Wolf Flow

by K. W. Jeter

  After a moment, Nelder nodded his head. "That's all there is. That's all there was-there isn't anything now."

  "That's… too bad." He tried to smile. "Man, I could sure use one. Miracle cure, I mean. You sure… these magic waters don't really work?"

  The caretaker wasn't in a joking mood. The black-shaded gaze regarded Mike without emotion.

  "There's no way you'll ever find out, is there?" Nelder looked past him to the building. "The spring's been capped for years. For a long time-since the clinic closed down."

  Nelder turned and continued walking. Mike called after him.

  "Hey-"

  The black gaze turned on him again, the weeds thick around Nelder's legs.

  "I wanted to say thanks."

  Nelder regarded him. "For what?"

  Leaning his weight on the crutch, he touched the bandages around his ribs. "For fixing me up. You did a good job." He managed to bring the smile up. "That's my professional opinion."

  The caretaker didn't say anything, but kept watching Mike.

  He felt his strength fading. "You didn't have to do it." He could barely hear his own voice. "You could've just thrown me out on the road…"

  Black gaze, and silence. Then: "I did it so you could leave." Nelder's voice sounded like the wind brushing the dry stalks of the weeds. "I didn't want you to die here." He started to turn away. "This isn't a good place to die."

  He felt someone take his arm, holding him up. Lindy had come out of the building and now stood next to him, keeping him from falling. He watched the old man walking, mounting into the first slope of the hills, until the rocks hid him and he was gone.

  THIRTEEN

  They waited until dark, and later, to take care of business. Charlie didn't mind; he and Aitch had this cherry Mercedes, a midnight black 450 SEL, to cruise all over town in, getting something to eat and generally relaxing. He liked the smell of the leather seats, everything, a lot better than in the Detroit iron Aitch usually had him driving.

  Aitch was in the rear seat with the black kid they'd picked up-black in black, it struck Charlie, still thinking about the Mercedes's polished good looks-and doing the same shit he'd done with Mike. Making people listen to that raspy old music he dug so much.

  Aitch sang along with the tape. "God, that's great stuff." He brought his smiling face close to the black kid's. "Come on, you gotta admit it. Be cool and say you like it."

  Up in the driver's seat, Charlie had the mirror angled so he could see what was going on. The black kid held his head high, giving Aitch a disdainful killer look from the corners of his half-lidded eyes. He looked like he had African princes in his genetics; that haughty, imperious set to his seventeen-year-old face. Even with one of those stupid high fade haircuts-Charlie didn't know whether they reminded him more of show poodles or somebody wearing a Brillo pad for a hat-the kid looked like a hard number. Or as hard as he could, given that Aitch had the snout of a Colt Diamondback shoved up into the kid's jawbone.

  "Turn it up," said Aitch, without looking around. "I want our guest to get a real musical education."

  Charlie turned the volume knob on the Blaupunkt up a notch. He had the fader control rolled all the way to the rear speakers, so it wouldn't be so loud around himself. He didn't see how Aitch was going to gain many converts with this whole business. Either by beating the crap out of somebody until he was just drifting in and out of consciousness, the way they had with Mike, or by putting a big old cannon alongside somebody's neck-people just weren't going to sincerely reconsider their musical tastes under those kinds of conditions.

  Of course, that hadn't been the reason they'd worked over Mike, or why they were driving around with this kid. This was business. The other was just something Aitch did on the side, because he was a fun guy.

  "Now just ease back and listen." Aitch rubbed the muzzle of the gun up to the point of the black kid's chin, then back to the hinge under his ear. "You don't have anything else to do right now, do you? So this is just a little free time we made in your schedule-okay? Maybe in a little while we'll talk some more."

  The kid sat with his long-fingered hands carefully laid flat on top of his thighs. He had on black Nike warm-ups, with a single red stripe running down the sleeves and legs. He didn't say anything, but the cold gaze in his eyes read out that the Diamondback was the only thing standing between him and pulling the head off this crazy white motherfucker with his grating, thumping old music.

  Truth to tell, he was getting pretty fuckin' tired of it himself. Charlie wondered if Aitch would get pissed off if sometime he wore a Walkman or something on one of these little runs. Pop his own tape in, some of the stuff that Aitch sneeringly referred to as elevator music. That's what you listen to when you go to the dentist-Aitch stroking himself into one of his tirades. So they can skimp on the Novocain; your head's already numb by the time they get you in the chair. It probably wasn't a good idea, It had taken a long time just to get to this point, where Aitch wasn't always laying those lectures on him.

  He checked the mirror. The kid was sitting bolt upright-who wouldn't be, with a big nasty machine like that alongside his neck?-but Aitch had settled back in the seat, smiling with boa-constrictor contentment.

  He felt the same easy looseness rolling in his gut and up and down his arms as he steered the Mercedes through the dark streets under the freeway. Before picking up the kid, they'd been out at some place farther east, drinking beer and listening to the Mavther Brothers. Them he liked-it was a kick to see some huge guy like that, doing those James Brown moves with the microphone, up on a plywood riser the size of a postage stamp. Plus they got some of those women out on the floor dancing, ones who must've been knockouts back in the sixties, in a teenybop-per no-bra way, and who could still stroll their cans despite hips wider from popping a few kids. A different kick from looking up at the studio windows and watching the downtown ballet students, but still all right.

  Sometimes Aitch dragged him off to see the Margo Tufo Revue, and that wasn't nearly as much fun for him. Aitch would be knocking them back and nodding his head in time to the music, lost in his own deep groove, and Charlie would be worrying. A bar audience split down the middle, half stoned rednecks and half biker dyke types, and he'd be wondering when the punch-outs started. They never did, but he got tired watching his and Aitch's back.

  Tonight, right after the Maythers did "I'd Rather Go Blind"-the slow, murderous point in their set that always made his skin tighten, like he was going to explode or something-Aitch had pushed away his empty glass and stood up, tilting his head toward the door and the cool night street outside. Time to take care of a little business.

  The kid had been waiting for somebody, but not them. He'd realized he'd been set up as soon as they'd walked in the door of the Northside apartment. He was pushing himself up out of the chair, getting ready to bolt, when Aitch had flashed the Diamondback. "Let's talk," Aitch had said, smiling. "Let's go for a long drive and just… talk."

  Up to this point, riding around in the car, the kid hadn't said anything. And Aitch hadn't talked business yet-just getting on his ass about the music thing.

  "You know, it's really a shame." Aitch stroked the shaved part of the kid's skull with the gun. "It's a shame a smart kid like you doesn't appreciate this stuff. I mean, this is like your fuckin' heritage, man." Aitch sounded genuinely grievance-loaded. "I can't figure you guys out. You got this"-he made a little gesture with his own head, to indicate the music moaning off the speakers-"and what do you listen to? Whatever dickhead is on the radio. And that fuckin' rap music. That stuffs for assholes. Really. They make it to sell to assholes. You're not an asshole, are you?"

  The kid didn't say anything. The Mercedes floated over a set of railroad tracks-there were a lot of them in this district, around the old warehouses-and the bumping joggled the gun at the side of his head. Charlie looked up at the mirror and saw that a bright sheen of sweat had broken out on the kid's brow. If he hadn't eased the Mercedes over the tracks, if he
'd taken them hard, the piece could've gone off. Aitch had his finger tight on the trigger. The kid was frozen in place, except for his eyes, which leaked venom and promised to kick this white guy's ass someday.

  The lecture continued. "You know, if it weren't for white people, all this stuff would've died out. Isn't that a shame? You got a couple of the old ones left, like maybe John Lee Hooker or somebody like that, but you go to one of his concerts and it's all like white college kids. And when he goes, and the rest of them all go… then shit, it's just going to be white folks playing and listening to this stuff. I mean, you don't give a fuck about it, do you?" Aitch poked with the gun. "Name me one. I bet you can't. Just name me one single blues man that you know about."

  "Robert Cray," said the kid.

  "Very good. I'm impressed." Aitch nodded. "You know the home boys at least, huh? Local talent. There's hope in the world. 'Course, he's gotten some radio play, but still…" He rubbed the gun's muzzle back and forth near the kid's ear. "I knew you weren't stupid. I knew you were a smart guy."

  He heard the change in Aitch's voice that meant he wasn't screwing around anymore. He took a corner-they had just about gotten to the edge of the warehouse district-and worked back into it, where no one could see them. For a moment, there was a glimpse of the downtown lights shining off the river.

  "Like with the artillery-am I right? I know a lot about you," said Aitch. "I know you don't ever carry a piece. Do you? That's for the foot soldiers, huh? Let them get busted by the cops. Smart guy like you, you want to be off the street, sitting in some nice chilled-out apartment, toting up the figures on the ol' computer-don't you?" Aitch's smile widened. "Running things. That's your style. You don't know shit about big nasty guns-like this one-except they go boom and take people's heads off. And that's smart. I got to hand it to you. Dinking around with guns when you don't have to is how you get into trouble."

  The kid looked out of the corners of his eyes at Aitch. The Diamondback had traveled back under the kid's jaw.

  "So how come you do stupid things? Hm?" The grievances in Aitch's voice became sharper, moved up closer to the surface. "Cutting in on somebody else's action-that was really stupid."

  "Don't know what you're talking about." The black kid's jaw bumped against the gun when he spoke.

  "Aw, come on." Aitch looked disgusted. "Don't pull that crap with me. You know, there's such a thing as being smart, and then there's being too smart for your own good. Too smart is when you think you're the only smart guy, thinking that other people don't know what's going on. That's how you got set up. The guys up above you, those L.A. heavyweights-they tell you they want a little conference, got things to discuss, business blah blah blah; go here and they'll come around and you'll have a nice little talk. Only they don't show up, it's me and my associate here that show up-are you starting to get the picture? Is it making any bells ring inside your head?"

  Aitch was really sticking it to the kid. Charlie glanced up at the mirror and saw him poking the Diamondback into the kid's neck, punctuating his words.

  "You know, I think I'm getting through to you." Aitch simmered down a little. "I can see the little gears going around in there. Now me and your numero unos-the guys who really didn't like some of your bright little ideas-we've got ourselves an arrangement. I don't step on their toes; they don't step on mine. I deal with a rather exclusive clientele. Believe it or not, everybody in the world isn't necessarily in love with that crack shit. There's a lot of people who like things… nice. And clean. They're not interested in some garbage a bunch of whacked-out spades are cooking up in a motel room with a blow torch and a saucepan. The people I deal with, they want pharmaceuticals. They want to see Merck, they want to see Lilly, stamped right there on the label. They want hospital action, man, sterilized, right in their own homes. And they can pay for it. I'm talking a low-volume, high-markup business. I'm not interested in price-cutting rocks down to three dollars and looking to get every welfare mother in town peddling her ass for it so I can get another gold cap put on my teeth. You understand what I'm talking about?"

  The gears were turning in the kid's head, all right; Charlie could look in the mirror and see them. The kid's whole face was shiny with sweat now. Aitch's voice had gotten cold and hard and scary.

  "Now my accounts-" Aitch rubbed his thumb on the curve of the Diamondback's hammer. "They don't mind being addicted-Christ, I've got some old fucks on my list who've been doing shit for half a century-and they don't even mind being a little strung out. You got enough money, you got your name on some law firm's letterhead, people tend to overlook these little things."

  The tape had ended. There was just silence in the Mercedes, except for Aitch's monologue.

  "These people, they sure don't want any crap that's going to lose them all their money, all their nice cars and corner window offices, all that good shit. They want to have their fun and keep everything they got, too. They want something they can maintain on. Now you take something like hospital-grade analgesics-those are class drugs. You got your synthetic opiates, take you right out. Plus you deal with me, you know it's clean, it hasn't been stepped on by every greaseball between here and Turkey. People with the money, they're willing to pay for that kind of action. And you know what else? They're loyal. They're grateful So what the fuck did you think you were doing, trying to cut in on me like that? You don't even have what these people want. And trying to do it without telling the guys above you. Now that was stupid. What, you thought you were going to carve yourself a little empire on the side? You asshole. They handed you over to me on a stick."

  The kid's silence deepened. His hands dug into the warm-ups above his knees.

  "See? You're smart, but you don't know things." Aitch shook his head, his voice sad, even kind. "Like with the guns. I've got this piece, this revolver, upside your head, you're pissing your pants-and you know what?" He stroked the side of the kid's head with the muzzle. "The whole time, I've got the safety catch on."

  The kid's eyes went wide.

  "Yeah, the safety's on," said Aitch, "so I could have a little fun with you. Give you a little talk, a little warning. I'm not a hard guy." He still had the gun up to the kid's head.

  Visibly, the kid melted, his shoulders slumping. A weak smile came up on his face. "Shit, man-"

  "You know what else you don't know? About guns?" Aitch's voice went all quiet. "Revolvers don't have safety catches." He pulled the trigger.

  "Aw, Christ." Charlie looked in the mirror and saw the mess all over the rear window and the upholstery. That fucking Aitch. "I was going to keep this car for a while."

  Aitch was wiping the Diamondback's barrel off on the kid's sleeve. He looked up. "Turn the tape over, will ya?"

  FOURTEEN

  "Just relax…"

  It was the doctor again, the one with Nelder's skull face. In his white coat and glittering spectacles. The gaunt features loomed over Mike, coming closer.

  He raised his hand, shielding his eyes from the examining lamp's glare coming over the doctor's shoulder. The light put a burning halo around the doctor's skull, made his face a black mask except for the glitter of the wire frames.

  The room with its glass-fronted cabinets tilted around him, the insect shape of the X-ray machine hunched in the corner.

  Dreaming…

  The doctor raised a scalpel, the same perfect instrument as before, holding it delicately with the fingers of his rubber-gloved hand. Mike shrank away from it, his spine pressing into the padding of the examining table.

  "Now this won't hurt a bit…"

  The doctor leaned down, and Mike couldn't see what he was doing. Until he straightened up and displayed the scalpel again, its point tinged red now. A red line trickled down the metal handle and touched one rubber fingertip.

  "See? There's nothing to be afraid of…" A smile in the doctor's voice. "A simple surgical procedure… that's all."

  That's all… If he closed his eyes, the words went echoing around in his head.


  Dreaming… dreaming, that was all.

  That's all… around and around, as he held his breath… simple surgical procedure…

  "See for yourself. Aren't you a doctor, too?"

  He opened his eyes. His chin touched his breastbone and he saw a red line traced down his chest and stomach. Panic constricted his breath as he raised himself up on his elbows. Where the red line ended, a drop of blood welled up, then curled like a snake into his navel, into a glistening red jewel there.

  The doctor's hands pressed him back down to the examining table. "There's nothing to worry about…"

  … nothing to worry about…

  He fought to raise himself, but he couldn't, even after the doctor turned away, the rubber gloves dropping the scalpel with the other instruments.

  "This is how we start…"

  The doctor laid his hands on Mike's chest, the thumbs an inch to either side of the red line. The narrow face came down closer as the doctor pushed harder, his hands spreading apart. The red line widened.

  "Really very simple…"

  He grabbed the doctor's wrist, fighting to pull himself up from the table. "No-" He heard his voice cracking, the panic bending the words. "No, you don't understand-you didn't make the incision deep enough-it won't work-"

  "Just relax…"

  … relax…

  "No-" Tears squeezed from his eyes as he ground his teeth together.

  Dreaming, he told himself again. Dreaming, that was all it was.

  The flesh parted between the doctor's hands.

  He looked and saw the line, a red door now, widening as the doctor gripped and pushed. The breastbone cracked, and his ribs opened like the fan of a dove's wings. The lungs lifted upward, trembling; he gasped and saw them swell in response.

  "You see…" The doctor's hand probed inward, delicately parting a nest of yellow connective tissue. "Simple…"