"Sure you do. Knife in a leather sheath, we took it off him by the cemetery…"
Stepovich borrowed the Gypsy's eyes to look at Durand. Empty eyes. No expression in them, no clues, no betrayal. "I don't even remember him having a wallet." That much of the truth for Durand.
"No. No, he didn't that I remember, either. But I woulda sworn that when we shook him down, he had a knife."
"We didn't turn one in when we booked him."Another little bit of the truth,
"No. Hey, that's right, we sure as hell didn't. Crap.I wonder if we just went off and left it laying thereon the sidewalk."
"I doubt it. I really think we would have noticed a knife lying on the sidewalk." Funny. The lies and half truths weren't getting any easier. Sure, this was Dumbshit, and Stepovich didn't owe Dumbshit anything. But he was also his partner. And the one thing any cop owed his partner was the truth. Not bits of it, but the whole truth. Especially when what he was lying about was something that could get his partner written up, too. The one thing that had to be true between cops was that your partner would put it on the line for you. If you didn't believe that, it didn't work.
And it doesn't work, Stepovich realized as he took another long sip of bitter coffee. Not because I don't think Durand wouldn't put it on the line for me. But because I'm not sure if I'd do it for him. I'd face down a gun barrel for Ed, kid. But maybe not for you. Not cause you're such a Dumbshit either. But just because I don't want to give a damn about you.
That was a dirty little thought, one that made him feel slimy and selfish.
Durand had been chewing on the cuticle beside his thumbnail all this time. Evidently this had helped him reach some sort of decision, because he now announced, "You're probably right. Probably there wasn't a knife. Maybe I got him mixed up with that other guy. Hey. I told Dispatch we were only taking ten or so. Gotta be getting back to the car. Step."
"Sure." He paid for their coffees and left the tip.Feeling guilty as hell, he walked put behind Durand. There were already too many people that he cared about, and he wasn't doing any of them any damn good. Why add Durand to the list?
He had a sense of crossing another line. The first had been not turning the knife in. The second had been giving it back to the Gypsy. And now he was holding out on his partner. Last month he'd have punched anyone who'd insinuated he could do such things. But now he was doing them, getting farther and farther out, and he couldn't really see how to get back to where he should be. It was like when Jennie had divorced him, when he'd had to go out and find his own place and start taking care of only himself. Come home to an empty place, just the sound of the toilet running because there'd been no one there all day to rattle the handle. "This is all wrong" he'd thought to himself every evening, eating alone, going to bed between cold sheets. This is wrong, this isn't what I signed up for. But he'd kept going, just the same way he kept going if he got off on the wrong freeway exit. Keep going and don't even slow down,because if you do the jerk behind you is going to smash into you and you're going to crash and burn.So just keep going. Look out the window and watch yourself get farther and farther away from where you're supposed to be.
"My turn to drive," he told Durand as they walked around the car. Driving was a hell of a lot easier than thinking.
FIVE
How the Raven Looked for the Dove
MONDAY AFTERNOON
We left the fires behind us
We followed a carriage track,
And I'll never see my brothers,
But perhaps they made it back.
"RAVEN, OWL, AND I"
When Daniel had first started working around University and Dale in St. Paul, many years ago, children had thought he was an ice-cream man because of the bell on his truck. They were disappointed when they found out he only sharpened knives, but he won them over. He told them jokes and made coins vanish and by now he was part of the neighborhood. They waved as he came by and he waved back, ringing his bell.
Dumpy Mrs. Holgrim came out of her lower duplex, wearing a dirty white apron like a uniform and holding out today's worthless pieces of cutlery along with one good French chef's knife that she'd been given as a present and didn't know the value of. He pulled the little truck up to the curb and put the parking brake on. He didn't turn off the engine because it had trouble warm-starting. By the time she had reached him, he had picked out the appropriate grade of stone and put some oil on it. She smiled her yellow teeth at him and handed up the knives. He put the first one, a cheap little vegetable knife, on the stone and began to work before he'd even greeted her. Then he said, "How are you today, Mrs. Holgrim?"
"I'm fine, Daniel. Robert's home with a cold, and I'm sure he'll give it to the girls, but there you are."
"Indeed, Mrs. Holgrim."
"How are you, Daniel?"
"Oh, I'm always fine." Mrs. Holgrim nodded, believing it because that was how she thought he always must be. Daniel said, "A poultice of garlic on his feet will cure the cold, Mrs. Holgrim."
"Really?" She looked skeptical. Daniel didn't press the issue. He returned the vegetable knife and started on an equally worthless paring knife. They made small talk for a while, then, as he began to work the steel of the chef's knife, her one good cutting utensil,he said, "You know, Mrs. Holgrim, if I may say so,if you were to learn to use a butcher's steel, you could keep this in fine shape without having it sharpened nearly so often."
Mrs. Holgrim's blue eyes, which were still very pretty, opened wide. "Really, Daniel?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Why haven't you told me this before?"
He returned the knife to her and accepted two dollars per knife plus a one-dollar tip. He wiped his hands on his shirt, the oil blending into the moss green. "Because, Mrs. Holgrim, then you wouldn't have needed me to sharpen your knives for you."
Her mouth dropped open, closed again. She seemed to think about getting angry, but finally said,"Then why are you telling me now?"
"Because I won't be here."
"Won't-where are you going?"
"I'm not sure. I won't know until the driver comes,but I think it's somewhere in the midwest. Ohio, I believe. Or Indiana."
"You don't know?"
"No, I only know that it is time to pick up my fiddle and find my brothers. Good afternoon, Mrs. Holgrim."
Daniel continued down the street, ringing his bell.
AUTUMN EVENING, FULL MOON
Scarf wound tight around my head
To keep hair from my eyes;
My knife would cut deeper
Then I could realize.
"RAVEN, OWL, AND I"
"… And the captain told me, 'My whole crew's a bunch of yo-yos.' Well, I didn't give it another thought until we were halfway back to the States and we hit an iceberg. The ship sank." Pause. "Sixty-five times." There was some scattered laughter as the large comedian shook his head sadly, and crossed the stage.
He stopped in front of a small, attractive woman at a front table. He puckered his lips obscenely for a moment, then said, "Hey, cutie, wanna go halfsies on a baby?" This got more laughs than the ship joke had.
The gypsy, who had forgotten his name, sat in back, wondering how he'd gotten there. He found little humor in the comic, J. J. McNair, yet he appreciated the skill of the storyteller. He admired the comedian's timing and ability to read the audience.How? Why did he know these things when he couldn't remember his own name? He remembered being called "Little One," but that wasn't right. And how had he gotten here? The last thing he could remember clearly was performing a ritual over his knife,to purify it. He knew it had worked, but why had it been necessary?
The comic was saying, "I'm a great lover, honey. I am. Really. I taught myself." A bit more laughter. "I bought a complete sex manual and I've been following it. I'm up to page eighty-three. It says, 'Get a partner.' " He raised his eyebrows lewdly while the audience laughed, more at the woman's obvious embarrassment than at the jokes.
McNair wasn't bad. It was not a sort of story
telling the observer was used to, yet it made him unaccountably homesick. Homesick for-
For-
A voice, that's all it was. A melodious, half-drunken voice that told stories with an ironic bite to them, for all their seriousness. Tales of fairies and heroes, and he, the "Little One," had listened eagerly and believed them. He remembered the champing of horses,the ringing of the bridle loops like the tinkling of the zils of the tambourine. He remembered the black horses, and a black coach.
Yes.
And he had learned from that voice. He had learned that if you make a promise, you must always carry it out, or else you might have to behead the cow with one horn who had always given you food when you were starving. Yes, you must always keep your promise.
What promise had he given, then? And who was he? Gypsy, that's what they called him. The name came back with a certain sense of relief. That wasn't his name, but it was one of them. There were other gypsies, he knew that, but he was the Gypsy. Yes.Now, if he could only remember the promise, and to whom it was made, and if he could only find his brothers. He needed them for-
For-
The comedian was now in front of a group of middle-aged women off to the side of the tiny stage."I understand one of you ladies is going to have a baby." When they looked confused, McNair added,"I haven't decided which one yet." More laughter.More, decided the Gypsy, than it deserved, but that was because he had the crowd now. All of them, he thought, except me. And that isn't his fault, it's because I don't fit in. I don't belong here. I'm not one of them. I'm-
I'm-
He stood up and made his way to the door. The comedian said, "Hey, buddy, I didn't leave when you showed up." The Gypsy didn't begrudge him the laughter.
The street did not look familiar. It was crowded,and it was evening, and there were lights everywhere racing up and down the buildings, and it came to him as a revelation that these lights were to attract his notice, that they were intended to draw attention to themselves and away from the other lights. As he stood there, a black-and-white police car crossed by in the traffic opposite, and he pulled himself into the shadow of the building from which he'd issued. Memories returned of entering it for just that reason. He had gone this way, aimless, after the purification, because it was empty and deserted. And then, as the sun fell, people emerged from everywhere, as if they sprouted from the sidewalk, and he'd felt the trapped animal fear, and then he'd seen the police car and ducked into this place.What was it called? "Tiny's," that was it. But what reason had he to fear policemen?
Yet, he did have a reason. He knew that and believed it. He felt for his knife, hilt tucked into his waistband beneath his shirt, and the cold feel of the grip brought a freshness, and a certain clarity. Here,take this, little one. I don't need it. That voice! The same as from the stories. Tears welled up in his eyes,though he could not say why.
The police car was gone, now, and he began walking. A few people stared at him, but only for a moment. He tried to ignore them. He aimed toward places where there were few people, through alleys and side streets. After half an hour, in a more deserted area, he stopped, staring at a street sign. Why?What was it? Something about that street. He stood there until he was afraid he would attract attention to himself, then began walking along it.
The night grew older, and he realized he could see his breath. Was it cold, then? That thought, those actions triggered a vague sense of familiarity. As he walked he noted that the lights were gone now, leaving small brick buildings with plate-glass windows.An hour or so later, these gave way to old houses,most with open porches and heavy doors, collapsing steps and two or three mailboxes.
It came to him that he had stopped; that he hadn't moved for some time. He stared at the house and kept blinking. It had once, perhaps, been yellow or green; it was difficult to be certain in this light. A big porch, two mailboxes, two doors. One door led upstairs. He tried it and it was open. The stairway was very narrow and curved for the last three steps at the top. The hallway here was narrow, too.
He hesitated for what felt like a long time, then, he knocked. He heard a chair shuffling, and heavy, slow footsteps. From the other side: "Yeah, what is it?"
He took a deep breath and said, "Please, let me in. Karen sent me."
The door flew open as if it were being ripped off its hinges, and the Gypsy stared into a pair of cold blue eyes, wide with shock and anger. Around them was a round, clean-shaven face more suited to grins than rage. The hair was well-groomed, and he wore a checked sports shirt unbuttoned over a white tee shirt. He said, "What the fuck do you mean, Karen sent you?"
"Are you Brian MacWurthier?"
"Yeah."
The Gypsy read confusion behind the anger."Karen sent me. She told me that you had cared well for her, and that I was to see that you were all right,and-"
"When did she say all this?"
"I… I'm not certain. Several days ago, I think."
MacWurthier blinked. "Karen is dead." He choked a little as he said it.
"Yes, I know."
"But-"
"I see that you are well, so that is all I was to do.Goodbye."
"Wait a minute!"
The Gypsy turned back, waited. "Yes?"
"I don't get-who are you, anyway?"
"Gypsy."
MacWurthier glanced at his clothing and nodded."You look it." He blinked. "You must be freezing out there. It can't be much above zero. What's your name?"
"Gypsy," he said. "I think that is my name."
"You don't know your name? You got amnesia or something?"
"Yes. That must be it. But it doesn't matter."
"Well, why did you say I'm all right?"
The Gypsy considered this, then said slowly, "You have been keeping yourself shaved and cleaned, and there is no liquor on your breath. The redness in your eyes is nearly gone. You have passed the worst of your grief, and it won't destroy you."
MacWurthier stared at him. "Man," he said. "This is weird. Well, can you come in for a minute?"
The Gypsy hesitated, then nodded. MacWurthier stepped aside and the Gypsy entered a short hall,with a small kitchen to his left and a small living room on his right. Karen, the ghost, stared at him from a picture on the far wall of the living room, above a matte black stereo system. The place was small and neat, save for a few magazines scattered here and there. The Gypsy read the titles: Time, Computer World, Datamation.
"Sit down," said MacWurthier. The Gypsy did so,sitting stiffly at one end of a brown Naugahyde sofa."Can I get you a beer? Coffee? Coke? Tea?"
"Tea would be nice."
"Sugar?"
"No, thank you."
"All right. Just a sec."
He went into the kitchen. The Gypsy felt Karen's presence in the room, and felt hints and traces, as of a remembered fragrance, of what the two of them had been for each other. There had been anger as well as love here, but the anger had never been violent, and the love had still been strong when Karen had died.
MacWurthier returned with two cups of tea. The Gypsy tasted it. It was black and bitter, but of a good kind. He felt a warmth as it went down his throat that made him wonder if he had, in fact, been cold.
"So, did you meet Karen while she was ill?"
No, I met her while she was dead. "Yes."
"She asked you to look after me?"
"She said you cared for her very much, and she was worried."
He swallowed, and there was pain on his face. He would have new lines in a year; he would become older. It was sad. It was inevitable. "Well, thanks."
The Gypsy nodded.
"It was leukemia," MacWurthier continued. "Hell of a thing."
"Yes."
"I think I'll move out of here."
"Perhaps that would be best." As he spoke, his vision began to blur, which meant that soon his headache would return.
MacWurthier continued, "It's hard, you know? All the things we used to do together. Every time I go by the park, I see those horse-drawn cabs we used to
ride in, and I almost cry. There was this one guy we used to get on Sundays who'd take us off the main paths- Once we went all the way around Circle Lake."
He was staring off into the distance, but the Gypsy almost dropped his teacup. The vision came to him of the Coachman, thin and dark, cynical and drunken.He must find him. He must. He dimly heard MacWurthier ask if he had a place to stay the night, but his concentration was elsewhere. He must find the Coachman, and his brothers. Soon.
If only he could remember why.
14 NOV 08:47
They say the weapon vanished,
they say the suspect split.
Point your finger somewhere else;
I couldn't give a shit.
"STEPDOWN"
"Please," said Stepovich. He felt the word grate up his throat.
Marilyn swung back to look at him reproachfully."Stepovich, you bastard, that isn't fair!"
"1 know," he said. "But it's the only thing I have left, so I'm saying it. Please."
She said nothing as a secretary tip-tapped past them in high heels, but as soon as she was safely out of hearing range, she leaned closer to Stepovich and hissed, "Listen, I know I owe you. And I've said any number of times that I'd make it up to you in anyway I could. But I didn't mean something like this!This is bending a lot of rules, Mike. And people like us don't do that. It's one of the reasons we get along so well. So don't ask me."
He clenched his teeth a moment, standing with his head lowered. He knew it wasn't fair. He knew this wasn't the kind of thing she'd meant when she'd promised to pay the favor back. She'd meant dinner at her house, or an evening out at her expense or something else that might have led to places he wasn't ready to go. Not a favor that could lead to her losing her job. So she was upset, not just because he'd asked for this, but because he'd never asked her for the other. She put her hand on the door of the ladies' room again. He'd deliberately caught Marilyn out in the hall, away from her computer and coworkers. She probably had to go to the John pretty bad, and she'd already told him "no" twice. But he needed help. And he'd been the one to go in and find her nephew in that rat-ridden flophouse, and drag him out and help Marilyn drive him across to Pennsylvania and check him into a drug rehab center. Marilyn wasn't even the kid's legal guardian. They'd bent a rule or two then, and she knew it. He'd sweated day and night for six weeks that the kid was going to have his parents press some kind of kidnapping charges. But Stepovich had done it, because even if it was against the rules, it was still right. And maybe what he was asking of Marilyn was the right thing to do also.Maybe.
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