Tim turned to Will and leaned across a bank of seats.
“He’s dead meat!” Tim hissed.
“Hand it!” Ouskoop said, no longer the slightly dotty and discombobulated teacher. “Now!”
Kiff took a big breath. And then pulled the book slowly from his lap. His face, if anything, turned redder.
Will saw a black cover. And swirling letters. But he was too far away to make out the name of the book.
But that was no problem.
Not at all.
Because Ouskoop read out the name of the book aloud.
“
Fanny Hill
,” he said, as if it were just another discovery of Newton’s.
(And Will wondered: Were John Cleland and Newton contemporaries? Maybe old Isaac had a copy of
Fanny
sitting on his bedside table.)
Then, with a great flourish, Ouskoop read the subtitle.
Perhaps he’s not familiar with the work, Will thought.
“
Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure
.” Osukoop read it slowly, almost poetically. And the voice, the words, hung there. Filling the room, echoing off the walls. Nobody was laughing.
Ouskoop was real pissed.
Even Will sat up in his seat.
Ouskoop looked at the book. He actually thumbed through some pages.
Be careful, Padre, Will thought.
And then the priest looked back at Kiff while smacking the book into his palm.
“Mr. Kiff. Report to the headmaster’s office.” Ouskoop looked down at the book. “And bring this trash with you.” The teacher took the last few steps between him and Kiff. “Bring this,” he said, smacking the book on top of Kiff’s head, “and tell —” Smack. “Him.” Smack. “What.”
How many words left in this sentence? Will thought, wincing.
“You. Were. Doing.”
The last word got an especially big whack.
Will thought he saw a tiny wet spot glistening in the corner of Kiff’s eye.
Maybe he’s hurt, Will thought. Or maybe he’s just scared.
Will imagined that the school didn’t look kindly on those who read pornography during class.
Ouskoop threw the book at Kiff, who tried to catch it. But it slipped away, flying past him, tumbling to the floor. Kiff crouched to. get it, and one of the jocks — with a big shit-eating grin on his face — handed it to him.
“Now, Kiff. Get going,” Ouskoop said.
Kiff stood up. And, Victorian erotica in hand, he trooped past Ouskoop, looking straight ahead.
Color-coordinated for the first time, his red face matching his red hair.
“Now,” Ouskoop said, still on the steps, turning back to his blackboard. “I believe we were looking at the conversion of energy .
.
.”
And without missing a beat, the class was back in the wonderful world of force and mass and acceleration.
Showtime was over.
When Kiff didn’t surface at lunch, Will’s worst fears were confirmed.
“They’re going to fucking suspend him,” Tim pronounced. “You can’t do that in class and get away with it.”
Today’s luncheon menu included a choice of ravioli and green salad, or cheeseburger and french fries. By the time you got to be a senior, you knew better than to take the ravioli.
“Suspend him? Are you sure?” Will asked.
“What else are they going to do? Give him detention? Keep him in for lunch?” Tim shook his head. “No way. He’s gone for a week at least.”
“What about tomorrow?” Mike Narrio said, pushing aside his half-chewed burger and eating his fries and ketchup.
“That will be no problem.” Tim pulled open three ketchup packets and used them to completely cover his gummy cheeseburger and the fries until the platter looked like a crime scene. ‘‘I’ll call him tonight. Tell him where we’ll meet.” He looked up at everybody. “No problem.”
Will’s mouth was full. The burger and bun offered an overwhelming dryness. They quickly soaked up whatever saliva there was and then only a quick mouthwash with Coke could force the food down.
It was a cheap meal. But it was nearly inedible.
Whalen came over, mugging at his tray.
“I can’t believe they give us this shit three times a week,” he said.
Will waited.
Whalen had goaded him into going with Kiff the other day, and he wondered if Whalen would say something about it. Like “Nice going.” Or, “Shit, you
do
have balls.”
But all Whalen did was make a disgusted face at his burger.
“Tim thinks that Kiff’s getting suspended,” Narrio said to him.
“Serves the asshole right,” Whalen said. “You know,” he said, between chews, “it would be funny,
if
he hadn’t been caught. Anyway, we’re still on for tomorrow?”
“Sure,” Tim said. “And I’ve got the greatest place. We can booze it up and no one will see us.”
Will felt someone watching him then. He felt eyes on his back .
.
. like when you’re in a car and you know someone’s watching you. He turned.
He saw a table off near the back. D’Angelo and his friends. Laughing.
He saw D’Angelo looking right over at him, and Will turned his head back.
He still wants a piece of me, Will thought. What the hell did I ever do to him that he wants to screw up my life so badly?
“A good place?” Whalen said, chomping down. “And where’s that?”
Will looked at Tim as he leaned close to them.
Tim didn’t say anything.
But he grinned. And then he flipped open his notebook.
He always did have a taste for the dramatic .
.
.
And there — in big block letters — were two words.
Manhattan Beach.
Will shook his head.
Thinking: Now, where the hell is Manhattan Beach?
So he asked Tim.
And Tim told him .
.
.
* * *
11:35
* * *
8
God, was
that
the sound? Will thought, sitting in the rental car.
The bag had been repacked, neatly, tightly, then latched shut.
He listened, hearing the swirl of horns and engines outside.
Am I hearing it here? he thought.
That clicking sound. Just like —
But then he knew he wasn’t. It’s just the clicking of the traffic light, that’s all, suddenly clear in the silence, as the streets began to empty, and the night people took over.
The corner just across Madison Avenue was
filled
with hookers now, stepping around in their heels like skitterish colts. Like any herd, a few checked for danger, leaning out into the street, searching for a blue and white cop car.
And if a cop car was spotted, they scattered, like roaches startled by a light flashing on in a tenement kitchen, interrupting their late night feast.
They’d vanish.
Some of the hookers would crouch behind cars. Some walked down Madison Avenue. Just out for a stroll. Others brazenly crossed the street as though they were housewives hurrying home to a nice dinner with hubby.
The cops couldn’t be bothered with the hookers.
But he knew they’d noticed him.
These were strange days in Manhattan.
And the cops were on the lookout. Not for whores.
But for guys like me, Will thought.
Already a cop car passed him, slowing a bit, but then taking the turn at Madison for the rest of its loop. But then another car came — or maybe the same one came back. And this time it stopped beside Will’s car.
He kept looking straight ahead.
He thought that they’d get out.
Shine a flashlight inside his car. In the backseat. The front. They’d see his bag. And they’d think it was suspicious enough to make him get out .
.
. yeah, to search the car.
But then the patrol car pulled away .
.
.
Now Will licked his lips. He heard the damned clicking again and it startled him. He grabbed the steering wheel.
I’m not cut out for this, he thought. I don’t have —
He looked up to check the rearview mirror. The cars at Fifth Avenue were stopped at a long stoplight, a light that took forever to change.
And amid the bright headlights, Will was sure he saw the outline of a cop car. The little glass dome on top .
.
.
Maybe the same cop car.
And this time they’ll pull over, he knew. This time they had to.
Even with all the cops doing overtime. With all the crazy, sick headlines
The
Daily News
headline .
.
. just two words this morning.
Horror City.
Horror City, Will thought. Got that right, boys. Fucking-A, you got
that
right.
Yes, even with all the cops pulling double shifts, the reduced, tax-starved police force was spread thin.
Will guessed it was only ten to fifteen minutes between loops by the cop cars. But that time could be an eternity.
That time could last forever.
And the cops were smart. They weren’t going to get out of their car unless they absolutely had to.
The light changed.
And Will made his decision.
I can’t stay here. I’ve got to get out.
He fumbled for the door handle on the driver’s side. But he stopped himself.
They’ll see that, he thought. They’ll see it pop open. See me get out. They’ll remember that I had been sitting there. And they’ll see my little black bag.
He hurriedly slid over to the passenger seat, popped open the door, and crawled out of the compact car. He pulled the bag behind him, catching it in the door latch. But he yanked it hard and then slammed the door shut.
He took a breath.
The cars were coming down the block. Some of them just horny men, the cruisers moving up to the pussy take-out window next to the bank.
And what disease would you like, sir?
He walked to the corner and turned right.
Keep walking, he thought. Just keep moving.
And all the time he felt the cops watching. He knew that they just had to be digging out their guns. calling up for reinforcements. They were ready to haul his ass into the 27th Street station, only blocks away.
And then he told himself:
Quiet. You’re just feeling paranoid. Remember paranoia?
Remember smoking dope in college? Remember buying a suitcase filled with amphetamines from some country pharmacist and driving down the Northway in the middle of the night —
Thinking that every state trooper in the world was watching you.
Remember paranoia?
More steps. Keep walking.
That’s all this is.
They’re too busy to worry about you.
Horror City. Remember?
And by the time Will reached the corner his breathing was almost normal. He shifted the bag from one hand to another while he paused at the corner.
It felt so light in his hands. so powerless.
He heard a sound to his right. A rustle of paper. A guttural noise. He turned. Somebody was at the corner, backed up into one of the recesses of the office building. Another rustle and Will saw a brown bag rise up, out of the indentation. Catching the light.
Somebody enjoying a nightcap.
Will looked back, trying to decide where to go
Because he knew it was much too early.
He had hoped he’d be able to just sit in the car. Safe and comfortable. Sit and wait. Now he was out on the streets. And the streets were not a friendly place.
He looked left and decided to cross Madison. I’ll make my way down to Park Avenue, he thought. It’s well lit .
.
. lot of traffic, a lot of yuppies making the run up from SoHo to the First Avenue bars.
But as soon as he started down the block, he wondered whether this was such a good idea.
There were no stores, nothing open on this block until the corner. Just warehouses, and dark facades zippered with metal riot shields.