided to taper off
on my theological meanderings, and went to dump my dish in
the sink. I noticed something on the counter, near the breadbox.
Bless her heart. Chlojo left me a present; a forest-green bud
about the size of a shooter waited for me, probably the one she’d
done me in with earlier. I slid my paw into a kitchen mitt before
plucking that June bug. Considering how scent alone produced
a DMT-like rocket launch I could only imagine how high I’d fly
if I actually touched the bud; dropping it into a baggie I smiled,
knowing I’d never have to smoke it to go sailing – perma-pot!
you couldn’t beat it with a stick. Before snapping the bag shut I
couldn’t resist taking one quick huff. When I came to, next
morning, I saw two empty boxes of Betty Crocker cake mix and
a used batter bowl, but no evidence that I’d baked.

»Tell me,« she said, »tell me tell me tell me –«
   Trish beseeched me all that day, wanting the dirt on how my
evening went. Finally the little voyeur wore me out and I
hoisted the white flag.
   »Uncle,« I said. »Where you want to touch knees?«
   »I’m in a mood for high life. Enough rolling in the gutter.
Let’s do the Plaza.«
   No use trying to put the quietus on this lunacy; once Trish
put desire into word there was no turning back. »Swell,« I said.
»Not in the Fancy Dan rooms, though. So much starch in those
shirts, makes me itch.«
   »All right, we’ll lurk on the shadier side. 59th Street’s more
your speed anyway.«
   »Damn straight. Trader Vic’s?« I suggested, getting a big-
league jones for a pupu platter – that had to be an aftereffect.
   »So tiki tacky,« she said. »Why don’t we take in the Free
Movement of Musical Air?«
   »For real?« I asked. »All right. Sold American.«
   »You better be ready to tell me the once-upon-a-time.«
   »Nine sharp,« I said, staring at that bagged bud lying on the
counter. »Don’t go in the drunk tank before I make the scene.
I’m bringing a surprise that won’t mix with gin.«
   »Everything mixes with gin,« she said. »Toodles, noodles.«

In the Northeast, the Plaza’s Theremin Room was the last of the
Mohicans. There were still joints like it in LA and Frisco, and
the one in Seattle in the Olympic was still there as far as I knew.
They were the bee’s knees back in the twenties and early thirties;
then they found out the gizmos were bad, bad news anywhere
within a two-mile radius of Teslas. Thirty-block blackouts if the
frequencies harmonized right and never mind the gas ruptures.
Back in the big sky country they’d always favoured hydroelec-
tric, so it wasn’t as much of a problem; out west they claimed
never using Teslas helped keep people out of tumour town but
that was probably nothing more than xylocaine, something to
ease the pain but not quite succeeding.
   That night I headed uptown and once the witching hour
struck I made my walk-on. Spotted Fabs at the bar, savouring a
bilious toddy, a grasshopper by all indications. As I strutted
over to her I glommed the stage. In the pit a rhythmiconist
plinked out a series of overtones and five thereminists stood in
front of diamond-shaped speakers, fluttering their fingers over
their boxes’ tone bars to evoke the countermelody. Two hepkit-
tens in black leotards pranced atop the metal soundstage,
shimmying away at some mean rain dance. Every move they
took made additional notes warble by way of the oscillators
picking up on the air currents, and the more they wiggled the
more elaborate came the arpeggios and glissandos.
   »Good to see you in one piece,« Trish said, and we enjoyed a
mutual standing massage. »Thought those rangerettes’d grind
you up and spit you out.«
   »I’m too chewy,« I said, and signalled the barman to dredge
up a high head. »What are –«
   »Look who I bumped into on the way over,« she said. I
looked; wasn’t much taken with the sight. Trish had thousands
of best friends, housed in every penthouse and gutter in New
York, native-born and Euro, but not many hit the spot with me.
Sometime earlier I’d met this one – Biff? Boff? whatever mater
pegged him back in Beantown – and already knew he didn’t
come close to the mark. A Bennett without portfolio, somewhat
more chiselled, with that lean Aryan look. Had that Art Mod-
erne bone structure that makes the owners imagine the God of
this world always has them in mind for bigger, better things.
Didn’t mean I owed them my lunch money, though that always
seemed to be what these pussywillows assumed.
   I offered my paw and he gripped it as if trying to break it off.
I wondered what was giving him such a near-fatal case of the
smirks. »Walter. One of the Smith boys.«
   »Burt,« he said. »You’re Trish’s ex, aren’t you?« Wasting no
time in laying on the mustard plasters.
   »That’s neither here nor there,« Irish said. »Burt was starting
to tell me –«
   »Best not to poke boils,« I said as the orchestra started in on a
Beatles medley. »Never know what’ll pop out.«
   »Quit it,« Trish said, laughing but failing to lull my suspi-
cions. Luckily, she interposed herself in time. »All right, Walter,
so who were they? What’s the story?«
   »I was saying –« Boob started to say.
   »Jersey girls,« I informed my henchwoman. »Looking for a
hot time in the big city. Did you have to call when you did?«
   »Excusez moi. I hate to admit I was a nervous nellie,« she
said, »but you know what happened last night? At Max’s?«
   »Something happened?« I asked, hefting the glass the barman
put before me and inoculating the mad dog.
   »Somebody stabbed a guy in Max’s after you left last night,«
she said, stirring her green delight. »Put icepicks through both
hands. No suspects. Naturally I went off on a tangent and my
stomach started doing backflips. Worried you’d wind up being
done in by those Jill the Rippers.«
   Figured it best not to mention Chlojo’s tiny titty bumber-
shoots. »I was safe as milk,« I said. »It was copacetic. Don’t let
your hair turn white.«
   »I don’t understand,« Booboo interrupted, speaking twice as
loud as either of us and not because he needed to shout over the
theremin. His wardrobe was of the irksome prepster sort. He
wore khakis and penny loafters and a cashmere sweater that
would have paid my rent for three months. Orange, but that
was probably what Perry Como was wearing and therefore
acceptable. »Anyway, before you got here I was telling Trish
about something important, a great experience –«
   »Muchas regretas,« I said.
    Trish bounded into the conversation, filling up silence as
quickly as she could. »Last night Walter tried on his Casanova
suit with these two sweet potatoes down at Max’s,« she said.
»Muffies, I figured but figured wrong. When I called over there
last night he was busy playing host with the most –«
    »Fine, fine,« he said. »But I was telling you about the experi-
ence. There’s something this group can offer anyone –«
    »Burt, I told you I’ll check it out, but right now I just want to
enjoy a cheerful beverage. Put a sock on the Dynamos and swill
away.«
    Something in Bub’s eyes made me think his story had a few
more twists and turns than I’d thought at first. I wouldn’t say
they were as empty as my ghost’s, but there was a quality to
them reminiscent of aggies and shooters that made me suspect
he wasn’t sticking as close to the high road to glory as he tried to
make it seem. »My apologies,« he said, giving me a highly
suspicious onceover but baring his teeth nonetheless, as if
thinking it a smile. »My inner got the better of my outer.«
    »Happens to me all the time,« I said. »What group are you
talking about?«
    »The Personality Dynamos. My company sent several of us
on their weekend programme. Fascinating. Confidence build-
ing. You learn yourself inside and out. I was telling Trish about
it.«
    Trish smiled, and put away the rest of her green goodness.
»Sounds too booga-booga to me.«
    »What’s your company?«
    »Goldman Sachs. I’m a junior manager. Only a matter of
time, though.«
   »Till what?«
   »Senior,« he said. »Think, and it happens. What do you do?«
   »I’m in government work.« Trish shot the daggers at me like
we were the main attraction under the big top but I managed to
dodge the sharpest ones. The thereminists moved on to the
Rodgers and Hart songbook. Bobo looked absolutely dumb-
founded.
   »Seriously?« he asked. I nodded. »Doing what?«
   »Odd jobs,« I said. »In the national interest.«

Had Booby said anything else of interest, I would pass it along,
but he didn’t. All he did was take up valuable space until both
Trish and I were ready to go home. I don’t drink more than one
or two at a sitting; better to save the liver for more essential
effort in my own professional field. »You going east?« she
asked, recapturing her coat from the check girl.
   I nodded. »Catching the El.«
   »I’ll walk with you far as Lexington.«
   Trish lived uptown, on East 77th near York. Farther east than
Newfoundland and almost as frosty and windswept come
winter, but when anybody asked where she cooped her chickens
she could put on the big light and say, Upper East Side. Among
some in her sewing circles, that was de rigeured.
   »Sure you didn’t want to make the scene with Bart?«
   »Burt. Please.«
   »You know him from where?«
   She stared out at the statue in front of the Plaza for a second
or two, pulling her coat tight around her. »I can’t remember.
Poor pup. Sounds like he’s found a good home with those
Dynamos, though.«
   »He said it was a weekend thing.«
   »Every weekend. He’s into it. Next thing you know he’ll be
selling flowers at the airport, probably. Preps are such pigeons.«
   It was after midnight, and a weekday besides, so only a few
taxis cruised along with the cops, and we were the only ones
taking a stroll. All the used book stores along 59th had rolled
their tables inside and pulled down the grates. Neither of us said
much as we perambulated on our merry way; when you’re close
as we were there’s not always a need to chitchat. Besides, it was
so tedious being constantly interrupted by Boohoo that we were
both happiest to be hearing nothing, just then. The flakes eased
off before we reached Madison. By the time we crossed Park the
wind had started blowing the clouds away. A full moon, silver-
dollar size, hung over the Waldorf like an Evacuation Day
ornament.
   »You know the Indians had a different name for the moon
every month?« she asked. »I forget what it’s called this month. I
remember September through December, that’s all. Hunter’s
moon, Harvest moon, Beaver moon, Cold moon. Wish I could
remember the rest.«
   »You’re doing all right to remember Indians,« I said.
   »They’re really going to land on it next year?« she asked. »It’s
go with mission control?« I gave her a nod. »When are they
leaving?«
   »Next summer sometime. June, July. Depends on the
weather.«
   »You’re so scientific, knowing these things. And once they
land on it, what do they do?«
   »Anything,« I said. »Anything at all. Main thing’s landing
there. That’s as ultima groovitudina as it gets.« She hooked her
hands tighter around my arm. »You know I’d love to go there
someday.«
   »I thought you’d already been,« she said, smiling.
   »You know what I mean,« I said. »Wouldn’t you want to go
there, somebody gave you half a chance?«
   »I’d just figure I’d do no better there than here,« she said.
»You’re such a junior birdman, Walter.«
   »Always had a soft spot in my heart for science fiction.«
   »Heart, or head?« she asked. »Think I’ll start calling you
Buck.«
   I shook my head. »Flash.«
   Listening – don’t know for what – I heard nothing but the
sound of tyres shusshing over wet pavement and the tap tap tap
of our heels. »Aren’t half the ones working on Apollo ex-
Nazis?« Trish asked. »They probably have some ideas what to
do, once they get there.«
   Sad but true – it was another one of those things that leave
you feeling drawn and quartered if you think about them too
long. Thanks to Nazi science, man would walk on the moon. We
had to destroy the village in order to save it – that kind of logic
wears away the stone real fast. While under the influence of
something, a little while back, I’d been reading the Saturday
Review when I read what they called that numbness that sinks
into your head like a bad cold when you start trying to keep two
realities in the same place, and pharmaceuticals aren’t involved.
Cognitive dissonance; catchy. Seemed like something I suffered
from more often than not.
   The entrance to the East Side IRT yawned before us. »Don’t
let the bedbugs bite, snookums,« she said, planting a wet one on
me. »Or Jersey girls.«
   »You know me.«
   »Too well,« she said, and skipped down the stairs.

A freelance existence has its advantages but stability isn’t one of
them. February is always the quietest month, but this year it was
going way past dead and deep into embalmed. When I’d heard
no word from my usual employers by the first week of March, I
realized that somebody up there was trying to starve me into
submission. Served me right: I’d ignored the key rule for junkies
and freelancers alike, don’t keep your eggs in the foxes’ basket.
Martin and I may have had a big something in common, but
that didn’t mean he’d always do everything I wanted him to do.
At least he still took my calls.
   »Walter,« he said, when he finally picked up the phone, »if I
had a job for you, you’d know it. I swear, believe me.«
   »Wish I could.«
   »Walter –«
   »You know in the paper this morning I counted references to
twenty-seven ongoing student actions, all Vietnam-related,« I
said. »Pretty amazing that none of ’em call for my kind of
expertise.«
   »Not exactly. Not until –«
   »I agree to start singing ›Danny Boy‹.«
   Almost felt his breath coming out the phone when he sighed.
»Walter, what are you trying to prove?«
   »Trying to prove nothing,« I said. »It’s just something I don’t
want to get into. Not with those Kennedys. They’re crazy as
loons, you know that.«
   »I can assure you, there’ll be no danger. It’s not even a possi-
bility. You’re just cutting off your nose to spite your face.
Would you listen to reason –«
   »Could say the same about you when it comes to not using
me.«
   »It’s out of my hands, Walter.«
   That was a new one on me. »Whose hands is it in?«
   »They won’t change their mind unless you change yours,« he
said. »Do us both a favour. Please.«
   »I’ll think about it.«
   We both hung up on cue. This pissed me royally. Martin
never was one for giving me public support but he’d always
paved over the rocks in the passway in the past. Supposed it’d
gone beyond that now. Didn’t matter, I tried to tell myself. No
matter how hard they pulled on this slave’s neck chain they
weren’t going to drop me off in the briny deep. Worse came to
worse, I could always get a real job.
   For real? Of course not. Once you’ve gotten away living the
boho life as many years as I had it’s not easy to sneak back into
straight society even if that’s where you want to go. Like all
blessed with a knack for the grift I had a salesman’s skills but
lacked the temperament; and no experience with doing the hard
sell, considering how long I’d been working in a field where
convincing the buyer he needed the product was never a consid-
eration. Plus, I had the same problem Agency alumni face when
they get thrown back into civilian life: the biggest part of your
curriculum vitae is sealed under wraps, for the foreseeable
future.
   I’d paid March’s rent already; that was good. Had two hun-
dred dollars left in my account but no way to pay April’s unless
opportunity knocked; that was bad. Then my old gal Trish came
through, once again.

We slid our treats out of their slots at the Times Square Auto-
mat and snared a table upstairs underneath the stained glass.
»Way you were talking I thought you’d reached the hot water
and catsup stage,« she said, giving the onceover to my high-
stacked tray. I didn’t care; it was the first time I’d eaten out in
weeks. When food cash ran short my strategy was to live on
peanut butter sandwiches, gumming away at their sticky good-
ness while looking at the pictures in cookbooks and reading
about twelve-course banquets. Imagination triumphant over
nature once again.
   »Better to exaggerate now than tell the truth later,« I said. »So
what’s the deal? You say your friend Boff is involved?«
   »Burt,« she said. »All right, here’s what he told me. You re-
member the time you met him he was going on and on about
that group he was hanging out with?«
   »Vaguely.«
   »Well, here’s their deal straight from the uncorrupted,« she
said. »These nutty squirrels are on the Upper West Side mostly,
at least here in New York. Started out ten years ago as psycho-
analysts and their patients. Adlerians, I think, maybe
Maslovians. One of them got a big head, started telling the
others what to do. Rather than saying go screw yourself royally
they listened to him. Then his patients told their friends and the
group grew, after a while things hit critical mass. They all went
completely woowoo.«
    »Krishna Krishna woo woo or Ronettes woo woo?«
    »Closer to the latter, I suspect,« Trish said. »Anyway, once
the light hit them they confabulated an entirely new purpose in
life. Everybody wants some of that of course so now they’re all
over the place, but mostly here and LA and London. Now along
with these weekend programmes they have weekly meetings.
Burt let on that after you’re really into the group that’s when
they let you in on the next level.«
    »Which is?«
    »They sit around all weekend expanding the mind.«
    That piqued my interest. »Literally or metaphorically?«
    »Along your lines,« she said, grinning. »Got tired of shrink-
ing it, I guess. Burt tells me they need a new supplier. The guy
who had the original arrangement made deliveries once a
month, found out another client of his was setting him up so he
skipped. Burt came to me hoping that you might possibly be of
help. I told him you possibly might be.«
    »Possibly.«
    She extended her arms as if she’d just jumped off a high wire
in the centre ring. »Tah-dah.«
    »What do they need?« I asked.
    »Mescaline,« she said. »Chocolate, strawberry, any tangy fla-
vour of your preference. Nothing stronger, certainly none of the
things you put away for breakfast. Sounds like they have an
intensive session first and unwind after. And it sounds like
they’ve got thousands of members. That’s a lot of action.«
    »What’s their guiding light?«
    Trish shrugged. »Sounds like the usual bushwah hey nonny
no to me. He laid a brochure on me. It’s no page-turner.«
    I looked over the propaganda. Doctor Oscar – no last name –
was the founder and Honcho Grande of the group Personality
Dynamos Incorporated, whose members, having undergone
Mental Plastic Surgery, perfected the techniques of Opportunity
Seizure. One session cost fifty bucks but special corporate rates
were available. Looking at the back of the brochure I saw that,
supposedly, executives of General Motors, Singer, Metropolitan
Life and, yes, Goldman Sachs, had all undergone the Shake-Out;
as had doctors, lawyers, dentists, famous movie stars and people
Just Like You. Seemed reasonable enough, as these things go,
but then I glommed the pitch:




    Few people can deal with hard reality – can you?

                     • Do you run from it?
                     • Fear it?
                     • Deny it?

                 Adults deal. Children fear.

  WE OFFER THE TOOLS YOU NEED TO DESTROY
           THE CHILD WITHIN YOU.

                  MAX YOUR PO through
                 PERSONALITY
                  DYNAMISM
   »Po?«
   »Tential.«
   I nodded. »So I just deliver the goods and they make the
payment? Right then and there?«
   »You got it,« she said. »Could anything be simpler?«
   »Will they be having a seance while I’m around? Do I have to
go?«
   She shook her head. »You’ve already maxed your po, if you
ask me,« she said, »but I’m sure they’re always on the prowl for
victims. They’ve probably got some fast talkers, too.«
   »I’ll carry rocks in both hands.«
   »Good, Walter,« she said. »I’d so much rather you did this
than whatever you do for the feds. It’s always better to be in
business for yourself.«

Wasn’t hard to lay paws on mesc; along with other useful mate-
rial I kept enough of the stuff to turn on Hoboken in a safe-
deposit box at my local Greenwich Savings. The next night, nuts
in hand, I rode the West Side Local, going to meet the squirrels.
When I got out at 79th I bounced upstairs and fell right into the
middle of a gaggle of cops. Bad as St Patrick’s Day, except none
of them was drunk enough to shoot themselves or each other.
Considering that I was holding so many psychedillies I could
take down a regiment, I started to get a little weak-kneed. No
need to fret, though, I was home free; the boys of Killarney had
their hands full rounding up a different set of suspects. A kib-
itzer gave me the lowdown, said an Albanian dry cleaner had
been gunned down in his shop and the bluecoats were rounding
up the block’s shiftier-looking Montenegrins. »Kids,« we agreed
and I edged past the holding area on my way uptown.
   Two hundred feet further and I’d walked past a Hungarian
restaurant, Serbian bookstore, Turkish candy shop, newsstand
run by two Croatian women, Serbian shoe repair place, and at
the corner of 80th and Broadway a grocery owned by a French
Commie. I’d met him at a party Trish threw – she knew him of
course. He’d been on the losing side of a party dispute involving
ersatz Roquefort and had to skedaddle, but he hadn’t lost his
principles in the free world; even named his place after the store
he managed in Paris, Cheese Store Number Three, and made
sure to be out of whatever cheese his customers wanted. New
York tries on a new mask every ten years, but no neighbour-
hood in town had been put through its changes like the Upper
West Side. It’d been going on twenty years, ever since the Sovi-
ets dropped the bomb in 1949 and evaporated Berlin, ending
the war. Half the population that was left took the leap and
landed in New York; nobody in America minded European
immigrants, no matter what they’d been up to in the past. Even
after everything went full-tilt Commie from London to Con-
stantinople, people who wanted out bad enough managed to get
to New York.
   Since then the refugees had become one with the landscape.
Packed into the West 70s and 80s like gunpowder in a pipe were
Serbians, Albanians, Wallachians, Turks and Montenegrins;
and scattered throughout, German and Hungarian Jews who’d
gotten out of Europe in the thirties but hadn’t yet made it to
Long Island. After ten years of having their flats divided and
subdivided into one-roomers and flops, all the big old apart-
ment buildings on the avenues looked like wedding cakes left
too long in a damp basement. The houses on the side streets
were even more jam-packed, sometimes holding fifteen or
twenty in a two-room apartment.
   The Dynamos’ HQ was on 81st between Columbus and Am-
sterdam, midblock, at the top of the hill. Most of the places
nearby were slumlord specials but these boys had scratch,
clearly, and owned their joint. I hopped up the stoop and ding-
donged. It was one of those old Victorian whitestone jobs, with
mahogany doors and gargoyles carved over the windows, heavy
white curtains and thick iron grilles. They hadn’t brought in the
afternoon paper yet; the front page of the Sun read ONE MIL-
LION IN VIETNAM TOO MANY, SAYS KENNEDY. Bobby,
evidently; only bearable one in the bunch, but not by too much.
   I heard a click, then a creak; then a cadaver in a black suit
unlocked the door. Sounded like the start of Inner Sanctum
when he dragged it open. »Mister Jones?« he asked. I followed
him into the entrance hall, padding over one of those forty-
dollar a foot rugs. »Please wait here. Be seated.«
   I took him up on his offer and unloaded on a handy pew next
to the parlour’s open double doors. Skinny lanked up the stairs
like he was being tugged by strings. A session was going on
inside, and I felt free to look – nobody told me not to. Twenty-
odd boys and girls sat in a circle on metal chairs. Most looked
like insurance salesmen or executive secretaries, in their thirties
and forties; they wouldn’t have stood out of the crowd if they’d
been alone in the room. In the middle of the circle was a tall
balding fellow with grey hair. Doctor Oscar, perhaps? Not likely
from my experience. Once the head men really get the racket
rolling all they have to do is sit back and let the minions take
care of the marks, doesn’t matter if it’s the carnival or the De-
partment of Defence. This one was experienced, I could tell; he
might have seemed like he was rambling but he was working his
audience like he was the main act at the Copacabana.
   »Now imagine this entire room is filled to the ceiling with
shit.« That caught my ear. »Imagine you know a priceless jewel
was somewhere deep in that shit.« While he blew hot and cold
he started turning, slowly, as if he stood on a lazy susan. »Imag-
ine that the only way to find that jewel was to burrow down
through the shit until you found it. Would you?«
   Judging from the glares a few of the participants shot him I
gathered I wasn’t the only one wondering what kind of produce
he was on. Newcomers, obviously, and not used to the lingo.
   »Aren’t there adults present?« he asked. »Only children?
Every one?«
   Two men and one woman lifted their hands gingerly, as if
they weren’t sure. None of them looked altogether keen on
being teacher’s pet.
   »Zingo!!« shouted the ringleader.
   Skinny trotted back down the stairs. He handed me a brown
paper envelope; I took a quick peek inside and, satisfied, passed
him the goods. If I was cautious, three hundred would do me
three weeks, maybe more, and I supposed these characters
could become steady customers without much effort on my
part. »You’re interested in the Shake-Out?« he whispered.
   »That’s this?«
   He nodded. »A five week programme ending in Ascendancy.
The first week is the introductory period. This is second week,
when the programme gathers momentum, and you roll with it
down the hill of understanding. Sit here with open ears, if you
choose. You choose?«
    His lips pulled back over his teeth like his skin was starting to
shrink. »I choose,« I said, lowering my voice and speaking in a
stage whisper, imagining that that was the way they preferred it
be said. Give it that I Love Adventure twist.
    »After visualizing your possibilities you may decide that you
are ready to outside your inside,« he said. »Let me know.«
    »Definitely.«
    He slid off down the hall as if he’d greased his shoes. When I
turned my attention back to the parlour I heard the ringleader
still going on and on about shit and the need to burrow through
it. As you might have guessed I’m not much of a fudge queen so
while he elaborated on his fantasia I ran my peepers over the
rest of the parlour. There were some props on the far side of the
room, and they didn’t ease my restless mind. Lying on the far
side of the circle, I saw several long wooden paddles, too small
to be oars but too long to be fraternity memorabilia. In the
corner of the room was a steel cage big enough for a Great Dane
currently available to let. Two looped ropes hung down from
the ceiling; they’d been attached with big u-bolts and looked
like they’d support considerable weight. To my mind, none of
this really bode well. On the mantlepiece, placed between two
silver candelabra, was a twice-life size bust of someone I as-
sumed to be Doctor Oscar; at least the bust vaguely resembled
the photograph I’d seen on the brochure. Couldn’t tell what the
bust was made of from where I sat but it looked like it’d been
moulded by second shift cooks out of grainy chopped liver.
    »What does an adult use?« the ringleader started shouting.
   »Two feet only!« the group shouted back.
   »What do children say?«
   »Diaper me!«
   »What do you tell them?«
   »Take pain and like it!«
   The top of the ringleader’s head shone like a wet rock as he
started heating up. Figured he’d work himself into some kind of
preacher riff at any moment now, and I was starting to think he
might be good at it. Good enough to empty the wallets of the
congregation, at least.
   »If you have to turn on the freeze to make your child unde-
pendent on you, how low do you go?«
   »Subzero!«
   The ringleader stopped rotating. Paused as if to catch his
breath but it was easy to see he had plenty to spare. His audi-
ence seemed to be getting with it, somehow – it was all I could
do to keep from laughing.
   »If it’s necessary to hug someone to evoke their child, what
do you do?«
   This may have been the second week but nobody acted as if
they knew the drill. The sitters looked more than a little bum-
fuzzled. The ringleader made sure he had no expression on his
kisser while they tried figuring it out. »Hug?« one of the men
finally asked.
   »Zingo!«
   The ringleader lifted him out of his chair and gave him a real
rib-cracker, slapping his back as if whacking on a tom-tom. He
started grinning like the acid was kicking in, and I wondered if
the ringleaders were the ones who most often used nature’s
helping hands in their acts on cue.
   »If it’s necessary to kiss someone to make them outside their
inside, what do you do?«
   »Kiss them,« another man, more at ease, piped up.
   »Zingo!«
   The ringleader chose not to kiss that particular good student.
He scooted off in the opposite direction and planted a big juicy
one on the loveliest lovely in the circle, a tall blonde in a red
shift. He rubbed his hand over his mouth and went wild with
the dramatic pauses.
   »If you have to beat the living shit out of a no-nothing,« he
said, »to drag their child to sunlight, what do you?«
   That seemed to bring everybody up short. The ringleader
pulled a stopwatch out of his pocket, clicked it and eyed the dial.
»Five,« he said. »Four. Three. Two. One.«
   Silence, no more than ten seconds’ worth.
   »You stupid fucking assholes!!« the ringleader began scream-
ing. »Assholes!! Every goddamned one of you!« His face turned
beet-purple. »Fucking stupid assholes!!«
   It was like watching some poor soul getting set to take a
sidewalk dive and listening to everybody in the audience shout-
ing jump, jump, jump. The ringleader cursed like a sailor for
two full minutes, spitting in the face of guys twice his size as he
sputtered away, shouting at the women until every one of them,
and three of the men, were crying. Finally, he ran out of breath,
and stood in the centre of the circle, huffing and puffing, look-
ing like he could really use a cigarette.
   »Child response, no,« he said. »Adult response, yes. One
more time. If you have to beat the living shit out of a no-
nothing to drag their child to sunlight, what do you do?«
    Again, silence. »Five. Four. Three –«
    »Hit them?« one of the older men asked; a fellow in his early
fifties or so.
    »Zingo!!«
    The ringleader wasn’t that big but he had a punch like a wel-
terweight. The good student almost fell over in his chair after he
was hit, blood gushing from his nose. He’d never get the stains
out of his suit. I’d have thought at that point there’d have been a
mass sick-out, but no. Everyone looked terrified, except for the
ringleader.
    »Assistance forbidden!« the ringleader said. »Assistance for-
bidden!« He walked up to the victim and pressed his hand down
on the man’s bleeding nose. Considering that it looked like he’d
broken it I couldn’t imagine it felt especially good. »Response?«
The man started to rain and his face swelled up like it was going
to pop but he still didn’t do what he was supposed to have done,
clearly. »Response?«
    Again, nothing. »Example!« The ringleader turned to his left
and slapped a younger guy, sending his glasses flying across the
room. »Response?«
    »Thank you,« said the younger man, getting out of his chair
and kneeling in front of the ringleader. The older one didn’t
look like he could do much more than bleed. That was enough
for me, and I started to make for the door.
    »As an outgrouper and not an ingrouper, you may not view
the programme in the right context,« Skinny said, emerging
from the shadows under the stairs, grabbing my arm, hanging
onto me like a leech.
   »Maybe not,« I said, backing up, keeping my eye on him. I
almost fell down the stoop on the way out, but didn’t; got
halfway to Broadway before I felt safe enough to catch my
breath. Considering how they acted, straight, I shuddered to
think what this bunch was like once they started flying.

My brief taste of potentially steady employment convinced me
of the error of my ways. Next day, Martin called. He asked me
to reconsider. I did.
                           FOUR




Next day at lunchtime I skidded over to the Old Town bar on
18th Street, two blocks from my crib; Martin said he was com-
ing to town and that put me in the catbird seat when it came
time to mark the turf. I put a reverse banana on my leather
jacket, trying to keep those March winds from whistling inside.
The Old Town’s a 19th-century joint – ceiling so high and dark
bats ought to be hanging from it, feeding pews too small for
20th-century keisters, a scarred mahogany bar with a dented
brass rail, a mirror that makes you look drunk even if you’ve
taken the Keeley. No one went inside in daylight but white-
haired liver-wranglers, you see ’em lining up every morning
before the doors open like they were waiting for Series tickets.
Martin and his gang had expropriated a square table in the
back. Hamilton and Frye were with him, and I’d expected they
would be. The fourth member of the team wasn’t Bennett.
   »Walter, this is Hermann Sartorius,« Martin said. »He’s with
the Justice Department. One of Hamilton’s associates.«
   »Welcome to New York,« I said. When I offered my mitt he
gave me an icy road.
   »I been before,« he said. Glass eyes, spun gold on the summit
and accent thick enough to cut with a Luftwaffe dagger. Even if
Commies hadn’t been unwise enough to present themselves as
Commies, the boys in the marble halls would have still given the
edge to Nazis; krauts were so talented, and so adaptable. But
Justice Department! No question Martin felt the same way I did,
sharing good air with one of these trolls, but if it gave him the
queasies he managed not to need a flight bag.
    »Good to see you, Walter,« Hamilton said. »We’re glad
you’ve reconsidered. We gather things might have gotten a little
dicey for you since we last met.«
    »A little.« I signalled the waiter to haul over a beaker.
    »Idle hands, the devil’s workshop,« he said. »Did you see to-
day’s papers, by chance? You do read the papers, don’t you?«
    I shook my head. »No cats, no parakeets.«
    Hambone puckered up like he’d been sucking lemons. »Your
hyperbole refreshes, Walter. In any event, you remember our
previous meeting, I’d imagine. Do you remember my speaking
of upcoming situations?«
    »They came up?«
    »When the moment came to raise or fold, all it took our
leader was one word to decide,« he said, unfolding a copy of the
Trib. Martin gave a wistful glance at the bar and I know he
wished he still drank. Frye had a certain damp limpness to him,
as if he hadn’t been plugged in. Adolf sat there taking in the
ozone, staring down from Berchtesgarten, looking like he’d
forgotten to take the coat hanger out of his jacket before putting
it on. »One word.«
    »Plastics?«
    »Tet,« Hamilton said, kissing the word as he lifted up the
front page.
         PRESIDENT LODGE DECLARES HE WILL
               NOT RUN FOR RE-ELECTION
     States Vietnam setbacks played no part in decision.

               Washington More or Less Agog at
                  Unexpected Development

   »Some less agog than others,« Hamilton said. »I’d think an
intelligent man such as yourself will clearly grasp what this
implies.«
   »Incumbent’s not going to win?«
   Frye went off on cue. Hmnf hmnf hmnf. The Old Pretender
fingered the rim of his glass as if trying to make it warble.
   »I’m sure his unforeseen loss in the New Hampshire primary
wasn’t reassuring,« Hamilton said, shooting his cuffs to show
off the links; small gold theatre masks, sweet and sour. »The
Democrats are greatly pleased by last night’s surprise. Probably
Mansfield went ahead and ordered his new desk for the Oval
Office. There was, however, a new development this morning.«
   »He’s got competition passing the collection plate?«
   Hmnf hmnf hmnf.
   Frye wasn’t the only one making with the chucks. Even
Hambone gave a quick smirk before shooting me a death ray.
Perching there he looked like he was some vicious old grandfa-
ther the littlest ones were always ratting on. »You’re a live one,
Walter. A clam in the chowder.«
   »What is funny?« Sartorius asked, cocking his head to one
side like a parrot, maybe trying to shake water out of his brain.
Clearly the more jive I slung around one-ball the more he’d be
left in the dark.
   »A private joke, Hermann,« said Hamilton, patting his arm.
»Nothing more. Passing the plate indeed. As you might suspect,
the man in the aisle is Senator Robert F. Kennedy of the great
commonwealth of Massachusetts.«
   »And you wouldn’t call that the bee’s knees?«
   »I’m a man of affable nature,« he said. »Speaking for myself,
there’s no reason for these matters to concern me. Republican,
Democrat. Both are equally adaptable in the right time and
place. However, there are associates of mine who prefer that the
Senator not run. Who, in fact, want to make sure he doesn’t.
I’ve assured them I’ll do everything I can within realistic limits,
but even so I can’t do everything. Special abilities such as yours
are needed to satisfactorily prepare the ground. Your sociability,
your intelligence. The harmless impression you feign so well.
Your willingness to –« He paused. »Your adaptability.«
   »I get the picture,« I said. »Keep in mind I’m strictly make
love not war.«
   »What do you think I’m asking of you, Walter? We have a
lead, we need a featured player. There’s no need to be suspi-
cious.«
   »Told Oswald same thing, didn’t you?«
   No humfy humfs from Frye on that one. Sartorius blinked a
couple of times but otherwise might as well have been a wax
figure. Martin looked like he might have had a stroke if I’d kept
pressing the point, but malicious I’m not. Hammy leaned across
the table so I could hear his whisper. »Walter, what do you take
us for? This isn’t New Orleans.«
    I was still reading the papers in 1963 and remembered it all
quite well. The ’64 election, coming up fast. Nixon’s thirty
points up in the polls but every night he walks the halls in the
White House, shaking his fists at his predecessors, wondering
what they had that he hasn’t got. No question he’ll get the
majority but old Tricky has a jones on for those Euro elections,
ninety-nine per cent for Fearless Leader and the loser hung in a
gibbet on the road out of town. There he is, managed to whip
the opposition into shape and then along come those goddamn
Long boys, puffed up full of themselves like old uncle Huey
(luckily not to such a degree), upending the Hadacol cart by
slapping their Republicans into Democrat duds, converting the
state, ergo the Southwest. After the fact Tricky’s henchmen
swore it was his idea to strongarm Pearly Earl in person, but
nobody bought that but the Commission. Grab the banjo and
let’s Cakewalk down to Dixie: whoever said it, it got said. Pat
and cocker spaniels in tow, Nixon goes to New Orleans. Sunny
September afternoon, he barks at his mugs to lose the bubble-
top, he’s keen to do his semaphore act all the way down Canal
Street. Vietnam escalation sure to turn the tide. Off goes the
Pierce-Arrow’s roof; up go the arms; Ka-chow! sneezes the
roscoe. Before the Trickster feels that warm Gulf breeze where
the top of his head used to be he finds himself heading way
down south, getting the purple-ass treatment from Satan’s
snickering imps, and bellyaching about how much better Ike’s
probably got it. Topside, nobody’s surprised, not really. Nobody
except Oswald that is to say, once he finds out he’s not going to
be working on his tan in Fiji after his work is done, after all.
    »All right, I’ll go along,« I said. »So fill me in. What is it you
want me to do?«
   Hamilton leaned forward – conspiratorily, you could say.
»It’s really very simple,« he said. »We’d like you to make friends
with someone.«
   »Who?«
   »You’ll be ingratiating yourself with one of Bobby’s broth-
ers.«
   Thought I’d dreamed what he said at first, and so ignored
them. »What’s the punchline?« Their icicles suddenly felt
mighty sharp when they started to land. »Are you trying to tell
me one of them’s going to let me get in earshot?«
   »Of course.« Hamilton was so calm he almost looked beatific.
Thinking quickly I ran through the possible players. It wouldn’t
be Joe Jr. loser of the ’60 election and Paramount Pictures head
honcho; not John, Washington Star kingpin and Commie
scourge; not Father Ted, up there on the Cardinal’s throne in
Beanville. Obviously not Bobby. That left –
   »Bah, bah, black sheep,« said Hamilton.
   Hmf hmf hmf.
   »James,« said Martin. »James Kennedy.«
   I didn’t remember ever seeing a picture of him when he
wasn’t in diapers. »What’s his game?«
   »He has none,« Martin said. »Not long before he died, the old
man disowned him. Then a year and a half ago mom forgave
and forgot.«
   »Forgave and forgot what?«
   Martin shook his head. »There was an incident of some sort.«
He looked over at his accomplices; Hamilton didn’t shake his
head, but he might as well have. »It’s not important. Not any-
more.«
   »Even so, the Cardinal preferred that his brother left Massa-
chusetts,« Hamilton said. »Joe Jr. didn’t want him in California.
Jack didn’t want him in Washington. At Bobby’s urging, they
sent him to New York, where any leopard can change his
spots.« Hmf hmf hmf. »A year and a half ago they bought him a
store, here in Manhattan.«
   »Record store,« said Martin. »Old records.«
   »Specializing in 78s. Martin tells me you’re an aficionado of
music of the old days, Walter. That’s what led us to believe
you’d be perfect, that you’d have something in common. You
and I may even share some favourite songs. Russ Columbo?« I
winced at the thought of listening to any of those proto-
crooners. »It’s a gritty little warren on West 82nd, near Colum-
bus, next to a chinee laundromat. Any chance you know the
place?«
   Knew it well; best shop in town, even before he took over.
Always struck me there was something familiar about the new
guy but managed never to place it. »That’s James Kennedy?«
Hamilton nodded. »Pretty tightlipped cat but when it comes to
wax he can talk your ears off.«
   »Then talk to him about records. Talk to him about anything.
Get to know him better. Do you know him already?« I shook
my head. »Let him get to know you. That’s all we want.«
   I wasn’t enough of a sob sister to fall for that line, but they
were at least using the right kind of lure. »Make with the glad-
hand and the bakery is back in business?«
   In Bennett’s absence Hamilton allowed Frye to light his cigar.
»Exactly. You’ll receive a stipend of five hundred dollars a week,
plus expenses –«
    »Bitte, but what are these records?« Sartorius asked, his iron
needle carving a ravine across Mammy’s bouncy tune. »Classi-
cal music?«
    »Degenerate music,« I said.
    »Pardon me?«
    »Blues. Jazz. Spirituals. Music of African origins.« Sartorius
frowned, but under the circumstances he didn’t start slinging
the braunsweiger. »So all I do is be Jimbo’s friend? Where does
the flash, bang come in?«
    Hamilton shook his head, but Martin wouldn’t look me di-
rectly in the eye. »There won’t be any of that, Walter.«
    »Still like to know how the play ends before I get too far into
the first act.«
    »Walter, we’ll be operating under standard procedure,« Mar-
tin said. »You’ll receive no more information than necessary at
any given point. You know that’s the only way we can work –«
    »What will you get out of this?« I asked Hamilton.
    »The satisfaction of extending favours to friends,« he said.
    »Which friends?« I asked. »I call. Show your hand.«
    Frye extracted a folder from his leather lunchbox. With
pudgy digits he worked a few black and white glossies loose and
flipped them my way. Giving them the eye, I saw myself; also
saw Chlojo dragging me down the street, Eulie taking the lead.
Didn’t please me to know I was being followed but I can’t say I
was surprised.
    »I sized you up as quite the Lothario, Walter,« Hamilton said,
putting through a lecher to lecher call. »Very striking, these
women.«
   »Picked ’em up at Max’s,« I said, thinking it best to be as
nonchalant as possible. »Jersey girls come into town to see the
big city. Didn’t get to first base, though. Pity.«
   »Modern woman,« Hammy sighed. »Even flappers never
wore such dresses.« He studied the glossies as if reading the bill.
»The big one is female? Our observer wasn’t absolutely sure.«
   »I have a question, however,« Sartorius said, pushing one of
the photos in front of me and stabbing at the girls’ heads with
his finger. »Shape of the skulls, you see. And earlobes. Possible
mongrelization, it seems to me. What was specified on their
identifications?«
   »Sorry, but I don’t check teeth.«
   He blinked a bit faster than was necessary, but otherwise
didn’t give the game away. »This was of no concern to you?«
   »Frankly, mein bruder, this isn’t DC. When it comes to
wretched refuse we wrote the book here in New York. Every-
body you didn’t catch before they got out of Europe. Shame all
of you had to wind up here.« I fixed him in my sights; no way,
no reason I should put up with Nazis. They were bad as Georgi-
ans. »We even let Jews in.«
   »These women appear to be more negroid than Jewish,« he
said. »Did you ask about their parents?«
   »What do you do on a date, Herr Jones? Take blood tests?«
No reaction: the Big Nazi Book of Laughs was a slim volume
with wide margins. »Strikes me I haven’t seen your identifica-
tion.«
   Martin’s eyes widened and I felt his shoe kicking mine, under
the table. Hamilton’s smile curled into more of a leer, as if he
was really enjoying the way I didn’t make friends.
   Sartorius took out his wallet, flipping it open so I could see
his driver’s licence and be impressed by his American Express
card. Then he put it away, and returned his attentions to the
photos of me and my visitors.
   »These women were strangers to you?«
   »Pickups, like I said.«
   »Even so, according to your Justice Department’s edicts,
those of questionable background are to be at least investigated
–«
   »Take Walter’s word for it,« Martin said, interrupting at a
timely moment. Hamilton shot my man a glare that could set
fires. Frye slid the glossies back into his folder. I imagined
they’d go back into the big drawer with the other pieces of
string.
   »Yes, Hermann, rest assured. We know everything about
Walter that we need to know.«
   The look the old codger gave me wasn’t a pleasant one, no
matter how big the grin underneath. There was no way they’d
have anything on me; Dad wasn’t even one thirty-second, and
he’d burned the family records before he set foot in Washington
state. As far as the official world could find out I was Caucasian,
that is to say the official world outside of Martin; he knew about
me only because I knew about him. Even so, my nerves were
starting to feel more than a little on the supercharged side.
   »Better get to it,« I said, standing. »Could use some subway
fare, I think.«
   Martin passed me two Jacksons and a sawbuck. I added them
to the single in my wallet.
   »Subway fare is twenty-five cents,« Sartorius pointed out.
   »True,« I said. »Better give me one more for the road.« Mar-
tin handed over a fifty.
   »The coin in the coffer rings,« Frye said, wiping the corners
of his mouth as if he’d just finished running his choppers over
an ear of corn, or his wife’s honeybin – the last seemed awfully
unlikely. »The soul into purgatory springs.« Hmmf hmmf.
   Coasting away slow I eased past the sots lined up along the
bar, deciding not to check my hair in the mirror. Bad, bad, bad;
the Boche might make themselves useful at NASA or in the
Agriculture Department, but let them stick a monocle in any-
where else and the next thing you knew they were using their
break time to draw up furnace blueprints, just in case a less lax
administration gets into office. Last thing I needed was some
blonde beast nitwit rummaging through my ancestral laundry. I
was sure Bennett somehow had a hand in this, somewhere; he
always gave me the impression he suspected, he just never came
out with it. I would have given it all deeper thought, but a voice
I heard as I exited caught my attention.
   »Walter.«
   There they were, both my mutts bounding toward me. Seeing
them, seeing how especially good Eulie looked, I instinctively
switched into beach-strut mode, drawing in the gut so that no
part of it would be visible. Then I thought of the genealogical
voyeurs still hanging out in the bar, and decided we’d better
make tracks. »Hi hi. Around the corner, ladies,« I told them,
leaning forward to cut wind resistance as I ankled past them
double-time. »Come on, follow me.« I steered my dusky de-
lights down 18th and then up Park. They dressed down in
daylight. Eulie wore an orange mini and knee-high boots – no
jacket, coat or stockings. Even on the run I could see her
pipestems pimpling up like plucked drumsticks. Big Mama
wore leather, nothing but the old shiny shiny from bootsoles to
collar. Looked like she came straight out of one of those maga-
zines for special audiences. Inverted cross earrings dangled off
her lobes, and I wondered if she was Cainite. As we kept up the
pace I saw the stares were starting to load up, and figured we’d
better slow down before we reached critical mass. Once on 21st
east of Park I stopped at midblock and signalled they should
join me. »OK, this is good.«
    »What disconcerts, Walter?« Eulie asked, laying one of her
little paws on my arm. Let me tell you, that charged my battery
right up. »You’re uncoloured.«
    I nodded. »Damn right. So are you if they ask.« Looking be-
hind us, I checked to be sure we hadn’t been tailed. Gave the
surroundings a quick check, now that I knew Mammy’s boys
could be playing Weegee on me whenever I wasn’t looking.
Lovely Eulie batted those lashes and my knees started clicking
like castanets. Chlojo, idling, gave a hot dog cart a come-hither
look. She licked her lips like she was deciding whether she
should eat hot dogs or hot dog man first. »Those were your
supervisories?« Eulie asked.
    »You went in the bar?«
    »We sighted from without.«
    »The guy who was sitting on my right, he’s my boss. The
other three, they’re bad news. Blondie’s all ubermensch and a
mile wide, he’s onto you two –«
    Eulie didn’t appear to hear a word I said. »Walter, privacy
essentials. Can we shack with you?«
    My jaw dropped like I’d been poleaxed. »How’s that?«
    »Go to your pad,« she said. When I gave her peepers a closer
gander I gathered she’d almost hit the bull’s eye when she first
tried her line but it hadn’t quite come out as she planned. »Is it
safe?«
    »Come on.«
    I ran them down 21st to Third, where we stood and waited for
the light to change blue. The uptown clattered along the tracks
overhead; it was a sunny day, and venetian-blind shadows ran
the length of the avenue. Chlojo nearly bumped into a bum
lowering his string down a sewer grate, fishing for change. A
firetruck rolled by, and from the looks the gals were getting I
suspected they’d try to roll by again.
    »Where’ve you two been?« I asked. »You said you’d be drop-
ping back by. I could have died of old age at this rate –«
    »Are you still sighting?« Eulie asked. Other people in passing
cars gave Chlojo stares like she was the Loch Ness monster. One
poor dope nearly slammed into an El stanchion before swerving
back into his lane, nearly clipping a Seven Santini Brothers van.
    »The ghosts?«
    She nodded, and as we crossed the street I filled her in. »I
bring in spookarama in stereo every night.« I guided them
down Third, past the pawn shops and thrift stores and bars.
»Mornings, too. Sometimes they try to talk to me. I don’t know
if talk’s the right word. They know my name. He does at least.«
Sweet petite looked like I’d told her the sun was made out of
cream cheese. »But he’s all transmit and no receive.«
    »They speak directly to you?«
    »How’d they find out my name?«
   »Unknown,« she said. I never saw anyone look so worried as
she always did.
   »No matter,« I said. »Now when we get to 18th we’re going to
go through the building next door, go up to the roof and cross
over that way, just to be on the safe side.«
   »Walter, there’s something you need knowing.«
   »What’s that –?« I started to say, but was interrupted.
   »Hey!! Mama!« some too-manly voice shouted out. »Where’d
you two come from?«
   Demolition men were taking down some old hovel at the
corner of 19th, and we were lucky enough to be passing by just
as their shift was ending. More than a dozen of them were
swinging down from their scaffolds like rabid monkeys. »Give
us your number, baby. Who’s that, your big sister?«
   »Shake it, baby –«
   »Pass ’em by,« I told my gals, quickening the pace, trying to
reach the corner before they could cut us off. No go, though;
Moe, Larry and Shemp walled off the sidewalk and their trucks
blocked the curb.
   »Hey, gals,« said the one in the centre, a red-faced lout with
ropy arms and ham-sized hands. »We lost our phone numbers.
Can we get yours?« The one on his right, a wiry Italian, slid
behind me as if I wasn’t even there.
   »We’ll take it from here, buddy,« the one on his left said. This
wasn’t good, but if worse came to worse and these meatheads
lost control of themselves, I’d go to the fallback position. I
always keep five STP-12 patches hidden in my wallet in case of
emergencies. I slid it out of my pants and got one ready; all I
needed to do was slap one wherever they were bare and the lugs
would be flat out on a ten count. The big one, I gathered he was
the foreman, planted himself in front of Chlojo’s face and
switched the charm on high beam. »Some tits, sweetheart,« he
said. »Got anybody takin’ care of ’em?«
   »You a go-go dancer, honey?« the Italian asked Eulie.
   »You disinterest us,« she said. »We’ll proceed.«
   »Baby, you going to give me your number?« the foreman
asked Chlojo, giving her the eye-to-eye. »Don’t run into many
my size.« He took hold of her hand, but then jerked it away as if
he’d been burned. »Christ Jesus,« he shouted. »Your hands’re
rougher than mine. It’s some faggot, get off –«
   Her flight suit seemed to lack the special brassiere her earlier
ensemble sported. What happened next happened very fast, and
I can’t truthfully say that I saw it. Chlojo seized his hand and
pulled him towards her; her right arm moved, and the foreman
fell on the sidewalk, wailing like a banshee. Chlo was still hold-
ing his hand, not that it was going to be of much use to him any
longer. One time I gashed my thumb, playing Jack the Ripper
on a bagel with a dull knife, and there was so much blood I
feared I’d be leeched dry before I could curb the flow. That was
just a paper cut compared; the foreman’s wrist squirted like a
hose.
   »Shit, man –« his companions said, doing a quick reverse.
Chlojo pitched the hand into a trash can and started to walk
south again. Hard to say now, much less at the time, what was
most upsetting – what Chlojo’d done, or the way Eulie took it in
stride.
   »Lay still,« I said, kneeling and pulling my belt loose from my
pants. I wrapped it around his arm above the elbow and yanked
tight, buckling it off. Two workmen ran out with a towel and
stick, ready to tie on a tourniquet, and I gladly let them buy out
my medical practice. We had already attracted a crowd, and
under the sound of the el overhead I heard sirens coming up
fast. Just when I’d have wanted everyone to pretend they were
asleep and not hear anything, half the neighbourhood seemed
to be running over to see. One woman looked at the wrist
stump-on and let out a blast like a tugboat.
   Eulie grabbed Chlo and pulled her back to the scene of the
crime.
   »Walter, are you coming?«
   I really turned on the air raid siren. »You can’t do things like
this,« I said, screaming at tall and frosty. »Don’t you know you
could have killed him?« She nodded.
   »Cops’ll be here any second,« I said to Eulie, imagining what
could happen if Big Bertha really went to town. »Beat it. They’d
haul you in a second.«
   »Walter, please –«
   »Out! Go!« They heeled it down the street; one of the con-
struction crew tried, briefly, to keep Chlo from getting past but
she picked him up and slung him on top of the roof of a yellow
cab and after that, no one else seemed willing to intervene.
Seconds after they disappeared a paddywagon and five cans of
Spam careened up, and out barrelled the boys of Killarney,
waving their guns and clubs like it was Armistice Day.
   »What’s going on here?« one of the older cops asked me. He
had a face like a pile of rocks.
   »Psychos,« I said, estimating a freeform narrative would
work best. »Acidheads, probably. Goofballs. Jumped that poor
guy, cut his hand off.«
   »Cut it off? Christ –«
   »They went that-a-way,« I said, pointing, figuring they were
long gone.
   »That’s the fuck,« the Italian said, coming up and shoving me
against the el stanchion. I really wished he hadn’t been such a
responsible citizen. »He was with ’em all the time.«

Now in the Big Onion, only difference between being a material
witness and being a suspect is that if you’re chalked on the first
cue, nobody beats you up until you get to the precinct house.
Every twenty years the feds launch a new investigation into New
York police brutality and, my luck, this was year nineteen. Back
when the bosses built my precinct’s pigsty this was the noted
Gas House District, which took in the terrain from Third to the
river south of 23rd; home turf to the Gashouse Gang, the East
River Pirates, Sweeney’s Gadabouts and the Kerosene Boys; by
the time I came to town the gangs were long canned. The place
was built when Bryan was president and should have been
condemned before he left office. No matter how often they
renovated, the screams still stuck to the walls and, my brothers,
I wasn’t keen on slapping on a layer of mine. My prints were
filed, and as they bore the federal stamp they would have guar-
anteed my quick release, but no one seemed willing to look for
them. The desk jockey tossed me in a one-bum drunk tank so I
could consider the errors of my ways. A doped-up Chinaman
two cells down caterwauled Beatles tunes.
    Hour or so passed, then a cop led me down a hall lined with
wooden file cabinets and pieces of broken chairs. He dragged
open the vault in the back wall and bade me enter. The interro-
gation room had a damp concrete floor, tile walls and a row of
lockers – only one with a door – and a big fan. Inside, two of
New York’s finest cooled their heels. Both wore Korvettes suits,
tight on their arms as sausage skin. The taller one had slapped
on so much Vitalis that his head looked flammable, and to
enhance his tango-gaucho silhouette, let a tamed caterpillar
snooze on his lip. The wider cop had toothbrush hair and a nose
that couldn’t have been broken less than eight times, no good
for anything except supporting shades. I’d never met the day
shift at my local establishment. They had me try out a wooden
chair that wasn’t broken yet. A sunlamp hung overhead, set on
low instead of deep-fry.
   »My name’s Arnold,« said Nosey. »Detective Arnold. This is
Detective Benz.«
   »Officers.«
   »Construction worker’s gonna live, but he’ll need a hook,«
said Benz. »You get used to it, I hear.«
   »Think his wife will?« said Arnold. »Kids?«
   »What’d your friends have against him? Just busting chops?«
   »They weren’t my friends,« I said. »I’d just met them at the
corner. Told me they were tourists. Kinda told me. No speaka
the lingua real good.«
   »Tourists.«
   »Said they were looking for the Statue of Liberty.«
   »They find it?« Arnold opened his jacket, so my view of his
sap and his brass knuckledusters in the inside pockets wouldn’t
be blocked. »Tourists. Where from?«
   »Didn’t ask.«
   »Too busy looking to ask.«
   »Witnesses said they were lookers,« said Arnold. »You must
have been looking.«
   »Never saw anyone like them. Officers, speaking as a witness
I –«
   Benz shook his head like he was waking up. Not a hair came
loose. »A hook. How’s he gonna pitch a few to the boy?«
   »Lopped off like he stuck it in a meat slicer.«
   »Like ham. Thin sliced ham. What’d she use? Machete?«
   »I didn’t know what happened till it happened,« I said, figur-
ing it would do no harm to tell the truth. »Guys were bugging
’em, I told them to ignore the assholes and keep walking.«
   »Thought they didn’t speaka the English.«
   »Not well,« I said. »Officers –«
   »Boy probably won’t make the team,« said Benz. »Not with-
out practice.«
   Arnold walked over to the sole working locker, which he
unlocked. He banged around inside for thirty seconds or so
before he took out a radio aerial snapped off a car – sharpened,
I thought, although that seemed unnecessary – a length of black
rubber hose that dribbled its sand filling, and a Louisville Slug-
ger with five long rusty spikes driven through the thick end.
»Then they just took off after that?«
   »Yes,« I said. »Seriously, officers, you ought to look me up in
the files.«
   »We gonna find something?« asked Benz.
   »All in good time,« Arnold casually cuffed my right wrist to
the chair’s arm.
   »Why am I being handcuffed?« I asked, starting to feel un-
nerved. »I’m a witness, aren’t I?«
   »Tell us what you really saw, what you really know, you’re a
witness,« Arnold said.
   »I’m telling you what I saw. What I know.«
   »Let’s take a look at what we got so far.« Benz extracting a
small black notebook from a side pocket and flipping it open.
»Resisting arrest,« he said. »Still resisting arrest. Two charges.«
   »Possession of marijuana,« said Arnold, pulling on rubber
gloves. I gave silent thanks to Sophia on high that I’d only been
carrying brand X, and left my P-bomb muggles safe and sound
back at the old homestead. »Three.«
   »Loitering with intent. Vagrancy. Four, five.«
   »Accessory after the fact.«
   »Add everything up,« said Benz, »seventy years.«
   »For what?« I asked.
   Arnold looked over his collection before finally settling on
the hose. As he picked it up he was careful not to let any of the
sand slip out. Whipping it over his head, he brought it down on
my legs just above the knees. Felt like a piano fell into my lap.
»That’s for the boy.«
   »What else you remember about those women?«
   »Call Captain Thomason,« I said, not as loudly as I might
have. »He’s night shift. He’ll tell you.« Benz shrugged. Arnold
tapped the non-pointy part of the spiked bat against the sole of
his shoe.
   »Tell you what?« Benz said. »We haven’t even charged you
yet.«
   »We’d like to avoid doing that,« Arnold said, winding up as if
ready to send me out high over left field. »If possible.« Before he
could play the Babe, thankfully, the room’s door opened. The
desk jockey stuck in his head and gave us all the evil eye.
»Dammit, Dennis, put that goddamn thing down,« he shouted.
»Let him go. He’s connected.«
   »How?« Arnold whined, not letting go of the bat. »Tam-
many?«
   »Department of the Interior. Better luck next time, boys.«
   The way Arnold slunk back to the locker made it clear his
whole day was ruined. »Thanks for coming in,« Benz said,
unclasping my bracelet. »You gonna be able to walk?«
   »No thanks to you,« I said, making it to my feet. Glad they
hadn’t broken anything but it wasn’t for lack of trying. Arnold
glared at me as I walked out, but I was having none of it. When
I reached the reception room I saw Martin sitting on one of the
benches, looking more than a little peeved.
   »Didn’t need bail at least,« I offered, but he kept mum.
»Muchas thankas.«
   »How long have you worked for me? How long? Shouldn’t
you know how to avoid these kind of situations?«
   Martin was still Agency when he visited the University of
Washington campus the one year I was there, looking for likely
recruits. Soon as I looked him over I was able to peg his grand-
parents’ line; his eye was just as trained and he did the same for
me. In our unavoidable circumstances you always do what you
can to help out your fellow passers, and he made me an offer. I
hadn’t found higher levels of academia any improvement over
the lower, but I wasn’t willing to commit, not yet. Called him
not long after hitting New York, some time after I’d discovered
my true metier. He was working the Department of Interior,
which had its own operations going. Next thing I knew I was on
the Sea Beach Express, barrelling toward Luna Park and Dream-
land, casually spritzing testers to gauge how effectively an
aerosol mood-alterant diffused within a closed subway envi-
ronment.
   »Martin, look,« I said as we reached Second Avenue. »Wrong
place, wrong time. Nothing to add.«
   »Shouldn’t I know who these women are? They were the
same ones you were with last month, weren’t they?«
   »Did you see us?«
   »I was on my way out. Think I wanted to hang around with
that crowd any longer than I had to?« He sneered; I could only
imagine the kind of small talk Hammy and his little Germ made
when I wasn’t around. »They cut off a construction worker’s
hand?« I nodded. »Walter, who are they working for?«
   »They fed me some line about the Society for Psychical Re-
search.«
   »Don’t feed me shit and say it’s candy.«
   »I’m not,« I said, but he clammed. We kept walking west; it
was hard to say who followed and who led. When we reached
Fifth Avenue we turned south. Shackmans toy store was at the
corner of 16th; it was older than Hamilton, it had been there
since Hector was a pup. Glancing behind us first, Martin peeled
off to the left and went inside. I trailed, shoving through the
revolving door and feeling worn wooden planks creak beneath
my feet. There wasn’t a toy in there made later than 1946.
Reminded me of the old five and ten cent stores back in Seattle
downtown, the bins on the oak tables full of tiny lead cars and
soldiers, sets of jacks and hopfrogs, aggies and shooters and
cats-eyes, airplane glue and balsa strips.
   »Psychical research,« he said. »You’re fucking with me, Wal-
ter.«
   »No I’m not. Why would I? Look, I don’t know who they are
any more than you do. But they’re definitely not ours or any-
body else’s, near as I can tell. They’re –«
   »What?«
   »Hard to say. Look, I know they’re not Agency. At first I
thought Bennett might be in on it –«
   »Not a chance,« he said, whispering. »They’d have cut off his
head first time he tried pinching their ass.« We flipped through
a rack of paper dolls, marvelling at how many outfits you could
get for Shirley Temple. On the wall to our right was a shelf lined
with a row of mechanical banks, reproductions of early twenti-
eth-century toys. Cast-iron Teddy Roosevelts fired pennies into
trees, making cast-iron bears pop out the top; Uncle Sam
dropped coins into his satchel and waggled his chin whiskers.
There were others – »Always Did ’spise A Mule,« where the
latter threw a hapless pickaninny and the penny he held onto
the ground; »Darktown Battery,« where a pitcher was ready to
lob a cent at a gangly, thick-lipped batter. These weren’t entirely
accurate reproductions; the once-black figures were all painted
white. In the centre of the shelf was a bank I remembered seeing
in stores when I was young; a bust of a man with one arm and a
giant grinning head. The cast iron hair was curled tight, the
nose broad and flat, the lips full, the ears protuberant. You put
the coin in the hand and pressed the button; the arm raised to
the mouth and the coin fell inside. The ears wiggled. On this
model, the hair was blonde, the eyes blue, the face pale as Ben-
nett’s; but along the bottom of the bust the legend still read
JOLLY NIGGER. It was the cheapest of the lot, at fourteen
ninety-five.
   »What’s the kraut add to this gumbo, anyway?«
   »I’m not absolutely sure,« Martin said. »He’s an associate of
Hamilton’s. Since he’s at Justice I have no say-so in the matter.«
   »And if he starts asking the wrong kind of questions about
the wrong people?«
   Martin gritted his teeth, and ran his hand over his bald head.
He shaved it every morning, so not a trace of a kink might
show. Told everyone he’d lost his hair when he had typhoid, as
a child. »No. That won’t happen.«
   »You’re sure?«
   The clerk gave us a truant-officer stare, probably beginning
to suspect we were waiting to lure away toddlers with candy.
»Sirs,« she said, »we’ll be closing momentarily.«
   I nudged Martin and we headed out. »It’s not going to help
matters if you keep being seen with those girls,« he said. »The
big one is a girl, isn’t she?«
   »And a mile wide,« I said. »They haven’t asked me if they can
come around. It’s hard to fight ’em off.«
   »That’s clear,« he said. »What did she cut his hand off for?
What did she cut it off with?« He shoved his mitts in his pockets
after buttoning his coat. DC boys always cracked under the
strain of New York weather. »Look, I’ve got to get to the sta-
tion.«
   »Stag or drag?«
   »They left on the four-thirty. Good thing for you I had to get
a second fitting for a suit up at Brooks Brothers. When the
police finally did look at your file they called my number, and
luckily my assistant knew where I’d be.«
   »Give her a raise,« I said.
   »I can make the seven-twenty. When are you going record
shopping?«
   »Tomorrow,«. I said. »What should I know about this that
they’re not telling?«
   »I’m not telling,« Martin said. We grinned, feeling fairly jolly
ourselves for the moment.

The West Side Record Store was next to the Wong Kee laun-
dromat on the 82nd Street side of the Endicott Hotel. Homicide
Arms we called it, six people killed there every year on average:
autoerotic fatalities, homosexual love stabbings, old drunks
poking out each others’ eyes with pocket knifes, horse deals
gone ruinously bad. Places like this attract good record stores;
something in the air, I suppose. The jingle bells rang when I
popped open the door. »Hey there,« the owner called out,
seeing me. »Where you been, stranger?« Now that I knew who
he actually was, it was impossible to miss. Tucked below that
lush alky hair, beneath those chipmunk cheeks and the bags
under his eyes, those Kennedy genes were there in plentitude.
   »I’ve lacked liquidity, my brother. Led a pauper’s existence.
But down’s up again and I’ve come to celebrate.«
   »Here?« he asked, laughing. I was the only customer in the
store; there were two lights in the ceiling and forty-seven thou-
sand 78s in bins, files and cases. Hard to have gotten higher, no
matter what I dropped.
   »You got a couple of beauties I’ve been wanting to pick up
for a long time,« I told him. »Let me get their phone numbers.«
   »Which ones?« he asked, not yet standing. While he wasn’t
morbidly obese, he was huskier – let’s be honest, and say a real
porker – than his brothers, all of whom were thin as motel
blankets. Those mesomorphs couldn’t be happier being seen
pounding tennis balls, rigging sails, lifting cars, diving into
volcanoes. Even Father Ted showed good form hoisting that
loving cup every Sunday. Jim Kennedy must have always been
the standout in the bunch.
   »Skip James, ›Devil Got My Woman Blues‹, Blind Tommy
Walker, ›Mean Old Blue‹, and Robert Johnson, ›Malted Milk
Blues‹.«
   Oh, happy day when you make a store owner as happy as you
when you buy something. »You sure you want them?« he asked,
smiling. I fluffed the green with a satisfying ruffle. He squeezed
between the bins to reach the locked case, opened it and pulled
out the prizes, laying them on a shammy he’d draped over his
desk. »Labels unfaded. Near mint, each one. They’ll transfer to
tape beautifully.«
   »Numbers match up with Godrich?«
   »Every one. And you know you don’t usually find these in
packages like this.« While Johnson was in a modern sleeve, and
Skip’s original was still plain kraft, the one for Blind Tommy
was a full-tilt Paramount Sambo special, bearing the logo THE
POPULAR RACE RECORD, and a black-on-brown drawing of
a big-lipped house slave whanging on his diddlybo. »Walter,
right?« he asked.
   »Right, Jim.« Those Kennedy teeth gleamed like the moon.
»Wrap ’em up.«
   As he padded my buys with cotton batting and newspaper I
snaked over to take a look at what else was in the case. Several
Enrico Carusos; but on a Brazilian label, not Italian or standard
Red Victor. A couple of cylinders labelled, by hand, T. Roosevelt
Dec 1907; the Emancipation speech maybe. »Old Jimmie Sut-
ton’, by Grayson and Whitter, a sad sight; far as I had known
until that moment, mine was the only existing copy. Bud Averill
Plays Songs by Stephen Foster, a theremin recording on the
Tech-Art label. A flat disc marked Last Surviving 1812 War
Veteran; then several that I already owned, Geeshie prominent
among them. And –«
   »Jim,« I said, »how much for this one?«
   »Twenty,« he said. »I’ll make it seventy-five total if you want
that one, too.«
   »Sold.«
   »Dallas String Band. ›Dallas Rag‹,« he said, reading the label.
»14.292 D. Coley Jones, right?«
   »He’s on there,« I said. »Guy I knew had a tape. Magnificent
stuff.«
   »Let me tape it before you walk off with it. That all right?« I
nodded. Jim stuck a new reel on his player, fed in the leader and
tested the wires. »Got it hooked into the speakers I use for the
Victrola,« he explained. »Picks it up directly.« He dusted the
grooves, fixed the baby blanket on the spinner and then eased
the disc down. He used a bamboo needle instead of a steel so
even before the first note plucked I knew the condition was near
perfect. You’ve probably never heard it, but if you have, »Dallas
Rag,« a two-mandolin beauty that drives like a Tennessee
moonshiner is about as perfect as there is. Impossible to find,
but I always had a working theory that most of the stock was in
Warehouse 6, and went up during the 1930 Columbia fire.
   »That’s something,« Jim muttered, his eyes closed as he lis-
tened. Nobody listens to old records these days unless they’ve
got the heart to hear them.
   »Where’d you turn it up?« I asked.
   »New England,« he said. »Boston. Elderly abolitionist owned
this and about two hundred others. Don’t think he listened to a
one of them but bought them to show solidarity. Boston used to
be a good place to look for race records, but it’s all cleaned up
now.« I nodded; I knew. »I’m hoping next year to take a trip
down South.«
   »Why?«
   »Think of all the records that must still be down there,« he
said, »in drawers and closets. Basements. Barrels out back. You
don’t think so?«
   »Broom swept clean, down in those parts,« I said. »The re-
cords were dumped along with everything else. Never known a
racer to show up south of the Ohio River.«
   He nodded. »Closing time,« he said. »Glad you came in. This
pays half the rent.«
   »Jim,« I said, »you ever want to go out for drink? Some-
thing?«
   His face brightened, then dimmed slightly. Even so it was
plain as the nose on his face that he’d have jumped over five
fences to go out with anybody. »I don’t drink,« he said. »Not
anymore.«
   »Never touch the stuff myself,« I said. »Soda pop, then. And
talking records. Let’s say Saturday?«
   »Sounds good.« But somehow he looked as if it sounded bad.
Maybe it was just events catching up with me, but I went all
Blakey on the way back home. Sometimes when it’s late enough,
and I’m bored enough, or stoned enough, I hit the bricks and
turn on my own personal Wayback Machine. Try it sometime:
make sure it’s after two in the morning, go to the right
neighbourhood and then let your eyes unfocus – you’ll see what
I mean. It’s one of the best things about New York, being able to
live in past and present at the same time. Walk anywhere in the
Thirties west of Eighth, and it’s still 1941. Head down Ludlow
or Orchard if you want 1894. Stroll along Fifth, in the Fifties,
and you’ll be right back in 1936. Keep your eyes above the cars,
of course.
   That evening I had a different kind of vision. It wasn’t late,
and I wasn’t on anything; one second I was bouncing down
Broadway with my new old discs, and then the next everyone
and everything looked different. The usual Balkan gang assimi-
lated; their clothes and hairdos got fancier, their faces took on
the look of strangers. Pint-size cars and gigantic pickup trucks
with cabins on the back rolled bumper to bumper down both
sides of the boulevard. The bars were gone, the cafeterias, the
dress stores, the Commie French cheese shop; I couldn’t even
guess what half the stores I saw sold… I nearly spun out, my
brothers; but when I closed my eyes and then reopened, all was
again as it should have been.
   What was strangest was that I knew the scene I’d lightfooted
into so casually wasn’t in the gone world, or in the world of
tomorrow, but in the now world; and whoever’s now it was, it
wasn’t mine, at least not yet. Maybe my ghosts, or my gals, were
having some kind of lasting effect on me; having had enough of
Fortean phenomena for one evening, I snagged a cab and
headed back to my castle doubletime.
                              FIVE




Man’s walk tells you if he’s buck, bull, or baby. Mine’s a limber
stride, when I set out I imagine that my legs roll in my hipjoints
like they were fit with ball bearings. A walk like that lets the
nosy parkers know no matter what shit comes down, it’s not
going to bug you. Jim Kennedy’s walk told me that he was
pretty much prepared for and expecting anything. His tightrope
stroll along the sidewalk made me think of Frankenstein, or the
Greek statues the Greeks sculpted before they learned how to
sculpt. He kept his knees locked like they had pins inside, kept
his arms glued to his sides, his fists clenched as if trying to
figure out who to hit next. Jim moved like he knew in a place
deeper than his bones that if he didn’t always hew to the straight
and narrow he wouldn’t last longer than the time it took him to
fall.
   A bar called Shaugnessy’s became our regular hangout. Place
was your standard Irish dive, stuck between a cafeteria and a
dry cleaners on Broadway, just north of 83rd before you got to
Loew’s. We’d keelhaul a booth, I’d order bourbon, he’d signal
for the first of an endless series of seltzers. (His bicarb tab must
have been frightening; he drank so much fizzeroo that I’m
surprised he never blew up.) »Down the hatch,« I’d crow and
we’d down our respective poisons. The old traditional lost
weekend isn’t my favoured format but I’d learned how to drink
when I needed to. Back in ’63, during the Panama crisis, I
earned my bones not only with Martin but with his bossmen,
ingratiating myself as directed with a gang of commies in the
Village. Half were Russian-born, and half of those were on the
wagon, so I had to learn how to tie on the bag around sots and
de-sotted alike if I was going to keep the wheels nice and greasy.
During the first round of chuckle juice I’d act like I was guzzling
a king-size snort, but I’d really only sip, and splash out the extra
from the shotglass when I slammed it down; or, if it was a
highball, artfully rearrange the ice, shaking the glass like a
maraca. Made it look like I was just like one of the booze-
hounds, long as you seemed drunk as they were they were
happy; and (most usefully when it came to Jim) by acting in
such fashion the boys riding the wagon would think you’d never
remember anything you heard once you sobered up. I had the
poor bastards coming and going. On the last night I enjoyed
their company (enjoyed, well; if you’ve ever been cornered by a
Trot symp at cocktail hour you know there are more exact
words) we went to the White Horse and I carried over the first
round. First, though, I sprinkled their vodka with a little C9-
Algernon4 (which, among much else, gives you Korsakov’s
Syndrome for the duration of the seventeen-hour trip). After I
was done with ’em not a one was capable of any action, overt,
covert or subvert, on Amity Street for the duration of the emer-
gency. The first week or so Jim and I got together it was hard for
us to talk about anything other than records – put two obsessive
shellackers in a room and they won’t stop yakking till they pass
out from lack of oxygen – and it was clear to me Jim was no
dilettante. We spent one entire evening going over nothing but
the Broadway 5000 series and whether or not the Reverend J. M.
Gates and Congregation had recorded a version of »Death Will
Be Your Santa Claus« for the label (I thought he had, but Jim
demonstrated to me he hadn’t; the number I thought matched
the non-existent master was actually 5025; B 6927-1 and 6929-1,
»I Know I Got Religion« backed with »The Funeral Train A-
Coming.« Excuse my tangent; you may not dig the essentiality
of knowing this for sure, but believe me, both of us did). Even
so, the time finally came to talk about something other than
discs, and so one evening as he ordered his third seltzer I bit the
bullet.
   »When did you buy the store, anyway?« I asked. »I hadn’t
been in there for a dog’s age till a few months ago.«
   »A year,« Jim said. »Took ages to get George to sell.«
   Former owner Crazy George, that is, one of New York’s
more accomplished psychopaths. Always looked like he slept in
the Indian cave in Central Park, hadn’t had a bath since 1931,
would as soon spit at you as look at you, but the man did know
his platters. Knew ’em too well to ever find bargains in the bins,
but I could have lived with that. Real problem was he was the
kind of storeowner wouldn’t sell you anything if he didn’t think
you were worthy. You may have been worthy, once, but things
always change. Don’t have to tell you that eventually no one was
worthy – but then it probably saved him time, counting out at
night, if he didn’t make any sales during the day.
   »He needed the money?« A chunky-shouldered shrug.
»How’d you get him to sell, then?«
   »The family handled it.«
   Surprising to hear him say the word family himself; several
times before that I’d use it in passing or we’d overhear it on the
radio, or coming out of one of the barflies as the woozer beefed
about the home life, and Jim’d go all pasty and woolly-eyed as if
the very notion of what plays together stays together made his
stomach try to hop out of his mouth. »Never figured George’d
give it up. Must have been pretty persuasive.«
   »They can be,« he said. »Mom took care of the money. Two
of my brothers handled the actual deal.«
   Hm, yes, that made me suspect George was probably spend-
ing his golden years in an oil drum at the bottom of the East
River. »Your dad help out too?«
   »He’s dead.« Jim smiled; not a chance he meant to, but he
did. He shot me one of those grins where you know the grinner
knows he shouldn’t be happy but can’t help himself. It gave me
the willies now whenever I saw him flash the choppers, knowing
his bloodline; every time this brother’s teeth hit the high beams
it was impossible not to see his four siblings.
   »I’m sorry.«
   »Heart attack,« he said, adjusting his stonepuss. »Quick, at
least.«
   True enough, hearts tend to seize up fast when bullets plough
through them. That was the last time Old Black Joe made the
newsreels, back in 1954. He was just about bald by then but the
hair he had left he treated first-class. Whenever he’d come to
New York he’d see the same barber, regular as clockwork. The
shop was a Fancy Dan off the lobby of the Ritz Carlton, over on
Madison in the forties. He’d doff the chesterfield and the hom-
burg, tuck the bifocals into his shirt pocket and lie back to be
fitted for the shroud. Hitman that day was kind enough to wait
till the barber clipped the last few strays around the neck before
moving in for the kill. Splash of witch hazel, a quick whisk with
the broom; kerbang! sneezed the roscoe. Barber conveniently
had his back turned in that instant, dipping combs into the blue
stuff- that was his story, anyway. Hooligan made tracks, ditch-
ing the gun behind him. No fingerprints, trail cold as Siberia.
Word was Hoover was behind it, he was in a stew about how
Joe’d sold McCarthy out once that gig was blown. Long before I
knew I’d be palling around with any Kennedy, I asked Martin if
he had any inside dirt. Looked at me like I’d asked him which
route his mom preferred, French or Greek, and I didn’t ask
again.
    »What’d you do before this?« I asked.
    He shook his head, and brushed his hair back, trying to cover
the shiny skin at the peak. Probably he’d started shedding soon
as he stopped boozing; Sophia knew brothers in gin always kept
thick rugs above the snowline. »Wall Street. Day trader.«
    »Seriously?«
    »Had the knack for it when I was younger. Pressure got me
after a while. That and the sauce. Couldn’t take it any more.« He
shook his head, and guzzled down the rest of his fizz. »Went all
blooey.«
    »Blooey?«
    »You know.« I nodded. »Just had to take off. Told everyone
that I was going to become the sheriff of Waco, Texas.« He
pronounced it whacko, which wasn’t the exact pronunciation,
but from what I’d heard, it fit.
   »Inventive.«
   »Wasn’t any of their business,« he said, and I heard a knife in
his voice. »Went back to my place. Got a suitcase and emptied it
out. Went down to the liquor store and filled it with scotch.
Checked into the Seymour over on 44th, stayed there five days.
Mostly stayed there. Then they found me.«
   »Who?«
   He shook his head, and his eyes wavered. I was starting to
think I should abandon this conversational tangent for the
nonce. »My brothers,« he said. »Their mugs, anyway.«
   I took a very, very small sip of my drink.

Needless to say while going through the initial motions with Jim
I was still contending with my ghosts and losing three falls out
of three. Though neither of my transparent moochers did
anything especially annoying other than being there, the guy
started trying to talk to me more often; seemed to try, at any
rate. Never elaborated on his riff: Walter, he’d blow; Walter.
Repeat for sixty-four bars, second verse same as the first. But
however many times he spun the tune, no matter how I was
sometimes disappointed if I didn’t see them first thing when I
walked in, I never stopped feeling those campfire shudders. It
was anybody’s guess when they would drop in. Usually after the
initial start I’d be okay, but then sometimes I’d be sitting on the
throne reading the paper, not hurting a fly, and suddenly Mar-
ley’d pour through the door laying on with that heavy moan.
Make me want to pull the chain and flush myself down to live
among the alligators.
   My happy couple’d be there every morning come rooster-
time. When I’d get up I’d hope Eulie’d be there too, lurking in
the kitchen or parking that cute keister of hers on my sofa, but
every morning I was hit with a no-show. Wasn’t hard to see she
was the kind of cookie you couldn’t keep your mitts on for long,
but after two weeks dripped by I started to think they figured
they’d put me through enough grief, and went off to haunt
somebody else. The more I missed her, the heavier the black
dog sat on my shoulders. I’m not one for the mushbowl –
flowers and candy do nothing for me; as Trish knew well I can
gape at a full moon and the only thing that makes me howl is
how utterly groovitudinous it’d be to perambulate over its
chickenpox scars. But when I thought of Eulie I knew consid-
erably more than just the old kielbasa was involved; it worried
me, the way I was thinking about her – I was never that serious
about anything.

One cold crispy evening Jim was under the weather and since I
had no desire to coop with the spirit world I paraded over to
Max’s. Got there too early for real action, showing up sometime
around ten. That fabulous Trish was five deep in dopesters and
jugheads at the far end of the bar, hard at work playing queen of
the night. She heaved a bottle sky-high in salute and shouted at
me. »Get over here, Walter. Got somebody you should meet.
Come on.«
   No use fighting it. Hacking my way through the underbrush
of coolies I waded across the room. Trish sloughed off her more
useless admirers as I hit my mark. She struck attitudes with a
lush little chickadee holding up the bar. Her pal was a five-
footer tagged out in a shiny gold print mini; she’d swept up her
blonde curlies in a bubblehead do. Standing next to Trish made
her look like she was standing in a hole.
   »Every time I’m raring to carouse I catch a glimpse of your
pickle puss,« Trish said, slapping me in the chest. »Stop sucking
on those lemons. Here. Walter, Vivian. Vivian, Walter.« She
prodded her silent sidekick with an elbow. »He’s prime suspect
number one in my book.«
   »Charmed,« I said, broadcasting over the din. »One of the
Vivian girls?«
   She cocked a hand to her ear and aimed her noggin sideways
at me, crooking her neck and looking like a parrot zeroing in on
a cracker. She wore the kind of perfume that smelled like she
bought it at Woolworth’s even though you knew she hadn’t.
   »What?« she squeaked. Didn’t sound like her voice had
changed yet.
   »Enchanté,« I said. »Ma cherie.«
   She threw me a flutter or two of the black rakes above her
peepers. »Oh, wow,« she said. »You’re French?«
   Gritting my teeth I hauled myself towards the summit, look-
ing forward to sliding down on the far side. »Washington state,«
I said. »Where’d you get your diapers changed?«
   Poor missy looked like she’d been hit over the head with a
duck. »Excuse me?«
   »Excused,« I said. »Where were you before you hit New
York?«
   The lightbulb went on, though I could tell it was flickering.
»Cleveland.«
   Trish hopped in before I could make disparaging remarks
about Euclid Avenue and her grand plan completely collapsed.
»Vivian works at Bonwit. She’s in fragrances.«
   As guessed. »So I’ll get a discount?« I asked. Got a blank stare
from Viv and an especially evil glare from my dishy delight.
»How long you been in New York, cookie?« .
   She seemed like she’d need an earhorn in a library. »What?«
   »Here. New York. How long been you?«
   »Year,« she yelped. All tweeter and no woofer; painful to hear
at top volume.
   »Yeah,« I said. »I’m an old hand in the batter, myself.«
   »What?«
   Our tête-á-tête continued in this merry manner until finally
she smiled, I smiled, we signalled mutual toodle-loos and she let
the crowd swallow her up. Best to put these kinds of moments
out of their misery as soon as possible. Once she disappeared
from view Trish punched me on the shoulder like a schoolyard
bully.
   »What’d I do?«
   »You’re so malevolent,« Trish said. »Rolling over her like Ike
over the Japs. Deliberate miscommuniques. You know you can
send any smoke signal you want if you want to.«
   »I was coming in on the beam,« I said, perusing the room,
hoping to spot Big Bertha and my little sweetie as they looked to
sweep me off on some madcap, potentially life-threatening
adventure. »Now I know you didn’t think we were perfect
match. She still in junior high, by the way?« Trish frowned.
»Can take the girl out of the hay, can’t take the hay out of the
girl, notwithstanding her trendomatic threads. I’m sure she
meant well, but –«
   »Maybe she can’t tell Blind Lemon from Blind Asparagus. I
could?« She fired up one of her long and leans. »Be nice if you
could flap your tongue about something besides slipping discs.«
   »I do, I do,« I pleaded. »But what was the point here? None.
So why waste –«
   »Where’s your mystery date been, anyway? Talk about dying
calf eyes. I’m going to bring over the bucket and start calling
you Bossy.«
   »She said she’d be back. She’s just –«
   »Flaky,« she said. »And you’re not going to convince me
she’s not a Holiday Girl. Maybe she acey-deucy’s if Wonder
Woman’s not looking but all the same –«
   »You’re just jealous,« I said, but I knew better than that.
There wasn’t a jealous bone in Irish’s carcass; whole time we
were together, until she decided it was time to snap the twig,
she’d kept an open mind. Then suddenly the madness took
hold, she started talking about putting up a wigwam and mak-
ing a basket for the papoose, I started feeling the need to set
back out for the high country and the next thing we knew we
were both back on our own again. But jealousy had had nothing
to do with it. Only money, and how much of it I had, or didn’t
have, and where I got it.
   »Bordo, get over here,« she shouted across the room. Our
mutual pal was already winging his way in our direction, tippy-
toeing over like he was sneaking up to the cookie jar. »What’s
shaking?«
   »Overseas assignment,« he said, »Feeling 1A?«
   »I’ll enlist,« she said, hooking my arm and hauling. »You too,
Walt. This’ll be just the ticket to bring you out of this.«
   »Maybe better call it a day tonight.«
   »You’ll be sorry if you don’t stop making with the sourpuss,«
she said. I’ll admit it, my brothers; I’m not much of one for
physical threat. »Join the glee club and let’s go. You can’t wait
forever for Rapunzel to let down that hair.«
   Knowing it was useless to fight I cried uncle, and fell in with
the parade. We took the air and started off down the street. It
figured the one time I’d finally meet somebody of interest she’d
be harder to catch than I was. No matter how often I tried
prying Eulie out of my head she was a hard tenant to evict.
   »Walter,« Trish said, shaking my arm as we crossed Seven-
teenth, heading down Park. »What’s got you hypnotized?«
   »Just distracted,« I said, watching steam rise out of the street
over by Union Square. The usual gaggles of junkies and hooli-
gans were scuttling through the underbrush, waiting to snare
stray passersby. Far too many lackies on white crosses and mean
reds for me to deal with; I hadn’t been in that park for maybe
eight years. Rather deal with a D train full of Fordham Baldies.
Steam oozed upward from the Belgian block, circled slowly and
curled around, tried to gel and blew apart. For a second I’d
thought my ghosts were on the prowl. »Nothing more.«
   »So where’s the circus?« Trish asked Borden.
   »Go east, young girl.«
   »Not without a chauffeur,« Trish said, lifting her hand and
giving the high sign. A yellow Checker shot across three lanes of
honkers and screeched up to the curb. We hopped in, Trish and
I taking the chaise lounge and Borden commandeering one of
the jump seats, shouting directions at the hack all the while.
   »Wake up, Snoozy,« Trish said, poking my side as we hit
Fourteenth and cruised past Luchow’s as we sped under the el.
»What kind of trip are you on tonight?«
   »Nothing natural,« I said. »Out of body experience, I guess.
Don’t clip the cord.«
   Turned out the bash was down in the East Village on 12th be-
tween B and C. The sensible man steered clear of the
neighbourhood even at high noon these days, but when in the
company of the adventurous one tends to stop fighting the
current and swim faster towards the waterfall. Two blocks from
where we were heading was New York HQ for Hell’s Angels;
uptown Tong wars broke out weekly on 10th and 11th; the Third
Balkan War was in its fifty-second year at the corner of A and
13th. Nothing that untoward, considering, but then the hippies
showed up. Starting the summer before all the nitwits who
couldn’t figure out that San Francisco was at the far end of the
country started pouring into town, flower girls and gurus and
Sergeant Peppers, every one a fat little pigeon waiting to be
plucked. Now ten months later the wreckage was all over town,
plucking lutes in Herald Square, wandering back and forth in
front of Saks hustling spare change, drawing the cops no matter
how low they tried to lie. Bad scenes all the way around; last
October, in the block we were shooting towards a Greenwich
deb who’d dropped out of NYU got her 36-24-36 run through a
meat grinder and fed to her boyfriend’s Alsatian after she
complained he spent more time over the meth boiler than with
her. He called himself Otter; she called herself Trout’s Dream.
Let me tell you, my brothers, the world of altered consciousness
used to attract a much more sophisticated element than had
lately been moving in on the territory.
   The party that night was in what New Yorkers call a back
house. For you non-Gothamites let me elaborate. Back in Dead
Rabbit days, long before the tenement laws, a landlord could
build his sheds any way he wanted – walls a brick thick, two
room apartments with no windows and one door, no plumbing
or wiring or roof. But sometimes unexpected pangs of guilt
caused them to provide light and air; when that happened
they’d throw up the usual seven-storey walk-up at the front of
the lot, but one shorter than usual; leaving a small paved court-
yard and a small wooden two or three-storey house, behind.
That was the back house. Even in the old days it took a special
kind of individual to live in a back house. Trish and Borden and
I fell out of the cab when we got there, found the street entrance
to the alley – an archway cut through the building facade, next
to a junk shop renting the storefront – crept through the dark
until we reached the court and then made our way up the
wooden stairs that led to the second floor door. Things were
swinging by the time we got there, and pushing into the room
was almost as challenging a job as squeezing into Max’s.
    No sooner did I begin to scope the action than my usual sus-
pects started to find me. »Walter,« somebody shouted. When I
gave the looksee I spotted Marv Ballard, Ogilvy scribbler by day,
gutter lounger by night. »How you doing?« he said; I heeded the
gleam in his eye and counted five. »You holding?« Goes without
saying I was; that killer bud Chlojo left me rested in my inner
jacket pocket. Weeks in the open air and the potency hadn’t
lessened a bit. Hard to say how much moolah the frugal man
can share, keeping a permanent stash. When it came to sharing
the wealth I’ve always been a Huey Long, mind you, but Marv
couldn’t stop asking for seconds until he reached nineteen.
   »Fieldstripped, my man,« I lied. »Lighter than air.«
   »Bummer.«
   His eyes lit on new arrivals, and he vamoosed. »Bum-
badiered,« I called out after but he was already hard at work.
Before I could slip a hand into my pocket and hold that bud
beneath my nose long enough to slip into overdrive I spotted
Gaspard, inconveniently close. Turning quickly I managed to
miss his eye. Even if he hadn’t been such a blowhard we’d likely
as not have called him Gassy, it just fit. He was the kind of art
boy who never found the right gallery, and definitely not the
kind of individual best fitted for the field of mind expansion.
Couldn’t drain a half cup of mocha Java without spinning into a
tizzy. Best tale I heard, he’d gone upstate to see a friend, ran into
a powdered donut man coming back from Buffalo. Next thing
you knew old Cokey Joe’d done half an ounce of snow and
called the local constabulary, shouting I know you’re looking for
me, coppers. Coppers tried to tell him they weren’t but he was so
insistent they finally went to his hotel. Lucky for him, by the
time they got there he’d done up the rest of the bag. No evi-
dence of anything save for aggravated stupidity. They kept him
around till his head reattached itself and then stuck him in the
first Northern Line heading back to New York.
   Borden wandered over, a panatella-sized spliff in his claw.
Smiled like the cat who’d swallowed a dozen canaries. »Savour-
ing the moment?« I asked.
   He drew in enough to fell a mule; tried to speak, couldn’t,
and tottered away. Irish broke out of her huddle and slithered
over in my direction.
   »Having fun?« Across the room Auden sat in a chair, pulling,
that poet routine so as to better lure the chickadees. Horror of
horrors, I eyed some Fenster Moop in the corner whipping out
his guitar and starting to plink out his version of »Tom Doola«.
Wasn’t Grayson and Whitter’s, I can tell you that much. Made
me want to go over with scissors and cut the strings but he
didn’t take too deep a stab at it, some kind stranger was good
enough to put on a mambo album. »Glad now you took my
advice and came out, aren’t you?«
   Before I could say anything I realized that some unexpected
crashers had made it through the door. My evanescent wall-
flowers lurked near the kitchen, giving me the fisheye. Only
other time I’d caught them outside my crib was that time I saw
them in DC, in the Willard. I tapped Trish on the arm.
   »Look in the corner. Over there. What do you see?«
   She chinked her eyes as she focused on the mob. »Long Is-
land girls out of their league. Borden holding up a wall. Two
bowls of potato chips –«
   »That’s it?«
   »About covers the terrain,« she said. »What’s up? You look
like you’ve seen –«
   »All good fun must come to an end,« I said, suddenly want-
ing out. »Must run.«
   »Stick tight, it’s early.«
   »Maybe I’m coming down with something,« I said. Nerves, to
be sure, but I didn’t say it. »I’ll call you. Got to talk.«
   »Heart to heart?«
   I nodded. »Fabulous. Whenever, wherever.«
   She made with the double air peck and I started to push. Af-
ter a few minutes of rush hour IRT I got through the door.
Stepping into fresh courtyard air, I felt like I was popping out of
a submarine into the ocean, except in this case the water was
inside. Felt thirty degrees cooler once in the ozone so I zipped
up my jacket. My shoes clicked on the bricks underfoot as I
headed for the passageway to the street. Over the entrance was
an idea-sized light bulb; at the far end of the tunnel, a street-
light. Then I thought I saw something move at the end of the
tunnel as well; whatever it was slipped into the ink. I hung back,
my brothers, listening for the sounds of lurkers in the dark;
mugs and thugs loitering by the exit, picking off party guests
one by one as they stumbled home. I gave the passageway
another onceover. One second the streetlight was still there;
then the eclipse started.
   »Here chick-chick-chick.«
   Young snarl, Polish or Irish or Italian, full of Catholic blood.
I’m no gunslinger, brain takes brawn down two falls out of three
and when it doesn’t, that’s where feet come in handy. Problem
was, in this courtyard there was no place for feet to go. The guy
started to come out of the passageway, pasty white, a head taller
than me and a foot wider, Puerto Rican fence climbers on his
feet and something long and metal in his right hand. Didn’t
think he was looking for the eighteenth hole.
   »Hand it over, faggot,« he said. »Whatever you got –«
   If you’d been watching this on film you’d have figured some
big wind came along, just then; his feet lifted a good six inches
off the pavement and he disappeared head first into the pas-
sageway. I gave a look down the passageway, but saw no light;
something big still blocked it. Noise I heard sounded like a dog
cracking chicken bones.
   »Chlojo?«
   No answer, but I had a hunch. Those dames were first class
when it came to going incognito. The streetlight appeared at the
far end of the passageway and I started in. Listened to broken
glass crunching underfoot but thank Valentine didn’t step into
anything slippery. I gave the sidewalk a one-two when I made it
outside.
   »Chlo? Eulie?«
   A street or two away I heard a garbage truck crushing up the
day’s leavings. A beaten up Rambler rumbled down the street,
some old codger behind the wheel. Under the streetlamp shine I
saw a pair of mens’ shoes in the gutter. The toes were as pointy
as fence climbers get. Mysterious debris indeed so I sidled
across the sidewalk to get a better view. The shoes seemed to be
propped up over a sewer opening in the curb. When I stepped
into the street, though, I saw that the shoes still had feet in
them. The feet were still hooked onto the legs, but those disap-
peared some short distance into the opening. Couldn’t say how
much more of my unlucky assailant was still attached but I
decided I could live without knowing.
   So I walked briskly toward nominally safer Avenue A, at
which point I headed north to Fourteenth. Didn’t see my lady
pals anywhere; although this kind of suggested to me that even
though they weren’t there, they were keeping an eye out. Can’t
say that made me feel more comfortable, though I wished it
had. When I reached Fourteenth I went over to Second, and
then up and finally back home. My ghosts must have caught a
cab; they were waiting for me when I got there.
Time came soon after that when I realized I had to let Jim know
I was already in on his game. Clearly this wasn’t a subject he
liked to brag about. Now as I said, in my field of interest there
are a lot of handy techniques that work when it comes to scor-
ing info. Ingratiation is the easiest, long as you’ve got any per-
sonality at all. A little cadging here, a little cajoling there, and
soon enough they’re eating out of the palm of your hand.
(Something all ladies know from birth, but it amazes me how
hard it is for gents to comprehend). Problem was, though, that
ingratiation is a two-way street. During the weeks I’d spent
hanging out with him I’d gotten to really like old Jim – for one
thing, he was the only obsessive I ever met who knew more
about those golden discs than I did. Martin was lying low, and
that was just as well; but whatever it was I was doing, for what-
ever reason I was doing it, started to gnaw at me. So I figured it
wouldn’t hurt to be upfront with him, at least about my being
more than a little aware of who those relatives of his actually
were.
   Next time I went to the record store, however – couple of
days after that party – I didn’t get a chance, at least right off.
»Look at this, Walter,« he said when I strolled in late one after-
noon. He picked up a platter and a shammy to swaddle it in and
cradled it in his hands like it was his firstborn. »Ever seen one?«
   Poor cynic me; before I scoped I figured it was something I
had – I didn’t make much of my holdings that often, bragmas-
ters wear on everybody’s nerves – but I was wrong. I nearly
dropped on the spot. It was like seeing ghosts. A plain kraft
paper sleeve insulated an Okeh labelled platter, serial number
847.773. Said Goodbye to My Baby backed with Black Harvest
Blues. 1944. Performer, T. E. Barnstable, lay preacher in the
Reformed Christian Church of Jesus, onetime performer in
crow’s nests up and down the Pacific coast, onetime escort on
the Underground Freeway; and most notable to the majority,
perpetrator of the Crime of the Century. Everybody knew his
name, nobody said it. When it came to his kind of action, Nat
Turner and Caesar Blanchard were pikers, compared. I stared at
the label as if I was staring into the sky and saw the Sons of
Light descending, ready to rumble with the archons one last
time. Now hear me, my brothers; you know well as I do that no
group can be completely wiped out, no people absolutely
erased. There’s always traces left on the paper, a scent left in the
air, the memory of a memory of a memory. Never mind the
records; if that was the case, I wouldn’t be here not letting loose
on your ear. But when it comes to individuals, though, that’s
something else entirely. Judging from what was left of Theodore
E. Barnstable, you’d have thought he lived a thousand years ago.
   »Is it legal to own one?« I asked, unnaturally fretful.
   »Maybe, maybe not,« he said. »Can’t say I’m overly con-
cerned.«
   »You’ve listened to it?«
   »Not yet. Going to when I get home. Want to join me?«
   It was closing time, and he slid the disc in a Halliburton case,
the kind with the hard vanadium shell and padded inside; the
kind of accoutrement only Kennedys can afford. After locking
up we flagged down a cab at the corner of Columbus. As we
hopped in it struck me that I had no idea where Jim lived.
   »Dakota,« he told the hack. Only about eleven blocks from
store to home – well, Jim was big, but he wasn’t big on exercise.
   »So where’d you get it?« I asked.
   He smiled. »Guy came in this morning, used book dealer I
know. Usually picks for Pageant and Abbey down on Fourth
Ave. Knows as much about records as we know about rocket
science. He’d gone through the collection of a dead rabbi out in
Flushing. Nothing but religious books and male pornography.
The sacred and the profane.«
   »Horse and carriage,« I offered.
   »He lugged in a boxful. Didn’t know how to pack ’em, so
some of the ones on the bottom were broken. You know to
expect that. Started going through the batch. Some nice can-
torial stuff, a few Hungarian cymbalon pieces. Then some of the
old Negro preachers. The usuals, McGee, Rice, Reverend Gates
of course.«
   »The guy was a rabbi and he had these?«
   »Maybe trying to hedge his bets,« Jim said. »Then I spotted
this. Thought I’d have a stroke but I kept a straight face. Offered
him a dollar per record. He said great, I gave him the money
and he went out the door a happy man.«
   »You’re keeping it?« I asked, hoping he wouldn’t but know-
ing he would. He was considerate enough not to rub it in by
answering me.
   »Wasn’t even officially issued, you know. Month it was
pressed he –«
   »Yeah.«
   »Somebody always walks away with a few under their coat,
though.«
   We pulled up on 72nd in front of Jim’s building. I’d passed by
this joint a million times, but like most New Yorkers had never
gone inside. Upper West Side’s full of those old Victorian
monsters with dragons on the fence and demons over the door
and old possessed women staring out the windows, cackling,
but the Dakota was the biggest monster of all. »Keep the
change,« Jim said, handing the hack a bet to place, and we
clambered out. The little brass house nodded as we walked into
the dark courtyard. Jim lived in a corner apartment on the fifth
floor. From the windows you could watch people getting
mugged in the park. It was nominally three-bedroom, but all
three were full of records and Jim slept – apparently – in a
murphy he’d installed off the living room. As I looked around I
started wondering how he could even have noticed his family,
growing up. He had maybe twice as many records as I did, and
he wasn’t really much older than me. Most of his furniture
looked like he’d bought it in a job lot at W. J. Sloan. Jim’s pro-
fessional unit was deeply impressive, though: a 1928 Victrola
with a solid golden oak cabinet, lovingly polished, and a sterling
silver crank. The interior of the box was plush red velvet. The
doors of the bottom storage compartment were open, and I saw
he’d installed a very good German tape-recorder. Probably a gift
from Adolf to Old Joe.
    »Want a drink?« he asked. »Fruit juice? Soda?«
    »Want to hear the song.« He smiled. He laid protection down
on the turntable, and installed a new needle in the arm. »You
don’t actually have to crank it, do you?«
    He shook his head. »It’s electric. Great looking, though, isn’t
it? Which side you want?«
    »Black Harvest Blues.«
    »Me too.« Jim slotted the needle in the groove and adjusted
the switch until the table started to spin. Barnstable’s voice was
strong, though he didn’t always stay in tune, and the way he
fingered his guitar made me think it was a cold day in the
studio, and he had to wear gloves. Even so, he managed to get
his message across. It was like hearing somebody singing on the
moon.
             Late one evening, baby come crying to me,
             Oh, late one evening, baby come crying to me.
             Time they say to take ’bo away
             Black harvest here at last Lord Lord
             Black harvest here at last.
   My brothers, I’d never before heard a song that didn’t exist
even as I listened to it. Barnstable was a prophesier, that’s what
my father called him; it was only a shame that he did what he
did, the way he did it – one way or the other the writing was on
the wall, but thanks to him the period was put on the end of the
sentence sooner than it would have been. While I listened I
almost got all weepy, once or twice; hard to admit but I’m not
going to deny it. Didn’t want to give my own game away, going
overboard, but I had a hunch Jim wouldn’t have cared, if he
knew; and maybe he did know after all. He didn’t look too
happy himself, listening; and for a second I thought that maybe
at least after the fact this was a way caucasoids could really dig
precisely what it was they’d done – even though the way I saw it,
they never would; what was in it for them? Neither of us said
anything until the last chord decayed.
   »Terrible sound, considering it’s Okeh,« he said, lifting the
arm and flipping over the disc. He switched off the tape re-
corder, removed the reel and marked the plastic with a series of
laundry-marker hen scratches. »Must have been a rush job. Ten
to one this was the only take, though we’ll never know for sure.«
   »Probably hard song to sing more than once,« I said, stand-
ing up. He didn’t get it; no surprise, really, but it couldn’t help
but work at me. Old Jimbo would check this off on his 1944
Godrich, slide it into the B shelf between Blue Lu Barker and
Barrel House Annie and play it no more than once a year or so;
probably less, considering that I seemed to be the only fellow
obsessive he hung out with. A collector’s item, no more; as truly
meaningful to him as a Yoruba mask is to the Natural History
Museum.
   »Imagine so,« Jim said, but he couldn’t imagine. Not that I
could, to be fair. »You doing OK with that drink?«
   »Yeah.« Across the room, where the hall began, there were a
number of framed black-and-whites on the wall. I strolled over
and peeked: they were all there, every one. Mother Rose, Old
Black Joe and the boys, boys together; boys separate. Joe and
Jack in fine wool Brooks Brothers suits, Bobby in mountaineer-
ing togs high on Mount Roosevelt, young Father Ted looking
like he hadn’t realized how tight those clerical collars would be.
And Jim himself, in skinnier days, all Kennedy teeth and Ken-
nedy hair; and a look in his eye like he was sorry to have been
blessed with either. He caught my eye when I turned back
around.
   »See ’em often?« I asked.
   »We keep our distance,« he said. »Kind of close in here, don’t
you think? Let’s go back out, if that’s okay by you.«
   »Fine,« I said, and we put on our coats.
»You ever get along with ’em?« I asked, once we were back up at
Shaughnessy’s, and ensconsed in our usual booth.
   He shook his head, and drank his third club soda. Going by
his face, and the grey there, I suspected this was one of those
evenings where, if alone, he started instinctively slowing down,
passing every liquor store. »Bobby calls me once in a while. We
always got along. Not sure why, he’s the toughest one in the
bunch. He was the one convinced the others to give me another
chance down here.«
   I wondered what he possibly could have done that was so
bad, within the context of his family. »Good of him.«
   »He’s staying out of touch this year, though,« he said, smil-
ing. »Long as the race is on.«
   »Probably what his henchmen tell him to do.«
   »They don’t tell him anything he hasn’t told them first.«
   Sometimes you look at somebody and you can almost see the
clouds take shape overhead. Jim looked at that instant like the
only one to have gotten out of the family alive, and at the same
time looked like he wished he hadn’t. »What happened, any-
way? What’d you do to them to give ’em such fits?«
   Looking at the ceiling, he stuck out his hands palms up, as if
expecting rain, or pleading his case. »The curse of the Irish.«
   I nodded. Say what you would about them but that was one
grave the Kennedys always kept clean. »How long you been off
the sauce, anyway?«
   »Two years. After the first anniversary they got me the store.
Bobby said it was only right. I could live like I wanted down
here, long as I was down here. That was the deal.«
   »Good deal?«
   »No room for argument.«
   »So how do you manage?« I asked. »You go to AA?«
   He shook his head. »Long as you know you have to stick with
something, you do. Long as you got will power.« With a quick
jerk he downed his fizzy like it was a triple highball. Good as
any reason to explain the cat’s stare he’d sometimes get, looking
into the corner of an empty room as if spotting his own ghosts.
Alkys who get with the programme say if you break the habit on
your own you’re not really sober, only dry, and they know their
stuff. Soon as the shades come down, next thing you know
you’re looking at the bottom of a bottle of Old All Bets Are Off.
»Knowing about the family,« he said. »That make any difference
to you?«
   »How so?« I asked.
   »People have strong opinions about ’em,« he said. »I always
worry it carries over. I’m not like them, you know. I never fit
in.« I nodded. »Never liked football. Flunked out of Harvard, it
wasn’t what I wanted to do. Didn’t make any difference down-
town, of course.«
   »What’d you want to do?«
   »What I’m doing,« he said. »What I’m doing now, anyway.«
   However often I left my conscience somewhere behind me it
always came crawling back, begging to be let in; and I’d always
weaken, and throw open the door. No way I could see that Jim
could be of any assistance to those DC clowns, no way I’d agree
with at any rate. Started thinking I’d let things taper off; tell
Martin that the truck wouldn’t start. I was tired of playing their
reindeer games, anyway.
   »Lady, stop!« I heard somebody shout. Jim and I turned
around to see what was up. The bartender, a white-haired
potatohead from the old sod, looked as if he’d just been told his
mother was a child molester. Some of the barflies appeared as
bumfuzzled but I couldn’t see what had them in such a tizzy.
»What the hell, lady, you can’t come in here. Women aren’t –«
   »What’s meant?« Eulie. She stepped between a couple of
hulking louts as she sidled into the bar, brushing past elephants
terrified by a mouse. Chlojo didn’t appear to have made the
scene, else I suspected the patrons wouldn’t have been quite as
vocal.
   »Jim,« I said, standing up, »you’ll have to excuse me.«
   »She belong to you?« he asked, smiling as he took in the
melodrama.
   »Vice versa. I –«
   »Lady, what is it with you? Please, get out of here. Fucking
Jaysus –«
   »See you later, Walter.«
   I shot over to where Eulie stood, slouching as if waiting for
the crosstown bus. She had on a bus driver’s jumpsuit, black
instead of grey. It looked three sizes too small. Some of the sots
were so dumbfounded that they were slumping against the bar,
nearly in tears, but a few of the younger – as beefy in head as
they were in body – clearly wanted to mix it up.
   »Get your hoor outta here, you fuckin’ idjit,« shouted a bald-
ing lout with broken teeth as he shoved me into the bar. The
man in the apron leaned over and fixed a lobster claw on the
back of my neck, squeezing hard as if he wanted to break it.
   »Get her out of here,« he said. »Bring her in again, you’re
eighty-sixed permanent.«
   Eulie grabbed my arm and we stumbled to the door, trying to
avoid the imbeciles who kept sticking out their feet to trip us.
When we finally got outside we walked as fast as we could,
south down Broadway until we were sure nobody was coming
after us.
   »Okay, we’re safe now,« I said. »Where’ve you been? I –«
   »What problematicked back there, Walter?« she asked.
   »Irish aren’t big on women in bars. You didn’t see the sign?«
   »Sign?«
   I sighed. »Where’s She-Beast?«
   »Chlo, meant?« she said. »Around, but not present. For secu-
rity’s sake.«
   »Considering the last time –«
   »Walter, updates essential. Tell.«
   »With my ghosts, you mean?« Seizing her elbow, I made a
quick turn east onto Seventy-eighth. »Let’s take the scenic
route.«
   »Contact continues?« she asked.
   »We’re not having heart to hearts. It’s like I said, he knows
my name. He says it, sometimes. I don’t pay that much atten-
tion anymore. Where have you been, anyway?«
   »Are they gaining mass?«
   Once she got her teeth in she clamped down like a bulldog.
»What are you talking about?«
   »Do they look any more solid?«
   »Clear as a clean windshield,« I said. »When’d you get back
into town? If you’d called, I could have –«
   »Today,« she said, looking at a Greek grocery at the corner of
Amsterdam. Lambs and squirrels dangled pink and bloody in
the window, a fan stirring them into life. »Only today.«
   »You sure about that?« Much as Muscles would have come in
handy with the sons of Erin back at the bar, I still felt leery that
she’d pop out of a manhole at any second and kill everybody in
sight. »I was at a party downtown the other night. Almost got
mugged, but seemed like I had a guardian angel.«
   »I’ve only been back today,« she said. »Chlo stayed at my di-
rection. To see that you were all right.«
   »I can take care of myself,« I said, but didn’t make much of
an argument.
   »When you see them, are they moving?« We continued along
the street. Two long ammo belts of trash cans lined each curb.
»Have they appeared outside your apartment?«
   »They were at that party,« I said. As soon as I spoke, Eulie
went all pale – that’s to say she turned light olive as opposed to
her usual café au lait – and looked like she’d swallowed a bad
oyster. »What’s the matter?« She shook her head.
   »We anticipated other, even though our AV confirmations
predicted.«
   »AV?«
   »Audio video,« she said. »Radio. Television.«
   »What’s television?«
   She didn’t fill me in. In the streetlight shine Eulie looked
fourteen, very young and very scared. Can’t deny I’ve broken
the Mann Act now and then in my life, but this was another
kettle of fish indeed. Never been a candyman and didn’t want to
be mistaken for one. At least she didn’t act like any teenager I’d
ever come across. »You were going to tell me something the last
time you saw me,« I said. »What?«
   »It’s difficult to detail,« she said. »A tree, multibranched.«
   »All right. Why don’t you start by telling me who these
ghosts used to be.«
   »She was a Russian scientist. He was Dryco’s security chief.
Identifier, Jake.«
   »What’s Dryco?«
   »My owner.«
   »Nobody owns anybody,« I said, speaking – it seemed to me,
when I listened – with my father’s voice. Frightening; I’d never
expected to hear him again. »You don’t mean literally.«
   A pause, way past pregnant into nine-hour labour. She eyed
me as if she couldn’t fathom what I meant. »It’s a subunit of
Dryco. I officiate.«
   »Not the Society for Psychical Research?«
   She shook her head. »The Lucidity Institute.«
   »Whatever,« I said. »Look, is this ghost business some kind
of a psyop? Am I the guinea pig?«
   »Psycop?«
   »Op, op. Psyop. I’m no chicken in the basket. I have ears. Sto-
ries fly in.«
   »Walter, you’re baffling,« she said. »Clarify.«
   »Baby, I may not look the part but I’m pretty tight with my
ninth circle connections. They don’t know you from Lilith.
Who are you with?«
   »As stated,« she said. »Dryco. I can’t detail further, not pres-
ently.«
   »Why not?« No response. »Why is this Jake character hang-
ing out? Why can’t he go on to where he’s supposed to go?«
   »He wouldn’t know how. He’s been in his state for thirty
years.«
   »Why’s he showing up now, then? In my apartment?«
   »We have theories,« she said. »But actualities, unknown.«
   Seemed to me I may as well have been speaking in Choctaw
for all the info I was getting out of her, and finally I gave up.
Figured when she really had something to tell me, she’d tell me;
and all I could think of now was how much I wanted to see what
was under her jumpsuit. We reached Columbus Avenue and
crossed against the orange. Within the park, beyond the trees,
rose a dark black hulk. »What’s that?« she asked.
   »Natural History Museum. Awful place.« A new idea popped
into my head, and I figured it wouldn’t hurt to try it on for size.
»Are you and Chlo poltergeist girls?«
   She stopped dead in her tracks. »Iterate?«
   »All right, so maybe you’re the guidance counsellor, but you
can’t tell me Chlojo’s not experimental.«
   »Chlo’s perfected,« Eulie said. »Poltergeist girls? Detail,
please.«
   »I’ve read some of the studies. Little missies who divert rag-
ing hormones into useful trades. Lock ’em in a room and they
go to town. Think about people who did them dirty. How much
they hate their mothers. Whatever, doesn’t matter long if they
get upset. Once they build up a good head of steam, they let ’er
rip. Break all the glasses in restaurants. Tracks in a freight yard
bend out of shape. Cows spontaneously combust.«
   »Cows?«
   »My main man told me they did a trial run at Khe Sahn last
year. Every man on the battlefield cooked from the inside out.
Experiment succeeded, soldiers failed. I have to keep up on
these things if I’m going to do my job right. What’s up with you
two? Bringing the war home in a different way?«
   We strolled into the park. Didn’t think it’d be too hazardous
this time of night, Central Park West was the place in this part
of town that suffered the heavy action. »What is your job,
Walter, and how do you do it right?«
   We stopped under a light while I tried to put it into words.
»Government work. I freelance. Go where the market takes me.
Satisfy the needs of –«
   »Yes?«
   Came to me that I didn’t think I was satisfying the right
needs, just then. She looked at me, and I couldn’t say another
word. I’ve always heard that the first tongue you touch other
than your own is the one you never forget. Back in Seattle,
Karen and I were both fifteen, and it was outside the school
before the ninth grade dance. I remember my surprise at how
wet her mouth was, how sharp her teeth were. Didn’t work out
in the short or long run; wasn’t but a week later or so she fell in
love with a quadriplegic, ten years older. (He’d taken shrapnel
in the spine while he was in the Jackson Brigade, fighting Nazis
in France.) I got over it, but never forgot that kiss. But when I
kissed Eulie I knew I’d remember that kiss even longer. She
didn’t try pulling away; she held me just as close as I held her,
she up on her toes, me craning my head down. Each of us took a
step back when we came up for air.
   »Ah, gee,« I said. »Eulie –«
   She didn’t look scared, not at all; but suddenly she turned
and hopped over the broken benches to our left as if she was
wearing springs on her feet. I saw her running deeper into the
park, into the darkness where the streetlights didn’t shine. No
telling what kind of characters were laying in wait down there.
»Hey,« I shouted, »wait a sec. Eulie! Eule!!« I clambered over the
bench, managing not to fall over it. I heard her feet crunching
over the dead leaves somewhere between me and the museum.
Just when I thought I was closing in somebody let off a
flashbulb, or at least that’s what I thought it was; but who was
there taking pictures? One of Frye’s photos, no doubt. »Gimme
that film, you son of a –«
   But nobody was there, after all; not a wandering shutterbug,
not Chlojo, not Eulie. A cold wind blew through the park,
rustling the trees; for a few minutes it sounded as if it were
starting to rain, and then I felt small plops on my shoulders and
head. I started walking back toward the light, wondering how
she’d pulled a Judge Crater so completely, wondering who’d
taken a photo, wishing I had an umbrella. It still seemed to be
raining when I reached a streetlight. The sidewalk wasn’t wet,
but it was covered with what had been falling. Little green frogs,
no bigger than a dime, hopped across the concrete, looking just
like the ones that always fall in July thunderstorms. But it wasn’t
July.
                              SIX




»You’re working up a sweat, Walter,« Bennett said. »Taking too
much of something?«
   »Yeah. You.«
   We hooked up in a gloomy knock’emback called the Ex-
pressway Bar, down at 40th and Eighth, just below the last
Manhattan exit ramp before the Robert Moses Bridge. At my
demand Martin arranged a meet and greet when he hit town the
next Monday. As punishment, though, he showed up with his
dopey sidekick; and while he’d left Hambone and Chuckles
back in the swamp, Sartorius hitched a ride as well. I hadn’t
wanted to let those louts in on anything I had to say but there
was no getting out of it, and it wasn’t long before I understood
why.
   »What is it, Walter?« Martin asked. From the moment he
parked himself he sounded peevier than usual; he hadn’t given
himself the usual close shave that morning, and a faint
five’o’clock darkened his dome. Whole time he sat there he
tapped out a semblance of a beat with his fingers against the top
of the table – he’d lived too long in DC to have any sense of
rhythm left.
   »Before I go any further with this you’ve got to fill me in on
what the long-term goal is.«
    »With what?«
    »With Jim Kennedy. What’s the master plan?«
    Sartorius sipped his coke and tried on a variant sneer. His
expression made me wonder if he’d slipped a blood sample of
mine under the microscope and didn’t like what he saw crawl-
ing. Bennett looked unnervingly calm, as if he were already in
on the joke. Martin was sweating, though it wasn’t hot. »Family
reunion,« said the weasel. »Leave it at that, Walter.«
    »Why is this bothering you now?« Martin asked, his voice
raw. Sounded like he’d been up three nights in a row preaching.
    »Always bothered me,« I said. »I’m just being more upfront
about it.«
    »Treat it like all your assignments,« he said. »Drive in the
nails and don’t worry about what you’re building.«
    »My brothers, mayhap you don’t get me. What I’m saying is,
if you don’t tell me what I’m doing, I’m not going to do it.«
    Sartorius held his fork tightly, as if ready to spear out my
eyes, but he didn’t budge an inch. Bennett cracked his knuckles.
»What’s the matter, Walter? Turn over a rock and find your
conscience?«
    »You can’t quit, halfway through the assignment,« said Mar-
tin.
    »Look, I was squeezed into this assignment, it didn’t fit me –«
    »You let yourself be squeezed.« He had nothing to add; I
didn’t like the way he wasn’t looking at me when he spoke to
me. That’s never a good sign. I couldn’t get why he acted like he
was almost taking his cues from Benny. »Walter, you didn’t
answer my question. Why is this starting to bother you now,
when it’s never bothered you in the past?«
   »You know as well as I do this isn’t the usual gig,« I said.
»Generally, I don’t have to see who the joke gets played on.
Jim’s family may be straight out of Charles Addams but he
himself isn’t hurting anybody –«
   »Not presently,« Bennett said. »Walter, time’s come to move
on to step two. This is where your previous experience’ll come
in handy. What you’ll be doing –«
   »You heard a word I said?«
   »Every word. Doesn’t matter. Walter, you’ll –«
   »No offence, Bennett, but how is it you’re slinging the do this
do that around? Far as I know you’re just a tall root on the
government tree.«
   »Acorns, oaks.«
   B-boy could toss off a real death’s head when the joke was on
somebody else. I looked over to Martin, and the second I did I
could tell that at some point, for some reason, somebody heav-
ier’d sat down on the teeter-totter since the last time we hooked
up. »Walter,« he said. »At Hamilton’s request, Bennett is now
playing an active role in this operation.«
   »An active role, or the active role?«
   »You can’t quit, Walter,« Bennett said. The Germ fell into
line as he suddenly drew himself into the vertical. »There’s no
need to add anything. Martin, your boy seems to find it hard to
handle change. So you tell him about step two. See if he listens.«
   »I haven’t left the room, you know,« I pointed out. Bennett
didn’t say a word; the edges of his mouth – couldn’t really call
them lips – pulled up over his teeth, as if the skin on his face
was starting to shrink. »We’ll be outside. I can’t sit in this dive
any longer.«
    Sartorius gave us both the old so-there stare and trundled off
after his American cohort. »Only animals could,« he muttered,
sending his remark in Bennett’s direction but making sure it
richocheted off our heads first. The two of them strolled casu-
ally out the heavy wood door, almost arm-in-arm. Through the
filthy window I saw that they stationed themselves on the 40th
Street curb outside, looking up at the expressway as it began its
leap across the Hudson as if seeing someone getting ready to
jump
    »Fill me in fast,« I said to Martin, not raising my voice, but
not whispering either. Before I could say anything else he put a
finger to his lips and reached under the table; peeled away what
looked at first like an extra-lumpy piece of chewing gum. Before
I could wonder what he wanted with such a disgusting souvenir
he pointed to the two small silver wires sticking out of the
purple clot. Placing the bottom of his glass on top of it, he
pressed down until it chirped a cockroach crunch.
    »This is your own damn fault,« he said, sounding about as
angry as I figured I sounded. »Your ultimatum was all the
excuse Hamilton needed.«
    I snuck a peek out the window. Sartorius tapped his ear with
his hand like he wanted to get the water out of his brain. »Who
are you working for now, Martin? Who’ve I been working for?
Interior Department or Hamilton? Or the kraut, for that matter
–?«
    »Be quiet,« he said, looking like he’d stayed so long at the
blood bank that now he was running on empty. »Walter, noth-
ing about this operation is clear-cut. It’s not officially a govern-
ment action –«
    »Nothing I ever do is.«
    »But with Hamilton involved, it has an ex-officio primatur,«
Martin said, and rubbed a hand along his head. Frick and Frack,
outside, probably were starting to wonder why they weren’t
tuning in to the afternoon broadcast, but didn’t give any indica-
tion they were going to head back inside. Sartorius was pointing
up at the expressway and frowning, as if he’d spotted patches of
Jewish concrete. »I don’t always see what’s being built myself,
Walter. Like you, I just drive in the nails I’m given –«
    »I’m thinking this time we’re driving them into our coffins,«
I said. »How’d that little punk Benbo get promoted so fast?«
    »Within the bureaucratic structure he’s still my associate,«
Martin said. »But he’s been all peaches and cream with Hamil-
ton ever since they met.«
    »What a sob sister.«
    »And what happened, he was in my office when you called.
Overheard my first reaction.« Which had been explosive,
granted. »He ran off and got ahold of Hamilton while we were
still on the line. Half hour after you hung up Hamilton called.
Gave me a real line. Said that considering the fruitful working
relationship you and I had had for so many years that as the
operation moved into step two it’d be preferable to have a more
disinterested hand on the wheel, as he put it.«
    »Bennett’ll steer me off the first bridge we come to.«
    »I know, you know, for all I know Hamilton knows. Doesn’t
matter.« He leaned closer towards me, and in his deep brown
eyes I saw all the way down to the pit of his heart. »Walter, I’m
begging you. Don’t run out now. I think Bennett’s got ahold of
something.«
    »There’s nothing on me,« I said. »I’ve seen to that.«
    He shook his head. »My grandmother was octoroon.« I nod-
ded; mine was quad, but they’d been mixing it up in my line all
the way back to Charleston, which had blessed me with my pale,
pale face. »She was born in Jamaica. The British were bad as the
Germans, they kept everything. Her records are still down there,
Walter,« he said. »Or were, until Che and his boys rolled into
Montego Bay.« Martin moaned; he sounded like a ghost, al-
though not the ones I knew. »You know Commies, they’d’ve
sold Lenin to the Nazis if there’d been a way to make a profit by
it. Ten to one the Germans have already dug in to see what they
could turn up, just to have on hand when times get tough.«
    That was the problem with the silent treatment; it only
worked if everybody kept silent. The biggest, darkest Masai
warrior could have been under-Secretary of State as long as he
didn’t make noise about it and as long as his usefulness was
such that the ones he worked with, and for, refrained from
pointing it out. But let the first shoe drop, the first hint turn up
somewhere down the line, and as soon as some kind of proof on
paper could be run down, that’d be that. If you were passing
and got caught, you were dead gone, even if the offending
ancestor had been a seventh cousin twice removed. If you were
over thirty, and got officially nabbed (which was the only way to
be found out, Sophia help you if some local nitwit got it into his
head to set the dogs loose), you’d be sent off to sunny Guate-
mala, or Costa Rica, or one of those welcoming Central Ameri-
can countries; but during the past couple of years, if you were
under thirty and the cat got out of the bag, well, you’d be sent
South, all right – down on the delta, that is to say the Mekong
delta.
   That year, I was twenty-nine. Not a good age, considering.
   »Why hasn’t he sent word to Hoover yet, then?«
   »Hamilton wants the job to be done,« Martin said. »Chances
are good Hoover wants the job to be done. If it is done, then
chances are good Bennett’ll get bumped upstairs and you and I,
and everybody we know, will go on their merry way. Otherwise
–«
   »So what’s planned for Jim? You know, don’t you?«
   He looked out the window. The louts still cooled their heels.
Sartorius was sucking on a candy bar. »There is a pharmaceuti-
cal aspect to this, Walter.«
   »Figured as much,« I said. »What? They want me to dose the
family, drop a little something off Hyannis?«
   »You know much about hypnosis?«
   »Doesn’t work on me. That’s about it.«
   »Years ago, they found out that if it did work on you, and if
you were hypnotized, you could be told to do something, no
matter how ridiculous or dangerous, and ninety-nine times out
of a hundred you’d do it. But if on the hundredth time you were
told to do something you wouldn’t ordinarily do – hit some-
body, steal something – you wouldn’t do it, not under any
circumstances.«
   »Kill somebody,« I said. I was always good at math.
   »There’s been further development lately completed on a
readaptive agent,« he said. »You’ve never tested it. As near as
can be told, from what I’ve heard, it works perfectly every time.
Hypnosis in a bottle, essentially. And guaranteed to work on
anyone.«
   Martin chewed his nails like he needed the calcium. »So I’m
supposed to give some to Jim?«
   He nodded. »And give him directions. Help him along, I sus-
pect, though I don’t know for sure.«
   »Help him do what?«
   »You aren’t supposed to know this yet,« he said, and this
time he did start to whisper. He gave the glass-smashed bugged
gum another crunch, for good measure. »Remember your
worrying you were going to be made the Oswald in this?« I
nodded. »You won’t be.«
   »Jim?« He nodded. »They want him to kill who? Humphrey?
Paxton? Mc –«
   »Bobby.«
   I looked out the window; Bennett was checking his watch,
and I had a notion he’d be traipsing back in here shortly to drag
Martin along. Sartorius had turned his back to the street, and
was staring at the windows of the bar. »Who’s back of this?« I
asked. »Who the hell is Hamilton working for?«
   Again, a whisper, this time directly into my ear. »The Kenne-
dys.«
   That send more shivers down my spine than since I’d first
laid eyes on my ghosts. Even for that bunch, this seemed pretty
cold-blooded. This was something I didn’t think was safe to
even dream about, much less talk over, whether whispering or
screaming. I was almost scared to move my head, and look
anywhere else, thinking for at least a moment or two that surely,
at the mention of their names in this unfavourable context, Joe
Jr and Jack and Father Ted were all going to suddenly burst
through the door, give us a sendoff with tommy guns until we
were nothing but Swiss cheese, and then pile back into their
black sedan and screech off back to the hideout at Hyannis,
whooping. »Which ones?«
   »Well,« said Martin. »Not Jim. Not Bobby –« He shrugged.

That night I didn’t sleep more than a few hours. In between
bouts of nightmares I’d sit on the edge of the bed, try not to pay
any attention to my ghosts as they hung out in the front room,
calling out my name every once in a while just to shake me up.
Time to change partners, I knew, but how to do it? Until the
year before it’d have been a simple enough matter to hop on the
train to Montreal and scoot up to the border, get off at the last
town on the New York side, pay off a fisherman to take you
across the river and then lose yourself in the midst of our
neighbour to the North. Unfortunately, so many had been
taking that route since the war escalated that the borders were
clamped down tight. Mexico? Back in the fifties, maybe, but
they were too keen on making sure nobody used the drugs they
produced in-country, and that would have made for rough
going while I tried to get back on my feet. Back to Seattle?
Nothing for me there, not any more. Mom and Dad both gone
and the place had changed too much since they’d built the
nuclear plant on Vachon. Europe? The Commie cheese shop
was as close as I wanted to get to our Soviet neighbours, and
where the Reds didn’t control the turf the Nazis still did.
    Africa? Took a different kind of passing, to get by there. But
if I could get to Hawaii, there were boats that went around the
Pacific; and outside of Vietnam, the state of flux the other
former Japanese territories were in was somewhat more hospi-
table to strangers – the Phillipines, perhaps, or Fiji; or Nauru.
Move somewhere and become the Guano King. The more I
thought about it, the more possible it seemed –
   But as ever the old problem of funding came immediately to
mind. At the moment I had about a thousand bucks; that’d buy
the ticket, but I needed more. I got up around five; walked into
the music room. Looked around at my shelves, at the collection.
Jim’d buy it, that was for certain; but that’d also be a certain
giveaway that I was planning to skip; and even if I left them for
a while, I couldn’t imagine losing them forever. There was only
one of me, sure; but with half my records, there was only one of
them, as well, and I was too used to serving as cultural custo-
dian, keeping them all safe and sound until the day when they
might be appreciated – more to the point, when the people who
made them would be appreciated, finally, for what they did and
for who they were.
   Granted, in this country I figured that’d be a pretty long wait.
   I sat in my chair until close to nine the next morning, my
ghosts keeping me company in both of my front rooms, in form
both evanescent, and flat, black, and shiny. A little after nine,
Trish called.
   We met at noon at the fountain in the middle of Roosevelt
Centre at Broadway and 66th. »Let’s chat and sip,« I said, taking
her arm and leading her toward the café in Alma Mahler Hall.
   »You’re such a charmer,« Trish said. »You look awful. What
were you up to last night? Your tag team show up and start
tossing you around the ring?«
   »Couldn’t sleep,« I said. »Money worries.«
   She laughed. »Let me take those off your mind.«
   Once inside, in the café area, we ordered up the old mocha
java. I needed a triple dose bad; as soon as the first cup was
drained I signalled the waiter for seconds and thirds. At that
time of day we were surrounded by music matrons decked out
in heavy matinee frou-frou, tapping their biscuits with white
gloves to shake the crumbs loose before downing them. Every
so often I caught some of the grouchier ones eyeballing me like
they suspected me of sneaking around, waiting for the right
moment to make off with the Stradivari.
   »I never thought you’d agree,« she said. »When Burt called, I
told him I’d give it a try but –«
   »You say they’ll slip me the cabbage on the premises?«
   She nodded, brushing away her own crumbs. »Ten thousand.
You can get them that much?«
   »What I have on hand’s a little stronger than mescaline,« I
said. »But they’ll be able to make it stretch. What is this thing
tonight, anyway?«
   »They have these public get-togethers once in a while. Invite
people in to get a taste of the treatment. They won’t be giving
them any of what you’ll be bringing along, of course.«
   »Could be hazardous if they did,« I said, thinking of the one
meeting of theirs I’d glimpsed. »They’ll need to dilute it. I can
provide full details once I make the trade. Will I give it to him?
He didn’t look like he could keep two things on his mind at
once without practice –«
   »Don’t be cruel,« she said. »Poor Burt, he’s deeply into this. I
haven’t seen him for a month. I think the only reason he called
me was because he remembered you. After you met I filled him
in on your hobbies, since I remembered how useful you’d been
to the Dynamos in the past –«
   »Muchas thankas,« I said. »This is a real life preserver, it
really is.«
   »You that much behind?«
   I shook my head. »Trish, listen. I may be going away for a
while. Things have come up.«
   »What things?«
   »Things that make me think I’d better go away for a while.«
   »Business or pleasure?« she asked, smiling.
   »Nothing fun about it,« I said. »Not till I get there, at least. I’ll
let you know, roundabout, once I’m settled.«
   »Settled? Are you moving? Walter, is something wrong?«
   »No, no,« I said, knowing she knew I was lying; that made it
easier. »Don’t worry about it.«
   »Walter –«
   »Valentine,« I said, caught by surprise. Jim had just walked
through the door of the hall, and was shuffling slowly toward
the ticket booth. He’d shaved, wore one of those blue blazers
with the pocket crest, and had pressed and spitshined to within
an inch of his life. If it hadn’t been for the hair, and the walk, I
didn’t think I’d have ever recognized him. He picked up some
tickets, it looked like; as he turned, I waved my arm, and caught
his attention. He started toward us. Trish turned to look; didn’t
seem attracted or disgusted when she circled back my way.
   »Who’s that?«
   »Friend of mine,« I said. »Surprised that he’s out in public.
Usually, he stays in his store –«
   »Store?« she repeated.
   »He’s a record guy.«
   Her face fell like a rock. »Really?« she asked. »He’s got the
build. Looks like he bathes occasionally, at least.«
   »He’s very well groomed, considering.«
   »He looks familiar, somehow,« she said. »What’s his name?«
   »Jim –« I said, but stopped myself before I provided ID. As
he made his way between the tables he stuck out his hand before
he reached us. For a second I pictured him standing outside a
factory gate in New Hampshire, trying to get any one to stop
and take a button.
   »What are you doing here?«
   »My brother got me some tickets,« he said. »Ring cycle start-
ing in May. I was picking them up.«
   »What’s with the old school drag?« I asked. »Don’t you have
any of those pants with the little whales on them? I thought
those were required with these jackets.«
   He made a face. »Don’t wear ’em. You dress right when you
come to places like this.« Both he and Trish looked over my
standard wear, black pants, white shirt, black leather jacket.
»Well. Some of us do, anyway.«
   »Jim, Trish.« I said, laughing. »Trish –«
   »A pleasure,« he said, grabbing her hand, shaking it up and
down as if trying to pump the well dry. She made an expression
that reminded me of a smile.
   »Have a seat.«
   »Thanks,« he said, and as he plumped himself down in an
unoccupied chair he managed to bump against the table, which
bumped against my knee, which caused me to spill half my
third cup of percolations into my lap. Luckily, it had cooled off
and I suffered no traumatic burns to delicate areas. »Walter, I’m
sorry –«
    »No trouble,« I said, standing, shaking off excess drainage.
The waiters looked at me but didn’t seem anxious to assist. The
biddies made with the glares and I sat down again. Walter
seemed to be working himself up to saying something else, but
before he had a chance he managed to shift his elbow onto his
coffee spoon, flipping it into the air. It sounded like a whole
drawer of cutlery hit the floor when it landed, the joint was so
damn hush-hush. Good thing he didn’t go out much; seemed
like he could do more damage than a Gatling gun without even
trying.
    »Walter says you’re deep into the record game,« Trish said.
»Bad as he is?«
    »Worse, I think.«
    Her eyes shone like an anaconda’s, spotting a warthog.
Something about him appealed to her baser instincts, I could
tell – she’d never minded looks as long as the attitude was there,
and Trish had the perceptions of a shrink when it came to sizing
people up. Valentine knew what she was making of Jim, but she
seemed to like it.
    »Hey, Walter,« he said, grinning; at the sight of those teeth,
little wheels seemed to click in Trish’s head. »You having a
party or what?«
    »What’re you talking about?«
    »Over there. Going to introduce me this time or just mix it
up?«
    Still damp in the lap, I turned around and I saw Eulie and
Chlojo, strolling across the big room, looking like they were
trying to figure out how to reach the loge. My sweet petite wore
a sleeveless black dress that stopped at an agreeable distance
above her knees, and shiny leather boots. Chlo, ever stylish,
wore a black jumpsuit, baggy as a bus driver’s; except bus driv-
ers tend not to favour fabric that resembles rubber when you
face left and snakeskin when you face right. Her own boots and
gloves – also black – were comparatively understated, except
they would have been big on Jersey Joe Walcott. The waiters
didn’t look like they wanted any part of these customers, and
vanished behind the bar.
   »Well, well,« said Trish. »Gang’s all here.«
   When I stood and hugged Eulie she hugged me back, as usual
seeming strangely inexperienced with where the various hands
should go. Chlo flashed us her standard warm stare but, thank-
fully, kept her lip buttoned. »Where’ve you been?« I asked as
Eulie worked herself free of me. Didn’t seem like the time to
force an answer, so I fell back on sociability. »These are friends
of mine. Jim, Trish, meet Eulie.« They nodded, but neither one
was looking at the smaller of the pair. »Ah, yes, and this is her
friend –«
   »Chlojo,« she said, giving her high-pitched growl.
   »A pleasure,« Trish said, examining their threads, sizing and
resizing. »I’ve heard tell«
   »About?« Eulie asked.
   »You know.« My evil one grinned to beat the band, slough-
ing off the nasty looks I shot her way. »Did you give Walter a
two-for-one deal?«
   The noise I heard myself making bore no relation to a laugh.
»We require him,« Eulie said. »Agreeable?«
   »Of course. I can’t keep my paws off him, myself,« Trish said,
getting up, sliding the straps of her Hermes bag over her arm.
»Jim, tell you what. We don’t want to be fourth wheels here.
Walter can certainly handle himself, not that it’ll be necessary.
You got time to grab a bite?«
   »Sure,« Jim said, eager as a puppy.
   »I adore the Ring,« she said. »Who’s conducting?«
   »If you insist,« I said. »So Burp’ll be expecting me?«
   »Burt,« Trish said. »Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.«
   »Likewise,« I said, shaking hands with Jim, giving Trish dou-
ble pecks. Although I’d have liked them to take Chlo along, I
didn’t think Eulie would have been in favour of it. The second
my pals were out of earshot I tried to take Eulie’s hand, but she
worked out of my clutch. No matter; I was used to her playing
impossible-to-get.
   »Where’d you run off to, last time?« I asked. »Why didn’t
you come back before now?«
   »Departure essentials, Walter,« Eulie said, taking my arm and
starting to lead me out of the café. Chlo was giving the remain-
ing matinee ladies a stare that I’d have found awfully discon-
certing, but they were a hardy bunch and stared right back.
»Please.«
   »Wait a second. Whose departure where?«
   »Officeways,« she said. »Our office. It essentials.«
   »For how long?« Eulie smiled, but didn’t tell. »I’ve got some-
thing to do tonight. I can take off once I’m finished.«
   »Finished when?«
   »I got to go to the Astor Hotel. Meet up with some people
and drop something off for ’em. Get there at seven, I’ll wrap it
up by eight. Boom, bang, cat, bag, bag, river. Then I’m free and
clear.«
    »AO,« she said. »We’ll accompany.«
    Wherever the gals planned to take me, it wouldn’t be as good
as Hawaii; but I would get there sooner. All the same, I wasn’t
going to pass up ten thousand big ones; that’d be the best deal I
ever swung. Briefly, I considered the millions of ways things
could go wrong that evening, if I decided to swing this gig drag
rather than stag. Considered that this meeting of the Personality
Dynamos, unlike the one I’d glimpsed before, would be going
on in a public venue and not back at their den of iniquity – what
could possibly happen? Considered that if I let Eulie take off
without me now I might never see her again; that made up my
mind for me. »All right, but it could be tricky. These people I’ll
see tonight are –« I stopped to consider the best way to phrase
it. »Funny.«
    Chlo didn’t smile. »Comedy funny?«
    »Psycho funny. You can come with me, but don’t do any-
thing that’ll attract attention.« Chlo cracked her knuckles, and
the sound was like a floor caving in. When shifted from boot to
boot her suit changed from rubber to snakeskin to rubber again.
»You didn’t happen to bring any evening wear, did you?«
    »What evening?«
    »Okay,« I said, »follow me.«

We weren’t the high point of the day for the ladies at the Big
Gals Shop on West 72nd »›No Miss too hard to fit,‹« I said,
pointing out the slogan they had plastered all over the window.
»Where’s truth in advertising?«
   »Sir, I’m terribly sorry,« the assistant manager said, avoiding
Chlo’s glare. I got the idea she was having flashbacks of a real
bulldozer of a gym teacher. »I don’t see how we can possibly –«
   Then the owner came back from lunch. »Can’t possibly
what?« she asked, stepping back onto the floor of the shop,
wiping her lips with a napkin. She had on harlequin glasses and
red ensemble coordinated down to her toenails. »What’s the
problem?« Chlo stepped into her field of vision. »What’ve we
got here?«
   The sales girl tried to explain, but didn’t get far. »They’re
looking for an outfit for the, uh –« She gestured toward Chlo
but still didn’t look at her. »– their friend. I’ve told them we
simply can’t help them, we don’t have anything –«
   »Nonsense,« said the owner, not missing a beat. »You are a
big one, sweetie. What size are you? That’ll save us time.«
   »One hundred thirty-seven,« said Chlo, after giving it some
thought.
   »Oh, we don’t use European sizes in this country, dear.«
   »She’s from New Jersey,« I interrupted. »Needs something
for an evening event. Nothing fancy, just nice. Within reason.
Better than nice. Know what I mean?«
   Even if she didn’t, she’d have never let on. »Oh, sure,« she
said, taking out a tape measure and wrapping around Chlo’s
various attributes. »Usual trouble areas don’t really present a
problem,« she said. »Problem’s not height but your width, dear.
Your shoulders and arms are somewhat oversized –« The sales
girl made a barely noticeable expression, and sent up some kind
of enigmatic retail smoke signal. »May I speak frankly for a
moment?«
   »Shoot,« I said.
   »The lady is a lady, isn’t she?«
   I wasn’t sure what to tell her, and looked to my lovely little
one. »Chlo,« Eulie said. »Denude.« With a long single zip, Chlo
opened her jumpsuit and stepped out, sliding it over her gloves
and boots. Since she wasn’t wearing underpants, and favoured a
close shave down in Happyland, it was obvious right away
which side of the fence she’d landed on. Her basic structure was
hourglass, kind of, though it turned out her spectacular fore and
aft were to some degree artificially enhanced by her outerwear.
No matter; what got me was that from the scars on her neck,
between the metal bra holding her casabas, all the way down to
the honey pot, there was what looked like a flesh-coloured plate.
It would have looked like the bottom of a turtle shell if a turtle
shell was made of telephone plastic. Her skin was puckered
along its edges like it had been glued on. Sticking out of her bra
were two metal nozzles right where the nipples were – I guessed
– and then I remembered those little bumbershoots she’d used
on Romeo, first night I saw her. Her legs and arms looked like
they’d had some work done as well, but there they’d used
chrome steel to fill her out. She wouldn’t rust, at least.
   »Judas Fucking Iscariot.« The owner probably meant to
whisper, but didn’t quite pull it off. »What happened to you,
honey?«
   Our naked glamazon just blinked.
   »Car wreck,« I said. »Touch and go for awhile. Complete
success, under the circumstances. Modern medicine’s a miracle,
isn’t it?«
   »Dear, let’s get you covered,« said the owner, suddenly con-
scious of the scene any new customer would encounter, walking
in; she helped Chlo pull her suit back up.
   »So what’s the verdict?« I asked.
   »Frances,« she said to the sales girl, who was standing behind
the counter. If there was a bat back there I’m sure she was ready
and willing to grab it. »That shipment from Hawaii. The island
wear for summer. I think we can work something out.«

»This essentials?« Chlo peeped, growling at me. »We’re still
observed,« Eulie said. »Not as much,« I said. »Trust me, it’s
better than it was.« The owner had taken two muumuus, as she
called them – one with pink and green flowers, the other with
green and blue – and in no time at all her gals in the back man-
aged to put the two together, kind of. Colours clashed a little
but I’ve seen worse off the rack, especially on hayseeds. Her new
frock hung down to her boots – you could still see their sharp
metal pointy toes, but only if you looked for them – and they’d
wrapped a long blue scarf around her neck. She insisted on
wearing her jumpsuit underneath, but it only showed on the
arms. We were still getting rubberneckers, true, but not as many
as before. I still wasn’t sure how she’d go over that night, and
figured when the time came with luck she’d be willing to dawdle
in the lobby.
   »Believe me, you’re dressed to kill,« I said.
   »Always,« Chlo said.
   »Weren’t we there?« Eulie asked, pointing across Columbus
toward the Natural History Museum.
   »Yeah, in the park,« I said, remembering that night, that kiss,
those frogs. »You never have said where you went. I looked all
over –«
   »That museum. I minored zoology,« she said. »It’s seeable?«
   Not my favourite place in town; not by a long shot. »You’d
like to see it?« She smiled, and any resistance I might have
offered melted away like dew. »Just behave yourself.«
   Zipping across Columbus we wandered over to the 77th Street
entrance, underneath the big arch. The old ladies manning the
counters looked about as upset as the matinee crowd back at
Roosevelt Centre but they were probably more used to seeing
visitors from faraway climes. I led the gals upstairs, through the
long marble corridors, past the glass ferns and the stuffed
parrots and the big painting of old Teddy. Didn’t strike me as
odd that a Jersey girl, even one with a fondness for animals,
wouldn’t have gotten to the museum before this. A tourist trap,
on the one hand, and on the other something to keep eugeni-
cists happy. Eulie looked pleased, though; and Chlo seemed to
have calmed down enough that I wasn’t as worried she’d sud-
denly start pulling those construction worker tricks.
   When we reached Akeley Hall, where they keep the gorillas
and the rhinos and the herd of elephants in the middle of the
room, that was when I really started to wonder about them
both. As soon as we went in they stopped dead in their tracks;
they looked at the lit cases with three-year-old’s eyes. Eulie
looked especially upset, considering she’d wanted to go the
zookeeper route. True enough, though, I never found Jersey
girls, even down in Devil territory, in the Pine Barrens, to be
any more adept than New Yorkers at dealing with animals more
exotic than Airedales. I stood there with them for maybe five or
ten minutes before I realized that both Eulie and Chlo were
letting loose with the waterworks. I’m no stone heart but like
many gentlemen of my acquaintance, I never know what to do
when a woman breaks down with a bad case of the boohoos.
»There’s more to see,« I mumbled. »Come on.«
   »They’re alive now?« Eulie said as we stumbled back into the
brighter light in the hall, hooking her arm into mine. I tucked
her in close to me as it sunk in to my thick head just how much
the place seemed to be upsetting her.
   »They had their day in court,« I said. »Look real, though,
don’t they –?«
   »Nya,« she said, dabbing her eyes with my sleeve. »In habitat,
meant.«
   »Honey, I don’t get you. What’s wrong?« I glanced at Chlo,
but she looked as sad; perhaps not as willing to seek comfort.
   »Extinct,« she said. »They’re not extinct?«
   »Course not, not on this floor,« I said. »You want extinct, we
got to go up to the fourth floor and see the bones.«
   The two of them sat down on a marble bench, looking like
they’d just come out of a four-hankie matinee. Eulie’s makeup
ran, turning her eyes all raccoony. Nothing I said seemed to
bring them out of it. »What’s the matter with you two?«
   »We’ve only seen visuals,« she said.
   »I don’t get you two,« I said. »Half the time you act like
you’re in charge of the show, and half the time you act like
you’d spend your life savings buying magic beans.«
   They started drying up.
   »Cognitive dissonance,« I said, remembering the phrase.
»Why don’t we go?« I asked. »I never thought this was a good
place, myself. Come on, this way.«
    We stood up, and I led them down the hall, thinking I knew a
quicker route to the exit from where we were. I waited to see if
they were going to say anything, but they were trying to pull the
old speak-no-evil again. It wasn’t long before I realized that
we’d wandered right into the Hall of Man. I hadn’t been in the
museum since I first hit town; once was enough. »Not this way,«
I said. »Over here, I think –«
    But Chlo had already spotted what I’d tried to avoid seeing,
and strode across the floor, almost knocking over an elderly
couple passing away their remaining time. »Eulie,« she said,
whispering – of course, she could have whispered in the base-
ment and you’d hear her in the attic. Eulie sidled over to where
her big pal stood, blocking the view. I heard her say one word.
    »Godness.«
    They gave the exhibit the old looksee over and over again,
like they hoped to get some kind of reaction out of those black
glass eyes. They looked at it probably the way I looked at it, the
time I’d seen him before. I’d read about the exhibit back in
Seattle, and found it as hard to believe as it was easy to believe –
cognitive dissonance popped up all over the place, once you
started thinking about it. They’d set him up just off Akeley Hall
when he was first installed, I gathered; I suspected they wanted
him there so the curious could conveniently size him up, vis-à-
vis the gorillas. Then foreign tourists – the ones that mattered,
Canadians and Argentinians and Australians – raised enough of
a ruckus that they moved him here, where at least he nominally
fit in within an anthropological framework.
    »Sambo?« Eulie said, giving me bugeyes.
    »Nickname,« I said, reading the label on the mahogany part
of the case. »First one of his kind ever brought over.« I recon-
sidered. »Of his tribe.«
   »Masai,« she said. I couldn’t remember what his real name
had been; remembered it sounded just as made up. He was as
tall as Chlojo, but only half as wide – all muscle, posed on one
foot, a long spear cradled in one arm. His skin was as dark as an
oxblood loafer, I suspected they waxed him periodically, to keep
him fresh. »He’s Masai.«
   »May as well be Cherokee.«
   »Brought here in 1917?«
   »And sent to the Bronx Zoo,« I said. »Didn’t stay too long,
though. Died in the pandemic.« I tried to remember the name
of the disease no one caught anymore, the one that took all four
of my grandparents. »Brainbuster.« Eulie and Chlo looked at
one another and nodded, and kept staring in the case, at the
man who wasn’t man, not officially, not here. You’d have
thought their moms would have warned them about things like
this, but maybe they never had the chance. Or maybe they were
Canadians after all, and sheltered from the more mindboggling
acts of their neighbours to the South.
   »Zoo?« Chlo asked.
   »Genetic upkeepery,« said Eulie. »None protested?«
   »Only ones’d protest would have too much reason to com-
plain,« I said. »Maybe it’s not that bad a thing. Long time from
now, I don’t know where I’ll be, but chances are good he’ll still
be around.«
   I turned down the volume; we seemed to be alone in the
room, but you can never be too careful when it comes to acous-
tic tricks in these old Victorian barns. »Even so, speaking per-
sonally, I can’t hang out in this joint without thinking I might
wind up in one of these boxes myself.« I started to think that if I
stuck around much longer, I’d start making with the boohoos
myself. »Come on, ladies. I need to pick up something at my
place before we make the scene tonight.«
                            SEVEN




The something that needed picking up before we hit the Astor
was a standard-issue test tube containing 30 parts distilled water
to one part phenylethylamine isoergine-144, an especially
delirious new compound tagged by the Interior Department’s
pocket protectors as Pi-R2. Now it strikes me as probable that
some of you have passed what idle newspapermen call the acid
test. Six months earlier, while the finishing touches were still
being put on, I gave Pi a try. Let me tell you, my brothers, the
difference between the trip LSD-25 gives you and the one you
get from Pi is like the difference between your old granny
pinching your cheek and the Homicide boys hauling you into
the back room and making you believe you took a razor to
Shirley Temple. And like that perm-a-muggles Chlojo gave me,
you only had to let your finger do the walking through the stuff
to get the right size hit, that is, one which dropkicked you right
there into a twenty-eight-hour ride on the Cyclone, nineteen
hours of which consisted of the old peakeroo.
   The wise man knows that that way lies dementia praecox.
Once I splashed down, and spent a week recovering, I presented
my report, suggesting that it might not be a bad idea if they just
stuck Pi in the storage room, back there with the smallpox and
anthrax, but I don’t have to tell you that in the land of the blind
the one-eyed man is ignored.
   Considering that to the best of my knowledge the Personality
Dynamos weren’t familiar with anything stronger than straw-
berry mesc, dosing the punchbowl with Pi would make sure that
if the hapless Dynos had personalities of even an animal sort
prior to sipping, they would be tabula rasae afterward. But a
further mixing would bring the trip down to a bearable state; I
simply wasn’t sure how much mixing would be necessary.

We made the Astor at six forty-five. I’d changed into my dullest
suit, a slate-blue single-b model that made me look like an
accountant who could be persuaded to forget how to add. In her
little black mini Eulie blended in beautifully. Chlojo, however,
still presented problems no matter how good the camouflage.
Her muumuu was colourful enough as street wear, but in close
quarters it made her look like a one-woman parade float. Every
time she took a step those silver-spiked boot toes of hers poked
out from beneath the hem, and even though Eulie convinced
her to finally ditch the gas station gloves it didn’t really help,
considering that she could have palmed a honeydew one-
handed.
    The pre-theatre crowds scattered before us like minnows be-
fore sharks. Sad to say I began to realize as we left the subway
that if the salesladies had had problems believing Chlo to be of
the weaker sex, the hotel dicks were sure to size her up as a drag
queen the moment we hit the revolving door. Bust the three of
us for loitering before we had a chance to corrupt the three-
dollar bills that kept the Astor Bar in business. »Follow me,« I
said, guiding the gals down 44th to Schubert Alley. By taking the
stage door route I could pass them off as theatre people if any-
body asked. Didn’t bump into any watchmen so I steered my
escorts into the rear lobby.
   When Times Square became Times Square the poor old As-
tor was one of the first hotels built, and while it retained a
certain raffish charm its glory days weren’t even a memory. You
couldn’t have called the joint a flop but it didn’t seem like it’d be
that long before they strung up the hammocks. The ceiling was
two storeys high, and a balcony ran entirely around the lobby at
mezzanine level. There were crystal chandeliers big as a Volks-
wagen, looked like they hadn’t been washed since the market
crashed; the way they swung a little even when you couldn’t feel
a draft made you hesitate before doing the mistletoe bit under-
neath. On the floor were oriental carpets big as a school gym,
with long rubber runners thrown over the places two million
feet had worn through; near the floor, the walls were full of
holes – not rat or mouse holes but where kids had stuck their
fingers through the plaster when their keepers had their backs
turned. In the past the bellhops would’ve had the dicks lay into
the Dynamos with saps if they’d dared to even walk past the
place; but you could tell it wouldn’t be long before management
finally wrapped its mouth around the gas pipe, and let in sci-fi
conventions.
   Doctor Oscar’s flunkies had been hard on the case in prepa-
ration for the evening. Not only was his smiling puss hanging
down from the balcony in black and white, but they’d stuck one
of those chopped-liver busts parked on an oak table in the
centre of the lobby. On either side of the grand staircase’s
chipped marble balustrades they’d stood up their sandwich
boards, the usual eye-catchers.


                    TAKE YOUR
                          MIND
                         OFF ITS
                      HINGES
                       SHAKE OUT
                        AND SEE
                      PERSONALITY
                    DYNAMISM UPLIFTS
                      AND CLARIFIES

                   Max Your Po!
»Spiritual group?« Eulie asked.
   »Personal growth.«
   She took another gander at the photos of Doctor Oscar. Chlo
was tapping the bust with a finger, seeing what it was made of.
»Growing how?«
   »This won’t take half an hour,« I said, irrationally optimistic.
Working my hand into my left trouser pocket – damn Conti-
nental cut of this suit – I felt the tube within its triple-thick
sleeve. A couple of lounge lizards ankled past, heading upstairs
to the meeting, giving her the fisheye all the while.
   »What’s done here?« Eulie asked.
    »They’re getting together, pressing the flesh. Cats looking out
for fresh pigeons. Now let’s go through the drill,« I said. »Re-
member what I told you, don’t pay attention to anything they
say. I listened to ’em once and couldn’t make heads or tails of it.
Just turn on the charm and make with the chit-chat, and while
you two circulate I’ll handle the dirty work.« Chlo cracked her
knuckles by making a fist. »Chlo. You don’t talk. OK?«
    »AO.«
    »Once I’ve done what I need to do, I’ll give you the high sign.
Like this.« I scratched my ear. »Then it’s scootsville to wherever
it is you want to take me. Believe me, I’ll be happy to go.« Chlo
swayed slightly from left to right, rocking on her silver heels.
»And ixnay on the swillage. One toddy, no refills.«
    Eulie looked like she’d bit down hard on a lemon. »We’re
disalcoholic«
    »Wise decision on your part,« I said, and saw more charac-
ters heading up. »Looks like the lambs are ready for the slaugh-
ter. Come, ladies, his master’s voice is calling.«
    We made our way to the mezzanine. When we got to the
Oregon Room we found ourselves bringing up the rear. At the
entrance to the hall two Dynamos were lurking. One was a
lantern-jawed Aryan with a blonde crew that was so perfectly
flat I figured his barber used a paper cutter. The other was good
old Biff Baff Bop, still wearing his orange Perry Como under-
neath a bright burgundy jacket. If either had had whale ap-
pliques he’d have been the toast of Hyannis.
    »The Shake-Out awaits,« Crewy Lou purred, giving us the
old Brought to You By Ovaltine voice.
    »Walter,« Burt said. »Good to see you. And you’ve brought
open minds.«
   I looked behind me, supposing he met my companions.
»That’s not all I brought,« I said, starting to go through the
door. »Where can we –«
   »You choose?« asked Crewy Lou. His complexion was so
rosy I’d have liked to compliment the embalmers on a job well
done.
   Burt nodded, suggesting to me that I should do as asked. »I
choose.« Odd to be my age and needing to say the secret sign to
be let into the treehouse but I’ve done stranger. I gave the ladies
a nod and they chimed in. The gatekeepers blinked, hearing
Chlo’s pipsqueak snarl, but if it troubled them they didn’t make
a production number out of it.
   »Enter,« said the buzzcut one. »Seize opportunity before it
seizes you.«
   The Dynamos didn’t seem to be as dynamic as I’d thought
they might be when it came to pulling in the marks. There
weren’t more than sixty people in the room. All the Dynamos,
like Burt, wore burgundy jackets and looked, to a man, as if they
were getting over concussions; they numbered about fifteen.
The rest were comparative innocents, the same batch of semi-
professionals, executive secretaries, dental hygienists and vet-
erinarians I’d seen back at the HQ.
   »Burt, listen,« I said, »I’d like to go ahead and get this taken
care of.«
   »There’s no rush,« he said. His grin had grown goofier since
we’d first met, and I started to think that once you were finally
accepted into the Dynamos, the next step was to have the fron-
tal lobes removed. As I looked around the room I marvelled at
the fact that this seemed to be a mixer where nobody mixed. If
they’d been playing musical chairs earlier, they’d stopped;
everybody’d already taken seats in four different rings spaced
throughout the big room, which was one of those Louis the
umpteenth places with the mirrors and red plush bagnio cur-
tains and little gold cherubs in the corners leering at you. Three
of the ringleaders stood in the centre of their circles, looking
like they couldn’t wait to start laying down the old zingo.
»Friends,« Crewy Lou intoned, creeping up behind us, »find
seats. Take them.«
   »Walter,« Burt said, stepping away; not a pleasant sight, un-
der the circumstances. »Take the opportunity to let your outside
command your inside. We’ll take care of matters following the
shake out.«
   »Really, I was hoping we’d be able to move along,« I said, the
tips of my fingers beginning to twitch. Trying to calm myself I
stuck my hands in my pockets and started fiddling with the
tube. »I had another appointment –«
   »It can wait,« Crewy said, sliding around to interpose his
body between myself and Irish’s lobotomized pal. »Find seats.
Take them.«
   »I don’t think you get me –«
   Crewy Lou leaned forward, his eyes as warm as a coyote’s,
and repeated his riff. »Find seats. Take them.«
   Just at that moment my nerves got the better of me, my
brothers, and I pulled a trick that would have shamed a green-
horn. As I jiggled open the tube’s sleeve my finger slid inside,
and jarred loose the cap. That cool cool wetness, enough to
assure that I’d be sailing like Icarus through the next day and a
half. Removing my paw as if I’d set it on fire, I rubbed my hand
along the hem of my jacket, but it was too late.
   »If you say so.« The three thousand things running through
my mind just then kept me from remembering how long it’d
taken to blast off the time I’d tried this stuff before. No question
I’d soaked up more this time around. »Any recommendations?«
   »Sit here,« he said, pointing to empty chairs in the nearest
circle. »In my nutshell.«
   Sudden gushers spurted from beneath my arms as I sat but it
was too early to know if it was simple nerves or the first symp-
toms. My chickadees perched on either side of my roost. While
Crewy was shedding his red threads I wasted no time laying
down the bad news.
   »Emergency,« I whispered, nudging Eulie. My nose was al-
ready starting to get cold as the capillaries began to close off.
   »Pardon?«
   Glancing up I felt a shakiness coming over me, noting that I
could already perceive the pink border outlining each chande-
lier bulb’s light. »I dosed myself. Accidentally.«
   »Dosed how?«
   »Hallucinogen,« I said.
   »Walter, what’s meant?« Eulie asked, her lowered hiss loud
enough to catch Chlo’s attention as well.
   I nodded. »We can’t stay in here long. Get me out if I start –«
   »Greetings!« Crewy Lou interrupted. »Attention. Focus and
concentrate.« That grin was so fixed he was starting to look like
he’d been carved for Halloween. »Focus and concentrate,« the
three other ringleaders said, some five seconds after he did.
That wasn’t going to help, having the sound noticeably out of
sync even before the echo came in. Burt, that nincompoop, was
parked in the circle farthest from ours; not a chance I’d be able
to make the exchange and get out in time. »Open yourself to the
shake out, and see what’ll fall out.« He started to turn slowly in
place, giving each one of us the snake eyes, that grin never
slipping an inch. »As Doctor Oscar says.« Looking up at the
chandelier I watched circular rainbows take shape around every
single bulb. On the floor, the carpet’s nub started to deepen. I
started to think of Bryce Canyon. »Accept the inmost deep
within you.«
   That old stiff strychnine feel swept in along the back of my
neck. Soon as Crewy turned to face the far side I started rub-
bing, trying to loosen the muscles before they had a chance to
knot up. Wanting to give Eulie a sign all was okay so far, I
winked, twice.
   »First,« Crewy said, »imagine this entire room is filled to the
ceiling with shit.«
   What was it with these clowns? Rough toilet training was all I
could figure. Realizing I’d have to hear this spiel in replay made
me feel like I’d puke. Eulie’s face seemed kind of antsy, like she
was watching somebody set off fireworks in a dynamite factory.
I took a breath, and thought a while of what air felt like, inside
my lungs.
   »Dig through the shit, through the shit, the shit –« The ring-
leaders sounded as if they were enhanced for stereo, badly, each
one of them said almost the same thing almost simultaneously.
Even as I grew to like the sound, I made a point to remember
that the last thing I wanted to do during the shakeout was open
my head up wide enough for something to fall in.
   »No adult’s adult while the child hides inside –« Tried hum-
ming internally, calling up favourite songs to try drowning out
the Dynamos, be they »Little Maggie« or »Canned Heat Blues«
or the Ted Weems Orchestra playing »Cheer Up«, but not a one
could get through a chorus without some nitwittery piercing the
veil. »The jewel is in the shit and the shit is in the jewel,«
   »Master potential or it masters you,«
   »Not a cough in a carload,« that kind of blather. Chlo leaned
forward in her chair, her long blonde ropes dangling down,
hiding her face. If I stared at her hair long enough I knew I’d see
them move like snakes of their own accord. Eulie tapped my
arm. I couldn’t tell what she wanted, and she finally stopped.
Shadows in the room were two o’clock sharp. Bad sign when I
realized I couldn’t remember if minutes earlier there’d even
been shadows. Couldn’t help but notice how odd my feet felt,
within shoes, and was about to take them off –»Zingo!!!«
   Didn’t like the sound of that; looked up and saw him slap-
ping a red-headed secretary sitting across the way. The faucets
let go and she acted like she was going to run off, but her seat-
mates held her down. Taking Eulie’s little paw in mine I tight-
ened my grip, thinking that might let her know I was having
second thoughts. She didn’t act as if she saw me, she was whis-
pering something in Chlo’s ear. It didn’t seem to bother Chlo.
Sharp white shafts started poking, longer and longer each time I
blinked, out of the lights’ surrounding spectra. Forgetting that I
had my eyes open, when I devoted my attention to the circle
once more I saw everybody start to look at me, one by one;
everybody except Crewy Lou, and he was still ranting on, per-
fecting that grin. I knew by now my pupils were as big as quar-
ters; and knew that if I closed my eyes, no one would see me.
   »Zingo!«
   Reopening I saw Chlo watching Crewy really put his shoul-
der into a punch as he let a middle-aged man, insurance agent
probably, have a hard one in the kisser. When Crewy stepped
away it looked like he’d tried to put red lipstick on the fellow,
but hadn’t quite mastered the fundamentals of cosmetology.
Then he feinted to his left, and jumped, and I thought he was
coming to try out a new line on me. Sense tried to crawl back
into my head but now the opening was too small, and sense
gave up. I couldn’t understand why Eulie ignored the subtle
facial gestures I was sure I was making. The corners of my
mouth began to ache and I realized my grin might be notice-
able. At least I’d fade in with the rest of the crowd.
   »If you have to beat the shit out of a nonadult,« Crewy said,
»in order to drag their child into sunlight, what is needed?
What?«
   Jamming a hand into his pants pocket, he yanked out a stop-
watch. There’re trails and there’re trails, but this was something
else entirely. As Crewy Lou performed that action I saw its
progression take place in about fifty individual static frames.
Think of a strobe going off in a black-lit room, but without
black light. »Five,« Crewy counted off, though as I expected the
sound no longer issued directly from his lips. »Four.«
   »Eulie,« I said, trying to squeak it out under my breath.
When she turned to look at me I know I gaped when I saw her
make hundreds of facial expressions, nearly all at once and
every one sequential, as earlier described. I’d experienced this
effect many times, in milder form – under the influence of any
of the LSDs, once after swallowing (to be on the safe side) a
baggie full of dried stropharia cubensis, and again following the
intake of a number of other derivatives of vegetable agents,
notably toloache. But comparing those to this was like compar-
ing automatic vaudeville to 3-D Cinemascope.
    »You stupid fucking assholes!!«
    Crewy was going into overdrive. While shifting my head to
look at the dozens of him I felt the blood shoot down into my
feet and then shoot back up twice as high. All the Crewies
moved simultaneously, jabbing in all directions, lifting scores of
legs. The words didn’t come from them, or underneath them, or
above them – they just landed on my ears and tumbled in. As I
heard them I perceived the fugal music underpinning speech,
neuronic Bach.
    »Fed up. Fed up with you. Fucking. Fucking People. Fed. Up.
With You People. With. You. You people.«
    I thought I said Eulie, but I didn’t hear myself say it, after the
fact, and she gave no sign that anything had distracted either
her or Chlojo, both of whom appeared to be watching these
dynamic escapades wide-eyed. Their hundreds of faces flowed,
slowly, toward Crewy. All ten thousand of him were shifting,
floating like gulls, toward me. Then the echo severely kicked in.
    »Iffff youuuu. Haave. Toooo beat theeee livingjnging. Shititi-
tit out. Of Aaaaa nooooo-nothing –«
    Blue and brown blended into dirty violet as he swerved away
from me. Crewy now hovered directly in front of Chlo, who was
now vibrating like a tuning-fork. Even so, since she wasn’t
moving, per se, I was able to focus in on her, imagining I could
see her various aspects merging into one until they actually did
so. Once I had her fixed, she and everything around her started
to move as if floating through clear syrup. Her jaws moved,
slightly, as if she were chewing something. Veins popped out on
Crewy’s temples and that bloodless face of his took on the
colour of an August tomato. I heard hummingbird wings abuzz
somewhere in the back of my head.
   »What. Do. You. Do. What. Do. You. Do? Do? What? Do?«
Then Crewy started counting out again. »Five.« An hour passed.
»Four.« Another. »Three.«
   Then I heard Crewy say the next word:
   »Two.«
   The notion passed through my head that old flattop was get-
ting ready to do something he’d regret.
   »One.«
   I felt myself trying to get up, briefly; then sensibly stopped
trying. Eulie’s grip tightened on my arm. I started to think
about how much I wanted to get down on something soft with
her and making with the appassionatta till all the glasses in the
cabinet broke.
   »Response?«
   Some want to know the experience without having the ex-
perience, but there’ll never be a way. Most people shouldn’t
even think about the experience. But maybe I can give you a
hint. Think of the clearest dream you ever had, the sharpness of
the colours, the facial expressions of the people drifting
through, the fast-shifting backgrounds, everything in reach yet
not in reach, the profound silence that falls when nobody
speaks. Think how the dream felt more real than life, and as
greatly unreal. The non-hallucinatory part of the experience is
twenty times as clear, but exactly the same.
    »Zingo!!!«
    Crewy’s hundreds of arms swung consecutively forward until
they suddenly stopped. Chlo caught hold of them somewhere
between the wrist and elbow. His and her facial expressions
riffled through my line of sight more slowly, a dealer’s casual
shuffle. Chlo, Eulie shouted, Nyah. Chlo put her hands around
his neck and tightened till you couldn’t tell he had a neck. I
wondered what he was thinking.
    Stop her. Oh my God.
    Crewy’s head lolled in her grip like it was made of rags. I
heard a crack, thunder after lightning. A black blur passed
through my eyes, clouds over the sun, and then saw light gloss-
ing over Eulie’s crow-dark hair. When Chlo and Crewy
emerged from eclipse she had one hand around his neck and
the other clamped down on his shoulder. She roared like winter.
Stop somebody said. Judging from her movements it seemed
like Chlo was starting to push in two different directions. Her
mouth opened, wide and then wider until I thought her head
would split apart. Her back teeth were filed to, or capped with,
points. Other people in the room seemed to be getting up to
dance and I figured they’d be dancing to »Venus In Furs« rather
than »Telstar«, since I heard both playing. Two long red whip-
cords shot out of Crewy Lou’s neck. Where did his head go? She
took her hand from his shoulder, and there it was, in her hand.
She threw it.
    Trails.
    Utmost fabulousity. I felt myself floating towards the floor.
Eulie was tumbling with me. We hit the ground and I bounced
up. I wondered if I could bounce higher when I landed the
second time but Eulie held me down. She was saying something.
   Walter
   »Kiss the boot,« I said, »of shiny shiny leather –«
   What
   »Waffles,« I said. »Waffles, waffles, waffles –«
   Looking upwards into a dome I saw ourselves apotheosized.
Chairs flew across the dome like grey metal cherubs; and then I
saw Chlo hovering like a gigantic hummingbird, holding a chair
under either arm, her blonde ropes loose and swinging around
her head. She’d shed her muumuu and was back in rubbery
lizard black. There were dancers on the stage when she landed,
running back and forth. The percussion drifted in from some-
where in the wings, crazed polyphonists beating out Gold Coast
rhythms as the mamas wailed.
   »Whoa daddy,« I said. Eulie began fading in again, her signal
stronger this time.
   »Walter, connect! Walter –«
   Chlo flung chairs like she was dealing cards. The dancers
caught them and, once partnered, leapt with them to the floor.
The chandeliers overhead swung back and forth, stirred by
wind, their glass chiming. Chlo snapped her dozens of right
hands and things slid into them, flexible black sticks; one stick.
She lifted her arms and a ten-foot long silver cord shot out.
Letting the end swing free, Chlo began pirouetting like a balle-
rina. Eulie pressed my face against the floor, the rug burned my
cheek. Managing to stare up between her fingers I glimpsed the
corps de ballet removing parts of themselves and tossing them,
chair-like, towards heaven. Fireworks burst red.
   »Stay down,« Eulie said, this time sounding strangely near.
For a moment I imagined it was morning, and we’d just woken
up.
   »Chlo’s a good dancer.«
   »She’s activated.«
   »Pixilated?«
   Eulie didn’t answer. She faded. The next thing I knew she’d
hauled me to my feet and I was standing; the sudden rush of
blood to my head cut the buzz down to size. This clarity
wouldn’t last, no question about that, so I figured I might as
well make the best of a difficult situation in the meantime.
There was no one else left in the audience. Chlo whipped a large
heap of clothing on the floor. I saw Burt’s orange sweater,
covered with tiny red whales. The rug squished beneath my feet,
sounded like we were walking in a swamp, down deep in the
reeds with the two-headed men. Eulie was speaking again.
   »Disarm, Chlo. Disarm! Disarm!!«
   She reached up behind Chlo’s neck and massaged it. The big
gal stopped at once, shook her arm and her stick slid back into
her sleeve. She panted as if she’d just run here from Philadel-
phia. Drool hung from her lower lip, and her face was the
colour of Harvard beets.
   »Maxed po,« Chlo gasped.
   Eulie shook her head. »Overreactive, Nonthreats, all. Level,
Chlo, level.«
   »AO.« Chlo nodded, and tossed us a beatific smile; for an
instant, she was her father’s little girl again. »Guide.«
   »Interior transfer nonsustainable,« Eulie said. »Outside us.«
   I felt Eulie take my arm as my blood started to simmer again,
and without feeling my feet in the swamp we started moving
toward the ballroom’s closed doors. The doors started to
breathe in and out; then started to shout.
   »Chlo,« I heard Eulie say, »activate.«
   She lifted one of her silver-toed boots, followed by the other.
Looked as if she were levitating, five feet off the ground, it was
the old rope trick. The doors splintered and opened as soon as
her heels hit the knobs. It looked to me that she turned at least
two somersaults before coming down boots-first on gents who
had the look of house dicks about them. Others – bellboys, desk
clerks, the concierge – ran towards us, pouring up the marble
stairs. Chlo lifted her arms until they were perpendicular and
jerked her body; something shot out of her from the front –
couldn’t tell what, but every single guy trying to make it up the
stairs took a tumble before they were halfway. Once they were
all down Chlo ran, kicking them out of our way as Eulie and I
followed. At the foot of the stairs Chlo grabbed the bust of
Doctor Oscar and we bore left. I wondered why she’d wanted it
until she threw it at the man blocking the back exit. He caught
the bust and leapt backwards through the door. Breaking glass
chimed like chandeliers in the wind.
   »Chlo, pause,« Eulie shouted as we stepped into Schubert Al-
ley. It was intermission, and dozens of playboys and girls were
out there stretching their legs, getting quick smokes, making
with the wry eye. On the wall directly in front of us were posters
for My Darlin’ Aida and Cole Porter’s Out of This World. The
colours were Kodak sharp. Eulie fumbled in her bag until she
found something the size of a transistor radio. »Tighten group-
ing. Hold Walter –«
   »Freeze!«
   A sudden rush of blood to my head, and reality lurched
briefly into view. Running down the alley at us at top speed
were two boys of Killarney. One had the old reliable Smith &
Winchester .44, and the other held tight onto a twelve-gauge.
Chlo stepped in front of us and started walking towards them.
Sound of gunshots and of hail on a tin roof, fortissimo shouts
and murmurs in the background molto presto, playboys ske-
daddling, Chlo not breaking step as the cop fired his gun. Then
a cannon-blast as his partner unloaded both barrels. Chloe’s
right arm took leave of her body. The metal part, no doubt;
erector set sticking out of her elbow. Didn’t faze her. With her
left arm she swung forward, hitting the cop’s neck with the side
of her hand while plunging the sharp stump of her right arm
into the shotgun cop’s breadbasket. He fired again, directly into
her midsection. A butcher shop, the display counters full of
schnitzel and weisswurst.
   »Chlo!«
   As the big one fell backwards Eulie gave her neck a fast one-
hand clamp while with the mitt she ran her digits down the
sides of her little black radio. There were more cops coming
down the alley, a lot more cops. But I didn’t hear them saving
anything, which seemed surprising. Suddenly I saw the cops still
running towards us, but now as if from far down a country
road, seen through the shimmering orgone as it rises off asphalt
in the heat. Chlo and Eulie stood in front of me, and the three of
us looked solid, but they didn’t move and I couldn’t either.
Schubert Alley was hit by a blizzard; everything around us
whited out; but there was no movement, no wind, and I thought
I’d even stopped breathing. There was an absence of air move-
ment. I hardly felt I could breathe, but I was. Then my ghost
appeared, now solo, without his friend. Old see-through wasn’t
a ghost any more. His suit might have looked white once. He
had brown hair and pale skin, and ran towards us, never seem-
ing to get any closer, never falling any further back. Seemed like
we could do this for hours, but then my internal organs felt as if
they’d been filled with hydrogen and getting ready to take the
zeppelin route. Closed my eyes as I doubled over, the blood
leaving my head like the tide. Saw nothing but millions of
multicolour flashes, Pi-addled phosgenes. Then I felt breeze on
my face; heard background sounds – low humming, the rustle
of traffic, distant sotto voce dialogues.
   »Walter,« I heard Eulie say. »Walter.«
   Eased open my eyes, not sure what I was going to see. A
world of colours once again, though I couldn’t tell how real
these were. I faced a big yellow circle. Two dots and a curve
glowed red from within. Then I heard Eulie again. »Home,« or
»Chlo.« I was projectile vomiting when she said whatever it was
she said, and couldn’t be sure.

»Walter?« Eulie asked as she gave me the maraca treatment. My
brain wobbled like a plate of Jell-O; looking up I saw Eulie’s
face, and beyond them both two big green Coke bottles taller
than the Empire State building. No doubt I looked like a turkey
in a rainstorm. She wiped my mouth with something that felt
like terrycloth and looked like bubble gum. »Done?«
   »I think I maybe –« I heard myself sputter and then gave up.
Someone else was there, an older woman with brown hair. With
dozens of hands she gave Eulie something.
   »Walter,« she said. »Hold.« A paper punch going in, right
where my arm met the shoulder, as if she were giving me a
vaccine. When I blinked again, I was no longer hallucinating;
was in fact dead sober as a park ranger. »Clarified?«
   »What?« I asked, shaking my head, unable to imagine that I’d
come off the trip so soon. »What’d you give me? Antihista-
mines?« The woman and Eulie helped me get to my feet. Then,
my brothers, I realized that even though I should have been
staring deep into my own imaginings, I wasn’t. We stood in the
midst of a circular plaza, maybe a hundred feet across and
surrounded by low metal carports, real Levittown specials; atop
the ones that were facing me was that big yellow circle with the
dots I saw when I first opened up. The Coke bottles were build-
ings, all right; there were twelve others just in my line of sight
even taller, their tops swallowed in deep grey felt. The other
buildings were in colours other than green – blue and purple
and red and yellow. Some had tubes running along their sides,
looking like the piping on Marines’ pants. Running horizontally
between most of the buildings were other tubes, in other hues
and I wondered if those helped the things stand up. All the
buildings looked as if they were made out of the same kind of
plastic used in telephones. Hundreds of little bugs flitted around
the tall boys. »Where are we, Eulie?«
   »New York,« she said.
   »No. Where are we? Where are we now?«
   »New York,« she said, looking down at the ground. Chlo lay
there, not moving. She’d lost the muumuu I’d bought her,
earlier that day, and wore only what remained of her jumpsuit.
A sharp metal shard emerged red from her elbow, and the rest
of the arm was missing; as was a good deal of her midsection.
Her blonde ropes lay all around her head, and I thought of
those clocks they used to make in the fifties, the ones that were
supposed to resemble suns. Eulie knelt down, and stroked her
face; with her thumb and forefinger, pulled her eyelids shut.
»My New York. Come on, Walter. Come with me.«
   »Chlojo?«
   »Retired,« Eulie said. »Come on, Walter.«
   Streets sloped downward all around the plaza, on hills steep
as San Francisco’s. In the sky, clouds of lighter colours kept
showing pictures. »She’s dead?«
   Eulie wiped her eyes with her hand. »As risked. Come on,
Walter.«
   The woman with brown hair and a couple of large guys in
black were wrapping Chlo’s body in clear plastic; once she was
enshrouded, it turned opaque. They lifted her up and carried
her across the plaza, towards one of the carports. I started trying
to walk, but while we were in transit I’d gone all gimpy; it felt
like I was trying to stroll across gravy.
   »Where’re we going?«
   »Required checkover and superior notification,« Eulie said.
»Necessaried to reduce potential harm.«
   »To?«
   »You.«
   When we reached the edge of the plaza she lifted her arm and
a lemon whizzed to a stop. The rind peeled away from the top,
the sound of birds chirping floated out and Eulie helped me
climb in. Between the front seat and the back seat was a heavy
black barrier with a tiny slot. The windows were tinted a deep
Rayban-green.
   »Dryco,« Eulie said. One second we were parked, the next we
were shooting off at a fast clip.
   »We’re making tracks where?« I started to ask. No sooner did
I open my trap than somebody else started outyapping me; a
recording, I gathered. Couldn’t see the speakers, couldn’t tell if
the speaker was male or female, grownup or kid. When I tried
to make out the lingo I felt like a missionary among the heathen
chinee.
   »Interavesting per sliptimper transgratisfy allayvoo –«
   »Not the old klaatu barada again,« I said, turning up my
speaker to be heard over the foofaraw. »What happened to
Chlojo –?« But it got louder every time I did.
   »Doublatar whilomit extronon whang –«
   »Eulie –«
   »Thinthin delavooz maximate coladwalpter –«
   »Eulie, what the hell –«
   »URGALL VOX MAGNAWAIL BLAP –«
   »EULIE –!!«
   She fixed her mouth on my ear like she was going to slip me
some tongue. »Taxitalk impossibled, Walter,« she shouted.
»Adspace precedents. Mute til we decab.«
   That made as much sense as whatever the taxi was saying, so
I just lay back and gave a listen to some sexless goofball sputter
out songs of the Pogo. I kept looking to my left, thinking Chlojo
would still be there, but of course she wasn’t. All at once the cab
stopped without braking; we slid forward a little on the seat and
then slid back. Eulie pushed a little white card into the slot in
the black barrier and something clicked. »Come, Walter.« I
looked out over another plaza as she helped me out, this one
wide as Washington Square. In the centre of this plaza, where
broom-dry grass sprang up between the cracks in the terrazzo,
was a statue of some husky boy in a plumbers’ suit and a high
collar. He held a pipe up to his face as if thinking he’d see what
clogged the drain.
   »Who he?« I asked.
   Eulie glanced over, muttered »E« and kept walking. In front
of us was what looked like an upside-down golf tee. Piss-yellow,
round at the bottom like the top half of a globe, the shaft getting
narrower as it rose. I couldn’t see the top of the damned thing.
Probably no one could. This plaza, unlike the other one, was
populated; hundreds of people wandered about beneath the
shadow of the plumber. Felt like August, but there’s never this
many people around at that time of year in the city. Everyone
had the look of a typically cheerful New Yorker but there was
one big difference, the difference that gave the game away. The
faces were different colours – au lait, milk chocolate, chopped
liver, blutwurst, espresso. I’d never seen so many coloured folk
in my life.
   »Eule,« I said, as my sometimes-slow mind started to click in.
»We’re in the future?«
   »My present. Come.«
   Eulie pressed her hand against the side of the building when
we reached it, and where there’d been a blank wall, a large door
opened up. Two teamster-size characters in dark suits stood just
inside the entranceway.
   »Tarcial,« Eulie told them. »Gamamye.«
   Something like that, anyway. Didn’t look like their suits were
tailored to conceal weapons. Before I knew what was up, Vinny
from Local 136 had my shoes half a foot off the floor as he held
me up by the jaw. Rocco had pulled a bright green popgun out
from under his jacket and looked set to let it fire, right between
my peepers.
   »Aggro nya!!« Eulie said, intervening. »Approval met.«
   »Explitail!« he shouted back. English fell by the wayside and
some odd combo of Hungarian and Urdu took over. This Buck
Rogers business was the last thing I needed, just then. Couldn’t
help wishing I’d been more of a futurian, might have been ready
for anything under those circumstances. I thought of what you
were supposed to do if you found yourself in the future – look
to see how the market was doing, check out property values, tell
Nixon to make sure he went to New Orleans, try not to kill your
own grandfather – no, that was what you did if you found
yourself in the past – so hard to tell the difference, sometimes.
   »Walter, come.«
   Having appeased the teamsters, Eulie guided me into the
building’s lobby. I thought the walls were marble, at first; found
out they weren’t when I ran my finger along the wainscotting
and carved a line through it with a dull fingernail. Hanging
from the ceiling, six storeys overhead, was a long chrome steel
bar – seventy feet long, maybe – that slowly glided back and
forth, barely missing the surface of another chrome steel bar
that rose up out of the floor. Words were engraved into the
sides of each bar. DO GOOD, read the bar that moved, FEEL
REAL, read the one that was stationary. Looked around for
anything that said OR ELSE, but no go. I supposed anyone they
caught in this building without permission would wind up
strapped onto the gliding surface of their choice of bars.
   »What is Dryco, anyway?« I asked as Eulie pressed her hand
against a wall on the far side.
   »Dryco,« she said. I nodded, figuring there was no point in
pressing the issue. An oval opening appeared in the wall. Eulie
stepped forward and put her face against it. A quick blue flash
on our left and an elevator door opened. Inside, it looked like an
elevator.
   »Eighty,« Eulie said, and the door disappeared. It seemed like
we were going nowhere, until suddenly I felt my head attempt-
ing to slide down through my body, as if not feeling safe until it
nestled at my feet. As I slumped against the wall of the elevator I
looked at her; she was crying as she had back in the museum,
just that afternoon, and I pulled myself forward until I could
hold her. Then gravity got the better of me again, and I blacked
out.
                             EIGHT




By the time Eulie picked me up off the floor the elevator had
stopped. This high up it took half a minute for the door to open
– took time to depressurize, I assumed. Blood poured out of my
nose until she put some more of that bubblegum against my
face and I was once more dry as a bone. »Where now?«
   »Essentialled protectives,« said Eulie.
   »What kind?«
   »Med. This way.«
   In New York – my New York, that is – there’s probably a
hundred sawbones happy to deal with the scurviest clientele –
old geezers who’ll tear off scrip for reds or beauties or barbs if a
three-year-old came in describing symptoms. Not many deal in
my brand of esoterica though, so it was a rare thing for me to
need their services. Croakers have their uses, but by and large I
steer clear. This’d be the first physical I had since I was fourteen
– wouldn’t hurt, I figured, to have one. Eulie led me down a
white-walled hall to a small grey room with two red couches, a
metal door and a low table covered with magazines.
   Eulie pointed to one of the couches, took something small
and blue from her bag and tapped its surface. While she busied
herself I picked up one of the magazines, thinking I might be
able to figure out something more about where I was. Silly me.
At first I thought somebody’d gone one better on Life and got
rid of the articles, leaving only pictures; then I noticed that at
some angles, if the light hit the pages right, words popped up
out of the photos. Even so, the type was so small that you’d have
needed a magnifying glass to read it. For the life of me, I
couldn’t figure out what kind of magazine it was; there were
photos of what looked like the insides of transistor radios,
followed by photos of naked women – too skinny for my taste,
and one was missing a leg – followed by landscapes that would
have looked like Arizona if the sky hadn’t been pinkish-red.
There were pictures of that plumber whose statue I’d seen
outside, looking somewhat livelier (if fatter) and some other
characters who didn’t appear to be the sort you’d trust alone
with either your brother or your sister. There were several pages
where I couldn’t tell what was even being photographed, that is
to say if what I was looking at were photographs in the first
place.
   »All’s prepped, Walter.«
   »You’ll read magazines?« I asked. »Are these magazines?«
   She shook her head. »I require treatment as well. Same pro-
cedure, different space. I’ll meet you here when I’m done.«
   I walked through the door. There was nothing in the room
but a chrome table shiny as the bumper on an old Pontiac. I was
admiring my profile in the reflection when I heard the lock
behind me click.
   »Denude,« the ceiling said, speaking with the cab’s voice.
   »Come again?«
   »Denude and prone.«
   I was getting better at figuring out the lingo – I took off my
clothes and got ready to lie down. »Beelzebub!!« I shouted,
hopping on the slab and immediately flash-freezing my ass.
Didn’t get much chance to complain, though. Without warning,
the table had me in a full body-lock. Grey plastic bands came
out of the table and wrapped around my wrists, something I
couldn’t see came up under my back and my feet sailed into the
air; two big chrome clamps popped up and locked them in
place, leaving my toes wiggling hello at the ceiling. That was
pleasant, compared to what happened next. Two steel octopi
with beady red eyes rolled up on either side of me. Their tenta-
cles were tipped with needles and thermometers and sanders,
and without a word of warning they started drilling in. Felt like
I was sealed inside a wasp’s nest, rolling downhill. »Mute,« the
voice said, but I didn’t care to oblige. Goodbye a moment later
to the metal monsters as the table rolled forward toward the
wall. The wall opened up and I slid right into what looked like a
white plastic sewer pipe not much wider than my shoulders.
Thousands of bright green flashbulbs went off and something
began to hum. Felt at first like I was lying out in the sun cop-
ping rays, but as you might have figured this bunch couldn’t
keep from going overboard, and I started to develop a crispy
outside crust while staying moist and juicy on the inside. The
hum turned into a hiss and something wet spritzed over me.
Refreshing for a second or two, and then it started to sting, then
burn. Just when I thought I was going to pass out yet again, I
was shot out of the tube back into the room; the table tilted as
the bands holding me disappeared, and I slid down onto the
floor which – like the table – was freezing cold. »Clarified,« the
voice said. »Regarb.«
»Refreshed?« Eulie asked when I finally managed to stumble
back into the waiting room. She sat on the couch, staring up at a
tiny movie screen built into the wall. I couldn’t tell what it was;
whatever was playing made as much sense as the magazines.
   »What is that?« I asked, but she turned it off.
   »Follow, Walter.«
   We walked back into the hall and she did the face thing
against the wall again. Nothing happened. She tried it again,
and again nothing. I looked down at my arms; my skin was
lingerie-pink, as if the top layer had been sanded away. »We’ll
take the service lift.« She pressed her hand against the opposite
wall and it slid open. I followed her in, but before I could jump
back out the door had disappeared. In the service elevator the
walls, the roof and the floor were transparent. It was like step-
ping off a cliff. »One forty,« she said.
   »Ascending,« said the elevator. We reached one forty, five
minutes ahead of my stomach, but my nose didn’t let me down
this time. The door reappeared and we stepped into a hall that
was much wider, with a shiny black floor and sky-blue walls
that must have been twenty feet high.
   »Identify.« The hall spoke with a different voice, some gravel-
throated yegg who sounded like the actor Larry Tierney.
   »Eulalia Bax with outland transient,« she said, not breaking
stride, heading the end of the hall. Just when I thought she was
going to lead us straight into the wall another door appeared,
and we entered what I assumed was a reception area, unclut-
tered by receptionists. There were six king-size bruisers,
orangutan-armed, all in black, tall as Chlojo and twice as wide.
Only one had ears. They were all female.
   »As appointed?« the biggest asked, speaking with the voice of
a Barnard grad. I started to think that City Hall in this New
York must be headquartered down in the Duchess Club on
Sheridan Square.
   »AO,« Eulie said. Big Bertha twisted her bracelet and yet an-
other opening appeared in yet another wall. Doorknobs must
have been as much use as buggywhips around here. Eulie led me
through, and it didn’t make me unhappy that none of those
Junior League linebackers followed. Now we were walking
through another hall, one that seemed normal at first until it
struck me that everything was just slightly larger than it really
needed to be.
   »Where we going?« I whispered. Somehow, as in a museum,
or church, it seemed like the thing to do.
   »Superior notification.«
   »Who’s superior? I thought you were the director.«
   »Of the Lucidity Institute, yes,« she said. »But this is Dryco.«
   »And now we’re in executive bathroom land, in other
words.«
   No answer, but I didn’t expect one. At the end of this hall
was a sight I could not have predicted – doors that looked like
doors. Eulie stopped before going in, and knocked.
   »Madam,« she called out, and the door creaked open. I
couldn’t help but think of Inner Sanctum, but there was no
grisly-voiced host in sight; only a round space as wide as the
plaza we’d first come out in. I wondered why we weren’t given
sunglasses before going in; the floor was shiny as a ballroom
and the walls were toothpaste white. At first I couldn’t tell
where the light in the room was coming from, even though
there were windows; the walls were nothing but windows, in
fact, the closer I looked. Remembering that it had seemed like a
cloudy day outside, near as I could tell, and recalling how high
these buildings seemed to go, I could only imagine that we had
to be somewhere up in the midst of the stratocumulus. Just as I
was starting to get my bearing a thin white wall as wide as the
room came up out of the floor. The wall glowed from within,
and at any second I expected to hear the voice of W. C. Fields
saying, I Am Oz the Great and Powerful but no such luck. The
voice that came out of the wall was female, and old; grandmoth-
erly, you might have said, but there was a quality in the tone of
her voice that made me think grandma was packing heat.
   »Eulalia Bax, Lucidity Institute. Madam?«
   Grandma answered. »Speak.«
   The wall lit up like a movie screen, and then I saw the old
battleaxe. The picture was clearer than any movie I’d ever seen.
I suddenly remembered an invention I’d read about in Amazing
Stories, back when I was a kid, before they’d started running
that Shaver nonsense and I realized there wasn’t any future in
science fiction – visual radio. Every home was supposed to have
it by 1960, but as with so much else whenever the future came
into it, somebody missed the boat. I tried to listen to Eulie and
Ma Barker as they gabbed away, talking in Estonian or Hungar-
ian or whatever they liked to use when they talked to each other
over here, all the while staring up at the big screen. Granny’s
head was maybe fourteen feet high; the little hair she had left
was chalk-white, and she’d lost her choppers. The veins on her
temples looked like snakes beneath the skin. Her eyes were
about sixty years younger than the rest of her, and from the
looks she threw us I suspected she’d be just as happy to squash
us like bugs if the mood struck her. But what I really couldn’t
get over was the fact that she was as dark as milk chocolate. I
had a hunch she’d have slapped you down if you even brought
up the question of passing.
   »This is your man from over the mountain?« I heard her say,
surprised to hear anything that was recognizable as English.
   »Node and conduit.« Eulie said.
   »Current status?« Granny’s head started rolling upward, flut-
tering and I wondered why the projectionist wasn’t paying
attention. Then it was brought home hard to me that this was
no movie. »Walter,« she asked, »How are you?« I was glancing
out the window, thinking I saw something fly by. »I’m speaking
to you.«
   Eulie nudged me in the ribs, and I gave the old gal my full
attention. »Feel like a top,« I said. »Couldn’t be better.«
   »Fabricator,« she said. »Bestill yourself.«
   Those shifty eyes of hers returned to my tour guide. The two
of them started jawing again, louder and faster this time. They
sounded even more incomprehensible than the taxi had. Some-
times, as if accidentally, phrases in English burst through the
static, but faded out just as fast. Finding my eyes drawn back
towards the windows, I watched some kind of little blue heli-
copter whiz by. The thing didn’t have any windows, and the
only thing I could figure was that the pilot used a periscope to
get by.
   »Comprehended,« I heard Eulie say. The old woman nodded,
and peered down at me, shaking her head. The screen went
blank. Her expression hadn’t really changed throughout the
entire conversation, so I assumed that whatever Eulie had told
her, it hadn’t been anything different, or worse, than what she’d
expected to hear.
   »Let’s go, Walter,« Eulie said. »Superior notification contin-
ues.«
   »Who was that?«
   »Madam,« she said. »Chairperson Emerita of Dryco.«
   »She’s not the head honcho?«
   Eulie’s face was blank as the clouds outside. »Her grand-
daughter publics Dryco. We see her now.« Eulie tried out a
smile but it looked more like a grimace. »Follow, Walter…«
   »Eule,« I said. »Is everything all right?«
   »With us, yes,« she said. »With everything, no.«
   »I’m sorry,« I said. »I’m sorry about Chlo. I never thought –«
   »Unavoidable event,« she said, pushing open the doors. »Fol-
low, Walter.«
   Then it was back out in the reception room, a nod to the
Holiday Girls, out and down another hall and then into another
elevator, this one thank Sophia not as see-through as the last. I
began to understand why so much time passed between Eulie
and Chlo’s trips over to my neck of the woods – clearly, once
they were back home they had to spend whole days, maybe even
weeks, just going from one office to the next. When we got out
of the elevator I was glad to see we’d descended, and not risen
higher – it was hard to tell while we were still inside. At least
this was what I thought when we emerged; windows seemed to
line the hall, and it was only after a minute or so that I realized
the blue sky I thought I was seeing was actually a very good
paint job. We weren’t the only ones in the halls down here;
there were dozens of wage slaves roaming about, and save for
the fact that they came in all colours, most didn’t look so differ-
ent from the people I saw all the time back in my neighbour-
hood.
    »The old lady start all this?«
    Eulie frowned. »Madam succeeded the successor.«
    »That would have been Dryco?«
    »The successor was Mister O’Malley,« she said. »The foun-
der, Dryden.«
    She stopped long enough to touch the nearest wall, and an-
other picture took shape – it wasn’t on a screen; the wall became
the picture, that’s the only way I can put it. Three goonpusses
huddled face-on, evidently in some steakhouse, judging from
how dark it was. The central figure was a nasty-looking woman
filling the seat of a wingchair, flanked fore and aft by a pair of
stupes. The younger one was wearing what looked like a shirt
and a leotard, and lay at her feet as if ready to give her a pedi-
cure. Some rough old piece of work stood behind the chair, lean
and hungry, using a baseball bat as a walking stick. Real dark
alley characters, that was for sure.
    »The Drydens. Still present, not voting.«
    We walked a little farther down the hall, until we came to yet
another spot where she could put her face up against the wall.
Another magic door opened up with a clank.
    »Here we are, Walter. Mute yourself.«
    »Why?«
    »Granddaughter is difficult,« Eulie said.
    The room we entered looked almost like a receptionist’s of-
fice as I might have known it. There was a desk, and chair; on
top of the desk was a small pad with another little movie screen.
Probably no need to add that there wasn’t a receptionist in
sight. There were, however, a couple of bruisers – males, this
time, about the size of the teamsters downstairs. They wore
black suits with a close-in neckline that fell somewhere between
Beatle and Mao. Both of them resembled funeral home bounc-
ers hauled into service whenever the box proved too heavy for
the pallbearers. Eulie nodded at them and they nodded in
return, and one of them opened the door to the next room –
once again, at the top level, there were real doors with real
knobs. As I followed Eulie inside, I immediately wondered what
exactly she was leading me into.
   »Lucidity girl,« said the granddaughter, spotting Eulie. »I’ve
problemed. Assist.«
   In her haste to get us down here, my little co-conspirator had
neglected to mention that the old bat’s granddaughter couldn’t
have been any older than fifteen. Granted, the older I get the
harder it is to tell, but in this case I’d have been willing to bet
money. She sat yoga-style on top of her desk; it looked like she’d
cleared a space by throwing everything onto the dark brown
carpet – at least I thought it was a carpet. Not much of it
showed through beneath the tossed-aside clothing, purses,
shoes, empty boxes and all the standard teenage girl debris. This
room wasn’t as big as the old lady’s, but it wasn’t small, and had
a fireplace, which blazed away even though the air conditioning
was running full blast. On the wall behind her desk hung the
original of that picture Eulie’d called into existence out in the
hall. Judging from the holes in the canvas it looked like the little
minx had been using it as a dartboard, with icepicks.
   »What troubles?« Eulie asked, holding tight to my arm as we
cleared a path through the undergrowth.
   »This unworks. Alice unhelps,« she said, holding out a shiny
green hockey puck. »Command her.«
   »Alice has silenced,« Eulie said. »Show me.«
   Although the little missy wasn’t more than five feet away I
did everything possible to keep from looking at her. It’s always
been my experience that girls her age are shy even when they’re
running around beaches half naked, but this one didn’t seem
shy at all. She was dark as a Greek, and wore her hair pixied;
probably couldn’t get the kink out, and didn’t want to flaunt it.
That wasn’t what distressed me so, however; granddaughter
wore what looked like pink pipecleaners in her ears, dirty white
ankle socks and a purple stripper’s gaff, and nothing else. It
didn’t seem to matter to her who might have seen what.
   »Dislodging,« said Eulie, taking the puck and tapping it. Try-
ing not to even come close to catching granddaughter’s eye,
distracted by a buzz of voices, I craned my neck around and
saw, behind us, a wall covered with about fifty of those little
screens. Every single one was showing a different movie; on the
second row from the bottom, on the far left, I even recognized
Humphrey Bogart. It was impossible to hear what was really
being said on any of the screens, though; music – I guess that
was what it was supposed to be, although it didn’t seem to be
much more than a steady driving rhythm – filled the room.
Wherever the speakers were, they must have been concert-size.
Granddaughter had incense burning in several different censers,
but the smell of the room, and of granddaughter, still came
through painfully clear.
   »Corrected,« said Eulie, handing her back the puck. Grand-
daughter lay her little mitts on it and then shoved it into her
mouth as if intending to swallow it, but she didn’t. All of the
pictures on the screens as a single big movie filled the entire
wall. It was doubly unsettling to suddenly see a much larger
version of our hostess, wearing even less, stomping through
what seemed at first to be a toy city, until I realized it was some
actual anonymous burg – Omaha, or Cleveland, maybe. She
knocked over buildings, crushed people underfoot, slung cars
through the air like frisbees.
   »We’ve paid respect,« Eulie whispered to me. »Follow.«
   Eulie bowed down before Topsy, and as I took her literally I
did as well. No surprise to find out that I shouldn’t have. With-
out taking her eyes off the wall she snatched up a rock-hard
plastic mug and bounced it off my noggin. It didn’t break the
bone, or even the skin, but it wasn’t a sensation I enjoyed. Soon
as I recovered my footing I backed out of the room, fast. Neither
of us said a word until we were back in the elevator, heading
somewhere below.
   »Apples don’t fall far from the tree,« I mumbled. She shook
her head.
   »Adopted,« Eulie said. »Childhood friend’s daughter, heard.
Friend died postbirthing. Cancered. Father in absentia, dead.«
She shrugged. »Environment, heredity. Onesame.«
   Thought it best to keep the talk light while we were still in
hearing range of Sassy Sue. »She’s older than she looks?«
   »Thirteen,« Eulie said. »Figureheads, sole, installed by Ma-
dame. Dryco runs itself, or did until recent disruptions.«
   »What disruptions?«
   »We’ll homeways now, Walter. You need knowing.«
   »Homeways where?«
   »My home.«
   »Where’s that? Up here in the clouds, somewhere –?«
   »Jersey.«
   So I was right, after all. As we plummeted down I still tried to
get it through my head that the Pi had somehow been removed
from my system; that none of this was a hallucination. I’d be
just as glad, I thought, to get out of New York; because how
much weirder could their Jersey be? Her place, as well. Taking
another gander at those sad, glistening eyes of Eulie’s, I felt that
old springboard go. Forgive me for being so blunt, my brothers,
but it was the only thing on my mind at that moment; that after
months stuck in drydock, I thought I was finally going to get my
chance to open the savoury bivalve. But I should have known
better than that.

Even though I’d figured we’d hop another cab, once we popped
back out into the free and clear I saw we were in a parking
garage, same as any you’ve ever seen except that this one was
shiny bathroom white. When cars drifted past us, looking more
like bugs than krautwagons ever looked, I couldn’t help but
marvel at how quietly they ran.
   »Oh,« Eulie said when I noted this, »they’re electric«
   After walking down a series of spirals we reached her car, a
pathetic little runabout that looked like something FAO
Schwarz’d sell to the Kennedy boys to put in their nephews’
stockings. A pink bunion with Radio Flyer wheels is the only
fair way to describe it. She must have been hauling pig iron in
the trunk; the thing didn’t sit five inches off the ground.
   »What kind is it?«
   »Stimray,« she said, waving her hands over the car’s side.
Nothing happened. She started pounding the roof till the doors
came open.
   »Double as a lawn mower?« I asked, squeezing myself inside.
I could have rested my chin on my knees if the seat hadn’t
strapped me down so tight the second I sat down in it. While
not a half hour earlier that would have probably made me jump
up and run off screaming. I couldn’t help but be aware of how
quickly I was getting used to the way things worked out in the
territories. Eulie pressed a sky-blue button on the floor with her
foot and we slid out, gliding through the aisles until we emerged
at what looked like the Harlem River – it was too narrow to be
either the Hudson or the East. She edged the car along a narrow
ramp running across the river and then onto a much bigger
expressway, one that vaguely resembled the Cross-Bronx except
that it had eight lanes, not eighteen, and ran across what must
have been Manhattan. Bright green signs proclaimed it to be the
Morrie Feldman Transitory.
   I asked, of course. »Unknown. Major Deegan, JoeDiMaggio.
Who knows.«
   »Who?« I asked, but her mind was on what lay ahead. Tran-
sitory, so-called; seemed more like a parking lot than a highway.
For over a half hour we rolled slowly along, surrounded by six
or seven thousand other cars the same size. There were also
what looked like trucks, but they were twice as big as the ones I
was used to; nearly as big as locomotive engines. Everybody
tried to steer clear of those beasts; it’d be like a rowboat getting
in the way of the Queen Alexandra if you changed lanes at the
wrong moment.
   The real breath-stopper, though, were the buses. From where
we were I could count fifteen to twenty at any given moment.
They were half the size of the trucks, but the people hanging
onto the sides, and lying on the roof, sort of fattened them up.
As we crept past them I could see that there were hand-holds
and foot-ledges stuck all over the sides of the buses. The com-
muters must have been used to travelling this way; a lot of them
were looking at tiny little movie players they wore strapped to
their chests. As we crept up the ramp leading to the GW bridge
– the bridge looked the same here as it did in my New York,
except that here it was painted Army green – I saw one of the
passengers on a bus some fifty feet ahead of us lose his footing,
and tumble down into the traffic.
   »Eulie,« I said, trying to see if he’d landed on a hood or
something, but spotting neither hair nor hide, »didn’t you see
that? He fell off. Shouldn’t we stop?«
   »Why?« she asked, genuinely puzzled. Four lanes to our
right, I saw another commuter slip down between the lanes. As
we continued across the bridge – moving a little faster by that
point, maybe ten miles an hour – others came loose, here and
there, from other buses, and I realized that this must be one of
this place’s drawbacks of commuting. Never saw one of them
get up, once they fell. After a half hour more we reached the
Jersey side, and by the time we passed under the Fort Lee exit
sign I’d stopped counting.
   »These people work in the city?«
   »Workers and drones unhiving,« she said.
   »What do they do? Office work?«
   »Whatever’s essentialled.«
   She turned onto a six-lane highway that wasn’t as crowded as
the bridge had been; then, pulling onto another ramp, steered
us onto the New Jersey Turnpike. This almost looked like home
– fourteen big lanes, plenty of space, and everyone speeding
along – except our turnpike wasn’t walled off on either side by
tall green and grey glass buildings. None of these buildings had
any signs; none of them had any windows – the walls were glass,
but you couldn’t see in, and I felt safe in assuming that no one
could see out.
   »Where do you live?« I asked.
   »Maplewood,«
   »Wouldn’t the tunnel have been closer?«
   A blink, a stare: recognition. »Tunnel’s flooded.«
   I looked over to my left. There weren’t quite as many build-
ings along the road in this stretch, and I could catch glimpses of
New York’s taller buildings – the Empire State, notably, and
several other taller, boxier towers. »How’s that possible?«
   »Rising water table necessitated the shift north. Before my
birthing.«
   »Manhattan’s flooded?«
   »Here.«
   »Eulie,« I said. »It was my fault Chlojo was killed. If I hadn’t
–«
   »If she didn’t guard me,« she said. »Six, half dozen, twelve
either way.«
   That was the last she said of her big friend; I supposed that it
wasn’t so much different from falling off a bus in the long run.
The farther we got from New York the more there was to see, to
a point, even though the sun – that is, the light that shone
through the clouds – was going down. Most of it, however,
looked about the same here as it did there – power lines, build-
ings, bits and pieces of what was left of the Meadowlands. If I
didn’t look too closely it almost seemed as if I was back where I
came from, heading out to visit Newark or Jersey City. By now
I’d been up close to thirty-odd hours, and I felt Morpheus
starting to get the upper hand. Somewhere around the time
Eulie made a right onto a new highway, I let him put me in a
full nelson, and snoozed.
   It had seemed like only a couple of minutes passed before I
felt the car bumping up and down; it felt as if Eulie, for some
reason, had decided to use the Erie-Lackawanna tracks the rest
of the way home. When I opened my eyes it was twilight, and
we were on local streets. Headlights were blue, streetlights were
yellow, and, surprisingly, stoplights were red and green.
   »Where are we?« I asked, looking out the window, instinc-
tively reaching for the lock, though there didn’t seem to be one.
   »Maplewood,« Eulie said. Her face was pinkish in the dash’s
purple light.
   »What happened to it?«
   Eulie shook her head, and we stopped at a light as it turned
red. A bug, or bird, hit the windshield; there was a bright col-
ourless flash and a sizzling sound, and whatever it was, was
gone. We were driving through a neighbourhood that must
have been built in the teens or twenties – or would have been
built then, on my turf – the kind with enormous old houses,
and elm and chestnut trees on both sides of the street, and green
lawns; cars in the driveways, and kids on the sidewalk. Eulie’s
Maplewood didn’t look quite that respectable. Almost all the
houses we passed – the ones still standing – were boarded up, or
burned out. Some had collapsed in on themselves, but in a few
there were lights on in the parts that were still standing. Most of
the trees along the streets we bumped along were stumps, or
stubby, or even broken off halfway up. The yards were worn
into dust, or blanketed with little cars. Everything in the
neighbourhood looked like the white trash had been sharecrop-
ping too long without a foreman.
   »This is a substandard area,« Eulie said, pulling out as the
light changed to green; she must have seen the look on my face.
»I’m gated.«
   I didn’t have the faintest idea what she meant, and was just as
glad. There wasn’t anyone else on the street, whether walking or
driving. If it weren’t for the lights I saw in the houses I’d have
assumed the entire state had been emptied out. In another five
minutes or so we drove up to a high concrete wall that blocked
the entire street. Although I thought she’d have to get out and
walk over and touch it, she didn’t; all she did was punch in
some keys on the dashboard and a heavy metal gate in the
middle of the wall rose, and we rolled through. Eulie’s
neighbourhood seemed never to have been as well-to-do, but it
was in somewhat better shape – every house, and every yard,
was surrounded by a high fence of some kind – wood, iron,
chicken wire – and every wall was topped with rolls of sharp-
ened wire. There were no cars parked on the street; the owners
kept their vehicles in the driveway, within each fenced-off
perimeter.
   »Here we are,« she said, easing the car to the right. A beige
metal gate opened as we rolled through it. She pressed a button
and the car switched off. »Home,« she said, removing the steer-
ing wheel. The doors of the car sprang open and, within five
minutes, I’d extricated myself. Now that it was night I was
beginning to see stars in the sky, when I looked to the west; the
clouds were clearing off. In the direction of New York, the
heavens were fiery-red. Eulie tapped in another code on a panel
attached to the fence, and opened the front door of her house. It
was a little place, the equivalent of her car; there were four small
rooms, but it felt comfortable. In her front room was a leather
couch almost as long as the house, a low glass table; bookcases
without books, a plant with blue and red leaves. On the wall
facing the couch was what appeared to be a big grey mirror.
   »I need changing,« she said. »You’ve never seen TV?«
   »What’s that?«
   »Television.«
   I nodded, remembering her saying the word. »I’m curious.«
   She smiled. »Catkiller.«

Once you got used to it, it was hard not to watch TV. Before
heading into the shower Eulie showed me how the switcher
worked and how to find the channels. She received four thou-
sand and ninety-three; there were more, she said, but she didn’t
want to pay to bring in Asia, Africa, and Latin America. For the
first few minutes, it was painful to watch; the programmes that
came on the air were louder than any movie I’d ever seen, even
after I turned down the volume; and the pictures came so fast
and furious that I didn’t see how anyone could make sense of
what was shown. Then, suddenly, I got used to it. Watching TV
was like watching a stew boil – you never knew what would
suddenly come into view before sinking back down again. Eulie
could have been in the shower for two weeks and I wouldn’t
have noticed. As I flipped through the channels, clicking them
off, what I thought at first to be a black and white movie caught
my eye, or rather my ear; I knew I’d heard the voices before.
There were four people in a living room set, and as I listened I
matched the voices to the faces I’d seen in radio guides. I was
watching, stuck to the channel like glue, when Eulie strolled out
of the shower, heavily towelled from top to bottom. »›I Love
Lucy?‹«
   »I’ve heard this one before,« I said. »Nothing looks like I pic-
tured it.«
   She pressed something on the table and a number appeared
at the bottom of the screen. »Livonia network. Show’s almost a
century old. How have you heard this?«
   »It was on the radio,« I said. She turned it off. »Hey, wait.«
   Eulie unturbaned her head and shook her hair loose. »You’ll
zone. You’re already deadeyed.« Like her, I thought, but didn’t
say it. Once the set was off I heard the outer world again –
beeping sounds that must have been sirens in the distance,
whirling noises somewhere overhead, a low hum that never
stopped. »Quiet, finally. How are you?«
   »Bearable,« I said. »You?« She nodded. »Why didn’t you tell
me you were from the future? It’d have been a hard sell,
granted, but everything would have made a lot more sense a lot
sooner –«
   »It’s more complicated than it seems,« she said. »We’re not
from the future. Not your future, anyway.«
   »Eulie, please –«
   »If our world was yours, this might be your future, yes,« she
said. »But your world is different. Not just in look and feel. It’s a
different place, entirely.« She took something out of a pocket in
one of her towels and ran it over her hair. As I looked, it dried.
»How explain that, simply?«
   »I don’t know. Give it a try, though –«
   Even before she started I could have told her there wasn’t any
real point, but I liked the sound of her voice so much I just sat
and listened. »Our worlds coexist, separate but equal. You
understand?«
   »Which one gets the short end of the stick?«
   »No, Walter, not like that. We don’t exist in the same time.
We’re years ahead of you, or you’re years behind. Depends on
which side you’re on.« She sat down on the couch next to me.
»There are different paths in the garden, and we’re many paths
later.«
   There was nothing I could do but buy it. »How do you get
from one side to the other?«
   »Holes in the fence, they’ve been called. Slip through, slip
back.«
   »Does Dryco have anything to do with it?« I asked, pretty
much failing to get the idea, but giving her credit for trying.
   »No, it tries to advantage the situation, but –«
   »What does Dryco do, anyway?«
   She looked at me as if I asked her why the sun was shiny.
»Everything.«
   »If it’s a company it must be a business,« I said. »If it’s a
business it must make something. If it makes something, it must
sell what it makes. So what does it do?«
   »Dryco doesn’t do. Dryco is.«
   »Is what?«
   »Lookabout,« Eulie said, and guided her hand in a wide cir-
cle, as if to take in the room, and everything that lay outside the
house as well. »All seen and unseen.«
   »OK,« I said, trying a different tack. »You said it runs itself,
or did until recently. How?«
   She took a deep breath, as if trying to remember. »It repli-
cates, organizes, controls, commodifies. Expands or impands as
needed.«
   »But how?«
   »Until recent developments, under the guidance of Alice.«
   »Is Alice the old lady?«
   She shook her head. »You know about computers?«
   »You mean like Univac?« A second earlier, until I conjured
up the deadeyes once again, she’d looked ten years earlier.
»Never mind. So Alice is the one wheeling, dealing, stealing –?«
   »She was, until the manifestations began,« Eulie said. »For
forty years, communicating first through the Drydens, then
Mister O’Malley, then through herself. Madam let her. Then,
four months ago, when the problems first evidenced, her sys-
tems began to negate. The day before yesterday, she blued.« She
rested her head on my shoulder. »That was when we came to
get you.«
   »Eulie,« I said, »what’s going on? What’s happening?«
   »Uncertain,« she said. »Whatever it is, isn’t good.«
   »How so?«
   »Indications specify that our worlds are starting to occupy
the same time as well as the same space.« I’m sure she knew that
some essential concepts eluded me, and so she tried to explain
further, picking up what appeared to be a couple of small ce-
ramic coasters from the table. »Say each of these represent our
respective worlds. Now say they are trying to be on the same
place at the table at the same time.«
   »One on top of the other,« I said.
   She shook her head. »Both touching the table in the same
place.«
   »How?« Again, she shook her head. »It’s not possible?«
   »No.«
   »What caused it?« I asked.
   »Evidence of longtime disturbances in the field between. The
initial breach between worlds, perhaps. The presence in the field
of Jake, the person you’ve been seeing. Your ghost. He, and the
woman he was with, were members of the second transitory
group, following the first, thirty years ago. It’s unclear why he
continues to exist, or if his presence was the precipitory factor.«
   She held her hands out in front of her, as if she herself didn’t
understand what she knew. »He’s not a ghost?« I asked.
   »He is,« she said, »but he isn’t dead.«
   Yellow lights flashed through the living room drapes, and for
an instant I thought some kind of landing party was going to
come crashing through the door and ask to see our passports.
Nothing happened; I heard more beeping, somewhere in the
distance, and the sound of breaking glass. I picked up one of the
coasters and looked at it. At first I’d thought it was ceramic;
then, when I touched it, realized it was something else. »What’ll
happen when both coasters touch the table at the same time?«
    »Unforeseeable.«
    »Will we still be here?«
    »Something will,« she said. »A third world, perhaps.«
    »Will we be in it?«
    »Unknowable.«
    There wasn’t much she had to add, and even little I could
think of to ask. Maybe I was still under the influence of Pi; if so,
I wasn’t sure if this was a trip I wanted to come back from. All
of a sudden I began to have a very hard time breathing. »You
got a back yard?« I asked. »I need some fresh air.«
    »There’s interior recirculation.«
    »Outside air,« I said. »Please?«
    »Of course,« Eulie said, standing. She walked down the hall
towards what I gathered to be her bedroom, disappearing for a
minute or two. While she was gone I spotted a few photos on
the wall and gave them a look-see. Didn’t spot anyone who
might have been her father, or boyfriend; in one shot she stood
on some kind of bridge with a dead-pale woman who looked
her age. In another, Eulie didn’t look older than ten or eleven –
it was definitely her, the eyes gave her away. There was a differ-
ent woman in that shot, one who looked maybe twenty or thirty
years older. I turned away from them when Eulie reappeared;
she’d put on a long white robe that closed in the front although
it didn’t have buttons or zippers.
    »Your mother?« I asked, pointing at the photo. She nodded.
»Is she –«
    Eulie looked at the picture as if trying to remember who ei-
ther of them might have been. »No. She sold herself.«
   »Come again?«
   »She sold herself,« Eulie repeated. »For parts. Expenditure
necessary if I was to college.«
   »Parts?«
   »Transplants. Back door’s this way. Come, Walter.«
   I nodded, and followed. The more questions I asked, the less
I wanted to hear the answers. All I wanted for the moment was
to stop long enough to let it all sink in. I’d forgotten any fears
I’d had of what the Kennedys would do to me, or Bennett, or
any of the other fools I’d been so preoccupied with, not two
days earlier; and there was no need to worry about needing to
get to Hawaii; I didn’t think I could get any farther away from
where I’d been than where I was now. Eulie unbolted three or
four locks on the back door and we stepped outside into the
dark. A cool breeze blew; helicopters flew over, shining search-
lights down on the ground. I heard people shouting, on the next
street over. A high board fence surrounded her tiny yard – her
lot couldn’t have been more than twenty feet wide, and not
quite thirty feet long. The black silhouettes of surrounding
houses poked up on all sides. I looked up; the stars I was able to
make out looked to be in roughly the same place as the ones I
was used to – not that I’d really seen any for a while, New York
not being the optimum place to get into astronomy. The moon
was there, and full. I saw the Gibson girl outlined in its surface
facing left; just the way I’d have seen her back home. »You have
moon cities there?«
   »Last man who walked on the moon died twenty years ago.«
She looked at me, not the moon. »Walter,« she said, »Do you
want to go back, or stay here?«
   I smiled. »What’d the first man on the moon say, once he got
there?«
   She looked blank for a moment; then giggled, trying to re-
member and realizing she couldn’t. Then it came to her. I
guessed it was something she’d been told back in second grade.
   »›One step for man,‹« she said. »›Two for mankind.‹«
   Then, she kissed me. We held each other so tight that I think
each of us was trying to blend into the other one, that we could
somehow jump into each other’s worlds and stay there. When
at last I came up for air I looked at her, and she looked happier
than I’d ever seen her; and I knew where I was going to be
sleeping that night at least.
   »I want to stay here,« I said. »I’m getting used to it quicker
than I thought I would.«
   At that moment I think I was about as happy as I’d ever been.
But then before I could kiss her again I saw her expression
change; her eyes widened, as if she were seeing something that
she’d always known she’d have to see one day, however much
she didn’t want to see it – the minister coming up the walk, the
doctor with the chart, the angel at the gate. I stepped away from
her, still holding onto her waist, just moving off far enough to
turn around and see what she saw. In the western part of the sky
(for all I knew, here, it might have been in the east) there was
what appeared to be the thin white tail of a comet, stretching
across the bowl of the sky, reaching unbroken from one side to
the other. When I first saw it, the line seemed to be fixed, and
steady; but as I kept my eyes on its narrow course, I saw it
slowly beginning to widen.
   »Walter,« she said, »we may not have a choice.«
                             NINE




Throughout most of the rest of the night, while Eulie shook
those little black boxes of hers out of her bag, diddled their
absence of knobs, and made phone calls, I lay on her couch and
found myself making my acquaintance with the dream world as
I found it on her side of the aisle. Truth be told, and I’m truth-
ing now, I’ve never been much ridden by nightmares, at least
not of the sort that come during sleep, but that night I suffered a
series that grew progressively worse. First I saw figures stand-
ing, covered in white sheets, no holes cut out for eyes; they were
talking to me, but I didn’t cop the plea they wanted to hear and
they started piling on like blankets, suffocating me underneath.
Then, nothing; then my father, sitting at the kitchen table back
in our house on Queen Anne Hill, reading the newspaper. The
headlines were large, but I couldn’t read them. On the floor,
near his feet, was our dog, a small mixed breed, like us; although
it was disembowelled it was still alive, and tried to lick itself.
Another pause; then I imagined that I lay on her couch, and
tried to rise as a black form took shape inside my chest – first it
was a square, then it became a circle, then a square again, in-
creasing in size every time until I could see the points sticking
out between my ribs. Relief; and then came the worst. I
dreamed I was an island, my friends, an island at night, sur-
rounded by ocean. Tiny Arabian pirates were trying to land on
my shores, jabbing tiny iron hooks into my skin, jabbering and
hollering and poking away. That was more than I could bear,
and I shocked myself awake, drenched in cold sweat.
   »Twelve nine seven four,« I heard Eulie saying. »Five seven
three three one –«
   Reading aloud some list of numbers, I inferred, blinking my-
self into fuller consciousness; wondered why she was standing
in the middle of the front room talking to herself until I re-
membered what she’d shown me last night, that this was how
she made telephone calls. I supposed she was yammering on to
superiors or inferiors somewhere else about the silver thread on
high, seeing if they understood what it might signify. Every so
often she’d pause and walk down the hall, or into the kitchen –
she’d explained to me that there was so much titanium in the
walls of her house that she had to shift around regularly, or else
she’d lose the connection. Her phone apparatus was in her
head, somehow; and all she had to do to get on the party line
was to say the number and she’d be hooked up immediately.
This seemed no more peculiar than anything else she’d told me;
she said that the only time taking calls got tricky was when
more than four came in at the same time. She didn’t tell me how
she put them on hold.
   When I hauled myself off the couch I could tell that it was
nearly dawn. Murky aquarium light seeped through the front
room’s bamboo shades. While Eulie carried on I wandered
down the hall until I found the bathroom. The toilet told me
where to aim – I could imagine that might be useful at times –
and flushed itself, after I was finished; while I wouldn’t have
minded taking a shower, I didn’t see anything inside the stall
that looked like faucets, and it was only too easy to picture
myself getting steamed like a lobster without even blinking.
There were postcards stuck onto the wall of the bathroom –
photos of Italy, and of a painting by Modigliani, and a picture of
kittens playing with yarn. Curious, I pulled back the corner of
one to take a look at the postmark, but there wasn’t any.
    Eulie was in the kitchen, standing by the window and run-
ning her fingers over one of her boxes when I came back out.
»Blixamixa wooblegone,« she was saying, something like that;
she’d returned to what I gathered must have been her native
tongue, that impenetrable blend occasionally enlivened by
recognizable words – »badger,« or »work,« or »shit.« She stood
by the kitchen window, running her fingers over one of the little
boxes. She pointed to a round chrome ball with a black handle
and stuck a small white package marked Kaftast in my hand.
There was a cup nearby, and I made the necessary connections.
Emptied the package into the cup, poured the hot water in after
it. Nothing like good strong coffee, I thought; Nature’s best
amphetamine and brain clearer. I read the ingredients but
wished I hadn’t – one was soy powder, and nicotinamide an-
other, and there was something just after the ingredient »coffee
enhancement« called Manipulated Fiberic. The stuff looked like
coffee, smelled like coffee, even tasted like coffee – kind of – but
it had a distinctly noticeable aftertaste, though it was hard to say
exactly what – vitamins, pork, lime Jell-O; couldn’t really tell.
    »Walter,« Eulie said to me, »televise if desired.«
    I nodded, but before I went into the living room I took a peek
out the window, looking up. The sky was overcast again, noth-
ing but thick grey clouds except for where the white line ran; it
was wider now, more of a hawser rope than a thread. As impos-
sible to see where it began or ended as a rainbow. I glanced over
at Eulie; she shook her head, and kept talking.
    When I touched the TV screen it came on. Picking up the
switcher I started running through the channels; it didn’t take
that long, as about three-quarters of them appeared to be on the
blink – at least they were showing nothing but a screen as grey
as the sky, a burble of movement sometimes breaking up the
stillness of the image. The stations that were on did seem to be
keeping their eye on the sky. I turned on the volume and lis-
tened, but can’t say I was much enlightened. The places that
showed up, besides New York, were identified as London,
Moscow, Shanghai, so forth, but every place looked so much
alike that for all I could tell they just kept using the same back-
drop to save money. In between the travelogues, on top of them
sometimes, men and women would be coming on to blow hot
and cold, and sounding no more understandable than Eulie did
when she consulted with her own experts. I couldn’t help but
wonder if anyone understood them. The only thing I could be
sure of was that they were all talking about the thing in the sky;
every minute or so, there’d be another shot of it, and it always
looked the same. Struck me as very odd that no matter where
they were supposed to be broadcasting from, it was cloudy. The
line seemed wider over some places – Rio, for one; Calcutta, for
another – than it did where we were. Or maybe it had simply
widened just in the time I’d spent watching. As said, once you
park yourself in front of one of these things it’s just about
impossible to drag yourself away; but one by one, over the
course of just a few minutes, all the stations took on that full-tilt
grey tone, and went off the air. I heard Eulie saying a recogniz-
able word, over and over again, in the kitchen.
   »Hello? Hello?« A long pause. »Hello?«
   »I’m here,« I piped up. She walked back into the living room,
past me, and over to the front door. Throwing it open, she
stepped outside into her small concrete front yard. I came up
behind her, and slipped my arms around her waist. She didn’t
pull away. »What’s up?«
   She didn’t turn around to look at me; but kept her eyes fo-
cused on high, on that long, broadening stripe. It seemed to lie
on top of the clouds, but I didn’t see how that could be possible;
as I squinted my eyes and gave it a closer onceover, though, I
could see that the clouds were simply vanishing as the line
touched them – that the line was, in fact, something that nearly
seemed solid. »All readings confirm theory,« she said, turning
and stepping back inside.
   »That means –«
   »Spatial displacement, as I tried to detail last night.«
   »It’s happening now?« I asked. She nodded. »So what’s hap-
pening to us?«
   »We’re –«
   Eulie stopped dead in the middle of her word as if she’d sud-
denly choked on something. She fisheyed the table and I looked
over to scope what brought her up short. The coasters she’d
been using, trying to explain what was happening; none of them
were touching the table, contrary to her theory. All floated
slightly above the surface of the glass, and I couldn’t figure out
what kind of magical trick was making them levitate.
    »Godness,« Eulie said. »Walter, we’ve got to go. Fast. You’re
ready?«
    »Anytime,« I said, yawning. »Go where?«
    »Your place, if possibled.«
    »No,« I said. »No, why?«
    »Come on,« she said, snatching up her bag and grabbing my
arm, almost yanking it off as she pulled me out the front door.
She had a grip like Chlojo’s when she chose to use it, I could tell.
Streetlights were going on and off as if somebody was playing
with the switch, and it sounded like half the people in the
neighbourhood had decided to start honking their horns. She
pounded at the side of her car, but the doors refused to open.
    »What’s happening, Eule?« I asked, hearing the oddest sound
behind me; as if someone was peeling labels off cardboard
packages, lots of them. »Eulie?« Turning to see what was mak-
ing the racket, my brothers, I don’t have to tell you what kind of
notions went through my head when I saw the paint on her
little house literally stripping itself off the clapboards, and
floating up into the air like ash, or dandelion fluff. »Fuck –!!!« I
shouted, forgetting my manners; as I’ve never been one to use
the vernacular around ladies.
    »Follow, Walter,« she said, pushing open the front gate; at
least it didn’t seem to lock from the inside. »We have to position
ourselves if we can chance. Come on.«
    When I touched the metal I felt an electric shock, but noth-
ing too severe. Once we were out on the sidewalk she fumbled
through her bag until she found a long flat blue rectangle, not
much thicker than a chequebook. Hipping it open she looked at
the inside top while running her hand over the inside bottom. If
I shifted my head into the right angle I could just catch what she
was looking at – some kind of map, with green lines, I thought –
but couldn’t tell what she did with her fingers. »Five blocks that
way, Walter. There’s a park. Run.«
   »What are we running to?« I asked as I started to let my feet
do their stuff. »What’s happening? Eulie –?«
   »Run, Walter,« she shouted, taking the lead, »life depends.
Our life.«
   I didn’t have to look up anymore to see the white line; it was
directly in front of us, somewhere between ten and a thousand
miles away. It was really starting to open up now; what was
apparent in daylight was that it didn’t quite reach the horizon –
it stopped just short of the treeline, so I couldn’t exactly see
where it came to a halt. Thing was, I could tell that it wasn’t just
widening, but lengthening as well, getting closer to the tops of
the trees and the houses. Every horn in New Jersey sounded as if
it were going off, every air-raid siren, every civil defence signal,
every ambulance bell. Eulie’s neighbours poured out of their
houses, trying to get their own cars started; I saw that some
were trying to cut their way through their fences, or climb over
– those were the ones whose gates must have kept them locked
in. The air felt heavy, and full of electricity. The clouds were
starting to swirl now, as if they were being mixed from above. A
tornado, I thought, but there was no wind. I didn’t hear any
birds, but when I thought about it, as I raced on, feeling my
heart pound as I kept up with my little one, I remembered that I
hadn’t heard any real birds since getting here; it occurred to me
that they probably didn’t have any.
    »Walter,« Eulie shouted back, slowing enough to let me catch
up with her and then taking my hand so she could help me
move at her pace. »Left here. That park, over there. It’s win-
dowed. Hurry.«
    »Eule,« I panted, »what’s happening?«
    »When the breach underhorizons,« she said, nodding at the
white gash in the sky, »that times it. Walter, hurry.«
    A few minutes more and we reached the park, a small strip of
green running through the middle of Maplewood, at the bottom
of the hill that led up to her house. We were surrounded on all
sides now by people running, shouting; where they were head-
ing, nobody knew, but I guessed that was as good a way to
spend the time they had left as any. The screams in the air made
me think of the last game in the Series the year before, Dodgers
versus Yankees. Brooklyn won. No time for hot dogs here,
though. Breaking loose of the crowd Eulie and I dashed into the
park, stumbling through bushes, nearly running into a bench. A
stream ran through the centre of the green; the water looked as
if it were starting to boil.
    »Here!« Eulie said, coming to a dead stop in the midst of a
sloping meadow. She knelt down, throwing her green thing
back into her bag and starting to look for something else. I
heard thunder, but saw no lightning. I watched this part of the
town of Maplewood running toward Milburn. Eulie took out a
small metal box the size of a cigarette pack. This one had a
visible button, round and blue and located dead centre at the
top. A thin red bar was inset along the side of the box. »Your
world evidences no changes. We’re safe there, momento.«
    »What if this happens over there, later?« She shook her head.
»Dryco can’t do anything?«
    »Nada,« she said. »Not anymore. Dryco’s going. Gone.«
    My head began to sting, as if someone were plucking at it
with needles; as I watched Eulie slide a small red bar along the
side of the little box, I understood where the pain was coming
from. Our electrified hair was being pulled out, one at a time; I
saw Eulie’s wriggling like thin worms as they drifted skyward.
    »Walter,« she said. »I’m uncertain if transience remains
workable. If not –«
    »We won’t be worse off than we are.«
    »Ready yourself,« she said, looking off toward the west. As
the white line drew closer to the earth its colour, nearest the
ground, began to change. From white it darkened into some-
thing of a lemony yellow; then deepened further into Halloween
orange. As the line dropped, the orange turned into firetruck
red, and then into a deep predawn purple. The orgone in the
sky shimmered, waved, seemed ready to catch fire; red halos
flared up around everything in sight – trees, people, cars. There
came a roar as if from underneath the earth, far below; as it
grew louder and louder I saw blades of grass pulling out of the
ground, sailing into the air; leaves fell upward from the trees,
and then the trees themselves began to rise, their roots churning
and tearing the earth apart into great clumps as they heaved
loose of their footing. Nails pulled out of the boards in the park
benches, and both flew into the air. The bricks of chimneys
came apart, the roofs of cars, the laundry on lines. The sky was
filling up fast with all the pieces of the world – kitchen utensils,
shingles, bicycles, clothing, slices of bread, trash cans, twigs,
frogs, dogs, children. Everything floated up more slowly than
you’d have expected, as if being drawn towards the now rain-
bowed split. Just as we found ourselves beginning to lift off
from her world, just before the split came up against it, Eulie
pressed the button.
    »Godness, enshield –«
    »Valentine –!!«
    We both saw the flash, but neither felt nor heard it; we shut
out eyes, and when I opened them again we were back in that
place between, where all was flat and white and silent. This time
I knew that what I felt or didn’t feel, was genuine, and not
merely Pi-induced tactile sensation, and marvelled at how still
everything had become, so suddenly. I was still holding onto
Eulie’s hand, but wouldn’t have known that I was, had I not
been looking at her. She looked back at me; smiled. For several
moments we floated there, silent, at peace. I wondered why my
ghost, that poor fellow trapped within, had never come to like
it. Honestly, it seemed more like being on the ultimate horse
trip than anything else – this gizmo of hers was definitely some-
thing to keep out of the paws of junkies. All at once it seemed to
me that we were coming in for a landing. Eulie’s mouth began
to move, and though I couldn’t hear her yet, I knew it’d be only
a matter of seconds.
    »Walter!!« she shouted as we came through. »Hold!!«
    »Holding!!!«
    This being the second time I’d taken this particular train, I
thought I knew what to expect when we came out on the other
side; but actually I wasn’t surprised when I felt myself rolling,
with Eulie, down a long hill towards what looked like an ex-
pressway. We came to a stop long before reaching the shoulder,
however, and for several minutes lay there catching our breath.
Something fell on us and I looked to see what; tiny silver fish,
sardines or minnows or sand dabs. Their rain didn’t last long,
and they flopped around in the grass, lips gasping, before saying
uncle. While I didn’t feel as if I were going to upchuck, this time
around, most every part of my body felt as if someone had gone
over it with a sharp rock. Staring up, I saw red brick apartment
buildings lining the top of the hill; rolling over, I saw that it was
an expressway, the Jimmy Walker. We’d come out in the Bronx.
Best of all, when I looked straight up, into the sky, I saw nothing
but bright blue – safe again, I thought; thought it until I re-
membered why we’d had to leave so quickly in the first place,
and why I was getting ready to leave, even before that. First
things first, though. I reached over, and touched Eulie’s hand.
She lifted her head, shook the dust off, and stared first at the
expressway and then at me.
   »OK?« I asked.
   »AO.«

After some small struggle we made our way back up to the top
of the hill, and climbed over the fence onto the sidewalk. We
were both still dizzy; going from her place to mine seemed to
produce some semblance of a hangover. Just when I started to
think that I hoped I’d never have to go through transfer like that
again, I realized that that possibility had been pretty much ruled
out. We walked down to 178th Street and headed toward the
Concourse, to catch the IND downtown. Neither of us said
much for the first few blocks. As we walked past multitudes of
Bronxers – young women with strollers, kids tossing balls back
and forth, old men with small dogs; firemen, plumbers, beauti-
cians, deli clerks – I tried to figure out what, exactly, had hap-
pened; Eulie seemed lost in her own thoughts, as you’d expect,
and I didn’t want to interrupt her with foolish questions on my
part until she gave me some indication she was ready to hear.
   A short distance from the subway entrance, Eulie left her
world, and returned to mine. »Walter, are you still capable?«
   »Of anything,« I said. »What happened?«
   She gave me the old thousand yard stare, and pulled at her
lower lip with her fingers; she’d bitten it, though the cut had
closed over. »We couldn’t theorize which world would remain,«
she said. »Yours, it seems.«
   »I’m sorry,« I said. »Yours –?«
   »Nada,« she said. »Remarkable experience of spatial dis-
placement. Any number of theories–« Although for a second or
two she’d brightened, maybe with the thought of scientific
papers to be written, she appeared to realize that she might have
a hard time peddling them over here. She started to cry, and I
guided her to a bench at a bus stop. An old lady taking up half
the seat scooted over enough to let us sit down. »Walter, excuse
–«
   »I know,« I said, although in fact I hadn’t the foggiest idea of
how you’d feel, being the only survivor of your entire world. It
was a feeling she didn’t seem to be getting used to very quick.
   »Walter –«
   »Yes?«
   »Because it hasn’t happened here yet doesn’t mean it won’t,«
she said. »Fluxation continues. If anything the situation’s insta-
bility is heightened. I’ve no way of telling, however.« She
reached into her bag and took out one of her little black boxes.
»The connection’s gone. Worthless, all. There’s no way of
telling, Walter –«
   »We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.« I said, realizing
that every minute or so I was still looking up, hoping that I
wouldn’t see that tell-tale crack starting to take shape. As before,
all above us was bright and clear. »Are you really all right? I
mean physically. That was a pretty rough landing –«
   »Chlo and I always came through in Central Park,« she said.
»But our departure site was fixed. It could have been rougher.« I
gave her a kleenex I found in my jacket pocket; she dabbed her
eyes dry. »Are you all right?«
   »Dizzy. Feel like I’ve broken half my bones. Worn out. Oth-
erwise, perfect.« I stood, and offered my arm. »I’ve got to lie
down somewhere. Both of us do. I think we’ll be safe, heading
down to my place.«
   »You’re sure?«
   »I think the only person anybody’d remember from the Astor
would be Chlo,« I said, »and I guess they won’t be taking her
in.«
   »What about your superior?«
   »Inferior, more like it,« I said, thinking of how Bennett had
managed to land feet first; wondering what kind of tricks he’d
managed to play in my absence – it came to me that I didn’t
even know how long I’d actually been gone; it seemed no more
than a day and a half, but the weather in the Bronx, at least,
seemed a vast improvement over what it’d been when we fled
the coop. »Maybe I’d better check in with Martin. Get a line on
what’s what.«
   There was a newstand next to the subway entrance, and I si-
dled over to see if I could read the date below the mastheads.
Must have been nothing but a warm spell; the date was as I
figured it to be. But what I hadn’t expected to see were the
particular headlines plastered across the front of the News, the
Trib, the Mirror, the Times.

                      BLAME BOOZE,
                      CLAIMS BOBBY

  »Walter,« Eulie asked as I laid down fifty cents and gathered
up a copy of each. »What troubles?«

           KENNEDY VICTIM STILL IN COMA
                   Recovery Uncertain
               Insanity Plea Believed Likely

          Robert Kennedy Rules Out Run This Year
        »FAMILY FIRST« EX-CANDIDATE STATES

                      JIM SLEEPS
                 Mirror Foto Exclusive
            REAGAN: LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON

   »Kennedys,« I shouted, pounding my fists against the nearest
streetlamp post. People slowed down to see if I was going to
completely wig out, but when I didn’t, they continued on their
way. »Damned Kennedys. Every last damned one of them –«
  »Walter –«
  »I hear you, brother,« some cheerful Republican shouted
over to me, not breaking stride. »This fixes Bobby’s wagon but
good.«

Before heading into the subway I made two calls – there was no
need to call Jim; he wouldn’t be at home. Biting the bullet, I
dropped my dime and told the operator to place a collect call,
person to person, to Martin. After a moment or so a voice I
didn’t recognize came on the line.
    »Walter Smith?«
    »Speaking,« I said. »Is Martin there –?«
    »We’ve been waiting to hear from you,« the stranger said.
    »Is he there?«
    A pause; for some reason, I thought that he was trying to sti-
fle a laugh. »He’s in the field. He expected your call, though, and
left word to notify –«
    »I need to talk to him, sooner the better.«
    »Yes, certainly. Your directions are to go to your usual con-
tact point, and wait there.«
    Go home, in other words. That was fine with me. I made one
last call, to Trish. As I feared, she wasn’t around either. When I
hung up I looked around, quickly, to be sure no one was paying
too close attention to me. No; everyone in sight looked as
innocent, or as guilty, as anyone in New York ever does.
    »Let’s go,« I told Eulie, and we headed downstairs to catch
the train to Manhattan.
When we got off the train and came up the stairs I couldn’t help
but check the sky again; not a thing. We walked over from Sixth
Avenue, making for my crib. As it had been my turn to clam, I
hadn’t said a word to Eulie the whole trip down. The events of
the past two – three? – days burned in my mind. There was
really only one thing I wanted to do, after talking to Martin and
trying to find out what hospital Trish was in, and that was dig
out that perma-bud Chlo had left me – willed me, as it turned
out – and send myself (and Eulie, if she wanted to join in) into a
four-day spin. I’d had enough of both worlds; had enough of
people. My ire thickened in my throat; I might have finally let
go all the way, had Eulie and I not seen what we saw, moments
after walking underneath the El and stepping onto my block.
   There was an old sportster wearing a seersucker suit walking
toward us, leading his wirehaired terrier on a long black leash.
I’d seen him around before – thought he lived on 19th, in one of
the old townhouses – and would have at least nodded, out of
habit, but he was gone before we reached him. One second he
was there, and then in the next second he was gone; he’d been
replaced. He turned into a young woman in her twenties, wear-
ing a Yankees cap, her blonde hair pulled through the opening
in the back and tied in a ponytail. She wore a sleeveless guinea T
and dancer’s black tights. On her feet she wore the fanciest-
looking sneakers I ever saw. The wires for her hearing aid ran
from her ears down to her waist. She trotted past us, looking
neither right nor left; if I hadn’t stepped out of her way, I think
she’d have run right into me.
   »Eulie –«
   »Seen.«
   We stood there for a minute or so, frozen in place as we
watched her turn the corner at Third and head south. »What
happened? Eulie, who was that? What happened to the old
coot?«
   »Unknown,« she said, wide-eyed. Both of us glanced upward;
nothing, still, but blue sky. When we returned our gaze to the
sidewalk ahead of us, we watched three dented metal garbage
cans turn into a pile of black plastic bags filled with something
that didn’t seem to be sand; they barricaded the sidewalk,
safeguarding it from Eighteenth Street traffic. A pair of pigeons
poked along the curb, filling up on seed some kind soul had
dumped for them. One turned into a sparrow, and flew away.
   »Let’s get inside,« I said, hurrying her along to my building’s
stoop. »Quick.«
   »Walter, something’s happening –«
   »I know. I don’t want to know what, yet.«
   We made it up the stairs much quicker than I figured we
would; nothing within my building changed – the dark wain-
scotting still lined the walls up to where the painted tin began,
there were still white tile swastikas embedded in the scuffed red
of the ground floor hall – but somehow the look of everything
seemed just as frightening as it had started to seem, outside. We
didn’t pass any of my neighbours on our way up; whether they
were inside their apartments, or somewhere around the corner,
I wondered if they were still themselves. The humidity was
terrible, that afternoon; we were sweating buckets by the time
we got to my floor. I had my keys out and ready, and was about
to shove them into the locks when someone opened the door
for us.
   »Well, well, well,« Bennett said, sitting in my chair, at my
kitchen table, one foot propped up on the stove as if he owned
the place. »Here’s our wandering boy now.«
   Before we could step back out the doorman, a fairly hulking
bruiser wearing Secret Service glasses and with the look of
Agency muscle about him seized both Eulie and myself, drag-
ging us inside. Bennett was looking up at a sign I’d nailed up
over the door leading to the music room, one I’d found hung on
the fence at Tompkins Square the year before, NO LEFT
TURNS UNSTONED.
   »You’re a card, Walter,« he said, evidencing a fine case of the
smirks. »A regular card.«
   »Can’t say I’m as pleased to see you as you are to see me, my
brother,« I said. »Any special occasion for this break-in?«
   »Where were you, anyway? We looked high and low.«
   »You’d never look high enough.«
   Another big grin flashed in our direction. Off in the music
room I heard the sound of crunching, as if someone were eating
celery. Sartorius stepped out of the room, one of my discs in his
Nazi mitt. From ten feet away I could see the Paramount label.
Holding it out in front of him – farsighted, no doubt, but to
admit the need for glasses would have been a sign of inferiority
– he read aloud the pertinent information. »Sugar Tin Blues.
Charles Patton. This is your American Negro music?«
   »Yes. Put it down.«
   He lobbed it discus-like across the room; when it struck the
wall just above the sink, that was the end of Charlie.
   »When the performers are gone,« he said, »why should there
be music?«
   »And I figured you spent all your money on drugs,« Bennett
said.
   I craned my neck and managed to glimpse what remained in
the music room. Every shelf was emptied; the floor was several
inches deep in shattered shellac and black wax. Sartorius’s
footsteps crunched as if on fresh-fallen snow.
   »So Walter, have you seen the papers?« Bennett asked. »I
know you don’t usually pay much attention but I thought this
morning’s headlines might have caught your eye.«
   »Get out of my house,« I said. »I told you I quit. I –«
   »Oh, shut up,« he said. »I have to hand it to you, though.
Mission accomplished with a minimum of bloodshed.« Clearly
he didn’t know about the Astor; not that it mattered, at this
point. »Bobby out of the running, thanks to his poor little
brother. Didn’t come off quite the way Hamilton had planned,
but effective enough in its own way. Congratulations.«
   »He hurt Trish, didn’t he?« I asked. »My friend. What did he
do to her?«
   Sartorius smiled. Another one of their attendants wandered
through the music room from the front, stopping directly
behind Sartorius. »That’s the one sad aspect of the whole situa-
tion,« Bennett said. »But when Kennedys are involved; the
innocent always suffer. Although from what we know about
your friend, we feel fairly sure she led him on. Certainly she was
the one who convinced him to fall off the wagon.« Bennett put
his foot back down on the floor. »Fell pretty hard, I’d have to
say.«
   »Where is she?«
   »Lenox Hill,« he said. »Don’t know if she’ll come out of it,
though. The other one never did. This time around there was a
little more press, of course. We made sure of that.«
    »Where’s Martin?« The bruiser had such a grip on Eulie that
I thought he was going to break her arm; she stayed remarkably
calm, considering. For the first time since I’d seen her, I’d have
been very happy if Chlo had been able to come along for this
ride.
    »Oh, him,« Bennett said. »Martin chose to resign his posi-
tion. The department requested that he resign, I should say.
Certain records turned up.« He made with the rut-tuts. »Very
disconcerting. You just never know who’s who if you’re not
careful. Don’t worry about him, Walter. As far as I know, he’s
probably getting used to his new home.«
    »Bennett –«
    »He played a little fast and loose when he hired freelancers,
after all. Now that I’ve taken over his responsibilities, there’ll
have to be some changes made.«
    »What kind of changes?«
    »You’ve covered your tracks very well, Walter,« he said.
»Nothing, nowhere. But we just have that feeling. You know
how it is.« He looked at Eulie, whose face remained expres-
sionless. »As for your friend here, her status is clear as the nose
on her face.«
    Sartorius and the two thugs accompanying them laughed.
    »You know a little more than we’d like you to know,« Ben-
nett said. »So –«
    He reached into his jacket pocket and extracted a small bottle
and a plastic case; when he opened the case, a hypodermic lay
gleaming in the slot. »You’ve never been much of one for nar-
cotics in the pure sense, have you?« he asked, slipping the
needle into the apparatus. »This is about as pure as heroin gets.
Medical quality. This should do both of you fine. When your
bodies are found, I doubt that anyone will be surprised. Walter,
don’t look at me like that. I’d think you’d appreciate my
thoughtfulness in selecting a style of exit that fits you best.«
   »I’m not looking at you like that,« I said.
   »What then?« he asked, stabbing the needle into the top of
the bottle’s cap. I gestured, slightly, towards the wall behind
him. Where it had been covered completely with chipped and
cracked yellow plaster, it had now been stripped down to the
bare brick. I’d also gotten a new refrigerator during the previous
second or two; this one was four times as large as the one I’d
had, made of what looked to be burnished chrome. When he
glanced behind him he looked as bumfuzzled as Sartorius and
the thug standing behind him. I felt the one holding us loosen
his grip, slightly, but not enough to allow us to get away. For the
first time in his life, Bennett seemed at a loss for words.
   »Walter,« Eulie said, shaking her head at the music room.
Looking over, I spotted my ghost, still on his own. At the first
moment I saw him he appeared as crystalline as he always had,
floating some few inches above my broken records. Though
Eulie was seeing him, I couldn’t tell if the others had spotted old
see-through yet. That would happen soon enough, I knew. As
we watched he began to fill with colour. His jacket and pants
took on the dirty-white look I’d seen when I’m glimpsed him
between worlds; his hair turned brown, his skin took on a
pinkish tone. At last I saw his shoes; they were black as a 78. It
didn’t take him more than ten seconds to solidify; the moment
he did, they all saw him. I felt the bruiser behind us let go as he
thrust his hand into his jacket. Bennett dropped both bottle and
needle as he backed up against the sink. Sartorius blinked, once;
his associate wasn’t able to do that much before Jake, back in a
world he knew, if not his own, made his move.
   »Scheiss –!!«
   It quickly became clear to me where Chlo had learned her
stuff. Even as the man behind us fired, striking him in the
shoulder, Jake lifted his right foot above his head and swung his
left arm out toward Sartorius. The thug in the music room fell
backwards, a huge red blot in the centre of his face where his
nose had been – it appeared – kicked directly into his brain.
Sartorius sank toward the floor, clutching his crushed throat;
Jake’s fingers must have caught him right on the adam’s apple. I
started to think Jake was upholstered in the same coating Chlo
wore until I saw his jacket’s shoulder turn red. As he grabbed
Sartorius by the forelock, slamming his German noggin against
the new refrigerator, cracking it like an egg, Jake picked up the
unbroken half of one of my records and winged it past my head.
I felt something warm on the back of my neck as the thug
behind me relaxed his grip, and as I turned I saw him trying to
pull the record out from beneath his chin; it was slippery, and
he couldn’t get a solid grip. It was fascinating, watching my ex-
ghost do what he was clearly best at; everything seemed as slow-
moving as it had been under the influence of Pi, and I couldn’t
help but think I was having some kind of breathtaking
flashback. The one behind us managed to get off another shot as
he collapsed, striking Jake directly in the stomach; he leapt into
the air towards Bennett, trailing streams of red and yellow. He
caught my would-be druggist by the collar with one hand,
picked up my cheese grater with the other; raked it across
Bennett’s face, slowing him down long enough until Jake could
take my corkscrew and plunge it directly into B-boy’s temple.
He twisted, as if seeing what might come out.
   I huddled with Eulie, crouching in the corner. Jake stood in
front of us for a second or two as if admiring his handiwork,
holding his stomach. Bright and dark red blood oozed between
his trembling fingers. When he looked at us he smiled; terrible
teeth, but they didn’t seem to bother him.
   »Thank you,« he whispered; paused there for a second, and
then fell backwards, landing heavily upon the floor.
   »Eule,« I said, wondering if anyone could hear me. »You
there?«
   She nodded, and squeezed my hand in hers. As thrilling as it
had been to watch, the moment it was over I began feeling as if I
was going to shoot every cookie I had. Both of us stared at the
five bodies on the floor. I heard doors opening elsewhere in my
building, and footsteps. As we looked on, the corkscrew in
Bennett’s temple vanished, replaced by what appeared to be a
professional chef’s meat thermometer.
   »Let’s go,« both of us said. Stepping over Jake’s leavings, we
made it out into the hall, pushing past the old lady who lived
upstairs from me. We’d made the third floor landing before she
began to scream. We ran into no one else before we got outside;
and the moment we hit the sidewalk we took off toward Third
Avenue, toward the El. I didn’t hear any sirens yet, but they’d be
starting up soon enough. I was amazed by how much wind
power I had left, considering. As we got close to Third I heard a
train’s brakes grinding against the rails as it slowed, pulling into
the 18th Street station. With luck, I thought, we’d be able to
barrel upstairs and get on, whichever direction it was heading.
That didn’t happen, however; for just before we reached the
stairs leading up to the station, they disappeared – the stairs, the
train, the El itself; all gone, just like that.
    »Walter –«
    »I know.«
    We both looked up, and saw the same benign blue sky. As we
lowered our heads we watched the tenements at the corner, fully
visible for the first and only time, vanish; at once it was sup-
planted by some white-brick thing with sashless windows,
fifteen storeys taller. I glimpsed the light changing from orange
to blue, and then to red; and then to green.
    »It’s happening here, too,« I said. »But it’s different –«
    »Walter,« she said, »walk. Don’t run.«
    »Shouldn’t we –?«
    »As you note, it’s different.« She took my hand, and deliber-
ately slowed our pace to a gentle amble. »I’m tired of running.«
    So was I; we stopped long enough to catch our breath, and
watch what ensued. No one appeared to notice, or mind, any-
thing that was happening – and there were considerable trans-
formations in progress. We continued on, towards Park Ave-
nue. The long whirrr of a siren turned, as we listened, into a
whoop whoop whoop. Two little girls played hopscotch in front
of a small, basement-level dry cleaner’s. The little girls disap-
peared, as did the dry cleaner’s, replaced by what appeared to be
some kind of restaurant; Vietnamese, of all things. As we
crossed Park, heading toward Broadway, I remembered the
vision I’d had months earlier, of a New York that looked neither
like mine nor like Eulie’s, and began to think that I’d caught a
premonition of what was to be: Fortean phenomena, once more
working its wiles upon the unexpecting. She put her arm
around my waist as we walked, and I returned the favour. This
was about the most remarkable high I’d ever enjoyed. At
Broadway there was still a newsstand; now it was freestanding,
at the curb, and not attached to the side of the cafeteria. There
was no Sun, or Mirror, or Trib; the Times and News and Post
remained. A red and blue mailbox attached to a streetlight post
at the corner disappeared; the post itself changed from green
metal to matte aluminium. The cars in the street changed,
turning into the small coupes and oversized station wagons I’d
seen so briefly earlier. A piece of paper blew across the curb,
coming to rest at my feet. Hot dog stand, it read.
   Just before we reached Fifth Avenue, we both came to a stop;
while I remained the same inside, I could feel something begin-
ning to happen on the exterior. I’d never seen Eulie look as calm
as she now did. »Where are we going?« I asked.
   »I don’t know,« she said. »We’ll be there, wherever it is.«
   She began to fade from the sidewalk up. Although I didn’t
feel myself disappearing, I knew without looking that the same
was happening to me. She looked no more scared than I felt. I
can’t remember, precisely, what was going through my mind; it
was as if my memories were being replaced as well, although the
new ones were mine all the same as my old ones. I remembered
different teachers, back in Seattle; different friends, different
houses. No one noticed our transformations; they were chang-
ing as well, into a third world, one we always seemed to have
known, even as we discovered it. I’m not sure what there was
left to see of us after a few moments more; at that point, my
brothers, with smiles on our faces, we were going, going, go

When I opened my eyes she was there, lying next to me.
   Rain drummed against the window with child’s fingers, and
as I lay in bed I listened to the soothing swuussbbb of cars as
they slowly swung down Southern Street’s hill. Tankers’ fog-
horns echoed through the air across Puget Sound.
   Then I heard Eulie say, »Love you.« She slid her arm under
my neck, and shifted her weight until she pressed directly
against me, pulling up the covers until we were buried wholly
beneath them. We kissed. After a few minutes of kissing, we
made love.
   »It’s Saturday,« she said as I stood up, stretching out a hand,
letting it drop back down on the bed. »Where’re you going?«
   »Got to write,« I said. »Woke up with something in my
head.«
   »Jeez Louise,« she said, closing her eyes and smiling as she
repositioned herself into her pillow. »Get it out, for God’s sake.
You know what happens when you don’t.«
   I made myself coffee, good and strong. Then I walked into
the front room, sat down at my computer, turned it on and for a
minute or two looked at the screen, thinking of what should be
there; of what would be there, when I was done. Once a very
good friend of mine – another writer, needless to say – talked
about how he thought we went about writing the things we
wrote. It was, he said, like finding a magic place in childhood,
somewhere in dark woods. But there is no map, and no sure
way of reaching it the same way the next time, or of reaching it
at all. The path is always there, no question about that; but until
you come to it again you won’t know for certain if you’ll find
your way in, much less find your way out. All you could do was
head out every morning and see what turns up.
   That morning I closed my eyes as I sat in my chair, and
evoked anew what I had seen. The woods, the path, and what
lay on the other side, were all there in front of me. Having seen
this time what I needed to see, I started writing; and in time,
wrote all that you have read.
                 IN THE NEW WORLD




James Fitzgerald Kennedy, an egg well left unseeded. Expelled,
  unnoticed, in September, 1932.

Chloe Josefyn Kugelberg, whose spikes at the net are wonders
  to behold, guarantees without bragging that the Swedish
  beach volleyball team will head home with Olympic gold.
  Her favourite things are horsemeat sausage, salt licorice,
  cloudberry pie, the songs of Lee Hazlewood (especially Some
  Velvet Morning, as sung with Nancy Sinatra), and the but-
  tocks of Agnetha Falkstog, circa 1975.

Judetha TaShawn Williams, a.k.a Judy, Jude, Avalon, faced
  her finals at Stuyvesant, where she had since eighth-grade
  controlled the in-house drug circulation network. While at-
  tending Yale on scholarship, majoring in business, controlled
  the »White Triangle,« i.e. that portion of New England an-
  gled by New Haven, Boston and Manchester Center, Ver-
  mont through which (thanks to her far-sighted conceptuali-
  zation) travelled an estimated one-third of all heroin entering
  the United States. After being graduated from Wharton over-
  saw the development of her new web site, through which any
  drug could be effectively bought and delivered anywhere in
  the world within twenty-four hours. A year later, shortly be-
  fore announcing the date of her company’s IPO, she was
  killed by a Portuguese Water Dog as she prepared to cross
  Third Avenue at 86th Street. Chasing a ball, it leapt off a 38th-
  floor balcony. ARFUL! read the Post headline. The web site
  still exists, though no search engine will find it.

John Bonney felt much more capable of handling difficult life
  situations once he ramped up to a 300-milligram daily dose
  of Wellbutrin.

Leverett Saltonstall Gladstone was the male fatality in the sole
  recorded instance of mutual autoerotic asphyxiation. »We
  know very little about some aspects of human behaviour,« as
  J. C. Rupp, M.D. notes in his classic essay regarding a less
  elaborate case, The Love Bug (Journal of Forensic Sciences,
  Vol. 18, No. 3, July 1973).

Gogmagog St. John Bramhall Malloy lives with his lovely wife
  Allison and two children in the East End of London. As he
  rides the Jubilee Line into work each morning he thinks long
  and hard on how the neighbourhood used to be a halfway
  decent place until bloody fat bastard yuppies with their
  bloody mobiles started pouring in like cockroaches, making
  it fucking well difficult for sensible people to be able to get a
  bloody pint without having to hack a path through a wall of
  fat bastards who bloody well should have stayed in Cockfos-
  ters with their bloody assurance policies and Range Rovers
  where they bloody well belong instead of lowering the tone of
  Spitalfields and Hackney, and we won’t even talk about the
  Isle of Dogs. Works in the garden on weekends, knows his
  delphiniums. In low moments, fantasizes taking a torch to
  the Millennium Dome. He hacks into his blancmange in-
  stead, and is right as rain once more.

Elvis Presley, doornailed in body for lo these twenty-four years,
   enters no Kalamazoo 7-11s, drives no Chevy SUVs, shoots no
   TVs, eats no cheeseburgers, waits in no bank lines in Lincoln,
   Nebraska, pumps no gas outside Bellingham, Washington; he
   blesses no magdalenes, heals no lepers, embraces no cripples,
   rips not asunder the curtain of the temple and darkens there-
   fore no firmament. Nine hundred and seventeen restaurants
   around the world include on their menus dishes named after
   him. Some include bacon.

Isabel Bonney tested positive for tuberculosis on March 15,
   1997. Six weeks later received diagnosis of multiple-drug-
   resistant form, type W. Treatment initiated immediately.
   Was isolated at Roosevelt-St. Luke’s, in a room that looked as
   if it had been designed as the ultimate Phillipe Starck envi-
   ronment. Although AFB tests were foreseen to remain posi-
   tive for eight months to forever – depending – she converted
   to negative in four and a half weeks. Her doctor okayed re-
   lease on May 23. Went to St. Luke’s-Roosevelt every day for
   eighteen months afterwards for directly-observed therapy;
   there took 1200 mg ciprofloaxin, 750 mg ethionamide, 750
  mg cycloserin, 100 mg capreomycin injected into alternating
  hips, 900 mg isoniazid and 1200 mg myambutal daily. Devel-
  oped arthritis of the knee brought on by ciprofloaxin, devel-
  oped profound depression partially brought on by cycloserin
  (a.k.a. psychoserin, within the medical community), devel-
  oped stomach trouble, lassitude, narcolepsy and numerous
  other symptoms that may or may not have been psychoso-
  matic. Recovered, slowly. Finished chemotherapy after eight-
  een months, November 30 1998. Doctor proclaimed her to be
  well as she’d ever be. A year and a half later, she awoke one
  morning and at last felt returned to the world; no longer
  imagined she felt the rubber beneath the sheet, the dryness of
  constantly recirculated air; no longer saw the eyes of those
  who mattered above the masks; felt the uncontrollable
  coughing up blood, the 104-degree fever day in day out. No
  longer had the dreams. These terrible scenes were no longer
  any clearer than a tenth-generation videotape. They were
  only in her memory; she forgot them, deactivated them, she
  let them go; she removed them. She had the power, and she
  did it.

Vladimir Bulgarin, a.k.a Maliuta Skuratov, lives in Moscow
  and uses his 1974 Zhiguili to pick up those in need of rides.
  His standard rate is one ruble per kilometre. A drunken man
  from Trenton, New Jersey, once gave him a fifty-dollar bill
  over the protests of equally drunken Russian friends, but it
  was one of the new fifties and banks refused to accept it. He
  has lost nineteen teeth, his wife refuses to sleep with him. On
  days when he tires of driving he sometimes goes to the new
  underground mall in Manezh Square, listens to the instru-
  mental music half-heard over speakers in the ceiling, and
  gazes at ceramic statues of Mafia thugs hollering into mo-
  biles. Although he is loathe to admit it, he liked it better
  when you could call strangers comrade.

Oktobriana Osipova, with her mother, emigrated at age 15 to
  the United States. Worked, briefly, as a flashdancer in Kear-
  ney, New Jersey, employing the professional name Platynym
  Card. Quit after refusing to have breast implants, telling her
  boss she had no desire to be a broiler chick, i.e. factory-
  enhanced. She had no greater desire to work as a cosmetolo-
  gist, fast-food employee, court interpreter, or waitress. With
  good old Russian know-how borrowed a Powerbook 145 and
  successfully hacked into Chase, NatWest, FirstUnion and
  Citibank N.A. deducted five cents from each account at every
  bank. FBI team arriving at her Brighton Beach studio found
  the remnants of a charred female corpse, not hers. Spontane-
  ous human combustion ruled out as cause of death. The sus-
  pect’s present whereabouts, the institution or institutions to
  which she made electronic transferrals, and the total amount
  transferred from all banks remain unknown. Those who have
  studied the case believe that wherever she is, she is content
  with her lot.

Dr Alexander Amoldovitch Alekhine, after the fall of the
  Soviet Union, moved from the field of ferrous metals to that
  of bartending. You may find him working the 6 to 2 shift at a
  bar called Pizdyetz, on Clinton Street between Rivington and
  Delancey in »happenin’« LoEaSi (as some in the neighbour-
  hood have taken to calling it, although none who have lived
  there longer than six months). His claim to fame is a brutal
  mixture of three parts Ketel One vodka, one part Chambord
  liqueur, one part Everclear grain alcohol, topped off with
  Ocean Spray cran-raspberry juice, stirred (not shaken) and
  served over finely-crushed ice. (A similar drink is served at
  finer Moscow establishments, Hermes men’s cologne substi-
  tuting in some cases for the grain alcohol.) He calls it a Red
  Mercury.

Norman Quarles, who during his Army days played bass
  clarinet in James Reese Europe’s famed marching band, re-
  turned to the U.S. in time to die of the flu during the great
  pandemic of 1918-1919 that killed, among others, Randolph
  Bourne, Gustav Klimt, Egon Schiele, and two of the three
  children who’d witnessed the sun stand still at Fatima. Nor-
  man’s father had wanted him to be a Pullman porter, but
  Norman had other ideas. His father never found out what
  they were.

Wanda Carroll [Quarles, in some pasts] applied for a job as a
 charwoman at the Empire State Building. The hiring agency
 chose not to hire a Negro, and she was, happenstance, not
 killed when a twin-engine B-25 Army bomber crashed into
 the 78th floor of the structure on July 28, 1945. She found
 employment instead as a charwoman at 44 Broadway, had
 three children, and outlived them all.
Luther Biggerstaff, never married, served as a quartermaster in
  the New York National Guard, bought a house in Staten Is-
  land, had a heart attack in his driveway in 1998, died while
  his dog, a Toy Manchester Terrier, licked at his ears.

Avi Schwartz wasn’t.

Bernard Pearlstein, a dentist, specializes in preparing multiple
  crowns and fixed bridges. Lives with his wife and two chil-
  dren in Upper Montclair, New Jersey. Used Nair on the
  backs of his hands until the use of rubber gloves became
  mandatory. He loves the smell of novocaine.

Gus Gleason, for a number of years, could have been working
  in an unofficial capacity for Gus Bevona, one-time head of
  Local 32B-32G. Knows all the words to »Stickin’ With the
  Union.« A good man to have around when an iron pipe
  needed to be swung in the dark. Presently serving twenty to
  thirty-five upstate, he could be out in three.

Lester Macaffrey would liked to have been a doctor but became
  a mortician instead, finding employment at W.H. Milward in
  Lexington, Kentucky. Loves to pore over old issues of Casket
  and Sunnyside, and perceives in the names of preparation
  dyes an almost epiphanic euphony. Sometimes, lying in his
  bed at night, in the small apartment off Newtown Road
  where he lives, he lets them roll over the tongue in his mind:
  eosin, erythrosine, ponceau, fluorescein, amaranth, carmine.
  Sometimes he thinks he hears voices, but chalks it up to the
  stress of living in interesting times.
Joanna, who never uses her last name among friends, lives on
  the Vermont side of Lake Champlain. She worked as a senior
  manager at Chemical Bank for twenty years until it merged
  with Chase Manhattan and she was laid off. Having invested
  wisely, she was prepared. Soon after moving she believed,
  one morning, she saw the legendary lake monster known as
  »Champ« (thought, by cryptozoologists, to be a surviving
  representative of Zeuglodon) but everybody she told smiled,
  when she told them. She has twenty-seven cats. At night, in
  dreams, she flies.

Elmer Thatcher Dryden, Sr. Lived, briefly, in Nicholasville,
  Kentucky. In 1964, age 18, he decided to see how high he
  could get if he mixed bourbon and phenobarbital and then
  huffed two tubes of Testor’s Airplane Glue. He found out. At
  the service the minister, trying to assuage the mourners, as-
  sured them that sometimes God’s plans are not for us to
  know. »Well,« his mother said, after the service, passing eve-
  ryone thick slices of transparent pie once the chicken was
  gone, »Surprised he lasted this long.« His father might have
  cried, had he still been alive, but he wasn’t. His third wife
  shot him in 1959. Alcohol might have been involved.

Susie North (Dryden), married a fellow worker at the 53rd
  Street Doubleday in 1980, having initially gained his atten-
  tion by climbing the store’s spiral staircase, wearing a short
  dress, while he was stationed directly below. A year after their
  marriage she assured her husband that Thorazine was »sort
  of like Valium.« After she left him, two years after that, he
  was sorting through her belongings when he found, secreted
  throughout their apartment, thirty-seven spiral-bound
  school notebooks. In each notebook she had written and re-
  written, on every page, the same sexual fantasy: one involving
  herself, a 103 degree fever, a rectal thermometer, five jars of
  Fox’s U-Bet Syrup, a jumping rope in which seven granny
  knots had been tied, Sylvia Plath’s poem Elm, a baby-doll
  nightgown (peach) with open-crotched panties (mauve), a
  porthole in a luxury cabin on a cruise ship, Spanish extra vir-
  gin olive oil, and long-time Boston cult sensation Jonathan
  Richman. Years later, he found himself unable to think »all
  work and no play makes Jack a dull boy« without feeling
  heartfelt memories of his ex-wife.

E. Thatcher Dryden, Jr see Senior.

E. Thatcher Dryden III, see Junior.

ALICE is a gleam in the eye of a C++ programmer who lives, in
  his car, in Menlo Park; and who has read Neuromancer far,
  far too many times.

Margot Lorenzo Fadilla tires of explaining to her fellow
 sophomores at Hunter College that she is a physically chal-
 lenged little person: not a dwarf, or a midget, or a freak; and
 that her name is neither Shorty, Tiny, Teeny, Peewee, Thum-
 belina, Tater Tot, El Loco Petito, or Fabulutmost Shrimp-
 meister. In chat rooms, in the evening, she is blonde, and
 five-foot six.
Enid O’Malley, twenty-one, lives with her mother in Ridge-
  wood, Queens, and has twenty-four different piercings (lip,
  underlip, left nostril, right nostril, four in left ear, seven in
  right ear, left eyebrow, right eyebrow, left nipple, right nip-
  ple, navel, hood of clitoris, left labia majora, right labia ma-
  jora, tongue). Misses the Duchess Club, but remains popular
  with the ladies. She favours steel-toed boots and her favorite
  novel is Bernard Wolfe’s Limbo. She plans to switch her ma-
  jor from English to Business, in case.

Seamus O’Malley, a confirmed bachelor, walks yet never stops
  on Christopher Street. He avoids seeing his sister, Enid,
  whose lifestyle he frowns upon. He believes he would do rea-
  sonably well in the world of his favourite movie, The Road
  Warrior, and thinks he would look more like Mel Gibson if
  his eyes weren’t so beady and his ears so big, although he
  wouldn’t. In his workaday life he happily ascends the ranks at
  Big Apple Demolition, and has also developed a thriving
  sideline trade selling, on eBay stained glass, gold and copper
  fixtures, marble sinks and tubs, teak and mahogany wood-
  work, plaster mouldings rescued in situ, chandeliers, sconces,
  iron gates, lengths of tin cornice, stone gargoyles and gro-
  tesques and (when lucky) cast-iron storefront. Like most
  New Yorkers, though perhaps for different reasons, he never
  passes the Chrysler Building without heaving a sigh.

Jake, like Isabel, persists.
Walter Bullitt is a novelist whose seven books are generally
 considered to be science fiction (which may be so), and
 popularly believed to be written with the assistance of chemi-
 cals (perhaps self-generated). Deeply appreciated by a cult
 audience, most of whom he believes he personally knows.
 Five of his titles have been much read in Slovakia.

Eulalia Bax married Walter. They live happily in West Seattle,
  on S.W. Southern St. where Walter has easy access to the
  ferry to Vachon Island, and its mushrooms.

Lola Hart still thinks Titanic was the best movie she ever saw.
  Her girlfriend (who attends Nightingale, not Brearley, but
  these things can’t be helped) is more of a Kate than a Leo.