"I can give it one research day, that's all. Then I have to get back to my work."
"Okay. So I'll call you tomorrow night."
"You can't call me. There's no phones…"
"I'll call you there, Vincenzo. Right where you are now. The Prof will bring you back again, pick you up at your office tomorrow at closing time. Okay?"
"All right."
The Prof came back on the line. "You find your thrill in the hills yet, man?"
"Still looking. Thanks for t.c.b. on Vincenzo. Can you bring him back tomorrow night? Same time?"
"I say what I mean, I mean what I say, and those who don't listen, they'd better pray."
86
ALMOST TEN when I tapped on Blossom's door. Wearing a T–shirt that reached almost to her knees, feet bare. Her hair was tied in a loose knot on top of her head. I followed her back to the kitchen.
There was a black plastic ashtray on the kitchen table. I lit a smoke while she brewed coffee. One of the caterpillars had formed a cocoon. "What kind are they?" I asked.
"Black swallowtails. Beautiful big things. Long–distance fliers."
"How come you do that…raise butterflies?"
"When I was a kid, I used to try and catch them. The way kittens do. Not to be vicious, just chasing them because they're so pretty. My mother explained it to me. If you love something, you don't crush it. You can't hug a butterfly. She got me some caterpillars. Monarchs, they were. I remember, they only lived on milkweed. I learned patience, watching them eat, get fat, spin their cocoons. When the butterfly comes out, it's never so lovely as it is then. They come out wet. That's when they're most vulnerable. Until the powder dries on their wings and they can take to the sky. You hold them right on your fingers. They trust you then. Let them flap their wings until they're ready. Then you raise your hand and they fly away. I bring the cocoons into the hospital. On the children's ward. It's so good for them to see something get better. Fly away."
"I tried something like that once."
"Butterflies?"
"No. One foster home I was in. Out on Long Island. The old lady who ran the place, she had these rose bushes that she loved. Her pride and joy. All different kinds. That summer, we had this attack of Japanese beetles. What they do is eat rose bushes. Mrs. Jensen, she sprayed and sprayed. Tried everything. But the beetles kept on coming. It was breaking her heart."
She brought her cup to the kitchen table, holding it in two hands, watching.
"I was just a kid. Tried picking off the beetles, one at a time. But it didn't do any good—they just kept coming. So I went to the library. Looked up Japanese beetles. I found out they had what you call a natural enemy. Praying mantis. You ever see one?"
She nodded.
"Anyway, the praying mantis, it makes a cocoon. Like your caterpillars, but much bigger. Heavy strands like fiber, light brownish color. About half the size of a golf ball. I found some in a field near her house. Spent days collecting them. Put each one in a mason jar. I figured, one giant praying mantis would come out of each one. I'd hatch them, put them on the rose bushes. Have them stand guard."
"What happened?"
"When the first one hatched, it wasn't one praying mantis, it was like thousands of them. Little tiny things. So small you could hardly see them. Then I was stuck. See, I knew that birds would eat the little ones. But if I left them in the jar where they'd be safe, they'd starve to death. So I poured the whole jar over the rose bushes. When each one hatched, I did the same."
"Did it work?"
"Oh yeah. I poured out so many of the little suckers that the birds couldn't deal with them all. We had wall–to–wall praying mantises. They whacked every Japanese beetle for miles. When they get their growth, they're huge. Those front paws, hell, you could really feel them when they grabbed. So Mrs. Jensen's rose bushes were safe. But you couldn't go outside without getting dive–bombed by the praying mantises. They were all over the place. On the bushes. In the trees. In the house. All over the cars. The neighbors wanted to murder me."
"Sounds like you went overboard." She chuckled.
"Mrs. Jensen, she stood up for me. Said I meant well. I was only a little boy."
"She sounds like a fine woman."
"She was."
"Did she raise you?"
"No. I was only there for the summer. The State raised me."
"Are your parents dead?"
"I don't know. Never met them."
"Oh."
"You can get that sappy look off your face. You don't miss what you never had."
"You don't know my looks. You don't know what they mean. And folks do miss what they never have. They do it all the time. Now tell me what you found out."
87
LATER, I WAS on the couch in her living room. Blossom was curled up at the other end.
"Why are you in this?" she asked.
"Virgil's my brother."
"I understand that. But you came to help Lloyd, right? I know he's been arrested and all, but nobody thinks he did it. Why don't you go back home?"
"I could never explain it to you. The guy who did this, I know him. Not his name. I was raised with humans like him. I know why he does it."
"You want to stop him before he does it again?"
"I'm no hero. That's not it. I told you, I can't explain it."
She slid closer on the couch, voice quiet. "Cyndi tell you what I told her? About you?"
"To stay away from me?"
"Yes. She tell you why?"
"Not exactly."
"You're a trouble–man, Mr. Burke."
"What's that?"
"There's men who walk on the edge because they like the way it feels under their feet. Risk–takers."
"That's not me."
"Yes. Yes, it is. You've got the mark. Clear as a signpost. It's got nothing to do with bravery. But wherever you go, there's trouble. Trouble for somebody."
"You don't know me."
"And you don't know the sniper?"
I dragged on my smoke to have something to do. Thought it through. "I won't be around here long."
She stood up. Held out her hand to me. "You'll be around here till it gets light anyway."
88
IN HER BEDROOM, she pulled the T–shirt over her head and stepped into my chest, tilting her face up. Her lips were full and rich. Swollen. I kissed her softly, my hands trailing down her back. Her skin had a fine sheen of powder and sweat. Her arms came up, linked around my neck. She leaned back, one bare foot on my shoe. Her breasts were small, round perfect things, tiny nipples dark against the milky flesh.
Blossom pushed my jacket off my shoulders, opened the buttons on my shirt with a pickpocket's touch. She sat on the bed while I pulled off the rest of my clothes. Held out her hand again. Pushed me onto my back on the bed. Got to her feet. Hooked thumbs in the waistband of her powder–blue panties and pulled them down to her thighs. Bent at the waist as she stepped out of them. Came onto the bed again, her face in my neck. I gazed down the line of her back. Her ankles were slim, calf muscles standing out strong. A woman who spent a lot of time on her feet. Her buttocks swelled from a tiny waist. I patted her, feeling the firm flesh bounce back against me.
"It's a handful, huh?"
"Bigger than I would've thought."
"I had to learn how to walk to keep it down. Boys used to follow me home from school."
"I would have, I saw all this in motion."
She slid one leg over mine, trailing wetness. Kissed me deep, tongue curling up against the back of my top teeth. Her hand found me. "You left something in your clothes," she whispered. "Go get it."
"What?"
She propped herself up on her elbows, regarding me with those searchlight eyes. "Don't tell me…"
"What?"
"Why do you carry that pistol, trouble–man?"
"For protection."
"Yeah. You wouldn't leave home without it. That the only kind of protection you can think of?"
"Oh."
"Yeah. Oh. You have any or not?"
"Not."
Her little fist thumped me lightly on the chest. "Nice work, boy. You get lucky enough to come along when I'm having an estrogen–fit, then you blow it."
"Speaking of which…"
"Forget it. What year do you think this is? I didn't go to medical school to have some strange man playing with my life. I don't know where you've been."
"I…"
"Don't even tell me. A stiff cock's got no conscience."
"Your mother tell you that?"
"Matter of fact, she did. Best time to ask a man for a favor is just before he comes."
"When's the best time for a woman?"
"Just after." A gentle twist to her mouth, playing with a smile.
I cupped my hands behind my head. Looked at the ceiling. "How long do these estrogen–fits of yours last?"
Her full smile bloomed in the darkness. "Not long enough for you to find a drugstore, you dope. You know anything about women?"
"Not much."
A faint coppery smell came off her body. She nuzzled against my neck. Whispered, "Wait here." Like I was going anywhere. I watched her walk out of the bedroom. She didn't bother to keep it down. Cyndi could have taken lessons.
I closed my eyes. Felt her hand on me. Slick and wet. A long fingernail trailed down my shaft. Electricity ran from my spine to the back of my neck.
"You found something?" I asked her.
"Like what?"
"I don't know. A diaphragm, foam…something." Not saying anything about the vasectomy I'd had years ago…like I'd told her too much, somehow.
"Feel this," she said, guiding my fingertips to her upper arm. Five tiny little lines, fan–shaped under the skin.
"What is it?" I asked her.
"Progestin. Best birth–control chemical there is. Each implant is a time–release bar. The whole thing's good for about five years. Unless you weigh more than a hundred and fifty–four pounds. You think I'm a good risk?" Patting her butt, smiling.
"You're well on the safe side."
"You're not exactly a silver–tongued devil, are you, boy? Anyway, this version's called Norplant. It just got FDA approval—I was one of the volunteers they tested it on. No ugly side effects like the Pill."
"So why…?"
"I know how to keep from having babies. Know what to do if that doesn't work too. You never heard about Safe Sex?"
"Sure." I didn't tell her where I first heard about it. From a child molester. Safe for him.
He thought.
Her hand stroked. I opened my eyes a slit. White fluffy bath towel lying on the bed.
"That isn't going to work," I told her. "I haven't gotten off like that since I was a kid."
"Shhh, baby. Close your eyes. I'll tell you a story."
She whispered all I'd missed out on, coming to her house without protection. Whispered and stroked and teased and played and chuckled.
Then she spread the towel over me, curled up against me, and we slept together.
89
I WOKE UP to the sound of the shower. Wrapped the towel around me, went into the kitchen, lit a smoke. Heard the bathroom door open. Found Blossom seated at her dressing table, working some cream into her face. She nodded her head at the bathroom, concentrating.
The place was full of steam, mirror fogged. I took a shower with the liquid soap she left there in a clear push–top bottle. Washed my hair with shampoo I found in a black squeeze tube. Put on last night's clothes.
Blossom was still in the bedroom, still fussing with her face when I came back.
"I don't want you to take this the wrong way," she said, "but I can be saying this only once. I'm not mad at you. There's nothing wrong. But I can't talk to people in the morning when I first get up. I need to be with myself. It's okay if you stay, do what you want. There's food inside. But don't talk to me till I talk to you, okay?"
"Okay."
She was letting me see pieces of her—the ones she wanted held up to the light. No more today. I walked out. It was still before rush hour—it only took me twenty minutes to get back to the motel, even with stopping at a drugstore.
90
I SEPARATED OUT my dry cleaning, stuffed underwear and socks into the laundry bag Rebecca had given me. Showered again, shaved, changed my clothes. Time to work.
Called Sherwood from the car. "Want to meet me someplace?"
"Okay. You know your way around?"
"I can find you."
"The Police Community Relations Outpost. It's on Twenty–fifth, just off Broadway. In about an hour."
"I was hoping for a little more privacy."
His laugh was a bass rumble.
91
I TURNED THE Lincoln onto Broadway, motored past the Y&W Drive–In Theatre. Glanced at the marquee: first–run flicks, no slasher–porn. Still in Merrillville. I crossed the line into Gary at Fifty–third. The stores got closer together, muscling each other for sidewalk room. Package joints, tire stores, BBQ, brick–fronted bars, shoeshine, barbershops. An abandoned gas station. Pizza parlors, law offices, auto body shops. A dozen different dumps with "Lounge" after some name. XXX video stores. Signs: Go–Go Dancers Wanted. Burlesque. Pool–room. Ladies Welcome. Exotic Dancers. Hand–painted, red letters: LIVE GIRLS.
I thought of the Ghost Van.
I crossed into Glen Park, where even the billboards turned Afro. Fast food, ribs and chicken. Sex shops, private booths, a quarter a play. Storefront churches. Check cashing. Pawnshops. Bible Book Center Tattoo parlor. A closed–front store advertising Swingers' Supplies and Marital Aids.
They probably got the last word right.
At Twenty–sixth a sign: Welcome to Gary. Sherwood's home ground.
I hung a left on Twenty–fifth. The Police Community Relations sign hung limply from a bombed–out ruin, rusted metal gates padlocked across its face. A black unmarked Ford parked in front, conspicuous as a pigeon among peacocks in that neighborhood. The front seat nearly filled with one body.
I pulled in behind him, killed the ignition. He maneuvered his bulk out of the car, light on his feet. Came around to the passenger side. I hit the switch and he climbed in.
"Let's take your ride. Leave this thing on the street around here, it won't be around when you get back."
"Where to?"
"Straight ahead. Past the high school. Over by the Delaney Projects. You know where they are, right?"
I didn't say anything. But Hightower's mother must have.
Sherwood pointed to the curb with a cigar–sized finger and I pulled over.
"You wanted to talk?'
I lit a smoke. "Remember that postal stuff we talked about? There's a few possibilities in there, but I can't be sure. They're for real, I don't want to just roll up on them at their houses, right?"
He didn't even nod, watching close.
"You must have crews around here. I've been checking, asking around." Remembering something Virgil had told me. "That little town, Lake Station, wasn't it once called East Gary?"
"Yep. Sure was."
"And the people there, they wanted a different name. Not be associated with Gary in people's minds."
"That don't make them Nazis."
"Didn't say it did. But you got a Klan in Indiana, at least south of here you do. And what they do is recruit, right? I don't mean hold rallies and stuff. They ask around, see who's interested. They may not call themselves by any special name, but there's no shortage of hate groups around here."
"Black and white."
"Sure. I'm not a sociologist. The guy I'm looking for, he's white."
"Random killings. Sniper fire. What's white about that?"
"Nothing by itself. But this isn't about race. That's not the key. The Zebra killings in Frisco, that was race war."
"You know about that?"
I dragged on my smoke, letting him have my eyes. "Death Angels. With little dark wings drawn on their photographs. Take Five. Carry devil's heads to M
ecca. Extra points for kids. The cops never got all of them. The BLA, that was color too. But the color they were hunting was blue. That white guy in Buffalo. He shot random, but only blacks. The shrinks are working on a new word for it: Afrophobia."
His smile was bitter ice. "Yeah, they always know what to call a lynching."
"My man won't be a Nazi. He's alone. Inside himself. But he may have tried. Flirted with the edges. Likes the costumes. So what I need, I need to know where I could maybe find some of these freaks."
"You gonna sign up?"
"I don't do undercover work. Takes too long. It's not them I'm after."
"So how d'you talk to them?"
"I'll offer to sell them some guns."
"Those boys are suspicious. Paranoid. They'll think you're the Man."
"Not if they run my prints. These guys always have friends on the force."
"Could be…I heard rumors on my own job."
"Officer Revis maybe?"
His eyes glinted. "You do get around, don't you? Where d'you hear that?"
"Same place you heard I'd been to the Projects before."
Sherwood fired a smoke of his own. Looked as thin as a chiba joystick in his thick fingers. "There's a truckers' motel out on the Interstate, right across from the power plant. You know it?"
"I can find it."
"Yeah. Like you said before. Anyway, there's a bar just down the road. Freestanding, big parking lot. Sign out front says they have fashion shows there."
"Fashion shows?"
"You'll see. Look for a white Chevy Blazer, little Confederate flag on the antenna. White Power bumper sticker." He pulled out a notebook, wrote something, tore out the page, handed it to me. "License number. David Matson is the owner. In his forties, about six one, about half bald, always wears some kind of cap, even indoors. He's the head of the local chapter."
"Of…"
"Of whatever they call themselves this week. But it don't matter, Matson'll be the boss."
"Thanks."
I dropped him back at his cruiser. He turned to me, getting out of the car. "You said this wasn't about race. What is it about?"
"Sex."
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