In the kitchen, he paused to write a note.
And then escaped.
Things were quiet in the city of hopes and dreams as he meandered down Tenth, toward the meat-packing district. There, he knew, the bloody-bibbed blue-collar men were already at it, pre-packaging corpses for the daily feast. A cabbie cruised by, eyeing him speculatively; Billy shook his head, and the cab went by.
Walking was the shit.
Walking.
And thinking.
He couldn't help wondering why the cabbie had come to New York City. Was he an artist? A writer? A fashion designer? A would-be reigning prince of the commodities exchange, where the howlers on the floor fed on a steady diet of Maalox and cocaine?
New York was a pilgrim's city. It was Jerusalem. It was Mecca. It was the East Coast's question to the West Coast's answering Hollywood, the dreaded bugaboo and sacred icon of worshipers from all over the world.
There were people who had been born here, most assuredly: part and parcel of the fabric, no more nor less apt to make or break. There were people who grew up squarely in the thrall of the dream. But most had come from Saigon or Puerto Rico, London or Marrakesh, Eugene or Tucson or good old York, PA, dipping more and more multitudinous influence into the constantly-melting pot.
The pilgrims had come, one and all, with a hope. And a dream.
And I, he noted, am no exception. He knew why he'd walked into the Belly of the Beast: for the money and fame and impact that his music might bring. Just like Mona, with her dancing. Just like Larry, with his jokes. Just like Lisa, with her film work.
Just like everybody else.
But now it's different. It was an Irish coffee kind of thought, sobriety and delirium working at crossed purposes in the same steaming cup. I can do anything, he added.
But what am I going to do?
Billy cut east on the winding ribbon of West Fourth Street, taking the well-traveled path toward home. There were gay men, staggering and swaggering away from Westworld and the rest of the Crisco-and-handcuff emporiums. There were punked-out preppies in trashy threads, loudly enjoying the night. There were trashed-out derelicts in rising numbers as he made his way east, having forsaken their dreams in favor of liquid oblivion. There were handfuls of the upwardly mobile, taking their own sedated risks.
An invisible line called Broadway separated the west side from the east. He crossed over it at Bleecker and made his way into the home of the Bowery Boys. They were still out there with their rags and bitches, an endless scuttling at the bottom of the barrel.
Wish I could help you all, he mused. Wish I had just a minute to spend with each of you.
But I don't. There aren't that many minutes left in my life.
There are too many of you.
Too many broken dreams.
A quick scan of the populace showed no trace of Fred Flintstone. He took it as a good sign. Maybe ol' Fred was getting his act together. Billy wanted to believe it.
"God bless you, man, wherever you are," he prayed out loud, and then crossed the Bowery at Houston Street. The boys tried to hit him up for change. There were too many of them. He just smiled and kept going, across Houston and down to the corner of Stanton Street.
A strange little pang went off as he rounded the corner. It took him a moment to place.
Then his mind raced back over the four short days since everything changed, focused back on the event that had triggered it all.
The construction site.
The murder.
The girl.
"Jesus," Billy whispered. "Four days." So much had gone down in so short a time. It was more than vaguely incomprehensible.
But the thought of Jennifer Mason had all but vanished from his mind, and that was not a nice realization. It seemed more than callous. It seemed obscene. What, for all his miraculous Power, had he done to avenge her death? Had the killer been found? Had Billy lifted even a finger to try?
Not exactly.
It hurt. He walked slowly, now, along the construction side of Stanton, dredging up the memories, running them over and over
Pausing at the spot where the killer had hidden. Peering deeply into the shadows, as if to sniff out any lingering trace.
And then turning to stare at the faded chalk line, barely visible now, yet strangely more enduring than the blood . . .
. . . and then he was back on the fire escape again. The flashing steel, the puckering wounds. He could see the sputtering smiley-face take shape, see the absolute intention behind it.
He could see the lower half of the killer's face, a bristly-jowled half-moon of rotting teeth and dimpled chin. He could see the vague alarm in the flopping-open jaw, almost feel the caught-with-the-pants-down humiliation.
And the madness, churning wormlike, within
Then he was back on the sidewalk: his memory refreshed, his spirit sickened. He looked up at the fire escape, trying to imagine the maniac's perspective
(guess he didn't see you as much of a threat)
as he stood down there in the shadows, waiting for his moment to arrive. . .
Then he glanced down the block, in the direction of Chrystie Street.
The blonde black hooker was there.
There was a long, crackling moment of contemplation. She hadn't noticed him. She was just leaning against the lamppost, as always, long sleek legs exposed up to her micro-mini-skirted ass. It wouldn't be hard to approach her; getting information, on the other hand, might turn out to be a bitch.
Unless . . .
"We'll find out," he muttered cheerfully. Then he turned and meandered on down to the corner.
The hooker's brown eyes impassively tracked his movement toward her. It occurred to him that she'd never seen the new Billy Rowe before. He was hitting her from out of the blue, and that made things all the better.
"Hey," she mumbled as he approached. Not a whole lot of enthusiasm. "You wanna date?"
Billy smiled. "Yep," he said.
Her big eyes widened, then narrowed abruptly. As a low-budget Tina Turner clone, she wasn't bad at all. The lips and the legs were exactly right. The cheekbones came close. The wardrobe and hair did what they could.
The biggest difference between them, outside of their incomes, could be seen most clearly through the eyes. They were big, and they were beautiful.
But they were absolutely empty.
"Blow job cost you fifteen," she said. "You wanna fuck, it cost you twenty-five. Anything extra, the cost goes up. Okay?" He nodded. She shrugged. "Let's go."
She turned toward the row of parked cars at the curb. There was a calculated swivel to her hips, not entirely unattractive.
The hooker stopped, of course, in front of the '67 Rambler that had not budged since the head-bobbing night of the murder, nor for many moons before. A nervous shudder rippled through him at the thought of getting in. It was a combination hotel room and Petri dish on wheels.
"You mean the jiffy john," he said, half-smiling. If she got the joke, she didn't let on. Maybe it just wasn't funny to her. She opened the door to the backseat. He took a deep breath and entered. She slid in after him. The door banged shut behind.
Billy was overwhelmed by the smell. It was obvious that the Rambler's windows hadn't been opened in quite a while. The stench of funk and dead emotion was stale and acrid as a freshly disinterred grave. It was not even remotely sexy. He tried to ignore it. He couldn't.
"So whadda you want?" It wasn't a question. It was far too weary for that.
Billy thought about it for a moment. He watched her, as he thought. She had no love for what she was doing, and she had no love for him. Head or tail: flip a coin for the ten-dollar difference. That was all the difference it made to her.
He imagined lying on top of her, his pants to his knees, his hands wrist-deep in the rancid upholstery. He imagined slipping it to her, and that was where his imagination ended. It was too weird. It was too much. It was like trying to imagine what it would be like to drink from a gutter, dig a sandwich out of a g
arbage can and eat it.
For a moment, he had thought about getting behind her experience, going into her mind, reigniting her soul. That moment had passed.
He didn't want to know what it was like to be her. He just wanted out of the car.
"I wanna . . . talk to you for a minute," he said. His throat felt thick, and his voice was crusty as the Rambler's interior.
"Aw, shit." The hooker didn't even look surprised. She turned around and reached for the handle on the door, writing him off.
"No, wait." His hand went to the wad of bills in his pocket. He flashed it at her. "It won't take long, and I'll make it worth your while."
"Yeah. I bet." She let out a sneer that had nothing on Tina Turner.
"Five minutes, ten dollars. You don't even have to do anything. Just answer a couple questions. Piece of cake. Okay?" He peeled ten ones off the top of the deck, held them out to her. "Okay?"
She took the money, stuck it in her purse, and waited.
"Okay," he said, nodding. "This is about the night of the murder."
It was not what she expected. Her flickering eyes betrayed her. "What about it?" she asked.
"I saw it happen. So did you. I just want to know if you saw anything that I missed."
"I didn't see shit." Her face was made of stone. "And I don't talk to cops."
"I'm not a—"
Without warning, she turned and reached for the handle again. His reaction was automatic and impossibly fast. Her wrist was in his hand before either of them knew it happened. She spun on him, furious.
And then her eyes went even blanker than they already were.
"Think hard," he said, no longer asking. "You'd been out on the street for hours that night, and somebody else was in the car. Did you see the guy who killed that girl . . . I mean, did you see when he got here?"
She shook her head weakly. There was sweat on her brow.
"Have you seen him around here before?"
"Noooo." Barely a whisper. The sweat on her brow was cold. He was sure that she was sure she was going to die.
"I'm not going to kill you," he assured her, smiling. "I just want to find the killer. You understand me? That's all I want."
A shudder ran through her body. A little bit of the tension went with it, on out.
A couple of things became clear to Billy. The first of them was that this entire encounter had been absolutely useless: blow ten dollars, scare a hooker half to death, and come out of it even dumber than before. Not what you'd call a successful endeavor.
Which left him here, in the Communicable Diseasemobile, with a terrified woman and a possible piece of unfinished business.
I've already got her under control, he thought. I might as well make it count for something.
He looked at her. Fear and the Power had stripped away her tough veneer. What remained was one desperately unhappy human being, with a job that made the Tenth Avenue garbagemen's lifestyles seem princely by comparison. The compassion he'd been unable to find before came to him now.
Like the warmth, flowering out of his hand and into her soul.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Roxie."
"Roxie, you've got to get out of this line of work."
"I can't." She choked, and her eyes began to moisten.
Without her defenses, her emotions were raw and open as a plateful of sushi.
"You can do anything," he insisted, squeezing harder on her wrist. "I know this for a fact."
"I can't!" she repeated, the tears starting to flow. He could feel her inner walls collapsing, taste the anguish like blood on his tongue. She slumped toward him, and he took her in his arms, letting her cry it all out on his shoulder.
And as he held her, he caught their joint reflection in the rearview mirror. And it was strange, it was strange, it took him back in his mind to all those sweaty-palmed teenage drive-in movie days, where the backseat was the arena for a different blend of lust and terror, a more innocent blend . . .
. . . and he wondered about this woman/child, collapsed in his embrace. Where she grew up. How her home life was. The nature of her adolescent storm. He wondered what had led her here, to the city of hopes and dreams, to leave her so hopeless and dreamless.
"Roxie," he murmured. Her sobbing had subsided to a steady low level. "If you could do anything, what would you do?"
"I . . . I don' know." She sniffled as she spoke, and he could see that she was thinking.
"Any place you'd like to go. Anything you'd like to be." She shook her head. "I don' know. I can't think. . ."
"Well, you give it some time," he said, so soft. "And you think about it. If you need help, look for me, cause I'll be around.
"And I will help you. Honest to God, I will.
"See, I can do anything, too."
She looked up at him, then, as he leaned his face toward hers. Fear was her most basic and powerful reflex; it made her recoil slightly as he brushed his lips against her forehead, as if it were the kiss of death that she was expecting.
When, in fact, it was the kiss of life.
NINETEEN
A MOMENT'S PEACE
One hour later. The tears on his face had not yet dried; they had only changed in shape.
He was up in his apartment, savoring the roominess and cleanliness of it, loving the way the first rays of dawn crept slowly in through the windows. The long shadows held no terror for him, just a bittersweet medley of melancholy and joy, balancing each other and translating as inner peace.
The Real War, in its entirety, was playing on the stereo. Of all the three-hundred-plus songs he'd written over the years, the material from the rock opera was far and away his favorite. It was full of the fire and conviction that had pulled him out of the madness: crazy enough to believe in a better world, tough enough to show the hardships of ever attempting it.
And that was how he felt this morning: crazy, tough, and optimistic. He was also a bit overwhelmed by the magnitude of his task, no matter how he sliced it. Sure, he could touch the Fred Flintstones and Roxies, single out individuals from the millions of potential charity cases in New York City alone; sure, he could dissuade the cops from busting up his performances; sure, he could even break the bones of an occasional Rubin, if it came right down to it.
But what can I do on the large scale? he wondered. What can I do to affect more than a handful of people at a time?
The obvious answer was pouring out of the speakers: his music. It had touched more people than his physical body ever would. It was his one true talent, transcending his ability to make friends or a mess or both.
But is it direct enough? he asked himself. Can a person really change the world with music? God, I wish I had the answer to that one.
As if in answer, Christopher appeared.
"Nice guitar," the angel said. "Who's playing it?"
"I thought you knowed all, and seed all," Billy answered dryly. He was pleased with himself for not having jumped. Yes, he really was adjusting.
"Yeah, but sometimes I forget. That you?" Billy nodded. "Man, I'd forgotten how good you were."
"Am."
"Is." They laughed. "Yeah, it's really too bad that you didn't keep after your music. It's great stuff. It would have lived forever."
"No signs up saying I can't still do it," Billy countered. A pang had gone off at the use of the past tense. "In case you hadn't noticed, I'm getting hot again."
"But you've got to admit that your materials a bit outdated."
"So I'll write new stuff! What's the big deal?" Billy noticed that his voice was rising in both volume and pitch.
"Hit a tender spot, did I? So solly, grasshopper." Christopher brought an apologetic hand to rest over his heart. Somehow, it just didn't look too sincere.
"What, are you trying to tell me that I shouldn't rock 'n' roll?" The volume and pitch were down, but the irritation still came through loud and clear.
"A Billy Rowe without rock 'n' roll is like a day without sunshine," the a
ngel said, in perfect imitation of Anita Bryant. It was a new one on Billy. He laughed, despite his anger. "But let's just say that the music alone will not fulfill your mission."
"Okay," Billy said, momentarily cooled out. "But I've just been thinking about that, and—"
"I know. I read your mind."
"Oh, terrific." A desperate throwing-up of hands. "So why do I even bother talking to you?"
"It's good therapy for you."
"Oh, Christopher. You're so terribly kind." The anger was back, deepened by resentment. "How come I can't just read your mind, save us both some jawing power?"
"My mind doesn't work like yours. Sorry. It's just one of those limitations you'll have to learn to live with."
"Wait a minute." Mind clicking into overdrive. "I thought you said that I could do anything."
"Okay. Sorry again, this time more truly." The sincerity was evident on Christopher's face. "When I said that you can do anything, that was part absolute fact and part frame of reference. Compared to what you thought you could do, you're virtually unlimited. Compared to all there is to be done in the universe, well . . . you've got to work your way up to a lot of stuff. That's all."
"So I can't just instantly make everyone blond and tan?"
"Not right away, no."
"Damn." Smiling bemusedly. Letting it fade. "But seriously: If music isn't it, and I can't just think the world into a better place, then what can I actually do?"
"Like I said before, ace: one step at a time."
"Fuck that, Christopher! I wanna do something now!" He slammed his fist against the palm of his other hand, then clenched them together. "I need to know what I can do! I need a strategy!"
"So use your better judgment. Nobody said that you couldn't do that."
"Okay." Billy closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead for a moment. He thought about all the people he knew and never seemed to be able to help . . .
. . . and then he thought of Jennifer Mason, the human monster on the street below, and his helplessness at saving either of them from the horror of their moments together . . .
. . . and he said, "What about the killer? What if I find him? Do I wipe him out? Do I turn him over to the police? Do I perform an insta-healing on him so he never does it again?"
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