Magic Time

by Marc Scott Zicree

  Neither had attempted to kindle a light, though Wilma had candles. “What happened to me, what happened to Sonny, and Andy, and the other guys that left . . . what happened to you.”

  He touched her hand. The cats, who had padded soundlessly into the front room when Wilma had come through the door, lay across the foot of the bed and over the threshold, blinking their golden eyes. They’d always been fond of Hank, who had in times past muttered ill of them as their numbers multiplied and he himself had played less and less a part in Wilma’s life.

  Now he stroked Imp’s head and chuckled a little as he said, “I never seen anybody move so fast in my life.”

  “I was scared for you,” said Wilma. “And Carl Souza never had a lick of sense with that gun of his.”

  “No,” said Hank. “That wasn’t just . . . ‘scared.’ What happened? To you, I mean?” He regarded her with round opal eyes. “Are you okay?”

  Wilma nodded. “I think so,” she said, interested that Hank alone could see the change in her. Perhaps it was because Hank had changed so terribly himself. “I’m not . . . I don’t hurt anywhere. And I don’t know what happened. Something.” She ran her hand along Dinah’s back as the elderly calico climbed into her lap.

  “You always were different,” Hank said softly. “I mean, it never showed. I’m glad it’s had a chance to finally come out, whatever it is.”

  Around them, the town was falling silent at last, exhausted men and women returning to their homes, locking the doors, blowing out candles and lamps. Now and then Wilma would hear disjointed exclamations as people came home to find that the grunters had raided their kitchens, their back-porch freezers and cupboards—exclamations of anger and alarm, for who knew when trucks would be coming into the grocery stores again? But mostly there was silence, in which the singing of the crickets was undisturbed by even the whisper of cars on the road or the far-off roar of airplanes in the sky.

  “Thank you.” Hank touched her hand again and took his as quickly away. “I roughed up Sonny and Andy and the others in the mine pretty bad. They may get over it, and they may not, but right now I think that’s not a good place for me to be.”

  “Do you want to go back?” she asked.

  He stared into the darkness, stroking the cat, his face in repose once again, curiously still Hank’s face. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “In a lot of ways . . . it’s quiet. There’s too much noise up here. Too many people. I always was a hermit, you know.” And she laughed, because that was one of the things he’d grown angry at her about: she had too many friends, too much family. Too many things that took her from him. She was always out, always doing. “Too much going on. Under the ground it’s . . . it’s simple. But just because I don’t like everybody don’t mean I want to spend the rest of my life with Sonny Grimes. There’s people up here I love.”

  “I know,” said Wilma.

  Their eyes met. “What does it mean?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know what any of it means,” she said. “But whatever happens . . .”

  Her hand closed around his, and for a moment they sat in the darkness, looking at one another with changed and seeing eyes. She saw Hank’s nostrils flare and knew that he, like she, sniffed the coming of dawn.

  The first new day, she thought, of the rest of . . . what?

  “Whatever happens,” she finished, “things are not going to be the same.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  NEW YORK

  Patrick Francis listened to the night.

  It was silent outside now, which was a relief, considering the crescendo of shattering and screams earlier. He hadn’t even ventured to look through the window, just hunkered in the darkness, cradling Oreo as the little black-and-white terrier trembled and whined, stroking him and assuring him that it would all be okay.

  Not that Patrick felt any such assurance himself.

  He’d been up when the earthquake, or whatever it was, had struck, had been up all night, in fact, working on the De Vries documentary, running the tapes. This latest stuff was terrific. Patrick had begun the questions innocently enough, something on Crime Boss, then had led the elderly director into the more sensitive area of his marriage to Velinda Lane, the greatest of his leading ladies, and the most tragic. And incredibly, Anton had opened up, revealed details he’d never told anyone before.

  It was all so incredibly rewarding, this journey he’d embarked on a year and a half ago, set in motion by a chance meeting at a dinner party. The one-eyed old man in his wheelchair had been so taciturn at first, so glitteringly acid. But as they had come to know each other, as trust had been painstakingly built, Anton had opened to him like a puzzle box, revealing mystery upon mystery. The great noir director, unspooling his visions of a world in chaos, a universe of random, cruel coincidence. Chance meetings that led to anguish and death.

  He wondered what Anton would have to say about today’s events. Thank God he was at that festival honoring him in Lausanne. Patrick hoped and trusted that it was out of the danger zone, but, thanks to the phones being out, he had not been able to confirm it.

  But Anton was a survivor, as the Nazis had discovered before he’d ventured to Hollywood and nine wives had learned since. He could hear that familiar, Hungarian-accented croak now, chiding him, “Worry about your own ass.”

  Okay, he’d do that and tell himself the current situation was just a speed bump on the road, nothing to get too bent out of shape about. Thankfully, he’d had the computer off when it had hit, lost none of his notes or transcripts.

  Oreo was staring up at him now, an acute, querying look in his eye. It had been hours since they’d ventured outside, and the little dog was long past due. Patrick cocked an ear toward the door. All quiet on the western front.

  Quickly, he leashed Oreo up, threw open the door and stepped out into the warm night air. Instantly, the terrier pulled to the nearest minute square of grass and let go. Blissful relief. Dogs were so simple, they brought things down to the basics—love and need, hunger and fear. Pure primal emotions, the same as in Anton’s films. Black and white simplicity.

  Oreo continued, intent, inquisitive, drawn by the panoply of scents. Patrick grew nervous as they drew near a familiar gingerbread grotesquerie, its windows black fathomless eyes. Sam Lungo was the last thing they needed tonight, erupting like some demented figure from a cuckoo clock, ranting and cursing.

  Patrick drew Oreo to the far side of the street, breathed a sigh as they cleared the property. The little dog paused at a railing, seemingly magnetized, again lifted his leg.

  He stopped abruptly. Hackles rising, he began barking wildly.

  “Sign says curb your dog,” a voice behind Patrick purred, husky as a semi engine. “But I guess it’s too dark to read.”

  Startled, Patrick turned and found himself craning his neck up at a dark, angular face. He gasped and stepped back. At first, he thought it might be a mask; no face could truly look like that.

  But as he peered closer—Oreo pulling madly on the leash, barking crazily—Patrick saw it was real, indisputably so, even in the moonlight.

  And God, it looked evil. The bones of the man’s face were spiking out from under the skin, and the skin itself erupted from eyes and nose and mouth in reptilian patterns like bizarre, relief-map tattoos. His shiny black hair flared in a wild spray off his head, scales interspersing it like the devil’s own cornrow.

  Patrick began edging back toward his apartment, dragging Oreo. The dog kept up an insistent growling, barking and baring of teeth at the other, who broke into an easy stride behind them.

  “This your regular route?” he asked in an offhand tone.

  “Yeah,” Patrick fought to keep his voice even, not stopping. Oreo was ballistic, a wolverine. Primal emotions, pure simplicity.

  “Good,” the other said ominously. “I just wanted to be sure.”

  A world of chaos. A universe of random, cruel coincidence.

  Patrick stopped and turned, facing the nightmar
e. “Listen,” he said over the ear-ringing, staccato yelps. “I live right over there. I just want to go home.”

  “Who doesn’t?” the other’s voice was affable. He gestured toward the flat. “Be my guest.”

  Hauling Oreo, Patrick hurried toward the brownstone, his eyes fixed on the other, who stood motionless. Finally, he reached the building, turned to the door.

  There was a rush of sound behind him, Oreo screeched in frenzy and fear, and Patrick felt a wet agony in his back, a slashing that severed skin and meat. He heard the crack of bone and gave a truncated cry, fell crashing onto the pavement.

  It’s like a movie, he thought, and felt the absurdity of it, and the truth. Oreo’s cries sounded distant now, muffled, as sensation faded, the last frame threaded through, the projector light damped. And then his mind and heart were stilled.

  Stern rose from his work, exultant. To begin a thing and end it, to conceive and execute. It was delightfully straightforward, elegantly simple. And best of all, it was just the beginning.

  The little dog was howling mournfully, backed against the doorframe. Stern stepped over the broken, wet form on the concrete and approached it. Its eyes grew huge, and it pressed itself back into the wood, dropped its voice to a whimper. Stern extended one long, clawed hand, dripping glistening red.

  “Nice boy,” he said and patted the dog’s head.

  Colleen Brooks gripped the rough iron railing on the fire-escape landing across from Doc’s warehouse, glaring out at the night. Below, the shadowed street angled off toward the faint sheen of the Hudson, and everything was so still it was as if she were in a model of the city, not real at all.

  “Why’d you tell me this? Why the hell are you telling me this?”

  Cal Griffin stood behind her, saying nothing. But then he had said enough.

  The Magnet Man. Bullets falling like little turds . . .

  She wheeled suddenly, reaching toward his head. He caught her wrist, stopping her.

  “I want to see how hard that guy hit you,” she said.

  He released her, scowling. “Not that hard.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe we oughtta have Doc Moscow be the judge. . . . Jeez, Cal, don’t you know how this sounds?”

  He nodded somberly, and somehow his very seriousness made her all the more angry.

  “Shit.” She turned from him again, considered the night. Dawn was coming on soon, the sky was inching lighter. She caught a silhouette of movement, discerned a hawk hanging in the air, its wings spread like great fingers. Did it see a changed world, or the same one, as far as its needs were concerned?

  All that had happened today tumbled through Colleen’s mind, the stalled elevators and blackened stairwells; the long trek past the miles of dead cars and trucks; hearing that cop’s bellows in the night and wading swinging into that mob; that weird, dark clump of odd-shaped kids-who-might-not-have-been-kids moving fast down shrouded streets. . . .

  And the pale, delicate girl, whom she hadn’t really even met yet, on the mattress across the street, burning up with fever.

  Colleen felt suddenly as she did in those dreams that assaulted her on so many nights, where she’d be working in a shaft atop a secured car and the joists abruptly gave way and she was falling, plunging into a bottomless shaft, back in that awful helpless child place where there was nothing she could do but hold on tight and fall endlessly into the blackness.

  Was she angry because she didn’t believe him, or because she did?

  She knew the answer.

  So what to do now? Sit in the dark with the windows drawn, like Rory, shutting out the world? The world was always right there with you; you couldn’t outrun it, not really. By choosing or not choosing, you made your world, and your life. There was no standing still—or sitting still, for that matter, despite what Rory might say, there in his Barcalounger as the hours and days and years melted away.

  And the image returned to her of the lobby this morning, before the storm came down, and the young man in the suit speaking up for her when no one would. And later, when he asked if she needed anything. And later still, when he asked without asking for her help.

  Maybe she was falling; maybe they all were. But they could choose to fall together, perhaps somehow even stop the fall, or at least slow it.

  “I DON’T NEED MORE CRAZINESS IN MY LIFE!!!” She shouted at the night, and it rang off the buildings.

  But then, they hadn’t asked her, had they?

  She turned back to Cal and was gratified to see his mouth hanging open. “Okay, I believe it, every last fucking bit of it.” She dragged her fingers through her short hair. “I mean, it’s not as if a lawyer would lie. . . .”

  He smiled then, and she liked what it did to his face.

  The sound of a metal door creaking open echoed down the corridor of street, drew their attention. Doc stood in his doorway far below, bidding them return.

  They descended the iron stairs, as the second day began.

  Sam just didn’t know what to do with himself.

  Pacing in the airless, cluttered living room, so alive with shadows and ghosts, frozen in time, he awaited Ely’s return.

  A genie. His genie. To do whatever Sam commanded. And what had he wished for, so ardently desired, after the endless humiliations, the long, yearning years of frustration?

  He had fantasized so many times in his loneliness, scrawled tiny, cramped miles of notes. All the shifting population of his life, the denizens of his street who swarmed like rats. How delicious, how dreamily satisfying to kill them all, one by one, ever so slowly, to maim and mangle them and, at last, at last, to make them pay. Judgment day.

  But now here it was. And when he had shown Ely the infinity of notepads, indicated the offenses and slights, babbling his cherished daydreams, he found his exhilaration cooling to . . .

  Fear.

  This was no fantasy now; no, no, this was real. And to really do what he had longed for, why, why . . .

  It would be monstrous.

  He had tried to backpedal then. He just wanted Ely to scare them, really, to make them feel small and helpless and ridiculous, as they had made him feel so many, many times.

  But Ely, towering over him like some gaunt god of scarecrows and desolation, had merely snatched the pad from him and chuckled. Then he had risen like an avenging angel and departed.

  Sam contemplated running after him, overtaking him in the night-splashed street. But then the image of the one who had chased down Ely before, whom Ely had seized and sent hurtling to break against a wall, came to him with sickening vividness and shattered his resolve.

  He fidgeted in his room in an agony of waiting, unable to be still, sweat gleaming on his brow and lip, saturating his armpits; his own smell disgusted him.

  Then, after ten, fifteen minutes at most, he heard the frenzied barking, the awful shriek of what he knew must be a man, and other appalling sounds—like someone cracking wish-bones, but much louder. Terrified, furious, he tried to block it out, tried to convince himself that whoever it was, they deserved it. But the conceit wouldn’t hold. A dreadful nausea stole over him, and the room tilted, strobing pinpoints of light flashing before him in the darkness. He sat down on the velvet settee, breathing hard. Then he gained control of himself.

  He might have gone to the window, gained final certainty, but there was no need. He knew.

  Now a heavy trudging sounded, and Sam realized Ely was returning. Sam’s heart raced, his breath came fast and shallow, and suddenly he remembered the rest of Thief of Baghdad: how the genie, once released, had proven malevolent, how it had been impossible to get him back into the bottle, how what he had wanted to do more than anything was to kill.

  For the first time in forever, Sam desperately wanted Mother there, wished he could summon her hard, merciless spirit back from the grave, to stand between him and this malignant force he had so recklessly invited into his home.

  Outside, the porch slats groaned as Stern stepped onto them. Sam was seized with a wi
ld urge to rush to the door, throw the bolt, lock it tight. But that would only make Ely angry, and it wouldn’t stop him.

  The footfalls ceased. Silence, only the crickets in the night. Sam held his breath.

  The doorbell rang.

  Under it, another sound erupted in the room, and Sam was laughing, giggling hysterically.

  Ely was one for details, oh, indeed he was, such a precise touch, so taunting, so scornful... and so clearly a summons.

  The cruel meaning of it fell in on Sam like the roof collapsing, like the weight of rafters. Here was no liberator, no deliverance, merely another tormentor, the crowning one, without peer. Oh, it was funny, to die for . . .

  Tears sprang to Sam’s eyes, stinging, and he found his laughter turning to shrieks, which he stifled, panic blossoming like a wound in him. His feet leaden, he walked to the door, threw it open.

  Stern stood on the threshold, his incredible bulk filling the doorway. He stepped through, ducking his head under the frame. Sam moved aside, making room, and then eased the door shut.

  He saw that Ely was holding something out to him. A leash, a short leash.

  “That pooch can run with the wolves now,” Stern said. Taking the leash, Sam found it sticky with congealing liquid. Then he spied Stern’s carmine-soaked hands.

  “I’ll try not to touch anything,” Stern mocked.

  Crazily, needing to say anything to stop from screaming, Sam found himself murmuring, “Bloodstains are a terror to get out.”

  “You should read Heloise,” Stern replied and swept through the living room toward the bathroom.

  Woodenly, imprisoned, Sam fetched a pitcher of water, found Stern before the mirror, stripped to the waist, appraising himself in the glow of the oil lamp. Sam could see that he hadn’t been imagining things; Ely was even larger than he had been before running his dread errand, bonier and more muscular, his face continuing to extend, his skin to roughen. Skeletal projections erupted at surprising points all over his torso, and Sam noted odd protrusions beginning to press out below Ely’s shoulder blades. I’m becoming, Stern had said. He most certainly was.