Pulse

by Michael Harvey

  “You know I work Homicide?”

  “Fuck Homicide. For you, this right here is forever money. Your wife, your kids. Game changer.”

  “Got the wrong guy.”

  “Do I?”

  “If you think I’m gonna help you move this much product, absolutely.”

  The man in the duster slammed down the lid of the trunk, nearly catching Tommy’s fingers. “Who said anything about moving product? I don’t let users—sorry, former users—anywhere near that end. No offense, but it’s bad for business.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “Small job, but it’s gotta be done right. Everything goes well, you and I are done. And you get the taste.”

  “Why the fuck am I so lucky?”

  “You have the skills for the job. Plus I’m getting out of the business and don’t need any more cops in my Rolodex. Let’s sit up front and talk. I think you’re gonna like this.”

  They pulled the Mex out of the car and told him to take a walk. Where? Who the fuck knows cuz there was nowhere to walk. Still, the Mex went. Then the man in the duster sat behind the wheel of the Monte, Tommy beside him, listening as the man told him about the job. Tommy tried to keep it all in his head and wanted to take notes but knew that wasn’t allowed. Mostly, though, he thought about the money. And when he wasn’t thinking about the money, he was smiling and nodding at the man in the duster and imagining taking out his gun and decorating the inside of the car with the cocksucker’s brains. Then he’d hunt down the Mex. Ardilla, my fucking ass.

  Tommy never got another look at the product. When they finished, he shook hands and hopped in his car. This time he put the bubble on the roof and did a buck ten across the Tobin, amazed at all he had to do and wondering where he could get something to eat, while another part of his brain admired the sudden balls his car was showing. Fucking grease monkey might have actually done something after all.

  Tommy buried the needle. Up ahead dusk was falling, and the city loomed.

  16

  DANIEL RAN loose-limbed along the path, footsteps soundless as he went. Evening traffic zipped past on his right, bullets of pure light reflected in long ripples across a glass canyon of buildings. He slipped under the BU Bridge and followed the bend of the Charles, the humped backs of old New England brownstones replacing sleek steel on the other side of Storrow Drive. Daniel slowed, then stopped in front of an apartment building three stories high and taking up two city lots. Someone had ripped out the building’s guts and installed floor-to-ceiling windows, affording the occupants a sculpted view of downtown. He settled in a shelter of trees and stared up at the building’s top floor. The fish tank was long and deep, an illuminated collection of blues and whites and pinks floating free in the night. Daniel slitted his eyes until he could just see his fish, slippery streaks of copper and silver cutting paths in their invisible prison. He sank into the pattern of color and swirl, sitting still against the tree, hearing her approach long before she arrived, footsteps caught between the thin scream of cars and the ceaseless murmur of the river. Daniel turned as she reached to touch his shoulder. Grace pulled her hand back, eyes painted in patches of light from the moving night.

  “You scared me,” she said.

  “I told you I’d be here.”

  “Yes, but how did you know . . . Never mind.”

  “You wanna sit?”

  She took a seat beside him on the bare ground. He could feel her warmth even though it was November and they were both bundled against the cold pushing in from the harbor.

  “How are your fish?” She’d been here before. No one else had. Not even Harry.

  “I think they’re hungry.”

  “They sure are pretty. Like a painting.”

  They sat together, watching the fish do their fish thing.

  “I’m sorry about this morning,” Daniel said.

  “I told you it was fine.”

  He snuck a look across. “Did you tell your parents?”

  He’d never been to the walk-up in Chinatown where Grace lived. She’d explained once that her father didn’t like “round eyes” and made a pair of circles with her fingers that she held up to her face. Daniel had laughed at the joke and they’d ignored the rest. It was Boston, after all, and that’s just how the world was.

  “They don’t need to know,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “Nothing happened, Daniel.”

  “Okay.”

  “Did you tell your brother?”

  “I haven’t talked to him yet.”

  “Do you think other people saw? People from school, I mean?”

  “I don’t know. Ben won’t say anything.”

  “No, Ben won’t say anything.”

  “Eddie Spaulding won’t either. He’s actually a pretty good guy.”

  “If you say so. Was it on the news?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Good.”

  He reached over and covered her gloved hand with his. Their shoulders touched. “Hey.”

  She angled her face toward him and he could see peach fuzz lying against the smooth of her cheek. Her mind was running at a low hum, a perfect sphere spinning in a perfect circle just at the end of his reach. All he had to do was flick a finger and that perfect rotation would stutter, wobble for a moment, then resettle, except not the same now. He remembered what Simon had said about being careful. He was probably right, but what harm could it do, the two of them alone, here by the river?

  “You should have worn a hat,” he said.

  She pushed at a lank piece of hair that hung over one eye, then shoved her hands back in her pockets, moving a fraction so their shoulders were no longer touching. “I’m all right.”

  He pulled off his Patriots stocking hat and put it on her head. She resisted at first, then let him adjust it until he could see Pat Patriot’s face. They watched Daniel’s fish some more. A gray squirrel with bright black eyes joined them for a while and left. Daniel knew she’d have to go soon as well.

  “Are you hurt?” She peeled off a glove and reached out to touch a bruise and some scraping under his eye.

  “I’m good. And don’t call me scrappy.”

  “I won’t.” She took a closer look, probing gently with her forefinger.

  “It’s just a scratch,” Daniel said, wincing a bit and wondering if she’d seen the gun, wondering if he should tell her about his hallucination during the brawl, wondering about dreams hung in flesh and a parade of pills bouncing under the wheels of a bus and on down the street.

  “There’s something I need to tell you,” he said.

  “You want your hat back?”

  “Funny.”

  “It’s not about today, is it?”

  “No.”

  “Go ahead, then.”

  So he told her about Simon and his theories on entanglement. And how Daniel had used it on her in the record store. She put her hand over her mouth and laughed and he thought she’d never stop.

  “You’re saying you ‘pushed’ me? Is that the term you use?”

  “Entangled, pushed. Yes.”

  “You pushed me in Music City?”

  “Yes.”

  “You touched my mind and willed me to kiss you?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “So you’re a mind reader?”

  “No, it’s not that.”

  “Mind control?”

  Daniel shook his head. “It’s more like we were two and then we were one. And, in that moment, things changed. Not necessarily cuz I planned it or anything. Just cuz that’s how it was.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Trust me.”

  “Daniel, I’ve been thinking about kissing you for a month and a half.”

  He popped his head back. “Seriously?”

  “Sort of.”

  “That’s just it. Everyone ‘sort of’ thinks about things, but you acted on it. Right in the moment.”

  “And that was because of you?”

&nb
sp; “Could be.”

  “Okay, let’s say I believe you, which I don’t for even a second. Is this an apology?”

  “More like a confession. I mean, it was just a kiss.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “What?” He edged closer, studying the curve of her face while an unconscious part of him thrilled at her nearness.

  “Maybe there was something.”

  “Really? In the record store?”

  “Maybe. I mean, I had thought about kissing you, just to see what it was like. I think we’re better as friends, though. Don’t you?”

  Pain. Not as piercing as he’d imagined, but still. Daniel shoved it to one side for now. “Tell me what you felt.”

  “Well, it was like a click.” Grace snapped her fingers.

  “A click?”

  “Something clicked and I just decided to plant one.”

  “That was it?”

  “Yes, a click in my head and a warm pulse in my stomach, like I was going to do something fun and great and I shouldn’t think about it because it felt so right and it might not always feel that way.”

  “All that in the click, huh?”

  “And the warm feeling. Don’t forget the warm feeling, Daniel. It was actually wonderful.”

  He sat back. “Wow.”

  “Wow is right. Fifty years from now, if I’m still alive, I’m pretty sure I’ll remember it all, the record store and the kiss. A little touch of forever that blossomed right here.” She pressed the spot over his heart. “So if you ‘pushed,’ whatever that means in your quantum physics world, then thank you.” Grace leaned in as easy as that and kissed him again, dry and precious and fleeting on the lips. “Besides, maybe it was me who was pushing, maybe I’m pushing you right now. So there.”

  She stuck out her tongue and they laughed at the crazy talk that maybe neither thought was crazy at all. And then she took his hand and wrapped it in hers while the fish flew through the night in streaks of color and the cold river ran on behind them in a ceaseless current of conscience and memory.

  “Tell me about your professor,” she finally said.

  Daniel felt the shift, something in his gut stirring and stretching, blinking itself awake. “What about him?”

  “You don’t think it’s strange he talks to you about all this stuff?”

  “It’s part of his work as a physicist.”

  “And what are you? One of his lab rats?”

  Daniel thought about his dreams, one living within the other. And Simon watching. “He’s all right, Grace.”

  “He’s changing you.”

  She was as wrong as she was right. There was a narrowing in Daniel’s soul. At first he’d thought it was just part of growing up. But maybe it was something more. Maybe Simon was his watchman, lifting a spear in warning at an approaching storm. Or maybe the warning was meant for someone else. He touched the back of her hand.

  “How are you getting home?”

  “Green Line to Boylston. Then I walk.”

  “I should go with you.”

  “It’s not even ten.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m fine, Daniel. I mean, what happened today was awful, but they didn’t get anywhere and I’m tough and it’s over. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “What are you gonna do?”

  “I don’t know. Finish my run, I guess.”

  “Call me tomorrow. And don’t run all night, crazy.”

  He watched her walk up the bare path to a footbridge that crossed over Storrow. She was halfway across when a squat, dark figure appeared behind her and quickly closed the gap. Daniel crept to his feet and began to run. He was about to yell when the dark figure paused, then retraced his steps across the footbridge and came down on Daniel’s side, walking quickly in the opposite direction while Daniel stood in the shadows. When he looked up at the bridge again, Grace was gone.

  Daniel thought about following, catching up with her, and riding the T back to Chinatown. But she’d hate that and he didn’t want to ruin what had already happened. So he struck off in the opposite direction, jogging lightly along the path, keeping the river on his left and downtown just out of reach. He should have called Harry and told him about the fight at school. He would have wanted to come over and talk about it. Maybe they’d have gone on a run together, Harry beside him right now, matching him stride for stride.

  Daniel picked up his pace as the wind turned, hard and black in his face. He thought some more about Harry, about the man following Grace and the brawl again. He thought about Grace behind the Dumpster, her lonely red sneaker sticking out and the feeling as Daniel sprouted feathers, grew claws, and took wing, all of it realer than real if only in his head. A foul odor walked off the turning river and he could taste that thing again, slick in his throat, alive and crawling blind in his belly. He knew what his doctor would say. PTSD, she’d call it. Post-traumatic stress disorder. Daniel preferred a simpler name. Terror. Free-floating and looking for a home.

  He willed his heart to slow as he pounded along the path, shooting over another of the small footbridges spanning Storrow and dropping into a tangle of narrow streets that made up the Back Bay. A car nearly clipped him at a corner, the driver laying on the horn and rolling down his window to let loose a string of curses. Daniel kept going. Up ahead the Boston Common lay fallow, like a black, unplowed sea.

  17

  THE NAKED i was in full swing. In the front room, a dancer named Inga hung off a pole, Red Sox pasties on her nipples and zipper scars running underneath both breasts. No matter. They lined up at the low bar that wrapped around the stage and filled up the small tables, heavy eyes drinking in the show while they sipped their ten-dollar drinks and smoked their cigarettes and never said a word to each other, most barely aware of anything other than the scent of the woman above them and the swing of her hips. At one end of the bar, a bald man in a checked suit waved a bill between two fingers, hoping to catch Inga’s attention. Beside him, his pal breathed into a paper bag between sips of his 7 and 7. Women drifted through the back of the lounge, working lurkers at the door—talking, laughing, flirting, touching, pushing them to buy a drink, then coaxing their fish into an alley outside where maybe there was a blowjob waiting, or maybe a pimp with a knife. Over the intercom the manager announced in his best Fenway Park voice that Desiree would be starting her show in the Pussy Galore in ten minutes. The Pussy Galore was the Naked i’s back room. Not much bigger than a bathroom, it sometimes held fifty patrons, pressed up against one another and gazing at women even more past their sell-by dates than Inga. The guy with the paper bag lurched to his feet and headed toward the back bar. One of the lurkers grabbed his spot and ordered a drink.

  Harry was sitting at a table near the door. The promise about staying in the car had lasted twenty minutes. Harry was surprised it took that long. A girl who knew him from his volunteer work brought him a club soda on the house. Zeus sat to one side, drinking a Bud that had cost him nine bucks. Neil Prescott had his back to Harry, eyes glued to the stage. He’d opted for a rum and Coke, a bargain at twelve-fifty. They’d started their night at the Harvard Club. Eaten dinner there, cardboard chicken and rubber rice, and drank three pitchers of beer. Zeus had done most of the drinking. Prescott seemed content to sip at the watered-down draft while Harry ordered a ginger ale. A couple of alums had stopped by to talk football. They’d gone on for a while and Harry thought the night might begin and end right there. But Zeus had his eye on the clock and told the alums they had people they needed to meet. That was partly true. There was a vague plan to meet other members of the team somewhere in the Zone. Exactly where and when remained a mystery, but the Zone wasn’t that big and Zeus seemed certain everyone would somehow find one another.

  It was just ten when they walked out of the club. A couple of women followed, asking where they were going, complaining that Zeus had promised to buy them a drink. Harry pulled his pals away and herded them down the block. Stay together. The photographer Toney’s wo
rds rolled around in his head looking for something to bump up against. Zeus wasn’t feeling any pain and wanted to take a stroll. They skirted past the Pilgrim Theater and then the Brompton Arms, a rent-by-the-hour hotel perched precariously at the corner of Washington and LaGrange streets. Women came out of the alleys, swarming like sucker fish to a herd of fat, slow sperm whales. Harry knew a lot of the faces, but none of them seemed to care. He was a potential john now and this was business. One of the girls slipped her arm around Prescott and pulled him down LaGrange. Another ran her hand up the inside of Zeus’s leg and asked how big he was. Harry wasn’t having it. The girls swore and one tried to kick him with the spike of her heel as he dragged his friends back toward Washington and the safety of the car. Prescott was driving and jumped in front. There was a cooler of beer beside him so Harry and Zeus got in the back.

  “What the fuck, Harry?”

  “Shut up.”

  “What did we come down here for? Neil, gimme a beer.”

  Prescott pulled a can of Schlitz out of the ice and handed it back. Zeus popped it and took a hit, all the while continuing to berate Harry for taking them off LaGrange. Harry ignored the noise. Zeus had been right this morning when he’d described the Zone. They were little more than tourists down here, staring out the window at the wildlife prowling past. Harry’s job was to make sure no one got bit. Or dropped their pants in an alley no matter how much they had to drink.

  “Where are the other guys?” Prescott said.

  “No idea.” Zeus took another hit on his beer, tapped Harry on the knee, and winked. “Hey, Neil. Check her out.”

  “Yo.” Prescott knocked on the windshield at a black woman in a tight leather dress. She blew him a kiss. Prescott went off on how hot she was and what he’d do to her if he ever got a chance. Harry recognized the woman from his volunteer work and didn’t have the heart to tell Prescott his “she” was a “he.”

  “Let’s hang here for a bit,” Zeus said. “If the rest of those guys are around, they’ll come by.”