“There’s been an explosion.”
Erection, smoking a cigarette outside of the squad car, turned around and looked into the car. Winter, sitting in the driver’s seat, tilted the screen of the dashboard computer towards him.
“What?”
“Uptown, in the Heights.” Winter said. Erection looked at the address on the screen.
“Oh shit.” He said.
“Think it ties in?” Winter asked. Erection looked at his partner, mouth open, but no words filled the silence.
Knight’s Iphone started singing “That Nigga Jigga”.
Turning onto the West Side Highway, Knight picked the phone off his dashboard and looked at it.
“E-mail.” He said. He held the phone out to Dolomite sitting next to him. “Open that for me?”
Dolomite took the phone from Knight, and slid the lock open. Over his shoulder, Lo Mein looked on as the e-mail window popped up. There was one message in the inbox, and Dolomite tapped it.
“It’s a video.” He said.
“Subject?” Knight asked.
“None.”
“Open it then.” Knight said. Dolomite tapped it and the screen dissolved into black. She shifted the screen sideways to get a full screen, and slowly the words “Blow’d Up!” Filled the screen.
“Oh oh.” Lo Mein sighed.
There was a close up shot of teeth.
“Is this thing on?” The teeth said. There was a grunt and then the camera moved back to show the face of Billy Barnes. He was wearing a Che t-shirt and blue jeans. Behind him was a vista of the New York skyline.
“Ahem.” He coughed. “I’m Billy Barnes and welcome to another episode of Blow’d Up! I’m speaking to you live from 184th Street and Broadway. It’s a gorgeous day. Not a cloud in the sky. Perfect weather for blowing shit up.”
Knight’s eyes dipped down. 184…he thought. Oh shit.
“Oh shit.” He said.
“What?” Lo Mein asked. But Knight remained silent, trying not to crash into anything while watching the video.
“Assisting me today is the one the only DY-NO-MITE, number 3 on the hit parade with—dare I say it—a bullet!” He cackled laugher and turned the camera away from him towards a large black man wearing a camo print wife beater and cargo pants. In one hand he held a cigarette and the other leaned against a bazooka.
“Cut the bullshit Barnes.” DY-NO-MITE said, taking the last drag of his cigarette and tossing it off the roof. “I got shit to do.”
“Please,” Barnes said, off camera, “I’m making art.”
“What’s the time on that?” Knight yelled, picking up speed. Dolomite’s eyes searched around on the screen.
“Don’t say.”
“Fuck!” Knight shouted.
The camera turned back to Billy. “I was thinking about making this a live performance. But the powers that be have other plans for you. By the time you get up here we’ll be long gone, but you know, we wanted to give you a special touch. Something to say, hey! Go fuck yourself you know what I mean? Plus, who doesn’t love blowing shit up?”
“Barnes…” DY-NO growled.
“Fine, fine.” Barnes sighed. “No one appreciates the wrapping these days. Everyone just wants to open the gift.” He laughed. “Ok, so without further ado, may I present Blow’d Up!” He began to move the camera over to DY-NO-MITE, but at the last second he turned it back to himself. “Oh, this is brought to you by our friends at the Weinstein Company.”
“Barnes!”
“Right-O!”
He turned the camera around. DY-NO-MITE hefted the launcher into his arms and lined up the sight. The camera panned towards a building across the street. “Wave goodbye to your shit Knight.” Barnes tittered.
“Is that…” Dolomite looked at Knight. “Is that your apartment?”
“Yeah.” Knight sighed.
The camera panned back to DY-NO-MITE, who paused, and looked at the camera. “Sorry kid. He said, but a job is a job.”
Knight wanly smiled. “Yeah bro, I know.”
The hit man looked back down the sight and pulled the trigger. The back of the launcher exploded in fire and it jerked upward. The camera then swung around trying to follow the path of the missile but all it caught was its smoke trail which dipped, over Broadway and into the front window of Knight’s apartment. There was a blinding explosion as the entire floor of the building was consumed with fire. You could hear the screams of pedestrians as glass and brick rained around them.
“Fuck yeah!” Barnes shouted. “Whoo Hoo!” He turned the camera around. “Now that what we call Blow’d Up!” Whoo Hooo!”
“Keep laughing motherfucker.” Knight snorted. “Just keep on laughing.”
He pulled a U-Turn and headed back downtown.
“Where are we going now?” Lo asked.
“Shut the fuck up.” Knight snapped. Lo, by now, had enough sense to keep his mouth closed.
“Well,” Barnes continued, “we have to go now. This has been another episode of Blow’d Up!, and as we always end our show, we’d like to give you a big Blow’d Up! kiss.” He placed his hand over his mouth and blew a kiss into the camera. “Now you.”
“Eat a dick Barnes.” DY-NO-MITE muttered. “Fucking fag.”
“Hey Knight.” Barnes said. “Run for your fucking life.”
The camera shut off.
Dolomite looked at the blank screen and then at the New Jersey skyline. The silence was thicker than molasses, and everyone was either too scared, or too enraged to cut it. Then the phone sounded again.
“It’s your girl.” Dolomite said.
With a growl, Knight grabbed the phone from his hand and hit talk.
“Yeah?”
“Baby was that—”
“Yeah.”
“The news said it was—”
“Don’t know.”
“Where are you? I’ll be right—”
“NO!”
“Huh?”
“I mean,” Knight took a deep breath, and collected his thoughts. As far as he knew, no one knew about his girl, but then again he didn’t think they knew where he lived either. Oh this is bad, he thought. This is really fucking bad. “I mean…listen, this is going to sound very strange, but I need you to go to the airport and buy a ticket….somewhere.”
“What?”
“Just listen! You have to get out of town.”
There was silence on the other side of the phone and then laughter. “Is this a joke?”
“No, no joke. You have to get out of town. Out of the country even.”
“Why?”
“Because…because…I want to take you away. You always wanted to take a vacation with me right? Well now’s a perfect chance.”
“You’re kidding right?”
“Nah, I mean I ain’t got no home right? Seems like the perfect time to take some time off—you know, get away from it all.”
“But I have a job! And we need to start again.”
“Hey, you know how I do! Let’s take a trip.”
“You’re serious? You’re serious.”
“I’m serious.”
“So where should we go?”
“Philippines.”
“Philippines?”
“Yeah, you can meet my, er, parents.”
“I thought they were dead?”
“Ah er,” Knight turned left back into the city, following the signs for the Holland Tunnel. “They are, but I have others.”
“Other parents?”
“It’s an Asian thing. I’ll explain later.”
“I don’t know.”
“Listen, just get on a flight and I’ll meet you there.”
“You’ll meet me there?”
“Yeah, I have a few things to tie up and I’ll meet you there.”
There was a pause over the line. “Babe?” Knight said.
“What sort of trouble are you in?”
Now it was his turn to be silent.
“Oh shit.” She said.
“Yeah.”
“And I’m involved too. Because of you.”
“Yeah.”
“I have a life dammit!”
“I know, I—”
“I can’t just—”
“You have to.”
“Oh God.”
“I’m putting money into your account, go now and buy a ticket. Trust me, everything is going to be alright.”
“Can’t we meet—”
“No!” Knight said. “No. You have to go now. Please.”
“You swear this will work out?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll meet me there?”
“Look for Sing Dung’s Café. I’ll be there in two days.”
“You swear?”
“Yes!” Knight growled.
“Ok.”
“Ok?”
“Ok. I love you.”
“I love you.” Knight lied. “I’ve gotta go now.” He looked ahead of them. There was a line into the tunnel, and with all the cameras around he knew the Guild wouldn’t be far behind, but he also knew he had no choice. His only shot for survival was in NJ.
“I love—”
Knight hit the end button on his phone, and covered his face with his hand. Lo opened his mouth and then closed it.
Knight’s girlfriend, Jennifer Ramos, looked at her phone and held it to her chest. Things were happening so fast, and she didn’t know what to believe. A part of her wanted to stay put, but she could tell from Knight’s voice that he might be lying about a lot of things, but he really believed that she needed to run, and with his house blowing up…
“Jesus!” She groaned. She looked up at her television. Roger Clark was in front of the charred ruins of Knight’s apartment. People were reporting a rocket…a fucking rocket…
There was a knock at her door. She froze.
Oh my God! Oh my God!
Should she stay silent? Run? Run where? She lived on the 10th floor with no fire escape. Just be quiet, she told herself. Don’t say a word.
“UPS.” Yelled a woman’s voice from outside of the apartment. “Is someone there?”
“…the police are telling us that it might be a gas leak, but reports on the street…”
She looked at the television and realized that whoever was outside probably could hear it. They knew she was here!
She looked down. Had she ordered something? She couldn’t remember, but she was addicted to C-bay. It was possible…
Either way, if they wanted to harm her they were coming in.
She got off the bed and walked into the kitchen.
“Be right there.” Jennifer said, as she pulled out a butcher knife from the wooden rack next to her fridge. She crept towards the front door and slid open the Judas hole. Through the fish-eye lens she saw a UPS hat, brim down, and a figure dressed in a brown uniform.
“Package maam.” The voice said.
Jennifer sighed relief.
“Thank God. Hold on.” She said and unlatched the door. As the last bolt came away from the latch, the door slammed opened and a foot kicked her in the chest knocking her to the floor. The person she thought was a UPS employee lowered a gun on her and slowly closed the door behind them.
“Who…who are you?” Jennifer gasped, trying to recover her breath.
The figure pulled their hat off, exposing a horror mask of cuts and shredded flesh, an oozy, gooey mess of blood and muscle.
“Oh God!”
The figure picked up the butcher knife that Jennifer had dropped, and laid it softly against her throat.
“No, I’m Grace. And you and I are going to have a long talk about your man.”
Darkness falls over the city, and so does layer after layer of coincidence. Providence belongs to irony, so it is, and has been since the beginning of human consciousness when we learned, instinctively, how to put the pieces together, understanding nothing. Sometimes the coincidence is tragic, as it is when Erection and Winter, still playing catch-up against their secrets, the things that they do not want to know, driving uptown to investigate an explosion, happened to pass the car in which a crazed Grace was holding a gun to the guts of a bruised Jennifer. Oh Winter, why didn’t you turn your head to meet Jennifer’s eyes on the intersection of 145th and Broadway? She was searching for you. She was searching for any aid, any comfort, but the smoke from your cigarette blew into your eyes, and they watered, and in that moment you wiped your eyes and lowered them and cursed, and Erection’s mind was elsewhere. He was trying not to confront what was so apparent.
And what of Saltine? Our oblivious hero? He just woke up, and in his underwear, his hand on his balls, he walked into the living room. He picked up the remote thinking for a moment to check the news. His finger rested on the power button. What if he’d turned it on? What if he saw the charred ruins? Would that have motivated him to purpose? Would he have put the pieces together and called that meeting? Perhaps, but we will never know, for Saltine decided to make himself a sandwich and watch ESPN.
After all that, is it surprising that the storage locker where Knight kept his back up weapons was only seven miles from Chad and Dorothy’s safe house? And that as they hunkered down for the night, eating tinned food, and debriefing, Knight, Dolomite and Lo Mein also sat on the floor and crashed in exhaustion? Would knowledge have brought solace? Is can you change your fate or does fate change you? And does that even matter? Memory is questionable, but action is fact.
Snatch looked up at the setting sun, and admired the stratified sky above, moving from dark blue, to purple, to crimson, light winking out, its daily work done. He took a drag of his cigarette and then looked at his cell phone. It gave him the time, nothing more.
Where are you Ophelia? He thought. Don’t you see that I need you now? No, of course you don’t. You’re probably in some operating room saving someone’s life, and here I stand, in the wilderness alone. Some men hide mistresses, others hide addictions, and I hide…I just hide.
“Snatch!” Grizzly called behind him.
“Yeah.” Snatch said without turning around.
“It’s time.”
“Yeah.” Snatch sighed looking at his phone. He turned around to his big brother. “Hey Griz…”
“Yeah?”
“Did you tell Billma, you know…about all this?”
Grizzly tilted his head to the side. “About this?” He looked around. “I called her, told her most of it, yeah. Why? You didn’t tell O?”
Snatch shook his head.
“I haven’t told her anything. Not about the Vampires, the werewolves…anything.”
“Why the hell not?”
Snatch walked over to his big brother. On the ground behind Grizzly, their shadows merged, becoming a giant black monolith. Slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black satin box. He opened it. Even in the dull light of dusk the diamond twinkled. Grizzly looked at it, and then looked at his little brother and grinned.
“Hey! You’re going to ask?”
Snatch took a deep breath and then snapped the case shut. “I don’t know.”
“Huh?”
“Look Griz, all this,” Snatch gestured towards the farmhouse behind Grizzly and then up into the air, “the monsters, the…all this shit, how can I propose now?”
“How can you not?” Grizzly smirked. “Better now than never.”
“This isn’t about me Griz.” Snatch said, placing the box back in his pocket. “Orph just wants to settle down, go about her job, and raise some kids in peace and quiet. And that’s what I want too. But how can I give her that if I’m running around getting shot at?”
Grizzly grunted.
“You see right?” Snatch said, taking a drag of his cigarette. “I remember Posey falling out that window…I shouldn’t…I get this feeling Grizzly that this, these things…they shouldn’t be happening. That we…that I did something wrong, that I’m in the wrong place. And I’m not going to get O mixed up in that.”
“That’s why were going to stop this.” Grizzly said, placing his hand on Snatch’s shoulder. “I swear, it will end.”
Snatch, gently but firmly, twisted out of his grip. “But you don’t want it to end do you? You enjoy it.”
“Snatch…”
“It is not, it will not end well. But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.”
“Huh?”
“It’s Shakespeare. Hamlet Act I scene II. The story of my life.” He tossed his cigarette on the ground and snuffed it out. “Come on Griz, let’s see the next complication.” He marched into the farm house, leaving Grizzly watching his back.
Lo Mein snored loudly. Sitting on a mat on the concrete floor of the large storage room, Lo looked like a kindergartner taking his midday nap. Dolomite smoked his Newport and watched him rest, as Knight searched through large green metal crates.
“Here we go.” He said, and pulled out what looked like three brown spandex suits. He turned around and held them towards Dolomite.
“What’s that?” He asked.
“Skinblocks. I knew I had some extra pairs.” He tossed two on the ground. “These are for you and Lo.”
Dolomite reached over and picked one up. He rubbed the material between his fingers. They were smooth and translucent, but they smelled and had the consistency of leather.
“These things will really block bullets?” He asked.
“Yup.” Knight said, fingering the one in his hand. He ran his hands up its body, till he came to a hood. “The material absorbs kinetic energy as well, so it will protect against concussive impact as well. Nothing against fire though.” He frowned.
“That a problem?”
Knight shrugged, “No. Maybe. Only if Ign…” Knight shook his head. “Nah, he won’t be there.” He showed the hood to Dolomite. “This one has a hood. I can pull it over my face if action gets really hot, and I have a pair of bullet proof goggles around here somewhere.” He looked at the stacks of crates around him. “I never went through all this stuff. This was always my plan B and I never thought I’d have to use it. But I have a lot of great shit here.” He looked inside another crate and pulled out what looked like a manacle. “See this,” Knight said with glee. “A knife launcher. Pneumatic propelled, no recoil.”
“Knife launcher?” Dolomite grunted. “You going to use that in Grand—”
Knight shook his head and sat the manacle on top of the box next to him. “No, no. I doubt it, but…” He pursed his lips. “Luke’s rule number three: be prepared.”
“Who’s Luke?”
Knight looked into the box of weapons and thought about Jenn. He’d tried her number a couple of times but there was no response. She could be on the plane but somehow he doubted it.
All because of me, he thought, and then, like a bullet wound, he shrugged it off.
“You should get some sleep,” Knight said, turning to Dolomite.
“You going to sleep?”
“Nah, I have to think.”
He sat on the floor, his back against a crate and drew his knees into his chest.
“How about a bedtime story though? Something to put you to sleep.”
“Yeah,” Dolomite said, crushing his cigarette on the floor. He threw it into a corner and laid on his side, resting his head on a hand. “That sounds cool.”
Knight raised his glasses slightly and rubbed his eyes. Then he lowered them and said, “Once upon a time, in a city called Manilla…”
--Knight’s Bedtime Story--
…there lived a man. Let’s call him George. George was a fucking rat, and I mean that in more ways than one. He was a man who lived on the edge of civilization and decency. A man whose sole goal in the world was survival, but unlike most rats he had dreams of being a human. Not just any human mind you, but a great human, like Alexander, or Washington. He particularly believed his own bullshit when he was in his cups, which was often. Or when he was in a crap game, or a card game, or a cock fight, where he’d bet often and lose often.
George had a girlfriend. Let’s call her Punching Bag, cause that’s what she was, a punching bag. She was just in her teens, orphaned, living from cock to mouth when she hooked up with George. At first she, like him, fell for his bullshit, but soon she realized her folly and didn’t care. Sitting on a milk crate in their box of a home, looking off into the distance, she waited, and waited, her finger on her lips like she had something to say, but she never said a word. Even when she gave birth to her only son, the whore who acted as midwife said she never moaned. She just lay there and took it. Amen.
The son. Let’s call him Day. He was a sickly child. Typhoid nearly killed him at two, as he lay up in rags, in the darkened recesses of the box. Silently, Punching Bag fed him, and then put him back. He was like a plant—but plants get sunlight don’t they? So no, maybe he was more like a fungus. A domesticated fungus. Magic Mushroom. And all the while, through the cries, George continued to gamble and drink and Punching Bag traced the lines of her mouth and waited.
But Day survived. He did get that from his father. He knew how to survive. He learned how to beg, and then to steal. He had an arm. He could knock boxes out of a five story window with a rock. He was that good. Remember that, because it will come up again. And he learned how to fight to keep what he stole. Six, seven, eight years old getting into brawls with grown men, but rocks and zip guns equalized everything.
Back to George. As I said before, George had big dreams, and while life usually squashed them, he kept thinking them up, and one day he had the great idea of becoming a spy. When I think of it now, I’m amazed how brilliant it was. Fucker had to have heard of it somewhere. Anyway, the idea was to go to downtown Manilla, to embassy row, walk inside an embassy, and offer his services as an informant. All he asked for was 50 USD a month for the service. Check this shit out. Out of the some fifty embassies there, half said yes. Although they mostly talked him down to 10 bucks.
America gave him 17.
For two years he was getting paid off like welfare. First of the month, he walked down there and collected like the rent man, and it was usually gone by the time he came home four days later, smelling like a homeless shelter. Two hundred a month for nothing, he must have thought. He must have thought he was fucking Einstein. But we know nothing is for free, and the piper must be paid.
Luke showed up at our box right after the monsoon season ended. He was wearing a light blue suit, his suspenders hanging around his knees, his hat in his hand. He could have been an insurance salesman if it weren’t for his eyes. Those sharp blue eyes, like daggers stabbing you in the soul. He looked at Punching Bag and said in Tagalog:
--Is George in?
Punching Bag said nothing. Her fingers just rubbed her lips harder. Her eyes searching.
--Very good.
Day walked out of the box, a knife in his hand. The white man looked like he had money and he must have been very stupid to come to Day’s neighborhood without an armed escort. Thirteen years old and full of balls, Day stood in the archway and said:
--Gimme your money.
Luke looked at him and laughed.
--How cute. Is George in?
--Gimme your money white man.
--How about you gimme your money.
Luke took a step closer, his hands in his pockets.
--I said, little man, gimme your money.<
Day stared up at the man, only a foot or so between them.
--You got that knife. Use it. You want mmy money, then take my money.
Day stared at the man’s chest, close enough to smell his cologne, or was it soap, memory is ethereal. It wouldn’t take much effort to raise the knife and plant it in the man’s chest. But he had never killed anyone. He’d cut some kids, put out someone’s eye with a zip gun, but never killed. Imagining the man lying on the ground, eyes fixed to the air, blood leaking from his wound, Day’s stomach flipped. Luke laughed and then Day felt a gush of air past his hand and when he looked down he found the knife was gone, vanished and appeared in Luke’s. Luke laughed again and then squatted down until his face was in front of Day’s.
--Nice knife.
He tilted the knife into Day’s face, till Day could feel its tip brushing against his left eyelash. He didn’t move, his face stone. Luke stopped laughing, though a slight grin ghosted his face. He whispered:
--You have courage son, but you have to remember Luke’s rule number one: Don’t bluff. Follow through, or else you’re just another punk.
--What’s this?
George’s slurred voice was drunk loud, cutting the silence between them like a dull blade. Luke turned around, hiding the knife behind his back. With a deft move of his wrist he flipped the knife around so that the handle faced Day. Day looked at it, and then at his father, whose eyes were blood-shot saucers. Day took the knife, and wondered who he should stab.
--I said—
Luke presented his hand to George:
--Well hello mate! I’m Luke. I’ll be youur guest for the next month or so.
--Huh? George said, wobbling.
--Is he like this all the time? Luke whiispered to Day.
--All the time. Day responded.
Luke approached George and linked arms with him, supporting his inebriated frame.
--I’m with the English government. Luke said. --I believe we have a common employer.
--What U talking ‘bout? George respondedd back in Pidgin English, unaware that Luke was speaking to him in Tegalog. Luke groaned, and jerked him away from the box and out into the street.
--I mean to say—
--Get lost. George said, jerking away frrom the English man. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a switch blade. He snapped it open and it listed in front of his face like a stranded boat. --I cut you man.
Luke sighed and turned back to Day:
--What is it with your family and knivess?
Day shrugged, and folded his hands across his chest, a disinterested observer. Without turning around Luke reached back and grabbed George’s wrist. George yelled and tried to pull out of Luke’s grip. It was futile.
--From here, Luke said to Day, I have elleven moves to disable him, three to kill. Now I happen to need your father—alive, I guess. So I’ll disable.
Luke turned to the side, twisting George’s arm behind his back. The switchblade clattered to the ground, and George screamed in pain. The scream increased as Luke placed his free arm against George’s upper back, between his shoulder blades.
--The key to hand to hand combat is leveerage. If you give leverage to your opponent they will always win. Luke tilted his head to the side. –Hum, I suppose that goes for everything. He leaned over to George and asked: --Don’t you agree?
--Please, please. I just play.
--Play is for children mate. Well now thhat I have your attention, I will tell you what you will do—you will let me stay in this shithole you call a home—until I’m ready to go—and you will take me where ever I tell you to take me, when ever I tell you to take me, or else I will murder you. Is that understood?
--Ya…yes…
--Good.
Luke looked back at Day who still stood in the archway, hands across his chest. Luke asked:
--Don’t you care that I’m doing this to your dad?
--You mean George?
Luke sighed deeply:
--Right. George.
He sniffed and then his eyes firmed.
--Listen, right now he’s in a lot of paiin, so of course he’s going to do whatever I tell him. But I’ve been around drunks before, and they don’t have long memory spans. Eventually he’ll grow some balls and decide to stab me in the back—
--No! George screamed. --I swear!
Luke switched his hold around George’s wrist so that his fingers wrapped around his hand, and then he jerked it upwards. His wrist snapped with the sound of burning firewood. George screamed in agony, and he dropped like a sack when Luke released him, cradling his broken wrist like a baby he cared for.
Luke walked back over to Day.
--You see why you back up what you say? If he had of killed me, he wouldn’t have a broken wrist.
Day spit on the ground. He said:
--He couldn’t have killed you.
Luke snorted:
--That is true.
He walked into the depths of the box, searching for something to brace his host’s wrist.
---
For the next month, Day.. no, not just Day, but Day’s entire family had a new father.
Luke was a force in Day’s household, like gravity or, more accurately, electricity. Power radiated off of him like heat, warming everything in its vicinity. He was the most disciplined person Day had ever seen, and Day became obsessed in watching him. After he’d bandaged up George’s hand, and taken him somewhere private to talk, he came back and secured a small spot in the back of the box for himself. He cleaned it meticulously, sweeping out the dirt and the earth and the bugs until you could eat off the floor. Then he laid his things out like he was arranging the front windows of the department stores in downtown Manila where the tourists shopped. And every night he folded and inspected his suit, removing every imperfection, making sure it’s creases was as sharp as razors. He cared for his body with equal affection. Before he went to sleep he groomed and cleaned his fingernails, toenails, and hair. In the morning, after his one thousand crunches and five hundred push-ups, he went to the public shower in the back, scrubbed his body, and shaved with a straight razor in a tiny compact that he carried.
After that he went out. Sometimes he’d leave by himself, and other times he’d take George with him. Sometimes he’d come back in an hour, and other times he wouldn’t be back until the sun had long set. But every time he returned he’d come back with food, and other odds and ends. A baseball and glove for Day. Some clothes for Punching Bag. Even a new hat for George, who soon took to Luke like a brother (a brother who gave him money to gamble). The effects of this care soon became apparent. Punching Bag began to pay attention to her appearance, and brushed the dirt out of her hair, the grit and grime from her flesh. She still didn’t talk, still stayed on her perch, looking for some mystery, but she looked younger doing so. When Luke walked in she nodded to him, a slight, school-girlish smile playing on her lips. Luke always bowed in return.
And when Day was away, off robbing or playing sports with his friends, he knew Luke was out there, somewhere watching him. A feeling that was confirmed one day when he came back in after playing baseball, his knuckles bloody after he had to defend his new ball and glove from some older kids who assaulted him for his new toys. As he walked past his mother, spitting blood on the soil next to her feet, he found Luke standing in the archway smoking a cigarette.
--That was a hell of a throw.
Day knew what Luke was talking about. With his skill Day was automatically assumed to play the outfield. In the fifth inning, one of the kids had hit a ball that went over Day’s head into home run territory. Day had chased it down caught it and in one move threw it to home, some 70 yards away to cut off the runner from second. The ball flew like a bullet, barely arcing, and landed squarely in the catcher’s glove, only to make the kid yell in pain. He dropped the ball and the run scored. Day sighed:
--If those kids knew how to catch we’d hhave won. Fucking cunts.
Luke pondered Day and then waved him behind the box. He said:
--Come on.
--Huh?
--Come on. Luke said, walking towards thhe junk yard at the edge of the box field. --I wanna see something.
Day shrugged, and followed him.
Luke had cleared some of the garbage out of the way, and on top of a crate sat a mango. He pulled a knife out of his pocket and slid the blade open. Hilt forward he passed it to Day, who dropped his glove and ball on the ground next to him. Luke said:
--Try to hit that target.
Day began to walk forward, and Luke grunted:
--From there.
Day looked at the target, it was the side of a pea from where he stood.
--You serious?
--Just try.
Day shrugged, and watched Luke run down the field. He sighed and stared at the target. It was a bit farther then he usually threw, but...
He concentrated, and breathed in threw his nose and out his mouth. No one had taught him this (no one had really taught him anything) but he felt it. Slowly the mango, which had been just a dot in the distance, seemed to grow, bigger and bigger, till he thought he could touch it. Then with an over hand throw, just like a baseball, he tossed it. The knife hit the mango and it fell of the box. With the breeze flowing through his hair, he watched as Luke picked up the mango and carried it over to Day. He presented it to him and said:
--Not bad.
Day looked at the mango and pulled the blade out of it. There was a slash dead in its heart. Luke said:
--Think you can do it again?
Day laughed.
--Think you can move it back some?
After that Luke began to spend more time with Day, and son replaced father on Luke’s daily adventures. George acted upset, objecting to the use of his son, but a ten pound note assuaged his assumed injury and George merrily turned tail towards the closest speakeasy. For the first couple of days Luke and Day simply strolled the streets, seeming to be as careless as tourists. Luke bought Day several pairs of clothes and his first suit. Then he taught Day how to take care of his things, how to fold pants to keep a crease, how to pack them as to keep dust off of them, how to shine shoes and sew holes.
--Luke’s rule number 5: Stay disciplinedd, no matter where you are. An uncluttered mind is an uncluttered life.
Before they left, Day joined Luke in his morning exercises. Day could never do as many push-ups or crunches as Luke did, and so when Day was finished, his arms, his belly aching, he’d watch the Englishman, and admire the sheer focus in his deep blue eyes.
--Luke’s rule number 7: Your body is youur finest instrument and it must be tuned for optimal efficiency.
Wearing his new clothes, his hair cleanly cut, his fingers groomed, his teeth white, Day began to look like one of the rich kids who attended those schools downtown, with the walls around them so high that you’d need a ladder to see over them. Walking with Luke, going into shops, government buildings, restaurants, Day noticed how he was treated with respect. People bowed to him like a little prince, and Luke was a king. Day learned the proper way to tip, and to bribe. And saw how just a little bit of cash could open up the gates of heaven. Sitting in an outdoor café, Sing Dung’s, Luke looked up at the large office building across from them, counting the number of windows on the fifth floor and said:
--People say the clothes make the man soon. But that’s not true. Man has always made the clothes since he skinned deer and bear for suit. It’s not the quality of the clothes that people respect, but the quality of the man wearing the clothes. It’s an extension of his pride.
Luke turned around and sipped on his espresso. He licked the cream off his upper lip and said:
--People say that pride is a bad thing. But that’s not true. The people who say that probably don’t have any pride. Pride is the thing that separates us from the animals. A job well done, a person should have pride in that because that’s all a man is—action. False pride is talk. Talk without action.
He looked back up at the office building, and finished counting the windows. Then he turned around and looked into the café behind him. He took another sip of his drink and then waved the waitress over. In Tagalog Luke asked:
--Pardon me, but who’s the manager?
<
The next night, under the cover of darkness, Luke and Day met in the field behind the box. In one hand Luke carried an electric lamp, and in the other he held a long briefcase. He laid both objects down and flipped the briefcase open. Day gasped when he its contents. Luke said:
--This is a Q-18 Chinese sniper rifle. NNight vision sight, good for 400 yards, pneumatic recoil diverter, subsonic ammo, with an attachment for a special package. I’d have preferred the British model because, as you’ll see, the Q isn’t very good in wind conditions and it naturally tends to stray left after about 200 yards, but for what we need that shouldn’t be a problem.
He held it out to Day, who picked it up carefully, like it was a crystal chalice. Day said:
--Wow.
Luke grunted:
--Don’t do that. A gun, like your knife,, your clothes, these are all tools. They are meant to be used, not worshiped. If you must revere something then let it be yourself. Everything else is just material, soulless and cold.
He almost added, like you will be someday.
He almost added, like I am.
But instead he told Day to stand up and sight down the barrel.
They spent the next two hours learning to use it. There was no silencer at the end of it, and the shots could be heard for a mile around. It fit right in with the other sounds of the night.
---
The next week they moved on to hand-to-hand combat. Luke said:
--Punch me again.
Day slitted his eyes, and threw a punch into Luke’s shoulder. There was a dull sound and Luke shook his head. He wore a pair of jeans and a wifebeater that exposed his brawny arms. He yelled:
--No! No! No! What did I tell you? A punnch comes from the hips, not the arms!
He moved to Day’s side, and told the boy to look at him. He said:
--Your fist is like a rock on the end off a fishing pole, when you cast a line you throw your body into it, torquing your hips to get power. That’s why they say you throw a punch. God, how the hell did you get this far?
Day looked at him and cursed under his breath as Luke faced him again.
--Do it again!
Day yelled and threw a punch at Luke. The sound was louder. Luke said:
--Better. Do it again.
Day threw the punch, but this time Luke side stepped, grabbing the child’s arm and throwing him away like a pile of garbage. Day yelled as he fell forward and tripped, landing on his side. Luke laughed:
--Weren’t expecting that were you?
--Is baby going to cry now? We can stop to change your pampers.
With a shriek of rage Day leapt off the ground and threw himself into Luke like a football player going for a tackle. With ease Luke dodged the attack and gently pushed Day on his back, throwing him to the floor again. Watching Day lie on the floor, wheezing with exertion, Luke said:
--I can do this all day.
Day growled:
--I thought you were going to teach me?<
--I am. Now get up, and stand there.
>
--Fuck this.
Day stood up and headed for the daylight outside of the box.
--Fucking pussy. Luke said, and turned aaround. Day screamed in his head, but was silent as he marched past his mother, who still was searching, and found a piece of metal scattered on the ground in front of her. He picked it up, tested its weight, and grinned. Throwing it over his shoulder he crept back to the box and looked inside. Luke had his back to him, lighting a cigarette. With a yell, Day raised the club over his head and brought it down on Luke’s back. In the last moment Luke jumped to the side and the club whizzed through air, smashing through a crate that they family had been using as a makeshift table. Luke got on one knee and raised a hand. He said:
--Ok, that’s—
But Day, cursing like a madman, whirled around with the club and it hit Luke on the shoulder. He swallowed a cry of pain, and tried to roll with the blow, but Day, seeing an opening leapt on Luke like a wolverine, instinctively going for the softest parts of the flesh. Using his left forearm to push the boy off of him he jabbed Day in the mouth. Blood splattered, and a tooth flew thru the air like a pearl. The blow shocked Day for a moment, but it was enough time for Luke to get his foot between them and he kicked Day across the room. He yelled:
--Enough!
Day sat up, and wiped his mouth. His eyes still enraged, but his reason had returned. Luke watched him, and nodded. He said:
--Better.
Day hissed:
--I beat the shit outta you.
--No, the blood on your shirt proves thaat untrue. You have to learn to focus your rage and pain with reason and logic. Rage will beat those punks you run with out there, but to beat men you’ll have to harness that.
He walked over to Day and extended his hand. Day looked at it for a moment and then put his hand in his and Luke pulled him up. Luke said:
--Luke’s rule number 15: In a fight you fight to kill, not to be killed. When we were sparring before, you were fighting by some rule you thought we both agreed on. That’s why you kept punching me when I said attack me, and you got upset when I started using Jujitsu on you. But in a fight there are no rules. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t reason.
He backed off and patted his eyes, his ears, neck, groin, and knees. He said:
--These are the weakest points on a man,, and these are what you go for first. If you’re fighting a woman you go for her boobs as well. For the low points a kick will suffice, and the upper points you use pointed jabs and punches. I’ll teach you that as well. But you have to remember at the same time to defend yourself against those same attacks. The end result of a successful attack is to get to their center, right up on them, so you can make the killing stroke. If you haven’t killed him in five seconds, most likely you’re the one dead.
Day looked down, and sighed. Luke asked:
--What’s wrong?
--I…nothing. Come on. Let’s go.
---
Three days later, Day sat at the same outdoor café where Luke had taught him about pride. As he sipped his cappuccino (he’d grown a liking for them hanging with Luke) and watched Luke slip the owner a hundred pounds, he looked around. A young lady passed by, holding her mother’s hand and she locked eyes with Day. She smiled shyly and Day nodded back to her, just as he imagined Luke would. She blushed and slowed down only to have her mother jerk her forward. Day giggled. All these years of hanging out with the guys, cat calling the neighborhood chicks all he’d ever gotten was curses thrown back. Who would have thought a nod would be more efficient? Then again, when the hell had anyone thought about efficiency? Efficiency was the white man’s game.
And now it’s mine, Day thought.
--See you’re making time with the women..
Day looked up and found Luke taking his usual seat across from him. He rested his cup of cappuccino on the table and adjusted his suit as he sat. Day said:
--Hey, you know how I do.
Luke laughed:
--Have you even been with a woman?
--Man, of course I have.
--You used to be a much better liar thann that Day.
--I have!
--It’s alright, it’s alright. We all werre virgins at some time.
Day looked furiously into Luke’s sky blue eyes, and hissed:
--I have!
--Oh really?
--Plenty of times.
Luke smiled, and then sipped his drink. Then he stood up, and said:
--Alright then. Let’s see.
--Huh?
--Let’s go, studly.
Day stood up on shaky legs. He asked:
--Where we going?
--You’ll see.
Day followed Luke, who walked to the street and hailed a cab. The cab stopped and Luke held the door open for Day, who got in, his eyes full of fear. Luke laughed, and sat next to him. He told the cab driver an address and winked at Day. Day gulped and turned away from Luke, lost in confusion.
Twenty minutes later the cab pulled up to a nondescript building. The only identifying mark on it was its red door that glimmered like a ruby in the setting sun. Luke paid the man in pounds, told the driver to keep the change, and climbed out of the car. The driver looked at the money in his hands, took a moment to peer through the rear view mirror at Day, and laughed:
--You going to have a good time kid.
>
Day gulped again and got out of the cab. Luke was already at the stoop and he pressed the intercom button. A voice said:
--Yes?
Luke said:
--Customer number 12.
There was a buzz and Luke opened the door and waved Day inside. He said:
--Come on Peter South. Let’s party.
<
Day followed Luke inside and watched the door shut behind him. The interior of the building was illumined by red lights overhead, and the air was filled with a mix of cigarette smoke and incense. A woman wearing a silk kimono walked over to Luke, and bowed. She said:
--It is well and good to see you twelve..
Luke bowed back.
--Well and good to see you as well.
<
The woman turned to Day, just noticing him for the first time. She frowned and turned back to Luke.
--We do not allow—
--He is my son.
--Your—
--My son.
--Very well but—
Luke reached into his pocket and pulled out some more pounds. He slid some to the woman who took them and placed them inside of her kimono.
--Some of the women may not—
Luke shook his head.
--I only want Nancy.
--She’s with a client.
--We’ll wait.
The woman nodded and waved them forward. She laid a comforting hand on Day’s back and he nearly jumped at her touch.
--Enjoy.
Luke pulled aside the curtains separating the lobby from the waiting room and beckoned Day inside. The room was large, with sofas around the walls and a bar was set up off in a corner. Men wearing suits and ties, mostly foreigners, drank drinks, and talked, keeping an eye on the woman dancing on a stage in the middle of the room. Day had seen nude women before, but he’d never seen one as lovely or as clean. Luke sniffed:
--Close your mouth son. You’re attractinng flies.
He pulled Day towards a couch and they sat. Almost immediately a young woman, at the end of her teens, appeared in front of them. Luke said something, but Day didn’t notice. His eyes were fixed on her tits. She walked away and Luke said something to Day, then, when Day didn’t respond, Luke jabbed him in the ribs.
--Ow! Wha?
--Did you hear what I said?
--Naw.
Luke shook his head sadly, and rubbed his forehead.
--I ordered drinks. More for you than mee. You’ve never been with a woman before have you?
Day looked down. Luke sighed again.
--Do you remember my first rule?
>
--Don’t bluff. Follow through.
--And that’s why we’re here.
The waitress returned carrying two drinks on a tray. Luke she handed one to Day and after taking the notes from Luke, he picked up his own drink. He made to toast Day, but he found the kid had gulped down half his drink already, his hand shaking like he had Parkinson’s. Luke chuckled and raised his glass to himself.
--Cheers.
They sat there for about a minute, drinking in silence, and then Day saw a woman walk into the room, and he nearly dropped his drink. Like the hostess she too wore a silk kimono, but she was taller, with raven hair that came down to the small of her back. Her breasts were large, and her hips full. But as she approached Day realized what was so striking about her. She had violet eyes. A Filipino with violet eyes.
The woman walked up to Luke and Day and bowed. She said:
--Greetings twelve. I did not know you wwould return so soon.
Luke nodded and said:
--Not I—
He motioned towards Day with his drink, the icy quietly knocking together like dice.
--him.
Nancy looked down at the boy who shyly ducked his eyes down. She said:
--How old are you child?
Day looked down.
--E-e-eightee—
Luke hissed and repressed his urge to smack him:
--Don’t lie.
--thirteen.
Nancy looked at Luke furiously.
--What do you—
Luke shrugged.
--That’s an adult for the Jews!
--No.
--He’s my son.
--Doesn’t look like it.
--He is. He. Is.
Nancy looked back at Day, who looked down. She grasped his chin and jerked his head up. He looked up at her, his eyes full of both tears and adornment. He’d never felt…he’d never felt, that much. So full of desire and fright, lust and terror. Nancy asked:
--Where is your mother child?
--Waiting. Not for me.
--Is he your father?
Day looked at Luke.
--Yes.
Nancy looked at Day, and sniffed, and brought her hand up and caressed his cheek. Then she looked back at Luke.
--Triple.
Luke nodded, took the money out of his wallet, and handed it to Day. He said:
--Give it to her when you’re done.
-Pause-
Dolomite and Lo, who had awakened, looked up at Knight who looked off into space, his mouth slightly opened.
“And then?” Dolomite asked. He leaned forward, sweat beading on his upper lip. “What happened then?”
Knight took off his glasses, wiped them on his t-shirt and then placed them back on his head. He snorted and shook his head.
“No. No, that one is mine.”
-Continue-
Outside of the brothel, Luke lit a cigarette. He said:
--Tomorrow night, at ten-O-ten exactly, I need you up in the attic of Sing Dung’s. They’ll be closing up, but no one will say a word to you. You’ll be carrying the rifle and the special package that I’ll give you tonight. At ten-O-sixteen you’ll attach the package and fire it through the twelfth window on the fifth floor. There will be about a five inch space in the window, more than enough space for the package to fit.
After that you will wait for fifteen minutes and then come downstairs. I’ll meet you there.
Day looked up at him and gave him a puzzled look. Luke smirked:
--You didn’t think I was teaching you alll this for fun did you? We have a job to do.
Day said:
--But…but what are we doing?
--Luke’s rule number nine: don’t ask queestions.
--But what will you be—
Luke cut him off with stare. Day sighed, and nodded.
--Fine.
Luke looked off in the distance. Then he took another drag of his cigarette, and dropped it on the sidewalk, crushing it underneath his loafer. He said:
--I’ll be leaving that night.
Day blinked, his eyes widened and then slitted. He rolled his hands into fists and took a step back. Luke wanly nodded, and said:
--Yeah.
--You used me!
--Yeah sure. If you want to think that.<
--If I want to think that? You just needded me to do your job—whatever the fuck that is—
--I laid down the rules to you son—
<
--I’m not your son!
--Then whose son are you?
Day thinned his lips, and growled, but said nothing. Luke went into his pocket and pulled out another cigarette. He lit it and looked up in the air. He said:
--I do have a son, you know. Well I havee an offspring, not really a son. I only saw him once before…before I began doing what I do. He’d be older than you now, maybe sixteen? seventeen? Nearly a man.
Day screamed:
--What the fuck do I care about that?
--You don’t have to. I’m just talking. YYou know why you don’t ask questions Day? Because questions are superfluous to actions. Questions don’t mean anything. I could lay the entire plot out to you, and it still wouldn’t make any sense cause there’s no answers, only choices. Paths cross and double cross and comprehension is knowing which way you’ll go.
Day said:
--I don’t understand what you mean.
<
--I mean that you’ll do what I tell you to do, or I’ll fucking kill you. And that’s just the way it is.
Day watched Luke walk down the street, and Day thought, in a brief moment of maturity, that he’d never seen a man, a thing, more alone. Then Luke stopped and said:
--Well are you coming or what?
Day didn’t have anywhere else to go, so he followed.
---
Everything went according to plan.
Day walked into Sing Dung’s Café at ten-O-ten, and the two waitresses and the manager didn’t even acknowledge his presence. Day thought one of the waitresses, a pretty young bronze colored girl might have raised her eyes away from her broom, but if she did it was only for a heartbeat. Day never broke step, following Luke’s instructions to the letter. The attic upstairs was packed with equipment, but there was a small area near the window that was cleared, just enough space for him to unload and prepare. He opened his case, and pulled the rifle out.
The gas rounds were already inside the chamber, and on its barrel, Day screwed in a round metal ball with a single flashing red light. He placed his watch on the window still, hefted the rifle on his shoulder and waited. When the second hand hit twelve at ten-O-sixteen, Day fired, and the package shot across the street. As it sailed through the air, flying through the window, a small spike came out of its head, and imbedded itself in the wall. The lights in the building died, and for a moment the floor looked like the rest of the building. Day waited, and then there were soundless flashes of light. One from the fifth window, another a moment later from the sixth and then two more from the ninth. Silence. Day waited. Five minutes later Day saw Luke, in a black jumpsuit run across the street towards the café. Five minutes later Day packed up his rifle, and crept downstairs. As he walked out from the back, and around the bar, he saw Luke standing in the middle of the floor. In one hand was his ski mask, and in the other was a smoking gun. Day looked down and gasped.
--Oh no.
Laying around the floor, were the remaining employees of the café. They looked like triplets, their eyes glazed and dead, bullet wounds in the center of their heads. Day looked at Luke and asked:
--Why?
Luke walked over to Day and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck. Pulling him out the café, Luke grunted:
--Rule number seven. Leave no witnesses.. Now shut up and come on.
Dragged out towards the black car parked in front, Day managed to peep over his shoulder one more time, his brain trying to wrap itself around what just happened. He saw the young waitress lying in a pile, like a bag of bones, and he thought, she was just alive. I just saw her breathing…
Shoving Day against the door, Luke threw open the back seat, and tossed in his weapon, mask and Day each with equal care. Then he jumped in the car, slammed the door shut, and yelled at the driver to move. If the driver saw the bodies in the café he didn’t say a word, but only hit the gas, pulled a U-turn, and headed back towards the ghetto.
Both Day and Luke were silent for the entire trip. A single tear fell down Day’s cheek, and he didn’t wipe it away.
That was the last time Day cried.
They walked out of the car and marched back to Day’s box. As usual George was gone, but surprisingly so was Punching Bag, her wooden chair vacant, but still facing the horizon. Day stared at it for a second, but Luke didn’t pause, walking into the darkness. Day reached into his pocket, pulled out his throwing knife, and held it behind his back as he followed Luke.
Inside he found Luke reaching into a dufflebag. Day walked up behind him and Luke said:
--Wait a moment. I have something to givve you first.
Day froze, and then saw Luke pull out of his bag a small cardboard box and two stuffed manila envelopes. He laid them on the mat he’d been using for a bed, and then wanly smiled as he stood up and faced his protégé. His son.
--It’s alright. You can show me.
>
Day froze, the hand holding the knife became unbearably hot. He said:
--Show you what?
Luke smiled:
--The knife behind your back.
Day slowly looked down,, and pulled it from behind his back, staring at it like it mysteriously appeared in his grip. Luke said:
--Good boy. The old you would have went off at me back at the café, all nails and teeth. You waited for the right moment when my back was turned. You’re going to be a great agent.
Day tilted his head to the side. He said:
--Agent?
Luke gestured towards the envelopes on the bed.
--In those envelopes you’ll find twenty--five hundred in pounds, a passport, several numbers, a airplane ticket to England—sorry, couldn’t get you first class—and a letter enrolling you in the Wilde Academy, the most elite private school the entire Empire. When you arrive a man named Dexter St. Cloud will meet you for a briefing. Try not to get too close to him because he has wicked halitosis, but don’t tell him that, or you’ll be cleaning out latrines for a month.
--I don’t understand.
Luke looked at Day, and placed his hand against the child’s face.
--I’m giving you a chance son. A chance to be something far greater than this. You have talent—true it’s unfocused rough talent—but talent nonetheless. If I was an agent for a major league baseball team those would be tickets to New York to play for the Yankees. But I’m not.
--What are you?
--You know what I am. Save I don’t wear tuxes, and I have to pay for the birds.
--And I going to be—
Luke dropped his hand, and took six steps back. He reached down to the bed, and picked up his gun. He held it at his side and turned to Day.
--You just have one more test Day, and tthen your new life can begin.
Luke coughed and took a deep breath. He exhaled and said:
--You have to kill me.
--What?
--After you kill me, you are to cut out my eye, put it in that box, and drop it off in front of the British Embassy downtown. It’s on the way to the airport so it shouldn’t be that much trouble.
Day’s face paled, and he nearly dropped his knife. He gasped:
--What?
--They only take killers Day. In my posiition they don’t want wankers, and pansy-boys. They need stone cold killers who say what they mean, and follow through. They’ve been taking my word about this, but they need proof, and thus the box.
--No way!
--Day, you are going to kill me.
>
--No!
--You were about to kill me before, why stop now? Because you care? Because I’m looking at you. Look at my eyes Day, do you know how many men, women, and children I’ve killed? Do you know how many people I’ve slain? Hundreds boy, and at the end of it, they’re all the same. We all live to die, and the only thing that matters is how you do it.
--I’m not doing it.
--You’ll do what I tell you!
--Please.
Luke cocked the gun.
--On three boy.
--No.
--One.
--N—
--Two.
Luke raised his arm but Day, with a speed that not even he couldn’t conceive, raised his arm up and his knife buried itself in Luke’s heart. Luke dropped to his knees and the gun clattered on the concrete floor. He stared for a second at the knife, and then, with only enough strength to raise his eyes, he looked up at Day, who was a silhouette, a shadow cut out of the darkness. He smiled, and gasped:
--I…Immm...pppproud.
Day stared down at him for twenty seconds. Then he walked over to Luke’s body, and began to drag it outside.
Using his hands he dug a hole in the earth and, with methodical efficiency, Day pulled his knife from Luke’s heart, and cut out the corpse’s left eyeball. He sat it to the side, and pushed Luke’s body into the hole. He bowed to it, and filled it back in. He left no marker.
After this was done, Day walked back into his home, dropped the eye in the box, wiped his hands on his jeans, and sealed it. Then he opened up the envelopes. He pulled out 1,000 pounds and left it on the table, sitting his baseball and glove on top of it. In one hand he picked up the box, and in the other he picked up the case containing the sniper rifle. He walked out of his home and headed for the road. He never looked back.
Knight took a drink of water from a plastic bottle sitting on the floor next to him. He swallowed, and said,
“And no one lived happily ever after.”
“So Day…that’s you right?” Lo asked.
“Nah, it’s fucking Kayne West, who you think nigga? Next question.”
“Why did he do it?” Dolomite asked. “Why did Luke set it up like that?” Knight laughed. It was a morose, melancholy laugh.
“I don’t know. Man, I have no idea, and to tell you the truth, I don’t even think about it anymore. He was right you know—answers really don’t mean two shits. At the end of it, memory don’t mean that much either. Who knows? Maybe it didn’t even happen like that. Maybe I’m making the whole thing up. But what I do know is that someone came along and got me out of that shit hole. I did see the world. I did become more than a degenerate gambler, and that has made all the difference.”
“You went on to save our lives.” Lo said.
“Yeah, managed to save your bitch asses.”
“Hey,” Lo said, “I just wanted to let you know, I appreciate that. We would have been dead without you.”
“Yeah,” Dolomite said, “you’re the man.”
“Nigga, get off my dick!” Knight laughed. “Listen, you guys need to get some sleep. Tomorrow we all have to be sharp, or else we’ll be taking permanent naps.”
Knight got up and turned off the overhead lights.
“Night nigs.” Knight said. The other guys muttered ‘good-night’, and Knight sat cross legged on the ground. He stared into the darkness, and for a moment he could see Luke’s eyes, staring up at him, his mouth working, and his last breaths trying to communicate one final message.
Then, like turning the page in a book, Knight pushed the image aside and concentrated on the next day, thinking of every possible contingency that could happen. He knew the chances were that Douche Bag would play it straight up, but if the tables did flip he’d have to kill a lot of people. He didn’t mind that. He didn’t mind that at all. Not since Day turned into Knight.
Grizzly opened his eyes, and found Emissary standing above him, his green eyes like spotlights above him. Grizzly shouted and jerked back. Emissary stood there unmoved. He opened his mouth and said in John Wayne’s voice,
“Howdy pilgrim.”
Grizzly gasped for air and looked at his surroundings. He was on the floor of the farmhouse, and around him lay the sleeping bodies of Snatch, Chad, and Dorothy who were spooning each other on a pile of hay. Outside the dull light of a new day washed everything in a gray. He rubbed his eyes, and stared at the alien in front of him.
“You scared the shit outta me.” Grizzly said.
Emissary watched him, a childlike smile playing on his completely smooth face. Grizzly, couldn’t help grin back. The…humanoid was like a big kid, like an alien Rain Man. He stood up.
Last night, they all stayed in and talked. Chad and Dorothy laid down how they met Em back in their undergrad days at UPenn, and how he’d disappeared after the New Year’s party of 1969. As far as they could tell he was gone, up and disappeared in the same manner as he entered their lives. Chad then explained how he and Sergeant Pepper joined their band and transferred to Queens and City College respectively to finish their undergrad degrees. After graduation they separated on good terms, and Chad went on to work on computers, entering into the Information Technology field years before it became profitable. In that time, he and Dorothy hooked back up (Dorothy went on to get a Masters in Education, and was in NJ school administration) and they married. Chad, like Theo, was looking to start his own business in consultation, and he sought DIK support. Again, like Theo, he was referred to a section of the DIK Foundation known as Technology Existence Partners—TEP—who gave him a start up loan, far above anything he needed. Business was successful, and he even had DIK as one of his clients. He’d been on his way to paying off the loan.
Then the tone between lender and lendee changed. TEP became more demanding, sending him jobs that they demanded he take. Chad, the former hippy he was, had refused most jobs in Government in general, and the military sector specifically, and these were exactly the places TEP wanted him to work. He refused and they pointed to specific places in his loan agreement that legally obligated him to do what they told him. Chad hadn’t read over the contract in full, never even consulted a lawyer. Why would he? They were all brothers after all, and brothers are meant to be trusted. Right?
Chad had found himself in a bind, but he decided to fight fire with fire. Using his talent in computers, and the backdoors he built into DIK’s mainframe, he hacked into their system, and searched around. What he found was cryptic, but both incriminating and frightening. Listed there were numerous invoices and communications between members of the government, military companies and TEP, DIK Foundation, and DIK National. He couldn’t understand most of it, but he saw the dollar signs. He approached TEP with his information, and told them he would bury it if they released him from his obligation. Chad was surprised how quickly TEP complied with his demands. He handed over his files (at least the copies) and left. Up until a day ago he hadn’t heard from them, but the experience had left him terrified. With X-File dreams in his mind, he and Dorothy began to take steps for going to war. They trained in weapons and explosives, and amassed an armory in their home. They discovered they liked the cloak and dagger routine, that particular Mr. and Mrs. Smith act. They went even farther, planning bombs in the backyard, buying a safe house. Without children they only had each other and getting ready for Armageddon was a greater bonding experience than Must-See-TV and the South-Beach-Diet. Yet they never thought they would have to use it.
That was until Emissary walked back into their life.
Of course they took care of him. Each had unique affections for the alien. But when the phone call came from a TEP representative, they quickly put two and two together, and began to prepare.
“And that’s when you showed up.” Dorothy had said. “I didn’t know who you guys were, I didn’t know what to do, and when I caught you in a lie…”
“POW!” Emissary yelled, in the perfect imitation of the old Batman sound effect.
The new day’s light flooding the room; Grizzly sighed, and looked back at Emissary who still hadn’t moved.
“Dude,” Grizzly said, “why are you here?”
Emissary’s smile vanished, and his lipless mouth became a straight razor slash across his face. His eyes rolled up, and he opened his mouth. Sound came out but none of it was comprehensible. It sounded like a mix of birds, and electronic clicks. Grizzly shook his head.
“Stop, stop. I don’t understand.”
Emissary closed his mouth, rolled his eyes to the side in the imitation of thought. Then he opened his mouth again, and said in a voice that was instantly recognizable to Grizzly,
“Resistance is futile.”
Grizzly gasped, and looked at Emissary in astonishment, but was only met with his childish grin. Then, off to the side, Dorothy yawned and stretched. She said,
“Who’s ready for some breakfast?”
In a darkroom, somewhere, Jennifer opened her eyes. She sat, tied to a chair. She tried to break her bonds but it was useless. She was trapped like a mouse in a trap. A shadow in front of her stuck a spoon towards her mouth.
“Breakfast?” Grace asked.
“Fuck you bitch!” Jenn hissed.
Grace moved back, shrugged and placed the spoon in a gap between the bandages that covered her face.
“Thought you might want a last meal.”
“If you’re going to kill me then just do it.”
Grace swallowed, and shook her head.
“Why? That’s just no fun. Besides, I need you alive a little longer.”
“To get to Knight?”
Grace took another spoonful of cereal from a bowl she held in her other hand, and nodded.
“Look, whatever he did, I’m sure it can be worked out.”
“Bitch,” Grace said, wiping away a trickle of milk from the corner of her mouth, “have you seen my face? And don’t even let me get started on my car.”
“So you’re going to kill us?”
“Why not? I mean, babes, that’s, like, what we do.”
Jennifer shook her head. “I don’t believe that. Maybe you, but not Knight.”
“Man, you are one diluted bitch. I mean, haven’t you ever wondered?”
“Wondered what?”
“Oh come on! The dates, the car, the clothes, the way he takes off at night with no reason?”
“He has a job!”
“Sure, a job,” Grace snickered. “A job he just happens to get out of whenever he needs to. Let me ask you have you ever been to his job?” Jennifer opened her mouth and then shut it. “Ah huh.” Grace continued. “And let me guess, when ever he needs to “go” he tells you something like ‘you know how I do?’ or ‘nigga!’ right?”
“That doesn’t make him a killer!”
“Right—that makes him a saint. What about getting your apartment blown up? That shit happens to postmen all the time.”
Jennifer laughed. “You probably did it bitch. Probably setting him up. Let me ask you something—how long have you have a wet spot for my man.”
In a quick, effortless gesture, Grace smacked Jennifer rocking her chair to the side. To her credit Jennifer didn’t cry out, but made a low hiss as the chair righted itself. She smiled and glared at Grace.
“Hit a soft spot huh?”
“You are so off honey.” Grace said, dipping her spoon in the bowl. “He’s always loved me, but I wouldn’t give him the time of day.”
“You are so lying.”
“Really?” Using the spoon, Grace pointed to Jennifer’s left hand. “Where’s the ring?”
“Men don’t—”
“Oh come on, you guys been dating for like what? A five, six years? He’s like what? Thirty-four, thirty-five now? What’s he waiting for?”
“He’s—”
“He’s waiting for me that’s what he’s waiting for.” She swallowed a spoonful of cereal and licked the utensil clean. “And he’s going to get me, he going to get the whole fucking thing.”
“You’re insane.” Jennifer gasped.
Grace tossed the bowl and spoon somewhere into the darkness, and it shattered loudly. She looked at her watch, and pulled a knife out of her pocket.
“Sanity, insanity…what’s the difference?” She took a step towards Jennifer who jerked back in the chair. Grace laughed. “It’s show time!”