by Norman Green
I couldn’t comfort her, I couldn’t touch her, I couldn’t stand still, the flames wouldn’t let me. I wanted to take them both into my arms but I could not, O’Neill, the man who’d killed Melanie, and probably Annabel, too, was somewhere in the park between Tenth Street and the river, and I was on fire, burning.
The twisted man.
I vaulted over the two of them and ran.
Finito
Corey Jackson levered himself up to one knee. No referee in this fight, he thought. The Worm could kick you in the face right now if he wanted to . . . But the Worm was distracted. Several of the harsh sodium vapor lights that illuminated the park blinked and went out, leaving them in relative darkness. The Babalao touched Aniri’s elbow, guiding her to stand back behind him. The older guy, the one Corey assumed was the money man for Los Paraíso, stood with his head cocked, listening to the sound of a man screaming off in the distance. He had gray hair, gray eyes, and a hard face. He also had a snub-nose pistol in his right hand and he held it pointed at the ground. The gun looked like a .32 to Corey. He had grown up around guns and he knew the limitations of the small caliber piece but he also knew that in the right hands the thing could shoot you just as dead as any of its bigger brethren. One of the Chinese pimps stood off to the side, shifting his weight uneasily from foot to foot. “Go on,” the gray man said, and he gestured back in the direction from which they’d come with his gun hand. “Go find out what the hell his problem is.”
The pimp took off, running back toward Avenue D.
You can’t do a damn thing about the gun, Corey told himself. And maybe you can’t do much about the Worm, either, but maybe you could spoil his fun. Make him earn it. He stood the rest of the way up, spat a mouthful of blood onto the Worm’s shirt. “That all you got?”
The Worm exploded into motion but Corey Jackson had thirty-six amateur bouts, and God had blessed him with a lot of quick. He saw the punch coming from a mile off, watched the Worm turn his upper body, dip his shoulder, saw the right elbow lift, watched the fist go back before it started to rise and come arcing in his direction, classic haymaker, and he leaned back just far enough. The Worm’s knuckles whiffed past his chin but the follow-through left the man exposed. Corey backhanded him across his face with his right hand. “Come on, motherfucker,” he said, surprised at the softness of his voice. “Show me something.”
The Worm gritted his teeth and glanced over at the gray man, the unvoiced question clear in his eyes, but the guy was unmoved; he just stood there with his piece pointed at the dirt. “You heard the man,” the guy said. The man’s face looked like it was incapable of anything as human as a smile, but Corey saw something there that told him how much the gray man wanted it. You saw them at matches sometimes, and they always had that same look, it was the vulture’s leer, the face of a man getting off by watching you bleed. Funny, how seldom you really hated your opponent, how often you hated the ghouls who came just to watch. For the gray man the pain would be an aperitif, something to whet the palate.
“That your buddy?” Corey muttered, knowing the Worm could hear, wondering if the gray man could as well. “Loves you, don’t he.” The Worm looked at him, hesitated a second, then ducked his head and shuffled forward. Corey danced to his left. The Worm, more cautious now, began throwing quick hard punches, using mostly his left hand. He was stronger than Corey, bigger, and he looked just about as quick, but he’d never seen the inside of a ring. Every time he threw a punch, he loaded up first, telegraphing his intention, and Corey was able to evade the worst of the blow. He took some shots on his arms and shoulders, slapped the rest away.
Yeah, he thought, but even on points I don’t know if I can beat this guy, and points wouldn’t help anyhow. Corey knew that his biggest flaw as a fighter had always been his lack of a nose for the kill. You better man up, he thought. This time you got some skin in the game.
The Worm started getting angry, his punches were getting sloppier, less crisp. He’s thinking, Corey told himself. Getting ready to change tactics. He could try to grapple, and if he gets his hands on me I’m probably finished. Either that or he’ll try to go for Aniri . . .
Like hell, Corey thought. The Worm threw another stiff left but his heart wasn’t in it and he left his ribs exposed. One thing boxers know is that it’s the skeletal system that transmits the force, not the meat. Corey focused on his target and unloaded, fist, wrist bones, forearm, locked elbow, upper arm, and shoulder aligning right at the moment of impact, no flex in his joints, the weight of his body filling in behind the shot, mass times acceleration less the square root of the distance traveled, but that couldn’t be right because you had to factor intent in there, somehow, and tonight he had a very heavy left.
The Worm grunted in surprise.
Corey spat blood at him again. “Come on, sucka,” he said.
Anger flared in the Worm’s eyes and he leaped at Corey, but just before he did he glanced in Aniri’s direction.
Not happening, Corey thought, and instead of dancing away like a sane person would he ducked under the Worm’s arms and threw a combination, boom boom, landed it in the same spot. The Worm came down on top of him. Corey felt the terrible strength of the hands that gripped him, trying to force him to the ground but he could feel the Worm favoring his right side. Corey twisted out of the Worm’s grip and he saw his target again, hammered at it with his left. He didn’t get as much into it this time but it was a question of accumulation now anyway. He broke free, backed away a few steps, bounced on the balls of his feet. He caught sight of the gray man out of the corner of his eye, there was a sick and hungry sheen to the sweat on the gray man’s face. I still can’t do anything about the gun, Corey thought, but he told himself not to think about that because he had no time. Aniri, who should have been hiding behind the Babalao, watched in horrified silence.
The Worm glanced her way again and Corey circled around to get between them. The Worm was crouched like a wounded bear. “He’ll kill us both when this is over,” Corey muttered. “You do know that, don’t you.” The Worm snarled by way of reply and he threw himself at Corey, exposing his damaged ribs once again. Corey ducked and threw his left but the Worm was spinning away, he’d been expecting that one and Corey felt the Worm’s hand clutch the back of his neck. Corey tried to twist free but the Worm had him now, the larger man’s weight crushing him down, forcing the air from his lungs, buckling his knees, taking him to the ground. But Corey Jackson hadn’t done ten thousand back squats for nothing. With all of his remaining strength he levered himself back erect, driving the top of his skull into the Worm’s face and then suddenly the weight was gone, he inhaled a big breath of clean air as the Worm reeled backward and went down. Corey straightened his back with some effort, the muscles complaining of the abuse.
“Finish him,” the gray man said. “Finish him and I’ll let her go.”
Aniri was the first to move, she circled out around behind the Babalao and the Worm both, and then she was next to Corey, looking into his face, wiping the blood from his lips.
“No,” she said.
Corey struggled to kick his brain into gear. “Babe,” he said softly. “Please. Go now, just go, please.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “No more.”
“Babe, listen to me. If you love me you gotta go, right now. I can’t watch him kill you, I can’t. Just go, please, baby . . .”
She shook her head.
The Worm rolled over onto his stomach.
“Your window of opportunity is closing,” the gray man said, and he hefted his pistol.
The Babalao cleared his throat, they all turned to look at him, and then one by one they turned to see what he was looking at. A man loomed out of the darkness. He dragged a Chinese pimp by the back of his shirt collar. The pimp’s face was unrecognizable. The guy dropped the pimp in between the gray man and the rest of them. “He belong to you?” he asked the gray man.
The Worm rolled over onto his back. “Saul Fowler,” he said.
The gray man raised his gun.
Fowler stood and stared at the gray man. “It’s yourself you should worry about,” he said. “I found your little playpen.”
The gray man cocked his chin. His face was a mask to scare little children, and their parents, too. “You’re bluffing,” he said.
“Am I really?” Fowler said. “Funny, O’Neill, but somehow I just can’t picture you wearing a rubber. How much of your DNA they gonna find down in that floor drain? Because you know they’re gonna look.”
“Well, then, I don’t have any time to waste, do I?” He raised the gun and pointed it at Fowler.
The Babalao cleared his throat. “You can’t kill us all,” he said. “This ends tonight.”
The gray man glanced his way.
“You have less time than you think,” Fowler said. “You got a buddy in the precinct? Actually, I don’t think he likes you much. Guy named Scanlon. Works vice.”
“What about him.”
“You shoulda taken better care of him. I told Scanlon about the cash box you guys keep back at Los Paraíso. Yeah, I found it, the first night I was there. You know what I used to do for a living, don’t you. That’s how the Worm knew to call me a thief, back that first day I ran into him, because he got a heads-up from you. The cops in the precinct gave a heads-up to you and Josh Whelen. Probably the same guys that gave you the MO on the serial killer they been looking for. Bet you figured, two more bodies, who’s gonna care? Anyhow, that’s how your guys were on to me so quick. So you gotta know how hard it was for me to leave your money alone. And since I showed up you been too shy to show your face and they piled up too much dough to fit in the box. The dumb bastards got the rest of it in a Key Food shopping bag. I was in there the other night. I skimmed some but I left most of it alone. I figure Scanlon will take the money in the bag, and maybe about half what’s in the cash box. Gotta leave some for evidence, Scanlon’s a good enough cop to know that. You shoulda seen his face when I told him how much you had there.”
“Nice try, fucko. I been running this thing for two years, almost. What Scanlon’s gonna get his hands on ain’t nothing. Once I get . . .”
A siren sounded in the distance. “Once you get where? They’re hitting your house right now. Scanlon didn’t survive this long by being stupid. Once he and his boys figured out how much money is out there in the wind, they went crazy. They’re hitting your house, they’re hitting every building you own, they’re gonna take down every single place you ever showed your face. You got nothing left, time they’re done with you, you won’t even have a pension anymore. It’s over. I hope your old lady has someplace to stay tonight.”
The gray man stopped breathing. He looked away, off toward the projects, and his gun arm began to sink. The Babalao inched closer to the gray man but he was still too far away. Aniri dug her fingers into Corey Jackson’s shoulders, pinning him to the spot where he stood.
“You know what they do to cops in prison, Frank.”
The gray man turned back and stared at Fowler.
“That ain’t even the worst part,” Fowler said.
The gray man waited, expressionless.
Fowler gestured at the pimp. “This loser and his pal back by the pedestrian walkway both belong to Peter Kwok. I know you heard a him. He’s gonna figure that makes this whole thing rightfully his. And that means you been stealing his money for two years now. And Peter Kwok is a very angry man. He’s gonna burn your house down, man, he’s gonna kill everyone you care about.”
The gray man closed his eyes.
“Twelve grand a month,” he said. “You believe that?”
The sirens were getting closer.
Fowler reached into his pocket, groped for a moment, fished out a hotel key, and tossed it to the Babalao. “Get them out of here,” he said. The Babalao caught the key, then walked over and tried to hustle Corey and Aniri into motion but Aniri wouldn’t move.
“What about your poor wife?” she said. “What’s going to happen to her?”
The gray man moved then, he looked over in the direction of Avenue D where cop lights strobed the open spaces between the buildings, then he raised the gun barrel, pressed it underneath his chin. His face clenched like a fist, he inhaled one more time, and then he pulled the trigger. Corey was right, the .32 slug was too small to punch an exit wound through the gray man’s skull but it bounced around inside, changing the shape of the gray man’s head, for a moment he looked less like a man, more like a water balloon with a face painted on it, and then he pitched over on his back in the dirt of the park, eyes open, dead, his cartoon face staring up at the empty sky.
“Now can we go?” the Babalao said.
Fowler looked at Aniri. “I wasn’t kidding about Kwok,” he said. “You need to get off the street. Why don’t you guys wait for me at the hotel.” The Babalao managed to move Aniri, then, and soon the three of them were lost in the shadows.
“Vale,” the Worm said.
“Yeah.”
“Help me.”
“Why.”
The Worm struggled to his hands and knees. “You help me, I help you. I got a crash pad right over there in the projects,” he said. “You got blood all over your pants.”
Fowler sighed. “All right,” he said. “Come on.”
Coda
There are, I suppose, as many New York cities as there are people who live there, but I had sort of forgotten about the one you see late at night from the high floors of a midtown hotel. Manhattan lay far below my feet, twinkling and shining like a rich lady’s jewelry box. This was the city that tourists paid money to see, to me it looked like a sort of zombie Disneyland, empty spaces and silent, motionless rides standing in mocking testimony that I was outside once again, looking in. The cruelest thing about it was the fact that I had come so close, or I thought I had, but in the end one more woman had decided that I was not what she had in mind after all. Maybe I was feeding the dragon, I don’t know, but as I stood there in the hotel hallway looking out the window I knew in my gut that the correct dose of Percocet would knock this shit right out of me, that it would render me insensate enough to go on about my sham of a life without caring whether or not anyone gave a shit if I lived or died. The major difficulty with that mode of treatment is that it puts you on a track that will very shortly resemble free fall, and when you reach that bottom, you have only one option left if you can’t stand the pain, and it is a rather permanent solution. And even knowing all that, it’s a terrible pull to know that Eden, however transitory, is only a phone call away. I couldn’t say yea or nay, though, because I had things to do, and the first thing involved the two kids who were, hopefully, holed up in my hotel room.
I knocked softly.
Aniri opened the door.
Wow, man, when she was up that close I could see why the kid from Alabama had fallen for her so hard.
She held a finger to her lips. “He’s asleep,” she said, but she stood back and motioned me inside. He lay on the hotel bed on his back, eyes closed and his breath rattling in his throat. It looked like his nose was broken and his upper lip was swollen. Aniri took my hand and sat me down in a chair by the window, and then she sat down across from me. “Did you see him?” she said softly, her eyes shining. “Did you see?” He’d stood up between her and a gun, he was probably the first guy who’d ever cared enough to do that, and she looked like she’d love him forever for it.
“I did.” It was hard not to feel a little better, looking at her with her face all lit up. “But now you guys have got to get out of town.”
A shadow passed through her eyes, a cloud across the sun. “I heard what you said. Peter . . . What was his name?”
“Peter Kwok.”
“Will he really think I belong to him now?”
“Without question.”
“Corey was on the phone earlier,” she said. “There’s a bus we can take to South Carolina, the day after tomorrow.”
“No need to wait for that,” I told her,
and I fished the claim ticket for the Corolla out of my pocket. “Take this car. It ain’t pretty but it will get you where you need to go. It’s downstairs in the hotel garage.”
She held the ticket in an open hand. “Why? Why give us your car?”
“Because at least one good thing has to come out of all this.”
She stared at me for a long moment. I found it tough to breathe. “My ancestors were not like the people over here,” she said. “Everybody in New York comes from somewhere else, but where I was born, people lived in the same little villages since the beginning of time. I think they knew some things that the rest of us have forgotten. That guy who was with us last night, did you notice him?”
“Guy in a suit? Looked like a lawyer?”
“Him,” she said. “He’s a Babalao.” She must have noticed the blank look on my face. “A priest. From my part of the world. He says there are forces that we don’t understand. But there are ways . . . The Babalao and I, we asked for help.” She stared at me a moment longer. “The spirit he called up is named Oshun. The first woman. You may have felt her shadow.”
I felt like I’d been punched in the gut.
“He said that’s why you were brought to us last night.”
“What else did he say?”
She hesitated. “He said that sometimes Oshun can seem cruel.”
“Yeah, I get that.”
She acted like she didn’t hear me. “Does it make me crazy, believing in that?”
“You’ll have to ask me some other day,” I told her. “When I’ve had enough coffee. And more sleep.” Because if she was crazy, I was, too.
“When Corey and I went to the Babalao,” she said, “I knew there would be a price to pay. I can see in your face that you’re the one who had to pay it, and I apologize for that. But ask yourself this, Saul Fowler. How many men do you know who’ve been touched by a goddess and lived to talk about it?”
I stood up. “Don’t let him talk you into staying in the city.”