"I'm fine, Daniel. Robert's home with a cold, and I'm sure he'll give it to the girls, but there you are."
"Indeed, Mrs. Holgrim."
"How are you, Daniel?"
"Oh, I'm always fine." Mrs. Holgrim nodded, believing it because that was how she thought he always must be. Daniel said, "A poultice of garlic on his feet will cure the cold, Mrs. Holgrim."
"Really?" She looked skeptical. Daniel didn't press the issue. He returned the vegetable knife and started on an equally worthless paring knife. They made small talk for a while, then, as he began to work the steel of the chef's knife, her one good cutting utensil,he said, "You know, Mrs. Holgrim, if I may say so,if you were to learn to use a butcher's steel, you could keep this in fine shape without having it sharpened nearly so often."
Mrs. Holgrim's blue eyes, which were still very pretty, opened wide. "Really, Daniel?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Why haven't you told me this before?"
He returned the knife to her and accepted two dollars per knife plus a one-dollar tip. He wiped his hands on his shirt, the oil blending into the moss green. "Because, Mrs. Holgrim, then you wouldn't have needed me to sharpen your knives for you."
Her mouth dropped open, closed again. She seemed to think about getting angry, but finally said,"Then why are you telling me now?"
"Because I won't be here."
"Won't-where are you going?"
"I'm not sure. I won't know until the driver comes,but I think it's somewhere in the midwest. Ohio, I believe. Or Indiana."
"You don't know?"
"No, I only know that it is time to pick up my fiddle and find my brothers. Good afternoon, Mrs. Holgrim."
Daniel continued down the street, ringing his bell.
AUTUMN EVENING, FULL MOON
Scarf wound tight around my head
To keep hair from my eyes;
My knife would cut deeper
Then I could realize.
"RAVEN, OWL, AND I"
"… And the captain told me, 'My whole crew's a bunch of yo-yos.' Well, I didn't give it another thought until we were halfway back to the States and we hit an iceberg. The ship sank." Pause. "Sixty-five times." There was some scattered laughter as the large comedian shook his head sadly, and crossed the stage.
He stopped in front of a small, attractive woman at a front table. He puckered his lips obscenely for a moment, then said, "Hey, cutie, wanna go halfsies on a baby?" This got more laughs than the ship joke had.
The gypsy, who had forgotten his name, sat in back, wondering how he'd gotten there. He found little humor in the comic, J. J. McNair, yet he appreciated the skill of the storyteller. He admired the comedian's timing and ability to read the audience.How? Why did he know these things when he couldn't remember his own name? He remembered being called "Little One," but that wasn't right. And how had he gotten here? The last thing he could remember clearly was performing a ritual over his knife,to purify it. He knew it had worked, but why had it been necessary?
The comic was saying, "I'm a great lover, honey. I am. Really. I taught myself." A bit more laughter. "I bought a complete sex manual and I've been following it. I'm up to page eighty-three. It says, 'Get a partner.' " He raised his eyebrows lewdly while the audience laughed, more at the woman's obvious embarrassment than at the jokes.
McNair wasn't bad. It was not a sort of storytelling the observer was used to, yet it made him unaccountably homesick. Homesick for-
For-
A voice, that's all it was. A melodious, half-drunken voice that told stories with an ironic bite to them, for all their seriousness. Tales of fairies and heroes, and he, the "Little One," had listened eagerly and believed them. He remembered the champing of horses,the ringing of the bridle loops like the tinkling of the zils of the tambourine. He remembered the black horses, and a black coach.
Yes.
And he had learned from that voice. He had learned that if you make a promise, you must always carry it out, or else you might have to behead the cow with one horn who had always given you food when you were starving. Yes, you must always keep your promise.
What promise had he given, then? And who was he? Gypsy, that's what they called him. The name came back with a certain sense of relief. That wasn't his name, but it was one of them. There were other gypsies, he knew that, but he was the Gypsy. Yes.Now, if he could only remember the promise, and to whom it was made, and if he could only find his brothers. He needed them for-
For-
The comedian was now in front of a group of middle-aged women off to the side of the tiny stage."I understand one of you ladies is going to have a baby." When they looked confused, McNair added,"I haven't decided which one yet." More laughter.More, decided the Gypsy, than it deserved, but that was because he had the crowd now. All of them, he thought, except me. And that isn't his fault, it's because I don't fit in. I don't belong here. I'm not one of them. I'm-
I'm-
He stood up and made his way to the door. The comedian said, "Hey, buddy, I didn't leave when you showed up." The Gypsy didn't begrudge him the laughter.
The street did not look familiar. It was crowded,and it was evening, and there were lights everywhere racing up and down the buildings, and it came to him as a revelation that these lights were to attract his notice, that they were intended to draw attention to themselves and away from the other lights. As he stood there, a black-and-white police car crossed by in the traffic opposite, and he pulled himself into the shadow of the building from which he'd issued. Memories returned of entering it for just that reason. He had gone this way, aimless, after the purification, because it was empty and deserted. And then, as the sun fell, people emerged from everywhere, as if they sprouted from the sidewalk, and he'd felt the trapped animal fear, and then he'd seen the police car and ducked into this place.What was it called? "Tiny's," that was it. But what reason had he to fear policemen?
Yet, he did have a reason. He knew that and believed it. He felt for his knife, hilt tucked into his waistband beneath his shirt, and the cold feel of the grip brought a freshness, and a certain clarity. Here,take this, little one. I don't need it. That voice! The same as from the stories. Tears welled up in his eyes,though he could not say why.
The police car was gone, now, and he began walking. A few people stared at him, but only for a moment. He tried to ignore them. He aimed toward places where there were few people, through alleys and side streets. After half an hour, in a more deserted area, he stopped, staring at a street sign. Why?What was it? Something about that street. He stood there until he was afraid he would attract attention to himself, then began walking along it.
The night grew older, and he realized he could see his breath. Was it cold, then? That thought, those actions triggered a vague sense of familiarity. As he walked he noted that the lights were gone now, leaving small brick buildings with plate-glass windows.An hour or so later, these gave way to old houses,most with open porches and heavy doors, collapsing steps and two or three mailboxes.
It came to him that he had stopped; that he hadn't moved for some time. He stared at the house and kept blinking. It had once, perhaps, been yellow or green; it was difficult to be certain in this light. A big porch, two mailboxes, two doors. One door led upstairs. He tried it and it was open. The stairway was very narrow and curved for the last three steps at the top. The hallway here was narrow, too.
He hesitated for what felt like a long time, then, he knocked. He heard a chair shuffling, and heavy, slow footsteps. From the other side: "Yeah, what is it?"
He took a deep breath and said, "Please, let me in. Karen sent me."
The door flew open as if it were being ripped off its hinges, and the Gypsy stared into a pair of cold blue eyes, wide with shock and anger. Around them was a round, clean-shaven face more suited to grins than rage. The hair was well-groomed, and he wore a checked sports shirt unbuttoned over a white tee shirt. He said, "What the fuck do you mean, Karen sent you?"
"Are you Bri
an MacWurthier?"
"Yeah."
The Gypsy read confusion behind the anger."Karen sent me. She told me that you had cared well for her, and that I was to see that you were all right,and-"
"When did she say all this?"
"I… I'm not certain. Several days ago, I think."
MacWurthier blinked. "Karen is dead." He choked a little as he said it.
"Yes, I know."
"But-"
"I see that you are well, so that is all I was to do.Goodbye."
"Wait a minute!"
The Gypsy turned back, waited. "Yes?"
"I don't get-who are you, anyway?"
"Gypsy."
MacWurthier glanced at his clothing and nodded."You look it." He blinked. "You must be freezing out there. It can't be much above zero. What's your name?"
"Gypsy," he said. "I think that is my name."
"You don't know your name? You got amnesia or something?"
"Yes. That must be it. But it doesn't matter."
"Well, why did you say I'm all right?"
The Gypsy considered this, then said slowly, "You have been keeping yourself shaved and cleaned, and there is no liquor on your breath. The redness in your eyes is nearly gone. You have passed the worst of your grief, and it won't destroy you."
MacWurthier stared at him. "Man," he said. "This is weird. Well, can you come in for a minute?"
The Gypsy hesitated, then nodded. MacWurthier stepped aside and the Gypsy entered a short hall,with a small kitchen to his left and a small living room on his right. Karen, the ghost, stared at him from a picture on the far wall of the living room, above a matte black stereo system. The place was small and neat, save for a few magazines scattered here and there. The Gypsy read the titles: Time, Computer World, Datamation.
"Sit down," said MacWurthier. The Gypsy did so,sitting stiffly at one end of a brown Naugahyde sofa."Can I get you a beer? Coffee? Coke? Tea?"
"Tea would be nice."
"Sugar?"
"No, thank you."
"All right. Just a sec."
He went into the kitchen. The Gypsy felt Karen's presence in the room, and felt hints and traces, as of a remembered fragrance, of what the two of them had been for each other. There had been anger as well as love here, but the anger had never been violent, and the love had still been strong when Karen had died.
MacWurthier returned with two cups of tea. The Gypsy tasted it. It was black and bitter, but of a good kind. He felt a warmth as it went down his throat that made him wonder if he had, in fact, been cold.
"So, did you meet Karen while she was ill?"
No, I met her while she was dead. "Yes."
"She asked you to look after me?"
"She said you cared for her very much, and she was worried."
He swallowed, and there was pain on his face. He would have new lines in a year; he would become older. It was sad. It was inevitable. "Well, thanks."
The Gypsy nodded.
"It was leukemia," MacWurthier continued. "Hell of a thing."
"Yes."
"I think I'll move out of here."
"Perhaps that would be best." As he spoke, his vision began to blur, which meant that soon his headache would return.
MacWurthier continued, "It's hard, you know? All the things we used to do together. Every time I go by the park, I see those horse-drawn cabs we used to ride in, and I almost cry. There was this one guy we used to get on Sundays who'd take us off the main paths- Once we went all the way around Circle Lake."
He was staring off into the distance, but the Gypsy almost dropped his teacup. The vision came to him of the Coachman, thin and dark, cynical and drunken.He must find him. He must. He dimly heard MacWurthier ask if he had a place to stay the night, but his concentration was elsewhere. He must find the Coachman, and his brothers. Soon.
If only he could remember why.
14 NOV 08:47
They say the weapon vanished,
they say the suspect split.
Point your finger somewhere else;
I couldn't give a shit.
"STEPDOWN"
"Please," said Stepovich. He felt the word grate up his throat.
Marilyn swung back to look at him reproachfully."Stepovich, you bastard, that isn't fair!"
"1 know," he said. "But it's the only thing I have left, so I'm saying it. Please."
She said nothing as a secretary tip-tapped past them in high heels, but as soon as she was safely out of hearing range, she leaned closer to Stepovich and hissed, "Listen, I know I owe you. And I've said any number of times that I'd make it up to you in anyway I could. But I didn't mean something like this!This is bending a lot of rules, Mike. And people like us don't do that. It's one of the reasons we get along so well. So don't ask me."
He clenched his teeth a moment, standing with his head lowered. He knew it wasn't fair. He knew this wasn't the kind of thing she'd meant when she'd promised to pay the favor back. She'd meant dinner at her house, or an evening out at her expense or something else that might have led to places he wasn't ready to go. Not a favor that could lead to her losing her job. So she was upset, not just because he'd asked for this, but because he'd never asked her for the other. She put her hand on the door of the ladies' room again. He'd deliberately caught Marilyn out in the hall, away from her computer and coworkers. She probably had to go to the John pretty bad, and she'd already told him "no" twice. But he needed help. And he'd been the one to go in and find her nephew in that rat-ridden flophouse, and drag him out and help Marilyn drive him across to Pennsylvania and check him into a drug rehab center. Marilyn wasn't even the kid's legal guardian. They'd bent a rule or two then, and she knew it. He'd sweated day and night for six weeks that the kid was going to have his parents press some kind of kidnapping charges. But Stepovich had done it, because even if it was against the rules, it was still right. And maybe what he was asking of Marilyn was the right thing to do also.Maybe.
"Please."
She spun on him, a transcription clerk with doggie brown eyes, suddenly transformed into a hellcat. She took a step toward him and he involuntarily stepped back, expecting to feel the rake of her nails. But she snatched at his sleeve and pulled him closer.
"Listen!" she hissed, sharp as broken glass. "Give me that damn description, and I'll do a search. Nationwide, if that's what you want, and to hell with my job if someone wonders why I'm using unauthorized link time. But listen, pal, you gotta do something for me, too. And then we're going to call it square and no more favors between us, right?"
Stepovich hated the way this was going. Marilyn wasn't his friend, exactly, but they'd been good at working together, more than acquaintances. She'd thought that he would never ask her to put it on the line for him, not on something like this, anyway. But,damnit, it was the only thing he could think of to do.Bend a few more rules to get himself back on the right track. Bend them so he could clean up the mess he'd made of things with the Gypsy thing. He didn't hesitate to grant her favor, but only asked, "What is it?"
"You put a muzzle on that horny little shit you calla partner, that's what! He's hitting on Tiffany Marie two and three times a week. You tell him she's no whore, not anymore, and he'd damn well better quit treating her like one."
"Okay, okay," Stepovich muttered. He felt like he'd just stepped in dog manure, Durand and Tiffany Marie? Next Dumbshit would be going after the jumprope and jacks set. Marilyn snatched the carefully wrought description from his hand, and spun away to the rest room. "I'll call you tonight, okay?" he said after her. She gave no sign of hearing him, but he was sure she had. She pushed the door open so hard it bounced off the stopper. He turned away. The day had turned rancid, all its good intentions gone to slickness and deceit.
He knew he'd lost whatever it was they'd shared,mutual respect, whatever it was. She'd never trust him after this, and he'd miss that. But she was the only one he knew who could take his carefully remembered description of the Gypsy and turn it into possible names and cr
iminal histories, without his having to fill out a bunch of forms and official requests.
He stuck his head into the coffee room. The walls were lined with vending machines, and folding tables with singularly uncomfortable attached stools filled the center of the room, Durand was there. He'd solved the stool problem by sitting on the table. He had a cup of coffee steaming next to him and was trying to coax a Twinkle out of its wrapper. "Durand!Let's go!" was all Stepovich said, and then continued down the hall. He heard his partner's protesting cry of, "Hey, just a second…," but he didn't pause. He picked up their shotgun and radio and went outside into a sulking grey morning and down the back steps.
He found their assigned car for the day and did his standard walkaround, looking for unreported scratches and dents that the previous shift might have left on the car. It was okay. The bright blue shield on the door said, LAKOTA POLICE DEPARTMENT, and under it. TO PROTECT AND TO SERVE. He grimaced. Once, he and Ed had painted over the shield on Richart's unit the motto, OVER 4 MILLION BUSTED. It didn't seem so funny anymore.
He unlocked the back door and jerked out the seat,checking under it for any little goodies the last passengers might have left behind. Once he'd found half a gram of coke under the seat, and another time there'd been a zip gun. Stepovich didn't believe in leaving anything to chance. Never assume the night shift had checked under the seats.
He'd finished his inspection and put the back seat in and was behind the wheel before Durand came outside. Durand got in, shaking hot coffee from his fingers. Stepovich glanced at him briefly before turning the key. "Wipe the Twinkie cum off your chin,"he told him in disgust as he slammed the car into gear.
Durand scrubbed guiltily at a smear of white frosting before demanding, "What the hell's eating you?"He slurped coffee from a paper cup.
Stepovich gunned the engine to see if he could make Dumbshit spill coffee on himself. No luck."Nothing. You got to talk all the time? Can't we ever just shut up in here?"
The Gypsy Page 38
