Jack Womack, page 19
“Don’t help ’em, Nate,” said Edgar. “Take your hand off that woman—”
The brownhaired one raised his own pistol with his right hand, leveled it first at Edgar, then Nate. “Follow the instructions of a federal agent,” he said. “We can say anything we want about what had to be done with you two and it’ll pass muster. Now just do what I say—”
“I’ll file a report,” said the blond.
“No, you won’t,” said the brownhaired, looking up. It was all the distraction needed. Sending her feet elevating express, Oktobriana clapped her ankles to his face, the strength of her lower limbs further increased by DS’s effects. The crack heard, the caving-in seen, awared all that she’d broken the fed’s jaw on both sides. Stumbling backward toward the window, his arms outstretched, he struggled to vocalize, to sound his pain loud.
“Shit—!” Nate said, his hold loosening. At window’s edge the fellow stopped, his back to the glass above, his legs meeting the open air beyond the curtains, just above the knees. The el rattled uptown, its echo rebounding off rattling dishware. “Look out for the window—”
“Jake!!” I screamed, my voice lost. “Don’t—”
He’d readied, standing atop crates new-piled below the window. Through the drapes he thrust his saw, doubling its length as he activated it, raising it between the brownhaired one’s legs. Sounds of shredded cloth mixed with harsher grind as a puff of bone dust rose; as he lifted his tool higher, working it through, all that lay in the man’s lower half dropped further south, squishing floorways as if to the offal drain. Without sound or comprehension he pitched forward, his split complete. Oktobriana, meantime, advantaged with sharpened reflex; grasping Nate’s gun barrel, pushing it beneath his drop-mouthed chin, she crushed his hand round the trigger. He flew back as he fired, his skulltop sending his shotaway cap into the air. Jake bounded inside as Wanda, cognizant again, began crawling towards the living room, offbalancing Edgar, who froze where he stood; I dived after her. Hefting his saw Jake heaved it towards Edgar, catching him fullface, pinning him to the kitchen’s lacquered-wood cabinet like a museum butterfly. Oktobriana rolled off the table, sliding into the bloodpool below, allowing Jake to leap forward as the blond made for the living room; with light spring he thrust up from tabletop, leveled his flight, tackled the last living and brought him down as I collapsed onto Wanda, keeping her floored; her screams unceased. Taking his head between his hands Jake did the twist, leaving the blond sprawled stomachways but staring openeyed, towards the ceiling. From below, through the carpet’s muffle, I heard cheerful song; Johnson, for a short time, brought joy to all who heard. If any’d heard what resounded above, I prayed they’d ignore. Not thirty seconds had passed.
“Hot tamales and the red hots—
“Yeah, she gottem for sale.
“Got a gal that’s long ’n’ tall.
“Sh’sleeps in th’kitchen with her feet in the hall—”
Jake eyed the leavings of his craft, his breath coming in gasps as if his talent overwhelmed even his expectations. “Modern times,” he said. “Postmodern reaction. Forgive, Luther.”
Wanda’s shoulders heaved as she struggled to crawl away from me, away from the kitchen; I held her tight, keeping my hand sealed across her mouth to lessen decibels. “All right,” I repeated in idiot’s litany. “All right. It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s—” Her tears soaked my hand; when she began to vomit I pulled away, allowing her to do as she needed. Looking into the kitchen, seeing Oktobriana redonning her jumpsuit while standing in slaughterhouse’s midst, I felt my own stomach churn, and so quickly shifted gaze to the living room again, where the sole victim showed as bloodless. Jake examined his suit; as expected, it showed snow pure but for where he’d been spattered by his own juice the morning before. Oktobriana made her way into the front, nearly slipping, leaving red footprints on the carpet. Drip’s sound came from the kitchen; the charnel’s smell already overwhelmed, and in the hot weather I hated to think how far its waft might drift, how soon.
“What caused the delay?” I asked Jake. “Doc’s dead—”
“Known,” he said. “That downwent as I prepped to enter, Luther. No chance I could have leapt up holding that saw without putting the boxes in place first. I’m no superman—”
Oktobriana gripped him, squeezing until his eyes popped. “You’re all right, Jake,” she said, her eyes suddenly wet with silent tears. “Doc—”
“We can’t leave him placed like that,” I said. “Jake. Assist me.”
As unhappy pallbearers we retrieved Doc’s frame; with difficulty—he must have weighed two-sixty, even without blood—we hauled him into the front, lay him on the sofa.
“We got to get out of here,” said Wanda, surprising us with hoarse voice’s cry as she pulled herself upward. “Get the car keys. They’re in Norman’s left front pocket. Go on, get ’em.”
Moving across to where he rested, Oktobriana reached into his pocket, fumbled; seemed surprised by something, though I couldn’t imagine what. “These?” she asked, tossing them across to Wanda. Bringing up her hand, she peeled Doc’s mustache away, dropped it on the table like a dead caterpillar. None of us said anything.
“Can’t they trail us with number and record?” Jake asked.
“Change the plates,” Wanda said, her voice frighteningly calm. She showed none of shock’s evident marks, though mayhap they simply lay waiting to later emerge in full. “That’s all we got to do besides getting away from here fast. Must be a thousand black Terraplanes in the city and long as we don’t be too visible they’re not going to find us right off.”
“Who has extra plates?” I asked.
“Cedric,” she said. “Hand me the phone. I’ll talk to him. Hurry up, Luther. Give it a half hour more, they’ll be sending out a paddy wagon and round us all up.” Taking the receiver, brushing away its long black cord, she dialed the number. “Cover him up,” she added, barely heard. Using one of the sheets he’d brought in for us the evening past, Oktobriana and I, each taking an end, billowed it over our friend and let it float down around him. The sheet’s white showed at once its own fresh red wound.
“Such a kind good friend,” said Oktobriana. “Hold me, Jake.”
Without seeming thought he encircled her with his arms; before he clasped her waist I noted how his hand shook. As I stood there, awash with feelings I couldn’t afford to let surface, I wondered that if our presence could have such dire result for the few with whom we’d had direct contact, what then would occur over time? What would Doc have done, had we not arrived? What would one knowing Doc, or receiving cure from Doc, have done? Ripples from our ill-thrown stone might stretch oceanwide by end’s turn. The responsibility overwhelmed; I kept my reason where it belonged, and lay such thought aside for the moment.
“Cedric?” she asked. “Wanda. I need your help, baby. Norman’s dead. Cops shot ’im. That’s right. No, no, they’re taken care of already.” She paused. “We need to make a run for it. No, now. That’s all right. I got an idea where to go. What we need is new plates. For the car, right. How much you want for ’em?” She said nothing as she listened. “I don’t think so, Cedric, just tell me how much. All right then, I’ll bring what I got and you can take what’s fair. Can we come on over?” Wanda shook her head. “Don’t come down here, no. Don’t even act like you ever been here before. I mean it. You don’t want to know. All right. We’ll be right up.” She hung up. “Let me get my money out,” she said.
“He has spares?”
“He’s usually got whatever you need. Cedric’s a good one to know.” Kneeling on all fours, leaning down as if to drink, she reached beneath the sofa and extracted from its guts a small metal box. Before she could rise, Doc’s hand slipped from beneath its sheet; a delayed motor reaction, perhaps. When it brushed her neck she knew whose hand it was; said nothing, but shuddered as would a struck tuning fork. Reaching up, not looking, she replaced his hand beneath its cover. With one of Doc’s keys she unlocked the box, and withdrew a thick green roll bound tight with a rubber band. She shoved it down her blousefront, between her breasts.
“Take a gander out front,” she said. “Don’t let nobody see you. Any other cops in sight?”
“Clear,” I said, looking.
“Car’s parked over on One Thirty-third. Just leave all this shit. Let’s go.”
As we followed, leaving Oktobriana’s cases, her papers and books, Alekhine’s portrait of the Big Boy; leaving the kitchen’s grotesque additions; leaving Doc, it struck me that, with little thought and no obvious regret, Wanda left behind her life. I gathered she’d had to several times before, somehow; whether or not she ever grew used to it, I couldn’t say. Walking upstreet, ignoring all who passed, we reached the car within minutes. Applause resounded from within Abyssinia.
“Can you drive?” I asked as Wanda positioned herself wheelways.
“Can you?” The car groaned as she ignited, unwilling to start; once it gave in we pulled away, edging slowly through two teams of young boys playing streetball with sawed-off broomsticks. Circling the block we turned onto Eighth, passing their building once more and all that lay within, and headed towards Cedric’s below the overhanging el, pausing at each blue light, moving at each orange, searching each intersection for policeman’s signs. Wanda aimed left onto the street below the candy shop and swung into the drive of what appeared to be an abandoned brick barn just behind; above the high-arched entranceway, at keystone position, was a stone horse’s head. Beeping the horn twice, pausing between each blast, she gave word of arrival; the metal-shuttered door lifted, allowing our entrance. Standing brightlit in headlight’s beam, leaning against the garage’s far wall, was Cedric, his tie and vest removed for evening comfort. The door lowered once we entered.
“His deliveries come in this way,” she said, cutting the engine as Cedric approached. I noted that sometime during the day Doc had put a new sideview on his driver’s door. “You got ’em?” she asked, sticking her head out the window.
“Oh, Wanda, I’m so sorry,” he said. “Do you know the ones who did it—”
“I told you they were taken care of,” she said. “I know you’re sorry, Cedric. There’s just not enough time to think about it yet. Where you got ’em and how much you want for ’em?”
“Here’s one,” he said, drawing from behind his back a gleaming tag, New York World’s Fair 1939 plain upon its face.
“Where’s the other?” she asked. We stepped from the car, all but Oktobriana. Cedric eyed Jake but gave him little heed. “What’s the price? We ain’t got all night, Cedric—”
“The other one’s in my office over there,” he said, handing her the one carried, pointing with single finger towards the side rear, barely visible in the dark beyond the lampglow.
“So how much?”
“Nothing,” he said. “I just need Valentino here to come with me to help get it. That’s all.”
Wanda looked at me; looked at Cedric. The fee was obvious; that we needed both plates was of unavoidable import. She moved as if to mash him.
“You little son of a—”
“Wanda,” I said; she settled. “Jake, replace the first plate. Where’s the other, Cedric?”
“You’re not going to—”
“There’s no choice, Wanda,” I said. “Is there?”
“Oughta club him and just take it—”
“There’s been enough of that for one night,” I said. “Come on, Cedric. You say it’s over here? Every moment counts—”
“I know,” he said. “It’s over here. I’m scared of the dark.” He almost ran to his office; I followed, hearing no more comment from Wanda, expecting none from Jake. We entered a closet-sized room just off the garage where, possibly, deliveries might be checked against orders. In the gloom I saw but shadows even after eyes adjusted, but felt all: unhitching, he drew my trousers down to kneelevel as he dropped down upon his own, as if positioning to pray. Standing inspection-still, eyes shut so as not to break privacy, I discerned but few true differences: the grip behind was harder, the lips more gladly enveloped, his nails were longer and sharper than Katherine’s. Yet, the distinction evidenced in deeper form; in heart I felt nothing, and so nothing showed plain. Cedric seemed not to mind; continued until he finished, or grew bored, or realized his efforts brought naught.
“Thank you, Cedric,” I said, taking the other plate once I’d rezipped.
“Good luck,” he said, “soldier boy.” Stepping away quickly, as did I, we left without further word. Reentering the garage proper I handed the second plate to Jake, who took it without remark, as I knew he would. The garage door creaked as it rose again, permitting us escape with but mannerly protest; we slid into darkness.
9
WANDA RACED US THROUGH THE STREETS, BLIND TO ALL BUT THE road ahead, obeying all signals, marking all moves, running without word. We left Harlem, rolling into the park at 110th, creeping over its crumbling roadway, past fields of unmown grass, straggling brush and unpruned forest. Scattered across a moonlit slope, meadowed rather than treed, I saw what at first evidenced as a host of boulders, dropped as if glacier-left; realized upon second look that the rocks were but sleepers, taking rest as they could on their city on a hill.
“Where do we aim?” Jake asked, holding on to Oktobriana still, his shake not yet settled. Full-frame shivers rattled her own body at five-minute intervals; even in darkness, from front-seat vantage, I saw her trembles, and wondered whether the effect came from evening’s events, or from her disease. Wanda drove as if struck deaf and dumb; her hands’ cords knotted as she gripped them more tightly upon the wheel. At the moment it seemed she acted only sequentially, not concurrently; she drove, and did no other.
“None trail,” said Jake, neckcraning to gain rear-window vista. “None obvious, I should say. How undercover works here remains unknown.”
“Shoulders, Jake,” said Oktobriana. “So sore and tender. Rub them, please.”
“Wanda—” I began to say; was hushed by her shout.
“You couldn’t just walk in the front door like normal people,” she said, all emotion suddenly loosed. “You done that, we might have been able to get out of it some other way. We hadn’t told ’em a damn thing. They were just asking those damn stupid questions till they caught you all and then they knew something was up. Don’t even know why you couldn’t have just waited till they left.”
“We were ignorant of intent or design,” I said, attempting defense. “Or action as it went in our absence.”
“Ignorant’s right,” she said. “Done it like anybody else, nobody would’ve got hurt. Act like civilized human beings—”
“Doc would be with us now had we knocked?” I asked.
Wanda, sinking, clutched for any patch of reason; found none. “Her running around this morning like she was just asking for it—”
“She wasn’t this evening!” I shouted, estimating Jake’s usual objections to oral vehemence might pass in this instance; for a moment I thought he hadn’t even heard. “Nor this morning, for that matter—”
“Such statements are unfair,” said Jake, very quietly. “Action such as encountered demands one reaction. They acted. I reacted. That’s all.”
“Did you have to go after ’em like you did?” she asked, her eyes remaining on the curving road ahead; midtown’s tower lights showed through trees’ canopy. “Hogs stand a better chance in the slaughterhouse.”
“Hogs deserve better,” Jake said. “It was my sole implement at hand. I’d have preferred a more minimal touch but hadn’t choice—”
“What kinda world is it you live in?” she asked, her face drawn as if to rein in tears. “Talk about people bein’ sawed up like you was making a grocery list. Acting like someone’s always out to get you, so you got to get them first. I mean I can understand a mood like that but you all take it so damn far. Norman was the same damn way. No wonder you all got along so good. He was always looking over his shoulder, seeing who was closing in. Crazy man—”
“Not so crazy,” Jake said. “Someone closed in.”
“He’d be here now if you all hadn’t come here!” she snapped. “We’d be driving on out for the weekend. Or we’d be home. But we wouldn’t be where we are.” After a long moment, she settled, rubbing her eyes.
“We’d not expected such a detour,” I said. Nostalgia’s wave suddenly washed over me, nostalgia for a home that seemed evermore distant, never again seen true; seen only in this off-register reproduction.
“Russki krai,” Oktobriana said, unexpectedly slipping into mother tongue. “Otchi dom.” Russian soil, native home; nostalgia. “Smert. All smert.”
“Let’s make the best of it,” she said, “since we don’t have much choice.”
“None,” I corrected. We emerged from the park at Columbus Circle, seeing no ungainly tower, no wall dividing midtown from the Upper West; where, on the south curve, stood our day’s concrete Lollipop House, showed here what appeared as a several-story Victorian mansion. A sign atop its mansard advertised chewing gum of unknown make. Central Park South’s thirty-story wall defended midtown from the jungle here as in our time; here only half the wall seemed whole. Several buildings showed only as framework against the night sky, left unfinished, I supposed, when the money ran out. Rounding the circle into Broadway, past bright wide windows holding the latest model Hupmobiles, Pontiacs and Studebakers, we drifted by a Terraplane dealership, seeing our transport in newborn form. Many slept sidewalked, below the shining displays.
“Doc was wonderful kind man,” said Oktobriana. “Much goodness in him. Great knowledge of humanity. Knowledge given. Heaven above. In heaven above. If soul survives. Likely so. Floating forever between worlds. Heaven is in fence. Also hell.”
“What fence?” Wanda asked, uncomprehending. Remembering the metaphor, I could leap along with her logic, and so followed. That if such were literal it seemed so good a place for him to be as any. Recalling Doc’s words, I realized that she had entered a stage where her thoughts passed more quickly than she could give them accurate word in logical sequence. As Oktobriana became less conversationalist than yurodiva—an untranslatable, roughly meaning a seeming fool who speaks of saintly matters, always true—her endless commentary became first annoying, then oppressive, and then at last, as with all, we grew used to it. She spoke of all seen as we passed into Times Square, in our time the home of all the misbegotten and wild; here it showed as what I’d heard it had been in my parents’ childhood, a rainbow-lit stage upon which uncounted millions performed. Displays twicesized over any of ours shilled in neon ribbon for Four Roses, Seagram’s, Chevrolet. One to our rear insisted in tall yellow letters that a bag of Planter’s peanuts a day would give us more pep; how pep was applied, I couldn’t say. On far left a mouthpuckered head several meters high puffed smoke rings, hawking Camels. A trapezoidal building, vaguely Italianate in look, stood at the Y formed by Broadway and Seventh’s intersection; around its facade, just above ground floor, a letterscroll ran, flashing news and weather through the blink of a thousand small bulbs. At Forty-fourth and Broadway men singlefiled blockround like Russian shoppers; here they waited to receive, one to each, a breadloaf passed out from a parked Salvation Army truck.
