But he had leaned over too far, and with a faint whoosh, the rotten shingles collapsed feebly inward and dropped him gently on the floor. He grabbed immediately upward at the sky hanging light above him. But after his first lunges failed, he realized that his leaps brought on a chorus of angry squeaks from the house, and he stopped dead until they subsided. It was cold in here, even if he stood in the patches of light, and his teeth chattered as he stood rigidly still from his ankles to his earlobes, and his toes did a little terrified dance on the dry floor. It was dangerous inside, however low the river might be. Something rolled at him from a dark corner, and he jumped, heedless of his movement's effect on the creaking house. As the thing flashed into the sunlight, he recognized it rolling green and white in front of him, and he picked it up. It was a can of peas. It was a new can of peas, with the label dry, the tin ends still shiny. A green giant grinned at him above a heap of perfect green dots. The can was a good bit dented, and the rims were mucky from rolling on soft, rotten wood, but it was only an ordinary can of peas.
His teeth had stopped chattering, although shudders kept seizing his shoulders. He held the can of peas in his hand tightly, for he needed to grip on to something as he struggled to formulate options. The house was teetering constantly now, whether he moved or not. He decided that it would be best to go to the lowest part of the sloped roof and poke through the brittle shingles with his hands; and then he would clamber onto the roof and jump off as soon as ever he could, and swim toward shore. His shoulders still ached from the swim out, but it didn't matter; he would make it back. He could float for a while if he had to, and then swim some more. But he had to get started right away. And so he slid his right foot forward like a skater across the floor toward the low end of the roof. The floor leaned to follow. Then his left foot slid forward, and a slow, mushy sound squished behind him. He looked back.
There was something else in the corner where the peas came from. The sun threw one great, slanting shaft of light through the biggest hole in the roof, and he could just see a kind of gray mass standing out from the dark wall behind him. But he had no time to explore. He turned to his task again, sliding his feet forward. The gray thing scraped on the planking as the floor tipped under him. The house had bent forward far enough so that he could see the clay water through the gap in the shingles now. He leaned his body toward the opening, keeping his feet still, and one hand clutched at a rafter while the other batted the can of peas at bits of shingle and river ooze. After he'd cleared a hole big enough to jump through, his fingers curled around the rafter gently, and he pulled. It held firm, strong enough to bear his weight. He readied himself to jump. But as he closed his eyes, a vision seized him: he jumped up beautifully, up, out into the water, and the house tumbled in the air and dived after him, turning upside-down over him like an empty basket. He forced his mind away from this, opened his eyes and tossed the can of peas into the river, then clutched at the rafter with both hands. He tried to push the thoughts away, and jerked himself forward to jump; then he pulled back again from the vision of the capsized house, and his little dance of indecision shook the house more, making the gray mass behind him rock and tumble down and then up the floor, down and then up again until the lumpen mass flipped cozily around his legs and came to rest. He froze his fingers onto the rafter and pointed his tightly shut eyes straight up to the sky. His ears rang a bit, and he could hear himself panting. The tangle around his legs was heavy. He tried to move his left leg. It was stuck. He would have to look down to see how to free himself.
The sunlight hit the mass full on as he swiveled one eye down and sideways. A few details confirmed that the thing was human. He swallowed once and said, “He-hello?” There was no answer. He had expected none. He shifted his right foot gently and pushed. The body wobbled, but his left foot was still trapped. He kicked hard, and an arm rolled free from his foot, and for one strangled moment, he saw the face before it shot him screaming up through the roof hole.
After the first fit of screams, he descended into a whimper. He wanted to jump into the clear water and swim, but the clay pool stretched out for yards in front of him, and the body beneath still entangled him, pulling his legs under the water in his thoughts. He crawled away from the hole to the far end of the porch, away from the sound of her tumbling in the attic.
The face stood between him and his own eyelids if he shut his eyes, between him and the sun and the water if he dared open them. It was a woman's face, smashed in by great round black marks that made swollen crescents all over it. And he laughed hysterically, mixed up a little with wailing, to think she'd got her head smashed in with a can of peas.
He'd have to yell for help; there was nothing else to do, and he bellowed as loud as he could. But his voice was small and cramped with fear, and the yells didn't carry. The shore was very far away, and he could see that his grandparents’ house was beginning to be covered with the shadows of the aspen trees in front. He looked up sharply. The sun had slid almost to the horizon while he was inside the attic. It was still bright on the river, but dark would come quickly once the sun was down; the river would soon be a great mirrored sheen by the darkened shore, and then the river itself would grow dark. His grandma must be looking for him. It was past dinnertime, and she knew he was down by the river. His towel would still be there on the bank. He waved his arms, hoping that she could see him backlit by the sun; he cried out a few times more. He couldn't see anyone, just the faint glow of the white house, and the vivid yellow-green of the trees and grass where the sun hit, and the shadows growing more purple behind them.
But there were police. They had motorboats; even in the dark, he would be able to hear them, see their lights. Yet the shifting house might not wait. It creaked constantly now, no matter what. He tried to think of swimming again; but he couldn't, he just couldn't. He might swim round and round in circles in the dark, unable to see the shore, with the body drifting after him, waiting to ensnare his legs with its dead arms.
Soon the sun was a thin red rim glowing behind the hills, and the river was opaque and shining. He looked around for the last time, he knew, for a long time. And in the distance he saw something: a boat perhaps, for it was moving. He yelled at it, his voice hoarse from the water and the stink. It was coming swiftly, purposefully downriver toward the house, more swiftly than the current would carry it. He yelled again and waved his arms. There was more than one. Five or six specks emerged; they were boats, surely. He stopped yelling for a moment, thinking he would hear a reply; but there was no response, not even a cry muffled by the wind, nor any sound of motors or paddles lapping in the water. The boats came silently toward him, closer and closer, and his voice died in his throat. They carried no flashlights. And as they grew larger, a faint glimmer of light showed that the shallow boats streaked forward in their own widening pool of clay-colored water, and the breeze brought him the penetrating sour smell of something long buried as the house gently shifted, and knelt into the water like a trained horse bowing to its rider.
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The Monopoly Man by Barry B. Longyear
Strange but true, this story marks Barry Longyear's first appearance in F&SF. For the three of you who don't recognize his name, Mr. Longyear was a mainstay of Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine during its early years and won great acclaim and many awards for his 1979 novella, “Enemy Mine.” Since then, he has published about a dozen novels, four or five collections of short fiction, and a few books of nonfiction, including an invaluable workshop for writers and Yesterday's Tomorrow: Recovery Meditations For Hard Cases. You can find all this information online at www.barrylongyear.net but the only place you'll find his tale about the Monopoly man is right here.
The end. This was it: Cheri Trace was in it thick. She'd been close before. That time with the bangers on Broadway. The other time with that ... time she didn't like to think about. But this was the real end. Panic was in her face, an arm down her throat and a ragged claw hooked into ev
ery nerve.
She was out.
Out.
That trumped it all: The punch in the face, the money gone, the purse gone, the blood on her tube top, the pain in her face and ribs, the indifferent smear of faces rushing past in the night fusing into the jumble of lights on West Forty-second. Next to being in pain, sick, and out, nothing's important. Death a distant second. Getting close to ultimate options.
She leaned back against a wall trying not to look up at the passing faces, the theatergoers, touristas, and street sludge who had yet to be sucked all the way down. On the marquee across the street, Kimberli Fallon in Party Girl.
She laughed bitterly. “The suck's coming for you, too,” she whispered at the marquee.
Cheri jumped at an imagined movement within a shadow, made a grab at the air, another, then covered her eyes with one hand and sighed. “Bastard. Even took my cigarettes."
Never even got a look at him. Muggers. Think you're immune. Look tough, street cred, like you belong here, man, one of the people, not prey but fellow predator. Code. Honor among bastards. Only protection is to have eyes all around your head and guns pointed in all directions, a sign that says “AIDS, fool! TB! Leprosy! Dynamite in every pocket!"
Beware, man, I'm made of cyanide—Yeah. Like they could even read....
She slowly turned her face against the wall, rested her bruised cheek against cold glass, forced herself not to cry. Red puffy eyes not attractive. Besides, girl crying on the street and next thing Crusader Rabbit shows on a salvation mission.
...Humpty Dumpty had a great fall—
Don't cry. There, there, honey, it'll be all right.
All right? That word “all” covers a lot of ground, dude. Don't make promises you can't keep.
So, all the king's horses and all the king's men—
Aw hell.
Cheri didn't want to meet Jesus or Dudley Do-Right unless he was holding. She held her aching left cheek against the cold glass as universal truth ground at the back of her head: If she didn't score something soon, the universe would end. Worse than that, it might not end.
Get something.
—Focus, direction. First money. Before money, market the goods. Before marketing, inventory. She stood back from the wall, looked down at the blood drying on the front of her white tube top. She wondered what her face looked like. Hamburger probably.
Rest room. McDonald's back on the Square. She could slip into the rest room there, wash her face, rinse her top, use the blow dryer, maybe borrow someone's makeup and stay out of the strong lights—
She caught a glimpse of her right shoulder reflected in the glass protecting a poster advertising the motion picture Brooks, Kevin Costner as serial killer. The poster was very dark. Poster and glass made a great black mirror. Where her face had rested against the glass was a smear of blood. She moved to her right until she could see her entire face. It wasn't just a bloody nose. Cheri's upper lip looked like a wiener, her left eye was bruised almost black and partially closed. “Who would want that?” she cried.
Her cute little white beret was gone, too. She looked so good in it. Her hair ... god, what a mess.
She closed her eyes, her head shaking.
Is this the night, she thought. Is this the night it all catches up with me?
You're in a foot race with a monster who is meaner, faster, stronger, tougher, and more patient than you. And you get surprised when it catches up?
Fool. Fool.
Shadows. She needed deep shadows. Safety was no longer an option. Those who look for love in shadows don't expect much. Of course, acknowledged Cheri, they don't expect to pay much. Enough, though.
"Enough to score—enough to get home."
Cheri had some stuff hidden back in the room she shared with Trina, if Trina hadn't found it and shot it all. That was why Cheri had taken to carrying most of her help with her in her purse. If she could just make it back to the room. Before that, money. Before that, business. Before that, shadows.
Bryant Park, thickly bordered with trees, nothing going on at this time of year. Too cold for concerts and summer fashion shows, sipping spritzers on the grass. Not cold enough yet for ice skating or winter fashions. Lots of shadows, bushes. Once you're noticed, plenty of places to go not to be noticed again. The negotiation of virtue for medicine—a little something to keep off the crawlies.
She turned from the poster and, keeping her face down, walked east toward the park, the crowds thinning rapidly once she reached the corner of Sixth. A chilling breeze whipped up the wide avenue and she glanced down at her legs barely covered by the miniskirt. She nodded to herself as her gaze elevated to rest upon the trees of the park. The legs were still good. Cold, but commercial.
Crossing Sixth when the light changed, she could see figures moving among the trees. Joggers, a couple or two bundled up against the chill, walking, some older kids shuffling along, profiling for each other, a few looking to score. Working girls. They'd have pimps nearby who'd add some to Cheri's looks if they caught her.
She got on the paved path flanked on her left by the ranks of trees. One of her johns once told her they were sycamores. He could've been wrong. He was sure wrong about some other things, like that piece of tin in his pocket.
Automatically she looked for both cops and distribution outlets. Two guys holding; recognized them both. The one across the street was Cuff. Cuff wouldn't extend credit to his own mother to keep her from starving to death. He wasn't violent. Just had the heart of a crocodile. His favorite saying: “Neither a borrower nor a lender be.” The other one, farther up on her side of the street beneath his favorite tree, was Rackshack. Cheri had ripped off Rackshack. Shortest love affair in history. She moved in, found his bags in the wall, she moved out—with her purse packed with Rackshack's merchandise. Terrific three weeks and until she ran out she'd been everybody's best friend. Everybody's but Rackshack's. He'd kill her if he ever saw her.
That ultimate option again: Quit the race. Lay down—put down, throw down—that burden. Shoot it, crush it, choke it, kill it, let it and everything else in the universe die.
Tired.
Suddenly Cheri felt very cold, very old, and very tired—the flint-hard kind of bone weariness that didn't care where it slept, whether in a bed, a gutter, or a grave. The cold. If she could just stop shaking, get the cold out of her bones, the ants out of her skin. She turned and glanced again at Rackshack. He usually packed. Had him a S&W nine he was proud of. Maybe he could do her this one last favor.
"What's it cost, Rack?"
"Huh?” Rackshack was always quick with that witty comeback.
"A cap outta that nasty old nine you got tucked in your shorts under that bad old Rangers jersey, Rack. Let me have the first one for free? Right here in my head?"
She hovered in a limbo of indecision. Rackshack just stood there: tall, dark, a perpetual smirk on his face, an oversized Mets cap on sideways, dealing his death. The Rack don't do no drugs. He net himself four-five large a day and it go in the bank right there in the corner and make it self four-and-a-half to five percent, and all is right with Rack's world.
No loser he.
While Cheri stood in the shadows, shook, stared at Rackshack, and hovered between suicide and homicide, she heard something to her left. Sounded like a flutter of wings.
Angels of death?
Pigeons.
She glanced quickly and saw the rows of trees edging the walkway. There was a man sitting on one of the folding chairs that littered the path. There was a row of such chairs beneath the trees facing away from the street, a body here, a body there sitting in them. Partygoers getting a splash of cold air before navigating home, lovers meeting on the sly, bums, homeless. This man was different. His was a double chair. Loveseat. The view from that vantage point was of another row of chairs with their backs against a concrete balustrade, the dark empty center of the park, and above it the buildings along West Fortieth, the top of the Bryant Park Hotel all lit up like an aging Christmas
tree. But the man was looking at Cheri.
He had shiny shoes: black, glossy, expensive-looking. The cuffs coming down to them were dark blue with a thin pinstripe. Cheri walked over to him. Only two kinds of men wore pinstripes in Bryant Park after eleven: big shots looking to buy and stoned Yankee fans. This guy didn't look like baseball. He wore a dark overcoat and a pearl-gray homburg, the hair beneath it white. She stopped in front of him, her arms folded across her chest, her hands in her armpits for warmth. He had a big white mustache with pointy ends like the man in the Monopoly game. “Mister,” she said quietly.
"Yes?” he answered. His eyes were sharp blue. “Something I can do for you, my child?"
"You got ten dollars I could borrow—I mean, I could, you know, whatever you want. I really—"
"I'm sorry, my dear.” He turned his head to the right and nodded in that direction. “Are you familiar with that building?"
She looked to her left, her heart sinking. “Yeah. The Bank of America building.” She looked back at him. “What about it?"
"All my money is in there."
"All of it?"
"With the exception of some funds my daughter spent, lost, and gave away, and other funds she now has for traveling, it's all right there."
Another chilly breeze stirred the leaves on the walk, and Cheri shook the man's answer out of her head and sat next to him. “Look at me, man. Look at my face. I been beat up, robbed, I got no way home, I'm freezing, and I need something so bad right now I'd do anything. I feel so awful."
He took his hand, touched her chin, and studied her face. Pulling back, she covered her face with her hands. “Don't look at me, man. God, I look terrible."
He laughed, and it was a pleasant laugh. “Well, I have neither money nor credit cards, but I can help you a little.” He stood, removed his overcoat revealing an expensive dark blue double-breasted suit, a blue silk hanky in the breast pocket that matched his necktie. He bent over her and wrapped the overcoat around Cheri's shoulders. “Here, stand up so you can get it under you."
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