Why you so mean, woman?
'Cause you so weak!
In the churches, meanwhile, they preached other men's sins, so who could fail to say amen?
***
Then there was the white shingled house on H Street. Strange it should still stand there, surrounded by all that ruin and debris. All those empty lots. Those piles of rubbish rising gothic against the starless sky. Unfair, it almost seemed, to the gangsters staring at it balefully from the dark. Why should it go untouched by the disaster when whole other neighborhoods—their neighborhoods—were gone? The yellow glow of the lights in the windows touched some inborn notion of home they didn't even know how to imagine, and so instead of yearning for it they felt a sort of gibbering justification in their intentions, an instinct to destroy what obscurely moved them and threatened to reveal them to themselves in the light of their best desires. What they had come to do was only right, they felt somehow: the rape and the murder and the fl ames. It was only as it should be, their privilege and their calling.
They glanced fitfully at their leader, wondering why he hesitated to give the word.
Inside the house, there was squealing and comical chatter, a comical music of zwits and boings. The boy, Michael, was lying on his stomach in the living room, looking up from his crayon drawing at an old cartoon on the TV. Teresa checked on him from the archway and then returned to her father in the front room. He was sitting in his reading chair, fiddling with an unlit pipe. She sat across from him on the sofa, leaning forward, her elbows on her knees.
"He'll turn up," the old man told her without much conviction.
She shook her head. "I don't think so. I think he's gone for good."
"He'll come to say goodbye. If he can, he will. You'll see."
She frowned. "I'd just like to hear Henry's side of it, that's all." She didn't like to admit her feelings for Conor, even to herself, but she knew them now and she knew her father knew them and it made her feel exposed and embarrassed. "It's just—that policeman, that detective..."
"Oh, he was..." The old man waved the stem of the pipe in the air before him. "I wouldn't believe a word he said. In this city? The police are worst of all, worse than the criminals. I took one look at him—I knew he was after Henry for his own reasons. Believe me."
"I don't know. He seemed ... like he might've been a good person."
"I think that's what he's good at: seeming like that. Probably was one once. Which makes him even worse. I'm telling you, I took one look in his eyes and..."
Applebee stopped short. He cocked his head, listening. There were only the boings of the cartoon music and a comical chattering.
"What? What's the matter?" said Teresa.
"Did you hear something? In the kitchen? In back?"
"I don't think so..."
With his eyebrows lowering, the old man pushed himself out of his chair. Teresa instinctively stood up, too. They hesitated a moment, looking toward the back of the house, listening for a noise.
Then, with violent suddenness, the gangsters burst in through the front door.
There were three shotgun blasts, thunderously loud as they blew off the door's security cage. Even as Teresa recoiled in shock—that quickly—they kicked the door in and charged through.
The old man had a second to lean toward the stairs, toward the gun he kept in his bedroom. Then one of the bangers whipped the butt of the shotgun into his face. The old man staggered back, his knees buckling as he hit the wall and tumbled down to the floor.
Teresa screamed for her son: "Michael!" She turned toward the archway. Two bangers grabbed her by the waist and legs and lifted her into the air as she twisted and struggled. Another thug stalked past her into the living room. He came out laughing with the writhing child helpless in his arms.
"Mommy!" screamed the boy.
Super-Pred gave an avuncular laugh. "You a fierce little man, ain't you?" he said. He glanced through the archway, charmed for a moment by the cartoon rabbit and the cartoon hunter on the TV screen.
"Leave him alone!" Teresa shouted.
Rage flashed in the gangster's eyes, and he spun and grabbed her as she struggled in the grip of his two thugs. He pincered her cheeks with one hand and leaned his nose almost against hers.
"You don't talk to me, bitch! You just a bitch!"
Teresa tried to twist her head free, tried to talk to him. "Please! You can have anything you want. Just leave him alone!"
The Pred laughed again. Grabbed her face again. Grabbed her breast hard so that she cried out in pain.
"Mommy!" screamed the little boy.
"Bitch, I can have anything I want anyway!" Super-Pred said. He glanced at his companions. "Spread that shit around."
He meant the gasoline in the cans they'd brought with them. The thug who'd whipped the old man leaned the shotgun against the armchair and grabbed a red can. Another thug grabbed another can, and they began splashing the room with gasoline, splashing gasoline over the old man where he lay gasping and coughing in his own blood.
"He look like he burn good," said a banger, laughing.
The little boy struggled and shouted. The thug holding him was surprised and angered by the child's strength. He cursed and lost his temper and hurled the boy face first into the wall. Teresa let out an anguished scream. The boy fell dazed to the floor. The thug kicked him.
"There!" he said.
And the other thugs spread gasoline on the boy, too. The boy coughed and curled up, gripping his stomach.
"Hold off a second," said Super-Pred.
He was in that zone of his now, that mental zone of unpredictable fury. He grabbed the front of Teresa's blouse with two hands and tore it open. That set the fire going inside him.
"Bring her in here," he said.
Gripping her arms and legs, they hauled and dragged and hustled Teresa through the door into the dining room. Grunting and crying out, she kicked and tried to tear free and tried to bite their hands, but she was helpless.
"Put her on the table," Super-Pred said, following them through the door.
They forced her, struggling, onto the table, while the Pred, with a great show of lordly calm, wandered around the room, studying it with mock appreciation.
He noticed the reredos on the mantel.
"Shut that bitch up," he said casually over his shoulder as he approached the wooden sculpture.
One of the bangers punched Teresa and the other groped and clutched between her legs. They tore at her clothes.
Super-Pred looked up at the three angels, confronted the central angel staring down at him from the mantelpiece. He liked it. It gave him a feeling, a feeling that he and the angel were actually communing in some way. He could see the depth of love and sorrow carved into the angel's expression. It made him laugh because he felt this was a joke that he alone in his uniqueness understood. Someone else might ooh and ah at such a face, but he was special and got the joke of it. With the sound of the bangers taunting Teresa behind him, the sound of their punches and her anguished gasps, the Pred reached up for the reredos almost with a sense of fellow feeling and affection. Inevitably, he lifted it from the mantelpiece and hurled it to the floor. The wing splintered with a cracking sound. The head snapped off and rolled free.
The force of the action bent the teenager forward slightly, just on the threshold of the kitchen doorway.
Shannon curled around that doorway and put the Beretta nine against the side of Super-Pred's head.
He had let himself in through the kitchen door. He had used the key old Applebee had given him, the small Medeco key with the green dot on the bow. He had come to the house without knowing what he would do, just wanting to make sure Teresa was safe, just following his instinct to watch over and protect her. He had lingered outside a long time, uncertain. Then he had seen the gangsters arrive and had slipped in the back way using the key.
Now, he stood with the gun pressed to the gangster's head. Super-Pred glanced at him, gauging his chances.
> Shannon smiled. "You think I won't kill you?" he said. "Look in my eyes. I'll kill you. I want to kill you. Tell them to let the girl go."
Super-Pred looked into Shannon's eyes and even his usual pretense of courage deserted him; he knew he had never been so near the precipice of oblivion.
"Let her go," he said—but his voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper, and his boys were busy working the girl over. He had to shout it at them a second time: "Let her go!"
Then the bangers noticed the new situation. They stumbled back away from Teresa, clumsily reaching for the pistols in their belts.
By then, Shannon had the fifteen-year-old gangster king by the collar, was holding him in front of himself, holding the nine up under the punk's chin.
"Better tell them how it is, son," he said.
"No guns. Put the guns down," said Super-Pred quickly.
"Drop 'em," said Shannon.
Teresa had rolled off the table. She had fallen to her knees on the floor. She braced herself on the floor with one hand and clutched at herself with the other, clutched at the shreds of her clothing, trying to cover her nakedness. Blood and snot and tears were dripping from her. She was crying with a wild rage.
Shannon paid no attention to her. He was already filled with her and looking for a chance—hoping for an excuse—to kill every one of these little shits, every single one.
Super-Pred knew it and a note of hysteria entered his voice as he shouted, "Put the pieces down, motherfuckers!"
One thug dropped his gun, but the other hesitated and Shannon killed him. He shot him quick in the chest and by the time the kid went down dead, he had the pistol under Super-Pred's chin again. It felt good to kill the kid, and Shannon hoped some of the others would try something. Even if they riddled him with bullets, he would kill them all. Even if they shot him dead, he would come back from hell and kill them.
"Move through the door," Shannon said.
The banger who was still living had his hands in the air. His whole body was quaking. His eyes were wide because his friend was suddenly dead and he saw what Shannon was now, he saw what Super-Pred saw. He didn't need the gangster king to repeat Shannon's order. He nearly leapt to the dining room door.
"Tell them to drop 'em!" Super-Pred shouted after him, his voice cracking.
The other three bangers in there had heard the gunshot, but it didn't occur to them it wasn't one of theirs. They figured Pred had shot the bitch, that's all. One of them was even moving to the door to get an eyeful of the bloodshed. But just then, his pal came through, babbling, "Put the guns down, man, put all the pieces down!"
The gangsters saw Super-Pred hustled into the room, Shannon holding him and holding the nine-a to his chin.
"Put the pieces down!" Super-Pred was shouting, and the other thug kept babbling, "Put 'em down, man, he's serious!"
Two of the gangsters dropped their guns. The third one gave it a second's thought, but dropped his, too, before Shannon got the chance to kill him.
Shannon shot a quick glance over at the old man on the floor. The old man was crawling to the boy. Now the old man cradled the boy in his arms, blood dripping from his mouth onto the back of the boy's head. The whole place stank of gasoline. Antic cartoon music filtered in from the back room pathetically. Shannon wanted to kill every g he saw.
The gangsters could see the murder in his eyes, and one of them said stupidly, "Man, we didn't mean nothing."
Shannon shot him in the leg just for that. The punk went down howling.
"Shut up! All of you, shut up!" said Super-Pred, his voice cracking.
"Get out," Shannon ordered quietly. He saw they would do whatever he said now. He was half sorry about that, sorry to have no excuse to kill them. He shoved the gun up under Pred's chin hard. "Get out, I said. Drive away. Look back and I blow this fucker's head off. Then I come after the rest of you. Get out and drive away."
The bangers crowded to the door so fast, Shannon had to shout after them. "Take this one! Take this one with you!"
They came back for the one he'd shot in the leg. The wounded punk was blubbering like a child in pain as they draped his arms over their shoulders and hustled him to the door.
When they were gone, when it was just Shannon holding Super-Pred at gunpoint, he looked down at the old man. "Applebee," he said. "Can you stand up?"
The old man nodded painfully, holding the boy. "Yeah."
"The boy okay?"
"You're okay, aren't you, son?"
"I think so," said the boy.
"Go upstairs and get some clothes for your daughter," said Shannon.
"I'll get them." It was Teresa in the doorway. Clutching the shreds of her clothes to her, her bloodied face still, her cheeks tear-stained, her eyes luminous with fury.
Shannon nodded at her. She went unsteadily to the stairs.
"Mommy!" the boy called after her.
"I'll be right there, sweetie," she mumbled. "Stay with Grandpa."
She went up the stairs quickly.
Shannon heard the bangers' cars start up outside. He heard them roar off into the night. He moved away from the old man and the boy. He yanked the punk gangster to the door and kicked it shut. Now it was quieter inside and they could all hear the cartoon music filtering in from the back room.
"You know what I'm thinking," Shannon said in Super-Pred's ear.
"Come on, daddy," said the boy.
"I'm thinking of killing you. It'd be good."
The punk trembled in his grip. "Come on, man."
"Come on?"
"Yeah, daddy. What the hell, you know?"
"Yeah, well ... maybe this wasn't your idea."
"It wasn't. I swear."
"I know it wasn't. Fact, I know whose idea it was."
"So you know. So don't kill me, man. What the hell, right? It's like I had no choice."
Shannon shoved the gun in his chin even harder. He spoke in his ear through gritted teeth. "You had a choice."
"Don't ... don't..."
"I want to hear you say it. I want to hear you say the name. If it's the right name, I might let you live. If you lie to me, you'll be dead a second later."
Super-Pred couldn't think that fast. He tried to weigh the dangers. He stalled for time. "She your girl, is that it?"
"Shut up. Mention her again, I'll blow your balls off. Tell me the name."
"Ramsey," said Super-Pred. He could hear his own death in every word Shannon spoke. He could feel his feet hanging over the pit of death. "The cop. The lieutenant. The Brick they call him. He big. It's like he say it, you gotta do it, man. You gotta."
"He told you to come here, do this."
"Yeah, man, swear."
"He say why?"
"Just said do 'em, daddy, didn't give no reason."
The stair creaked and Shannon glanced over to see Teresa coming down. She had pulled on a pair of jeans and a gray army sweat-shirt. Her cheek was swollen and bloody. Shannon wanted to hold Super-Pred up in front of her so she could watch while he pulled the trigger.
Teresa went to her father and her son. The old man had gotten hold of a chair arm. He had pulled himself to his feet. Now he was bent over, helping the boy up, too. "Come on, son, come on." The boy rose slowly, clutching his stomach.
Teresa reached them. She put her arms around the boy and murmured to him.
Shannon turned his attention back to Super-Pred, breathing hard. "If I let you live," he said, "can you get a message to Ramsey?"
"Yeah, daddy, yeah. Sure, I can get a message to him easy. Tell him anything you want."
"Tell him we can deal. Him and me. You understand? Tell him I have what he wants and we can deal for it. I get my payoff, I leave town, he'll never see me again."
"Yeah. Yeah. I can tell him that, sure," said Super-Pred.
Shannon glanced over at Teresa. She was standing with the boy clutched against her. Her father leaned on her shoulder for support, wiping blood from his face with his hand.
Shannon gest
ured with his head toward the dining room. "Take them into the kitchen and wait for me," he told her.
Teresa shepherded the boy to the door. The old man went with them, his hand on her shoulder.
Shannon waited until they left the room. Then he said to Super-Pred, "You tell him what I said. Tell Ramsey I'll be in touch and we can deal."
"Okay, okay, I'll..."
Before Super-Pred could finish, Shannon drew back his arm and stabbed the butt of the pistol into the punk's temple. The kid collapsed in his grip, unconscious. Shannon let his collar go and dropped him to the floor.
That was that. Shannon stood, looking around the place, breathing hard. The smell of gasoline was nauseating. The comical cartoon music tinkled and banged in the next room—pathetic. The punk lay still at his feet for only a second. Then he began to stir and groan. Shannon sneered down at him. The image of Teresa struggling on the dining room table flashed in his mind. He had stopped himself from thinking about it before, but now it came to him. He forced himself to stop thinking again. He needed Super-Pred alive to deliver his message.
He stepped through the door into the dining room. The other thug lay dead on the floor in there. He lay on his back beside the dining table, his arms splayed, his mouth open, his eyes staring. That made Shannon feel a little better. He was glad he'd gotten to kill one of them at least.
He crossed the room quickly. He went to where the angel altarpiece lay smashed near the kitchen door. Without breaking stride, he stepped over the wreckage and went through to join Teresa and her family.
He brought them around to the front of the house, leading the way, holding the gun out before him with one hand and keeping the other on Teresa's arm. He led them to her car, a gray Ford, in the driveway. He stood guard as the three of them got inside. He opened the door—and just as he was about to lower himself behind the wheel, he heard a ragged scream from inside the house. It was a scream of unholy rage and frustration. It barely sounded human—barely even sounded animal to Shannon, but more like something subnatural, like some sound effect from a horror movie. As Shannon paused to listen, it came again, and then there came a string of terrible and Tourettic curses howled at full volume. There was a crash, another crash, the sound of glass shattering. Shannon saw Super-Pred stumble past the window as the gangster hurled a chair across the room in his fury. A light must have broken, because the front room flashed and went dark. Then, a moment later, there was another sound—a deep and airy utterance under the boy's raving—and a new, weirdly lightless light raced up over the walls, swift, giddy, and explosive, as if it were the living expression of the gangster's malice. He had torched the gasoline and set the house on fire.