The War Against the Assholes (15 page)

That's when I heard it. Beneath Vincent's uproar. The whicker of wings. “Come and get it, you beady-eyed motherfuckers,” said Vincent. Three crows clattered down from the harbor-gray sky and hopped toward the piled meat and offal. Then another two birds, one a hulking raven with a crumpled foot. He (you assume ravens are male) hopped gingerly while earthbound. The five darted their beaks into the meat and came up carrying glossy shreds. Clicking and cooing. Scrape of their beaks against concrete. Smack of the meat as it vanished down gullets. The combined sounds resembled human eating noise. This repulsed me. Then again, we're animals. The crows and the crippled raven ate and ate. They slowed. They stopped. They didn't fly off. “I know one of you has a direct line,” said Vincent. The crows chattered to one another. Blood flecks flew. “I know you can hear me, you child-molesting necrophile,” said Vincent. Maybe the phrase
child-molesting
necrophile
did the job. I don't know. The crippled raven hopped forward. Toward Vincent. Froze in place at his feet, staring up. As if a circuit inside of it had snapped closed. Its eyes locked on him and its beak open. It balanced on its good foot. It cocked its head.

And listened. Obviously listened. Vincent saw. He took out the
mappa
. “Hobart Callahan,” he said. I couldn't see what the lines showed. The crow seemed interested. “You want this back, you can have it,” said Vincent, “but you're going to have to convince me my brother's alive. Otherwise you get nothing. Do you understand me, you fat prick.” His phone began to ring as he said the words
fat prick
.
Spoiled the effect. The raven, out of its daze, stumbled toward the stairs, picking up speed, and hurled itself into the air. The other crows remained and went back to jabbing their beaks at the remaining meat. The snowy, chambered tripe now dark with dust. Vincent's phone kept ringing. He lifted it. He looked. Eyes wide and frightened. He answered. “Hello,” he said. I heard the insectile whine of a human voice, speaking through a distant phone. Wind. Or nothing, maybe. Vincent didn't speak. His face went white. Then flushed. His nostrils quivered. He grabbed his left ear. A good sign, I assumed. You only really care about the living. “Hob,” he said, “I need to ask you a question.” Charthouse sheathed his sword. “No, I need to ask you a question. What was the name of your horse, the one you rode when we played outlaw,” he said. Hob answered. I could only hear the faint buzz of his voice in the still, cold air. I wanted to know what he'd called the horse. More human rapacity.

Vincent hung up. His hands shook. “Well,” said Charthouse. Vincent straddled a stone bench. He picked up the bottle with the twig in it. “What's the news,” said Charthouse. Vincent's eyelids fell and a vein bulged into relief on his forehead. Green shoots curled outward from the twig, opening into full leaves. Threadlike roots spread and shattered the glass. Twined around Vincent's bare, reddened hands. The noise of the breaking bottle echoed above the moist, masticatory sound of the plant growing. “He's alive,” said Charthouse. “They're willing to make an exchange,” said Vincent. His voice dry and hoarse. The twig burst and burst insanely into leaf.

21

Y
our appetite never ceases to amaze me,” said my father. I'd eaten two slabs of steak and three baked potatoes. He fried steaks and baked potatoes when my mother was traveling on business. She had to go to a pharmaceuticals convention in Tempe. So my father had made what he called his swinging bachelor grub. He even gave me a beer, which he never did when my mother was around. “Tough practice,” I said. “Got to keep my strength up,” I said. I told him I had a date. “With that girl I saw sneaking out of your room the other day,” he said. I said yes. Not even a lie. I realized he must have seen Alabama, the morning after she gave me my tattoo. Our parents observe more than we as adolescents credit them with. “Don't get anyone pregnant,” he said. I promised I wouldn't. He had nothing to worry about on that front. My phone vibrated. “I gotta go,” I said. “Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments,” he said. “Now that's Shakespeare.”

Hostage exchanges: new to me. I was not afraid. When you are young you do not fear the unknown. You welcome it, in fact. If it so happens that you need to go rescue a fallen fellow soldier, all the better. Your desire for novelty: satisfied. Your desire to be in the right: satisfied. Except such desire is never satisfied. You need to abandon it. That's all. Vincent and Alabama were waiting in a taxi at my building door. “Fancy address,” said Vincent. He was holding a canvas sack, which he opened to show me a rosewood cigar box.
PERFECTO
, it said on a small brass plate. Inside, I assumed, the
mappa
.
Alabama shifted in her seat. Her rubber-banded gun butt caught a flash of yellow street light. A Colt Commander. That was the make and model. Vincent was flicking open and flicking closed his horticultural knife with his free hand. That's all we brought with us. Other than our clothes. Vincent in the middle. He had the box in a canvas sack. Alabama leaned out the window, watching the street. I kept cracking my knuckles. The driver didn't speak. A Bible lay open on the housing of the transmission knob. The Old Testament. I prefer it. Did then too. Odd for a Catholic. A pillar of fire by day is much better than Jesus. Who resembles nothing so much as your overpraised, exemplary cousin.

The wind kicked up. Wood smoke. Tea-scent of leaves. Water and stone. The red maples in front of Mountjoy House rustled. The crows sat on the roofline and fence. They rotated, one unitary battalion, to face us. A few clacked their beaks. A few readied their wings. “Do we wait,” said Alabama, “it's freezing.” “Someone'll come out,” said Vincent. The crows hopped and muttered. A dog barked. No moon. No stars. No lights in Mountjoy House. “How long do we wait,” said Alabama. “It's not the cable guy,” said Vincent, “they didn't give me a window.” Alabama sighed. “Sorry, I'm sorry,” she said, “that was a retarded question.” We foot-danced in the cold. Vincent smoked. He threw away cigarette after cigarette. Taking one drag. Or two. “Come on,” muttered Alabama. “They're just trying to psych us out,” I said. The wind kicked. The crows took flight. Alabama got ready to draw. Vincent ground out his smoke. The crows circled above us: a ring, their wing beats overlapping. “There's always main force,” said Alabama. Sighting down the barrel. A light came on behind the glass-and-wood front door of Mountjoy House. Two indistinct human figures silhouetted against the pane. Soft edged. The glass smoked. The door opened.

“Is this a joke,” said Alabama. It was just two kids. About our age. They stood half in, half out of the vestibule. A girl and a guy. The girl short and round, long brownish hair dancing in the breeze. She was wearing a white oxford shirt. Her absolutely huge tits strained against the cloth. Alabama caught me glancing and clucked. “Look who it is, though,” she muttered. Then I saw. The guy standing next to Big Tits was Quinn Klayman. His glasses flashing in the indoor light. His brown hair shaggy. He grinned. Showing those pointed, yellow teeth. He waved at me. At Alabama. A brown bruise under his left eye. Otherwise healed up. He looked even more van-rapey sober, I have to admit.

“Are you guys here for us,” Big Tits called. “Yes,” said Vincent. This was so far way more of an amateur hour than I'd expected. On the other hand, we were going up against a clique of full-time careerist students. “So what happens now,” Big Tits said, “my name's Sasha, by the way.” “I was told to come in,” said Vincent. “All right then,” said Sasha. “All right then,” said Vincent. We all stood there. Nobody stepped forward. The wind rushed. Compound smell of winter. “This is ridicu­lous,” said Alabama. She walked up to the iron gate and pushed it open. I followed. Vincent followed me. “Don't do anything stupid,” she said to Quinn as she passed him, “or I'll shoot you.” Quinn tried to laugh it off. Sounded fake. Horsey. Whiny. “You're not going to shoot me,” he said. “Wait and see,” said Vincent. I grinned at Sasha. She grinned back. No reason to be unfriendly. And the ancient voice that all adolescent males hear, no matter the circumstances, no matter the time or the place or the alleged seriousness-slash-impossibility of the occasion, that voice of sexual hope, said:
Hey, you never know.

No reason a simple transaction had to be anything more than that. We hand over the map. They hand over Hob. A priceless relic for one lightly used adolescent warlock. A better deal for Potash and his crew. Considered objectively. Charthouse had not come. Vincent insisted. He said it was too dangerous. I thought he was being dramatic. Alabama had agreed with him. So Charthouse stayed behind. Vincent had the canvas sack slung over his shoulder. “Is it in there,” said Quinn. I kept my mouth shut. I wanted more than anything else to hurt him. Worse than Hob had. Just on principle. All this, I reasoned incorrectly, was his fault. “Are you going to go get my brother,” said Vincent. “You have to come upstairs,” said Sasha, “Verner wants you to come upstairs to see him.” This I disliked. Referring to your teachers and superiors by their first name. A gesture of fake equality. “Come upstairs,” said Alabama. I didn't like the changing-locations aspect either.

The great entry hall of Mountjoy House: cathedral sized. We'd missed a lot by going in through the tradesman's entrance, during our first visit. They clearly kept the hotel-hallway stuff out of sight of first-time guests. Made sense. Places need to live up to their reputations. Here was nothing but white marble. Or travertine. The ceilings fifty feet high. The white walls inset with white niches, each holding a white bust. One I recognized: Francis Bacon. I'd been forced to write a paper on him when I was in ninth grade. I will never forget his flowing hair or his offensive, well-groomed beard and gaze. Eight white stairways led up in the eight cardinal directions. Owl-headed banisters. More white stone. You could feel the cold coming off the floors and wall. In the center of the hall a fountain plashed. Carved from the same white stone. Four statues guarded the rim: a youth with a feather quill and a cornucopia; a woman with a book and a sword; a scroll-bearded, helmeted man seated on a lion; and a matron with a torch, wearing a shift. The hall was illuminated. No lamps or light fixtures visible. Quinn was wearing slippers, I saw: beaten red leather. Sasha had on only socks. Blue-and-purple striped.

“So what year are yoooou guys,” said Vincent. He drawled. I started to worry. “Seniors,” said Quinn. He was sweating. “And do you like liiike it here,” said Vincent. His voice cramped and falsely sweet. I'd never heard him sound so sincere. “It has its advantages,” said Sasha. “I bet,” said Vincent. “So I guess we should take you upstairs,” said Sasha.
I'd like to take you upstairs
, I thought. “We're not going upstairs,” said Alabama. “That's what my uncle said,” said Quinn, “Verner, I mean.” “I don't give a fuck what your fucking fat faggot uncle told you,” said Vincent, “we're not going upstairs.” “You shouldn't use that word,” said Sasha. It was like being at that terrible party: you don't know the kids at all, really, but you are already almost in a fight with them. This did not surprise me. I've never gotten along with the studious. Did not make it any less difficult for me to avoid looking at Sasha's tits. They shelfed an odd necklace: a bicycle chain, from which hung what appeared to be a jade-colored slice of petrified wood set in a brass rim. I wondered if it served a purpose other than decoration.

Quinn wore his blue blazer with the owl-and-wheat crest. “You guys are big on owls,” I said. Trying to ease the tension. “With us it's snakes.” “You're the faggot,” said Quinn, “if anyone's a faggot here.” “Oh, that's clever,” said Alabama. I was grateful only Alabama had a gun. I was examining Sasha's ass, which was as impressively massive as her tits. “What did you just say, you cunt,” said Quinn. “Come on,” said Alabama, “really?” “You heard what I said,” cried Quinn. Still a dialogue expert. Maybe he'd come out with a
you want some
next. Hard to tell. Strange strain in his face. Smooth and young. Old looking at the same time. Defeated. By a secret vice. An ineffable shame. His hand dipped toward his waist. This puzzled me. We'd deep-sixed his wand. Maybe they'd given him another. Seemed about right. Reward stupidity. How kids like Quinn end up that way: through rewarded stupidity. His hand slipped farther. Sasha started to mutter. “Vincent,” said Alabama, low and hard. She strode up and planted herself behind Sasha, who was standing with her back to us and (it seemed) talking to a blank white wall at the back of the lobby. “All right,” I said. I took a breath. I clenched my muscles.
Where we began, the world can judge: in trust, wholehearted; in unshakable assurance.

The world slowed down. My pain flared up. Brain, eyes, lungs, spine. No longer merely companionable. The lobby's gentle white light had deepened in color.
Redshifting
:
the name of that phenomenon. I had time to remember the word. From my physics class. I had all the time I needed. Vincent, Alabama, Sasha, Quinn: sloooooooooooow. Vincent sliding his hand toward his pocket. Going for his knife, I assumed. Alabama reaching toward Sasha with one arm and drawing her gun with the other. Stretched-out, dancerly movements. Sasha's eyebrows winging up, a chevron of light creeping across the surface of her green pendant. Me in the midst of these stone-slow fellow humans, calm, in pain, and alert. More absorbing than anything. Better than any movie. It sounds insane to describe it that way. I watched Vincent's sneer begin. I watched Alabama's thin forearm make contact with Sasha's neck. I watched the divided skirt of Quinn's blue blazer billow with aching lassitude. It revealed his wand—a new one, as I'd suspected; black metal and inset with silver wire—in a fake leather rent-a-cop holster belted to his back. A pearly bead of sweat slipped millimeter by millimeter down his pale, pious forehead. Not from pain. Not from exertion. Just nerves. I could hardly breathe from the pain firing up and down my lats. I did not mind this, I discovered. As though I were at ease inside myself, inside this lumbering body and this pain: Mike Wood watching Mike Wood.

Call it whatever you like. It isn't any different from anything else. Not even less probable. Your body cries out. Your soul cries out. The cries find expression or they die off. Just that simple. Just an extension, as Alabama said, of what you're already good at. I walked up to Quinn and broke his wrist. Incredibly satisfying. Easy, too. At least when your target is one degree more animate than a statue. I took hold of his forearm with my left hand and his hand with my right, and I twisted them as hard as I could in opposite directions. One quick, hard flexion, putting my shoulders into it, my back. My body thrummed. His bones moved. The ulna bent and fractured. A green twig. It pressed the skin. A loud, long thud: the noise of its breakage. Would have been a quick crack, had I been moving at normal speed. Quinn started to yowl. This came out as a deep, smeary rumble. Alabama was still looping her arm around Sasha's neck, moving a centimeter or two at a time. Vincent had just started to open his mouth in surprise. Or so it seemed. He might have been sneezing. I saw all this with great contentment from within the confined and friendly theater of my corporeal form. It occurred to me that if I wanted, I could kill all of these people. Friend and enemy. This thought pure and childish. Mine. Another's. My clothes stuck to me. I'd broken into a fever sweat, armpits, knee backs, feet, and hands. I slid Quinn's wand out of his holster. I was dizzy with pain, nauseated with it. The wand's metal cool-warm. The world was speeding up again.

“What was that, Wood,” said Vincent. I tried to break the wand. It bent—a U. I twisted. It snapped. Quinn groaned. In clear pain. Or was already groaning. I loved that. Sasha was breathing, “Okay, okay,” and Alabama was saying, “it's okay, just be quiet.” She had the Colt to Sasha's temple. Barrel dimpling skin, one arm locked around the girl's soft-looking throat. Now flushed in panic. Quinn on the ground now, cradling his hurt arm. Repeating, “What.” A question: why does academic achievement so often breed physical cowardice and even debility? I've never managed to answer this question. And so I remain strong and lumbering. “Do you have reinforcements on the way,” said Vincent. Quinn snorted and gasped. “I don't know what you mean,” said Sasha. “No wonder they let you in here,” said Vincent, “being so quick and all.” “Maybe we should get moving,” I said. “Open the door you were trying to open or whatever it was,” said Vincent, “but if you do anything stupid she will kill you.” Sasha swallowed spit. She pointed to a bower of vines carved into the otherwise blank wall. “It's that middle blossom,” she said. “You do it,” said Alabama. Sasha did it. Stroked the blossom edge. A morning glory.

Death: what I was expecting when Sasha touched the white stone flower. A mild grating hum: what I got. Upper-middle-class ease and opulence, in other words. A panel of the white wall slid into itself. Behind was what appeared to be a brass-and-wood elevator cabin. Quinn started blubbering. With no acid in his brain and no new wand, a total pussy. No shocker there. “Are you going to kill us,” he said. “No, but if you don't shut up I'll break your other wrist,” I said. He shut up. Vincent pulled him to his feet. “You're coming up with us,” he said, “and seriously she will shoot your friend if she has to.” “So now we
are
going upstairs,” said Sasha.