Suddenly desperate to take his mind from these thoughts, he addressed his companions. He said carefully, "Do either of you know how long they're likely to keep us here before something else happens?"
Echoes echoes echoes, banging around inside his head, which now hurt so badly he wanted to scream. If the police, for some reason, wanted to listen in to conversations in this place, they would be unable to hear anything but echoes, Charles wasn't sure if his companions had understood his question, but he had no wish to repeat it. The one who stank glowered at him, and Charles was startled by the deep blue of his eyes. The younger, taller one shook his head and went back to contemplating the floor between his arms.
Charles closed his eyes and took two deep breaths.He assessed his options as best he could. From the way he was treated by the policemen, and the diligence of their search, he was considered dangerous,and was wanted for a serious crime. Had he, perhaps,killed someone? His feelings gave him no answer, except that the idea of having take a life filled his heart with no sense of denial.
If he left himself in their hands, could he expect justice? Did he want justice? The answer to that was:Yes, but it was doubtful that they would see justice in the same way he did. The bench was hard, but the floor not as cold as he would have expected. He waited, his eyes fixed on the door, hardly blinking,hardly breathing. The younger of his companions spared him one curious glance, almost a grimace. The older continued to pace.
Charles could not say how long it was before the door opened once more. A policeman with a straight back and a grey mustache stood with the huge key in his hand and called out, "Jeffrey Simmons." The taller one stood and moved toward the door. The policeman said, "Vincent Petersen," and the smelly one looked up and shuffled to the door. The policeman's eyes locked with Charles' for just a moment, but he couldn't see anything in them.
The cell door shut, sending off echoes like a stone thrown into a pool. The echoes, hard and metallic,set off a ringing in his ears. The ringing continued,too high to sing comfortably, like the long screeching note of the violin at the end of a wild csardas. In his mind, he filled in the tambourine. Doom teka teka teka doom teka tek. Doom teka teka teka doom teka tek. His throat burned and he tasted his tears. He reached out,as if to touch his home, and then squeezed, as if to tear apart anything that would keep him from it.
Doom teka teka teka doom teka tek.
The ringing became louder still, until it filled all of the world that was or ever could be, and he breathed with the imaginary tambourine.
Doom teka teka teka doom teka tek.
He wrapped himself in his arms, and, as he did,the rhythm became buzzing of bees and the ringing became church-bells. He let it take him, fill him, expand him, and move him in a way that was more physical then he would have thought.
Movement?
Music.
His headache was gone.
The fiddle came to accompany the tambourine once more, and, just for an instant, he remembered his brothers. But then, the instant was enough, that time.
Doom teka teka teka doom teka tek.
Doom teka teka teka doom teka tek.
Doom teka teka teka doom teka tek.
Doom teka teka teka doom teka tek.
ONE
A Wolf, A Man, and an Old Gypsy Woman
05 NOV 17:30
My partner is an asshole,
my ex-wife is a bitch.
My daughter is a hooker,
the suspect is a witch.
"STEPDOWN"
"Will you guys pipe down?"
No one noticed. The background buzz and rattle in the squad room, loud for a Sunday, didn't even falter. Bad enough that his desk was out in the middle of the room, with other guys always walking behind him, spooking the hell out of him on bad days. Did it also have to be butted up against Dumbshit's desk? He lifted his eyes from the smudged keys of the Smith-Coronamatic and the multilayered sheaf of paper that he'd just crammed in its maw and found himself looking at Durand's butt. Dumbshit was sitting on his own desk, his back to Stepovich, his feet on his chair, for all the world like a high school punk bullshitting his way through study hall. The kid had about twenty extra pounds of gear packed into all the shiny leather pouches on his Sam Browne belt. Including the nonregulation and probably illegal sap Stepovich had to take away from him earlier,when he'd wanted to use it on the gypsy. Dumbshit Durand hadn't been content with throwing him up against the fence, he'd wanted to sap him, too. Asshole.
Stepovich spoke to Durand's butt. "What's the name of the street that goes past the cemetery?"
Durand interrupted his monologue to say, "Quince."And resumed it again, saying to Colette, who was hanging on his every word, "so I just catch a glimpse of him going into the St. Thomas, and I say to Step,here, 'There's the bastard now, and I hit the brakes and I'm out of the car and after him before Step's even got his seatbelt unbuckled, and…"
Stepovich let Durand's words dwindle in his mind. Step. Where'd that dumbshit rookie get off anyway,shortening his name? Mike, that's what he could call him if he wanted to be informal. Mike. That's what Ed had always called him before he retired eight months ago. But Dumbshit had to take his last name and cut the end off it. Yesterday one of the office temps had called him Step. Pissed him off. The kid had been his partner for three months now, and Stepovich still couldn't get used to him. If anything, he just grated on his nerves more each day.
He glued his attention to the form, used the release lever to recenter it in the machine, and tapped in"South on Quince." He paused, his fingers on the keys, thinking how to recount the arrest. He'd already left out losing the gypsy inside the bar, simply because he couldn't think of any way to explain it,Nor any way to explain how he had picked up the man's trail again, "Instinct," he'd growled at Durand when he'd had the brass to ask him. Stepovich typed in a couple more bland but informative sentences, in which the gypsy became "the suspect" and he and Durand "the arresting officers." Like that traditional Japanese theater, where the actors held up the masks and struck the poses, the expected faces that hid the real faces behind them. Get the arrest report about two steps away from reality. No one wanted to hear how the chain-link had sproinged when Durand threw the gypsy up against it. There hadn't been a struggle, not really. So leave out the sudden chill that had run over him when he'd touched the gypsy, don't mention how Durand had bared his teeth and swore and pulled out his sap in a response that was totally out of proportion to the gypsy's preoccupied glance and passive resistance-He typed a few more sentences and read them over swiftly. He'd leave out that Durand had wanted to give the gypsy a "screen test" in the car. "You know,Step, build up some speed and hit the brakes? He's got nothing holding him down back there. So when he hits the screen between the seats, we can see if it holds like it's supposed to. Screen test, get it?" And Durand had giggled, like a kid. Stepovich wondered if there were any cop jokes he hadn't already heard.
He realized he'd forgotten the knife. An unexpected tightness coiled briefly around Stepovich's spine, a clenching of almost guilt- How had Durand not noticed the knife clattering to the sidewalk at the scene of the arrest? He'd certainly said nothing when Stepovich had failed to turn it over when they were booking the gypsy. And that was wrong. If Stepovich leaned back right now and pressed against the support of the creaking chair, he'd be able to feel the knife in its sheath against his spine inside the lining of his jacket. The knife had slithered quickly through the hole in his pocket and into the lining of his jacket like a small animal seeking shelter.
Stepovich's fingers went on typing. He glanced briefly at a scribbled note and filled in the name as"Chuck?-John Doe." But he wasn't thinking of the paper before him, nor the other work to be completed before his shift was over; he was feeling the weight of the sheath knife pulling at his jacket like someone touching his shoulder; he was thinking of the unusual hilt, bone or antler, not plastic; and the sensible leather sheath. He should put the knife in the report,should have turned it in when they booked
the guy. Hell, it was another offense, carrying a concealed weapon, and maybe it tied into the killing they'd collared the gypsy on. If anyone found out, they'd nail Stepovich for concealing evidence or some such shit,and for what?
For what?
Stepovich didn't have any answer to that. And when you start doing things that you don't have reasons for, and they're things that could get your ass chewed off, it's time to back off from the job and take a break. But get yourself clear. He should do something like lean back and then jerk forward, saying,"Oh, shit, I forgot the knife, it musta fell through the hole in my pocket." Then fish it out and hand it to Durand, and have him go explain to booking while Stepovich used the whiteout to fix the arrest report.Then everything would be all square. Easy.
His desk phone rang, and without even looking,Durand reached back and snagged the receiver off the cradle. "Hello," he answered it, irking Stepovich even more. Damn kid couldn't even answer a phone properly, didn't identify himself, didn't even say the caller had reached Stepovich's line. "Just a sec," he said, and handed the receiver to Stepovich.
"Who is it?" he asked as he took it.
Durand shrugged. "Dunno. They wanted to talk to you."
Stepovich swallowed an irritated response, took the phone- "Officer Stepovich here, can I help you?"
"Daddy?"
"Laurie! How's my girl?"
"Fine, Daddy, except that I'm in the school square-dance program this Friday, and I have a skirt that's okay for it, but I need a blouse, a white frilly blouse."
There had been a time when Laurie would have beaten around the bush, would have told him all about the program and who her dance partner was and if he was yucky or nice, and then hinted, ever so slyly, that she'd be able to dance better in a frilly white blouse. Not anymore. And Stepovich didn't know if it was because she was getting older and more direct,or because now she only called him when she really wanted something, and didn't want to bother with him any more than was necessary.
"Daddy?" came her voice, and he realized he hadn't answered her yet. "I know you sent the support check, and Mom got it and all, but this is the month she has to pay property taxes she says, so she says we can't afford it. But I thought, since you're in an apartment and don't have property taxes, maybe you…"
"Sure thing, pussycat. You want me to come by this evening and take you out to one of the malls to get it?"
"Um, well, actually, I know the one I want, it's twenty-two dollars at Carson's, and uh, if you said okay. Mom said I could go get it on her card right now, with Chrissy and Sue. They're like, you know, waiting right now."
"I see," Stepovich tried to think of some other words to say, something that would reach down the phone and touch her, pull her closer to him. He leaned back in his chair, shifting his weight, and the chair squeaked as the gypsy's knife pressed up against his spine. He straightened quickly. "Well,honey, you tell your mom I'll put an extra check in the mail, and you go get your shirt. When is this dance thing, anyway?"
"Friday at seven. We're doing it for the PTA meeting. Uh, Daddy, don't forget tax. I mean, it will probably cost more with tax and everything."
"Right. I won't forget." Stepovich scratched $30 on the corner of his blotter, drew a lazy circle around it-
"So, what else is new around there? Got a boyfriend yet?"
"No." The irritation in her voice was not feigned.He guessed that the old tease really wasn't funny anymore. Which meant that maybe, yes, she did have a boyfriend. She was what, almost fifteen? Already fifteen? He sampled foot in mouth, swallowed it.
"Just teasing, sweetheart. So, what is going on with you lately?"
"Nothing, really. Dad, just this dance thing. Look,Chrissy's waiting, and Sue has to phone home to make sure it's okay if she goes with us, so I've got to hang up now, okay? Oh, and if you make the check to me, I can cash it while Mom's at work, and she doesn't have to stop at the bank. Less hassle, you know. Thanks a bunch. I'll tell Jeffrey you said 'hi.' "
"Yeah, okay, Laurie. Listen, I'll try to make it Friday, okay, but if…"
"Okay, Daddy, that's great, I'll see you then. Bye."
And she was gone and he was holding the phone too tightly, listening to its emptiness. He wanted to reach out and punch her number in again, call her back, say something to her to make her understand how much he missed her, how afraid he was that she was growing up and leaving him behind like a wornout stuffed toy.
Instead he rolled the report pages out of the machine, scanned them quickly and inked in a couple of corrections and signed it. Then shoved it at Durand's butt.
"Here. You take care of the rest."
And before Durand could turn around and say anything, Stepovich got up and stalked out of the room.He had to move, had to be doing something, not sitting still.
He got a drink at the water fountain, then walked past the elevator, down the hall between walls the color of old sour cream to the door marked EXIT-STAIRWELL. He went up two flights, listening to his footsteps echo, not using the handrail, forcing his body to do this extra little bit just to prove it still could. The knife rubbed against him as he walked.The gypsy was up here, locked into one of the holding cells.
Stepovich slowed his progress up the stairs. The man's had shown no understanding of why he was being arrested. It hadn't felt good to Stepovich, not like a righteous collar. This wasn't the guy. He already knew it when they stopped him, and he hadn't really wanted to haul him in. But that damn Durand was like a pit bull, all jaw and no brain. The gypsy matched the description of the killer who had shot the liquor store clerk, right down to the clothes, and Durand was always dreaming those hot glory dreams,about commendations and the five o'clock news and grateful feminine hands groping his crotch. It had been an ugly killing, one of those things where the thief already had the money in his hands when he shot the guy. There'd been no reason to shoot the clerk at all. Ugly. The press would play with this one, and everyone would want blood.
Maybe that was why he'd held back on the knife. He was sure the gypsy was going to be shaken loose,eventually. But they would let him go reluctantly, and it was going to be damn tough on him until then. And maybe he felt the guy didn't deserve a concealed weapons charge that would stick, simply because he looked like someone else, someone who'd blown away a liquor store clerk for a hundred and seventynine dollars plus loose change.
They waved him through the checkthrough, not casual, but respectful. He was the guy who'd made the big collar for the day. No one was going to stop him from inspecting his catch. He replied to their congratulatory words without thinking, a few nods, a couple of sure, sure's. Holding cell three.
He walked down the hallway, and remembered for an instant the first time he'd walked through here. It had reminded him of visiting the zoo, of looking at animals made unreal by their unnatural enclosures.Now it seemed normal. Now when he went to the zoo, it reminded him of this place, and he'd stare at the animals and imagine what they'd been booked for and which ones would be found guilty. The zoo. Hell,it had been two years since he'd taken Jeffrey to the zoo. It only seemed more recent than that because of all the empty spaces between then and now. All the afternoon matinees of movies neither he nor Jeffrey really wanted to see. That was the trouble with this kind of fathering. Too much of doing stuff with the kids, and not enough of just being around. Too many organized outings and carefully planned days. Not enough watching the tube and knowing they were in their rooms doing homework or messing around with their friends. Too much acting like a father, and not enough being one.
Shit.
And here was holding cell three, and someone had screwed up, because the gypsy wasn't in it. He checked two and four, and then one, quickly and professionally. The gypsy wasn't in any of them, either. Funny. If this were the zoo and those had been animals, the gypsy wouldn't have been so out of place. He'd seemed feral to Stepovich, naturally dangerous the way some men pretended to be. The gypsy would have been right at home caged between the tigers and the wolves. But he di
dn't belong here. And that he wasn't here seemed to prove that.
Stepovich leaned against the door, staring into the tank. He wasn't there. And he should be hurrying to report that to someone, to ask if he'd been kicked loose by mistake, if he'd been taken somewhere for questioning. But instead all he could feel was the hanging weight of the knife in the back of his jacket lining.
SOMETIME
The Lady smiles when she looks into your face
She open up her arms for you. awaiting your embrace.
"THE FAIR LADY"
The Fair Lady is hard at work, knitting a scarf. It must be pretty, or no one will wish to pick it up, and it must be strong, to snare a soul. When it is done, she might cook a broth in which to boil the purity of a maiden, or craft bellows with which to create a storm to wreck ships. She has done these things for a thousand thousand years, and she takes no less care then she ever has. At her side sits a bald-headed nora. In front of her stands a mother who has killed her own child in order to become a midwife. The Fair Lady rocks before her hearth, in which burn the bones of those she has caused to die before their time, and she is content.
"Well?" she says.
The midwife, all a-tremble, says, "Here it is, mistress. " The midwife hands the Fair Lady a lock of grey hair.
The Lady inspects it carefully, and grants the midwife an approving smile. "It will do," she says. "Did the old woman suspect?"
"No, mistress. She never saw me."
"Then how did you get this?"
"I bribed the bellboy to let me into the room, and I too kit while she slept."
The Gypsy Page 2
