Here it comes.
Ray Fine:
Don’t fucking worry. Stay in character and don’t piss anyone off and you will be right as rain. Phineas whispered these last unheard words of advice to his new parallel ego and retreated safely into the shadows to watch and listen. I’m not here, he said. You are on your own.
Ray Fine smiled wetly at everyone he passed. Ray is one of those sad guys who can’t quite keep his mouth closed. His lips were forever parted, as if he had a problem with his sinus, as if he were simple. And he limped, as expected. Not terribly, but with enough hobbling and spastic shuffling that he might well crash into a mailbox at any moment. His clothes were very bad. The clothes of someone who might be seen howling prophesies at traffic. He wore a charcoal fedora with a diseased sparrow’s feather tucked into the brim. He wore a pea-green jacket and a brown, hooded sweatshirt. A white polyester shirt under this, untucked. Outlandish blue-and-black bell-bottoms that people actually stopped to stare at. He had a ragged mustache that burrowed between his mouth and nose like a pet mouse, and he wore glasses with yellow lenses and black frames held together by a piece of wire. A brand new digital watch with a price tag still dangling that he had purchased for five dollars at a drug store. Ray Fine was another rambling, harmless freak. And he knew it. He limped up the steps to the Ninth Precinct, loudly saying hello and good morning to everyone he saw. A few people even said hello back to him.
Once inside, Ray Fine became mysteriously unobtrusive. He lost the limp for a moment and walked briskly past the desk sergeant, who was busy with someone else and who, if he noticed Ray at all, might have assumed he was an eccentric lawyer. Two rookie uniforms turned to stare at him and he winked at them. Ray Fine knew where he was going. Ray continued down the hallway largely uncontested. Now he muttered to himself and allowed his head to wobble on his shoulders. He was a delirious monkey. He placed one hand over his mouth as if he might vomit. This seemed to help a lot. Now everyone ducked out of his way. Ray turned a corner and resumed his limp.
He smacked his lips and worked his tongue around his mouth, perhaps fishing for debris left over from his lunch. He passed a pretty assistant DA and gave her a friendly thumbs-up, then came to an elevator and merrily pushed the already glowing Up button.
He pushed it five or six times, to be sure.
Two detectives, fat and thin, and a brightly colored secretary stood waiting for the same elevator, and now they turned to peer at him and politely look away. Ray Fine took this opportunity to fart silently and step to one side, his nose twitching. The secretary wrinkled her upper lip and glanced with disapproval at the fat detective. The elevator arrived and Ray graciously climbed aboard last.
Three please, he said loudly. I’m going up to Homicide, you know.
Ray extended his hand. Ray Fine, Special Adjuster #616.
The what?
That’s right. There’s a problem with the conglomerate eleven two tone appropriation policy. Big problem, big as a fucking house.
The secretary cocked one eyebrow in disbelief. I don’t think…
Ray hooted at her. Easy now, little Debbie. You don’t want your face to get stuck that way, do you?
The fat detective grinned as the doors opened on the third floor. No one moved a muscle as Ray Fine darted through and turned to give them all a two-fisted thumbs-up just as the doors hissed shut.
Moon:
He was not crazy, not crazy. Sometimes he wanted to get away, sure. To take off his shirt and sprout wings from his humped and painful shoulder blades. His wings would at least be white, he thought. His wings would be deceptively pretty. He wanted to fly high and wide, out across the plains where the high yellow grass would bend and dip in the wind. Moon sucked in his breath, confused. Brief shudder and thump as his head smacked against the roof of his car. He had jumped a fucking curb. Nearly crushed a lightpost. Oh, boy. That’s right. He was temporarily without a seat belt. Tufts of yellow stuffing floated up to his face and he tried to grab them with a clumsy paw. He had to get a hold of himself. Maybe he would drop in on the department shrink. The idea made him want to choke up his lunch but what else could he do? He was trashing doughnut shops and making sad eyes at hippie girls in the street and disemboweling his own car. He was killing himself, which he might not mind so much but it could take a while to actually finish himself off. Moon opened the car door, inspected himself for injuries. Nothing to speak of, really. An egg-sized lump on his forehead that would likely be colorful tomorrow, but he could always wear a hat. He stepped back to survey the car. Three wheels on the sidewalk, nose shoved into a wooden post. It was possibly an acceptable parking job, though it might impede pedestrian traffic. He considered moving it, straightening it out a bit, but his throat tightened up at the idea and he had to flail his arms for balance. Fucking wings, for god’s sake. He looked up and down the street for moral support and while his might have been the only car on the sidewalk, it did have unexpired tags and a decent paint job and well, fuck it. Moon was a half-block from his building. He would go home, have a cold shower. He would pluck the clumps of dead hair from his bathtub drain. He would brush his teeth and wash his face with witch hazel. Then he would drink a single beer and have a grilled cheese sandwich, with bacon and onions. Maybe Phineas would be there. They could have a good laugh about the lettuce incident and then walk down the street to move his beached car. Right, then. He made sure his doors were locked and turned to go home.
But he hadn’t gone ten feet when a shadow fell across his path.
Good day, said the shadow.
A tall man in an overcoat, the sun behind him. Not a breathing shadow. Moon wrenched himself sideways and got a look at the guy’s face. Long, wet lips. Fucked-up looking hair, like it was cut by a drunk with a kitchen knife. But at least the guy had some hair to speak of. The guy was about his age, maybe older. Wearing a black raincoat. For about two seconds, Moon thought he was maybe going to flash him.
But the guy just looked at him, his head crooked.
Do I know you? said Moon.
I don’t think so, the guy said. My name is Gulliver.
Well, then. What the fuck do you want.
Nothing at all. I was passing by and couldn’t help noticing that your head is bleeding.
Moon blinked. There did seem to be a slow leak just north of his left eye, a warm trickle. He grabbed at his skull with one hand and it came away red.
Huh, he said. That little chicken wasn’t crazy, I guess.
Excuse me?
Oh, said Moon. I met a very strange girl, earlier today. She said she smelled blood on me.
Interesting.
Anyway. I wrecked my car just now. Must have cracked my nut on the windshield.
The man leaned close, sniffing. I smell nothing, he said.
Moon jerked his face away. Who asked you?
The man shrugged. The girl was a Breather, perhaps.
What?
Don’t be thick, man. I can see you’re in the game.
Moon took a step back.
It’s okay, said the man. I don’t want your tongue. But I’m very good with a needle and thread, if you want to stitch that cut.
It’s a scratch, said Moon. It needs a Band-Aid, maybe.
I might help you become self-aware.
You’re some kind of pervert, right?
The man shook his head. He smiled and his teeth were like bones in the sun, cracked and yellow. Moon was disgusted. He was offended. He didn’t feel sorry for people who couldn’t take care of their teeth. Maybe it was just a desperate response to the loss of his hair or the foot odor problem but he seemed to brush his teeth about five times a day, lately.
The queers don’t usually go for me, said Moon. I’m too butch, or something.
Or something, said the man.
Yeah, said Moon. Thanks, though.
The man sighed. You won’t last, he said.
Ray Fine:
They ducked into a restroom, hissing at each other. Pushed an
d shoved to the sink and ran cold water over their hands, eyeballing the mirror all the while. You want to settle down, or what? You’re a maniac, you’re out of control. The idea was to be foolish but inoffensive so just settle the fuck down, okay. If you can’t be half normal then you’re toast. This is my body, right. What’s left of it. And if you get the shit kicked out of it then you can go back to living in a cigar box under Moon’s sink.
Fucking right.
Then to the urinal for a nervous pee. Ray Fine and Phineas shared a laugh, then Phineas backed off. He gave Ray a final dirty look and let him leave the bathroom in peace to try his own luck with the desk clerk.
She looked like an unforgiving hag. Face like a slab of ham, bright pink and bloated with fat. Thick burgundy hair piled on her head in the shape of a barrel. Ray Fine gritted his teeth and put on a happy face. Behind the hag was a steady hum and bustle of typewriters and telephones and cops going about their business. Phineas felt cold, watching from a distance. He was in the nerve center, such as it was. A trickle of sweat down his back and jangling nerves from skull to fingertips. He hadn’t been this close to so many cops in over a year. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all.
Ray tipped the fedora. Hello, Ma’am.
Flicker of suspicious eyes and a mouthful of gum. Yes?
Yes, well. I need to see Captain Honey right away, posthaste and tout de suite. Life or death and he’s expecting me. Ray Fine, from the mayor’s office.
The hag shrugged, pushed an intercom button. She bent over it with her pink face. Ray Fine to see you, sir. From the mayor’s office.
Long pause, crackling silence.
Phineas squirmed in the dark. Ray Fine grinned confidently.
Nadine, what? The mayor, did you say? Christ on a pony. By all means, send him in. Wait, wait. Ask the poor fellow if he wants a cup of coffee, or a nice danish. Then send him along.
Nadine rolled her eyes. Would you care for a danish? Apple or cream cheese.
Is that real cream cheese?
Hardly.
Ray Fine smiled. Tempting, but no. And don’t get up, please. I know the way.
He looked straight ahead as he made his way through an orgy of closely confined odors, of contorted faces. Past the squeals of swiveling chairs, the hiss and purr of fax machines and the groans of his own nervous belly to Honey’s office. He looked directly at nothing and no one. Phineas couldn’t handle the eye contact and Ray didn’t much like it, either.
Captain Honey sat behind his desk in a handsome black wool overcoat. He looked pretty coherent. Freshly shaved, with a single dot of blood on his left cheek. What remained of his hair was combed smartly over his naked scalp. His eyes were blue and clear. He had one foot up on his desk, though, and he seemed to be wearing tennis shorts with no socks. And upon closer inspection, it looked like he was wearing a plaid bathrobe under the wool overcoat. Moon had not lied about the coupons, by the way. The man’s desk was littered with coupons. The walls were wildly decorated with old comic strips. Marmaduke. Beetle Bailey. Ziggy. And scarily prominent was the insidious Family Circus. Phineas closed his eyes, wished he could go to sleep. Ray Fine smiled and sat down.
Good morning and what can we do for you, private? said Honey.
Ray glanced at his watch, it was nearly five in the evening. Honey was staring at him pretty intently for a confused old guy. Ray Fine stuttered. Oh, well. It’s a question of human interest.
How’s that? said Honey.
Ray took one rattling breath, smiled, then commenced to babble. The mayor wants to improve the police department image, you know. He wants the people of Denver to feel safe and happy. He wants them to say hello and good morning and God bless you when they pass a cop on the street.
Honey gnawed at a hangnail. I like it, I do. It sounds like a grand idea.
The first order of business is to profile one of your brightest and bravest, to make one special cop look like the guy next door. Our sources say that Detective Jimmy Sky is your finest officer.
Sky, did you say?
That’s right.
Oh, dear. I don’t think I know him. No, I don’t.
He should be attached to this squad, said Ray.
No, no. Jimmy Cliff is a singer. A Jamaican fella, I believe.
Jimmy Sky, said Ray.
Honey thumbed his intercom button. Nadine? Is there a detective named Sky on my squad?
She sighed mightily. No, sir.
Honey smiled. There you go.
Interesting. Let me ask you this, then. Have you had any officers go missing of late?
Honey’s eyes darkened, as if a stray cloud had passed before his brain. He leaned forward, one bony finger poling at the air before him. Listen boy, he said. I never leave this office. Except for weekends, that is. I sleep on a fold-out cot like a goddamn soldier. Nadine has all my food brought in by long-haired little shits on bicycles. And I pee right into a mason jar when I need to relieve myself.
Ray took off his hat, ran one hand through his hair. He was sweating.
Believe you me, said Honey. I would know if any of my men were missing.
Of course you would.
Captain Honey closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. Before long, he was snoring.
Ray Fine sat there a while, nodding. It occurred to him that old Phineas was probably crawling out of his skin right now.
Dizzy Bloom:
Warm inside and dangerously cozy.
The girl called Goo was curled on a nest of pillows by the fireplace. Chrome had gone to take a shower, a cold shower. Dizzy had asked him very politely to save a little hot water for her bath and he gave her a nasty shivering look, saying softly that he took only cold showers. Mingus sat cross-legged in the bay window, his nose shoved defensively into a book of Dorothy Parker’s short stories. Dizzy moved in shadows about the room, lighting a few scented candles and turning the radio to a gospel station. She kept looking at Goo. Wondering who she was in real life, how she came to be here and how deep she was in the game. Goo didn’t fidget, she noticed. She didn’t pick at her fingernails or play with her hair. Her hands were restful, solemn. Dizzy glanced at the ceiling and wondered what Chrome was doing up there. He could be spitting onto every clean towel, he could be masturbating on her bed. He could be using her toothbrush. He could be taking a shower. The pipes were droning but cold water was fairly endless. Dizzy moved to sit beside Goo. The girl smelled of musk and brown sugar, of dried blood and Band-Aids. A rich, intoxicating presence and thank God she threw off no visions.
Are you hungry? said Dizzy.
Goo stretched her thin legs and smiled without speaking. Dizzy looked at her closely now. A short, wild mop of black hair. Dark, soft mouth and gray eyes. Heavy boots. Brown suede jeans and a little black sweater of silk or fine cotton with short sleeves. The sweater didn’t quite cover her tummy, and when she moved, it rose a little. Dizzy again smelled dried blood, and she saw the white edge of adhesive tape. The girl had a bruise on her left arm, another on the side of her neck. But this wasn’t unusual. She was an Exquisitor’s apprentice.
Do you eat meat? said Dizzy.
Goo sighed. Yes. I do now.
What’s the matter?
Do you know why we’re here?
Dizzy shrugged. One of you is running from something.
My apartment is slipping.
Really?
Yes. It was disappearing before my eyes.
The girl spoke in a clipped, halting monotone. She stared without blinking and Dizzy realized she was in a mild state of shock.
I saw a car disappear once, said Dizzy. It just melted away.
How is that possible?
Physically, it’s not. As far as I know.
Physically.
Dizzy grinned. Useless distinction, isn’t it.
I want to sleep, said Goo. I want to wake up and be normal.
How long have you been in the game?
The girl hesitated. As if she couldn’t quite remember
her real life, her past. Then she shivered. A slow flush of color in her cheeks. Not long, she said. A little more than six weeks.
You’re just a baby, said Dizzy. You will be okay, eventually.
Dizzy lifted one hand, or allowed it to float sideways. She began to stroke the girl’s hair, dragging the soft black curls through her white, crooked fingers. After a minute or two of thick silence, Goo touched her wrist and asked her to stop. Dizzy wasn’t offended. Some people don’t like to be touched. Dizzy excused herself, slipped away to the kitchen. She tied an old apron around her waist and began to chop onions, thinking she would start with a nice spinach salad. Then perhaps grilled shark steaks.
Excuse me?
Dizzy turned to find Mingus standing in the doorway. Hesitant, as if he was afraid to intrude. Mingus was so strange. Otherworldly, even within the game. It was hard not to like him. He was small, frail. Not more than five feet tall and barely a hundred pounds. He was maybe two pounds heavier than she was when naked and wet. Thin blond hair, almost white and hanging over his dark eyes. He had the sweet face of a boy, soft skin and red lips. He had possibly never been with a woman, although she knew he was about her age. Dizzy was twenty-nine.
Come in, she said.
He moved closer, he moved slowly. He was worried, frightened. Dizzy took a deep breath of him and he was a whirl of scents, most of them not his own. She saw nothing but dark skies.
What is it?
I’m a bit worried, he said.
Dizzy put down the knife, wiped her hands on a towel. Mingus glanced uneasily at the ceiling, then back at her. The shower was still running. The pipes groaned and whistled. Mingus went to the refrigerator and got out a piece of ice. He sucked on it as he spoke.
It’s awkward, he said. It’s about Chrome, you see. And I don’t want to cause alarm without good reason, but he took down a Fred, yesterday. Under the sun. We were not within the game.
Dizzy shrugged. That’s risky, of course. But not so unusual.
No, said Mingus. That’s not it. He killed the man. Literally, I mean.