Then outside. The snow has stopped. My watch says it is four. The sun will be up soon and I start to walk. I limp slightly, to the left. This eases the pain in my side but I have to be careful not to fall off the sidewalk. I buy cigarettes at the glowing foodmart. Six hours until I meet Jude and I have no idea what I will do to her. I’m wide awake and almost happy but on the edge of weeping. As if I’m thinking of a lover and I can’t wait to see her. It’s pitiful and I bite my lip to clear my head. The wind is picking up and I duck into a phone booth to smoke a cigarette. I need someone to talk to and I decide to call Crumb. But I don’t know his number. I don’t know anyone’s number. I call my old number and get a recording that says disconnected, try again. I dig through my wallet and find two scraps of paper. One is the original note from Jude. If you want to live call 911. It’s wrinkled and the ink is a little smeared. The handwriting is curved and sharp, girlish but bright with intent. She has strong fingers. I can almost see her. I can smell her cold yellow skin. The other bit of paper is from Rose White. Her name and phone number. Her handwriting is softer, dreamier than Jude’s. I pick up the phone and drop a quarter.
Hello, she says. She is suspicious but awake.
Rose, I say. It’s Phineas.
Oh. Good morning.
I’m sorry. Did I wake you?
No, I’m glad you called. Are you okay?
I don’t know. I need to tell you something.
What is it?
My wife is dead.
Oh, I’m so sorry.
It happened six months ago. I just wanted you to know.
Where are you?
I’m nowhere. A phone booth.
I think you should be in bed. You’re not well.
It wasn’t my fault.
What?
My wife. It was an accident.
Do you want me to come get you?
The thing is, I taught her how to handle a gun. She knew.
Phineas, listen to me. Where are you?
I don’t know what to do.
What do you want to do?
I have to meet Jude at the train station.
Who is she?
She stole something from me and I have to get it back.
Okay. What time are you meeting her?
At eleven o’clock. She took my kidney.
Of course. Your kidney.
Do you know the story of the goose and the golden eggs?
She sighs. I hope you’re not the goose.
I’m the fucking egg.
Phineas, she says. Let me come get you.
My wife was a good shot. She could take the head off a bottle.
Tell me about her.
Jude? She’s a hell of a woman. Mean as a snake but nice to look at, god love her.
Your wife, tell me about your wife.
My wife. Her name was Lucy and she was a teacher. Ninth-grade math.
What did she look like?
She had short black hair, cut like an elf from a fairy tale. When I first met her I was sure she had pointed ears. Her eyes were dark and a little slanted.
What about her body? Was she smaller than me?
Lucy was soft. She had a nice round ass and strong legs. A little bit of a tummy.
And did she dress like an elf?
She wore sharp little designer suits. Like a short gray flannel skirt with matching jacket. High-heel shoes and she loved white stockings. She was a sweetheart but she had a dirty mind. Because she was dying and she wanted a little excitement. She didn’t wear underpants sometimes and she said the boys in her class could sense it and they got pretty hot and couldn’t tell you five plus six.
She sounds like fun. Did she like to dance?
I don’t want to talk about her anymore. She’s dead and sometimes I’m glad.
You don’t mean that. You don’t.
She was always dying. And then she was dead.
Phineas, you’re scaring me. Tell me where you are.
Why do you want to know?
Because I can take care of you. I’m a nurse.
I’m weak. I need to be strong when I see Jude.
Let me help you.
No. I need to do this alone.
What are you going to do?
I’m going to take her to a hotel room.
I don’t want to know. I really don’t.
I’m going to drug her and fuck her senseless.
Phineas. That’s enough.
Then I’m going to kill her.
The phone is chirping in my hand and the sky is turning pink. It’s morning and I’m stiff with cold. My left hand is a claw, frozen to the phone. On the back of my hand is a note to myself. Blue ink and my uneven handwriting. Rose 1013 Alpine 2 P.M. There’s a burnt stub of cigarette in my other hand. Rose must have hung up on me and I fell asleep or blacked out. Either way I’m still standing. And it looks like Rose and I have a date. Maybe she wants to go to a matinee. Two o’clock. I can take care of Jude by then, I’m sure. I’m hungry and I drop the phone. There’s a diner down the street.
I must look bad. The waitress asks if I have any money before she will give me a menu. I show her twenty dollars and still she is slow with the coffee. I’m the only customer. I stare at the eggs on my plate. I asked for them sunny side up because it sounded cheerful and now they won’t stop jiggling. I chew a piece of bacon for a long time, grinding it into tasteless paste.
This was a bad idea.
Excuse me? The waitress sucks the end of her pencil and stares at me.
The food, I say. Sometimes I hate to eat.
What’s wrong with it?
I would rather be a machine. Or else just take a pill and be done.
Listen, mister. If you don’t like it you can take your funny ideas someplace else.
You don’t understand. This place is the same as any other. It’s the need to consume food every day in order to sustain the flesh. It depresses me.
I’m sorry you got problems. But mostly I don’t care.
I gouge the eggs with my fork and the yolk is bright and putrid.
Is there more coffee?
But she doesn’t look up. I drop a few crumpled dollars on my plate and go.
eight.
A long white Lincoln idles in an alleyway. The windows are tinted but I know who it is. I walk to the driver’s side and stand there until the black glass slides down.
Are you feeling better? says the Blister. He still wears the white leather gloves.
Oh, I’m a peach.
The engine growls. The Blister is nervously tapping the accelerator. My breath swirls away from me thick as smoke. The Blister wears a black fur coat and a red silk tie. The coat hangs open and I see he’s got a small cannon in his shoulder holster.
I had a funny idea, I say.
What’s that? says the Blister. The gloves squeal and pop as he grips the wheel.
The idea is that you aren’t a cop. I never saw your badge.
That’s a scream, says the Blister.
But I really don’t mind you following me. It’s comforting.
The Blister shrugs and his big gun is pressed gently into my testicles. I never saw him move. He leans out the window, as if he wants directions. I’m not a cop, he says. I’m a bunny rabbit. Now get in the car.
He kicks open the passenger door and I stroll around to get in. I suppose I could run. But I’m so feeble it would be embarrassing. He could smoke two cigarettes and daydream awhile, then go have a bite and still drop me from fifty yards with that gun.
I fasten my seat belt and the Blister rests the barrel of his gun on my shoulder.
Get used to that feeling, he says.
Where are we going?
The Blister smiles through me. A vein in his neck throbs visibly. The silence is crushing. The car gleams as if new. The seats are a soft, pale leather that must have come from baby calves. The dash is oiled mahogany. The car feels computerized, climate-controlled.
I love the car, I say. Very glamorous.
/> Isn’t it fantastic. I just drove it off the lot the other day.
Oh, yeah. It’s a fucking beauty.
I hope so, he says. It cost a small fortune.
Too bad, though. It smells like a dead boy’s asshole.
He glares at me. Be careful with your tongue.
Do you have a name? Or a serial number?
Silence.
The gun at my ear twitches and I realize he’s trembling. His face is dreamy, unfocused. I’m crazy, of course. But I think he’s got a little erection and there is a brief unwanted rush of blood in my own genitals, because there is nothing so arousing as fear and submission and the threat of violence. And he could easily blow my head off when we hit a patch of ice.
My mouth is very dry. Do you mind if I smoke a cigarette?
If you like, says the Blister. You are not a prisoner, Mr. Poe.
This isn’t the way to make friends.
If I meant to kill you I would have done so. If you were a prisoner, you would be riding in the trunk with a broken collarbone.
The collarbone?
Very painful. It leaves you extremely docile.
What about the gun in my ear?
Oh, well. A gun is only a tool.
Why don’t you stop driving in circles and tell me what you want?
The Blister sighs and pulls over. He kills the engine. Now, he says. I will get to the point. In less than an hour you are meeting a woman named Jude at the train station. I will be watching you.
I smoke and try to appear undaunted.
The Blister taps the wheel with a gloved finger. I don’t want to kill you. I want to help you. And perhaps you can help me.
Thanks. But I don’t like you.
Don’t be clever. That’s the last thing you want to be.
This isn’t happening.
I’m afraid it is. The minute you took Jude up to your room you entered into a world of shit.
Unlucky in love, I say.
The Blister smiles. Jude works for me, he says. Rather, she once did.
Okay. Who is she and why does she want my kidney?
It doesn’t matter who she is, he says. She can be whoever you want her to be. And she doesn’t want your kidney.
Oh, well. Someone must want it.
Indeed.
I stare at him, growing irritated. Who?
The Blister smiles like a generous king. I might want it, he says.
You hired her to steal my kidney.
He shrugs. My dear brother is dying.
And she gave you those bruises. She fucked you up. What did you do to her?
I’m a gentleman, he says.
Let me guess. You didn’t want to pay her and she decided to keep my poor kidney.
It is no longer your kidney, says the Blister. It is mine. Or my brother’s to be exact. Unfortunately, Jude has failed to deliver it.
My knife is out of the wrist sheath, fast and silent as a cat’s heart. I slash upward and think, if I cut his lips off he might stop talking like such a wanker. The Blister brings the barrel of his gun down on my wrist and I drop the knife; my fingers are numb and I hope the wrist isn’t broken. I hope I don’t cry like a baby when the feeling returns to my hand. The Blister picks up the fallen knife, holding it by the blade with two fingers. He gives it back to me without a word.
Listen very carefully, he says. If you try that again, I will cut off your thumb.
I apologize. I tell him I’m a little sensitive about my body parts.
A natural reaction, he says.
Okay, I say. Tell me what you want.
I want you to kill her and return the kidney to me. I will pay you one hundred thousand dollars.
Your little scenario is flawed.
Why do you say that?
Because I already have a plan. I’m going to kill Jude this afternoon for fun. And then eat my own putrid kidney for dinner. This will bring me strength and good fortune.
The Blister laughs. You won’t kill her. Not yet.
Oh, really. Why not?
Because I can see it in your eyes. You can’t wait to touch her, to fuck her again.
She fucked me, I say.
Whatever you say. But when you get tired of her, you will kill her for me.
I blow smoke and try to connect the dots between Pooh and Jude and the Blister. I try to open my window but the button doesn’t work. The Blister has a master switch on his side and I’m sure it pleases him to control everyone’s window. He seems like a control freak, a little Hitler with equally bad hair. I turn my head and the gun is at my Adam’s apple. The Blister’s face is blank as the gray sun. He’s suddenly a thousand miles away and his left hand is busily squeezing and poking at a pimple on his chin. He’s eager to pop it but he needs both hands. He needs to take off those stupid gloves.
Aren’t you neglecting something? I say.
He blinks at me.
What about the heroin?
The Blister turns a delicious shade of pink. Heroin?
Heroin, I say.
The Blister waves a hand and stutters. It’s nothing. Jude is simply killing two birds with one stone.
I laugh. Am I a bird or a stone?
If you must know, she is using you as a mule. When she removed your kidney she also made a deposit. There is a large amount of raw heroin in your lower intestine. Today she will pretend to be surprised and angry to see you; she may even threaten to kill you. Then she will allow you to gain the upper hand; she will reluctantly invite you to become her partner. You will travel to El Paso with her and cross the border. Then she will sell you to her buyer, as if you were a package, or a dog. The buyer will remove the heroin by whatever method he chooses.
You just made that up, I say.
I did not, he says.
Come on. Are you trying to tell me she is letting me walk around town with a balloon full of smack in my belly, unaware? What if I accidentally shit it out in some public toilet?
When was your last bowel movement?
I don’t really know. Maybe three days ago. Before I met her.
Precisely, he says. She has no doubt made alterations to your digestive system. Staples in your stomach perhaps, for the very purpose of protecting her merchandise. And I’m sure she drugged you. I assume you have no appetite? Food repulses you, am I right?
I just had breakfast, I say. Bacon and eggs. Fucking delicious, too.
Whatever you say; the heroin is irrelevant to me. My only interest is eliminating Jude and recovering the kidney.
I look at the Blister, amused. A large quantity of heroin is never irrelevant.
His gloved fingers clench and relax as if they are stiff with cold. He starts the car.
I could use something to drink, the Blister says. Where shall we go?
There’s a drive-through burger place down the street.
The Blister drives pitifully slow, as if he’s not used to driving on snow. He’s staring at the road like he’s afraid it might disappear. I rub my belly, reluctant to believe that there is anything inside but empty space and disconnected wiring. Blood and white noise.
Let’s make it two hundred thousand, I say.
One hundred. Not a penny more.
Easy money. Like falling out of bed.
A piece of advice, says the Blister. Don’t take her too lightly. Jude is a very dangerous girl. She has tasted your blood and she enjoys it. Likewise, you wouldn’t want to disappoint me.
I’m sorry. But you just aren’t as dreadful as you mean to be. I think you might want to shave your head and grow a little goatee. And you could use a foreign accent, maybe French.
Imagine, says the Blister. Imagine waking up with no vocal cords and your eyes like jelly, your hands and feet cut off and soaked in acid, your teeth removed and crushed to powder.
I try to smile, to savor this moment.
At the drive-up window the Blister orders for both of us. A diet soda for himself and coffee for me. I reach for my wallet but the Blister waves it away.
He parks the car and leaves it running. I light a cigarette and offer him one. He takes it and smiles. Thank you.
For a few silent minutes we blow smoke at each other, like best friends.
The Blister glances at his watch and when I finish my coffee, he presses a button that unlocks my door.
Good-bye, he says. I will find you when Jude is dead.
Excuse me. I haven’t agreed to anything. And I think a little money up front would be a nice gesture.
The Blister smiles through white and yellow teeth. He pulls a slim leather wallet from his breast pocket and counts out five thousand dollars.
The rest upon completion, he says.
What is this. A little cigarette money?
Don’t be rude, he says. Take the money and go.
Who the fuck are you?
This time he doesn’t smile. I wait for him to whip out that big foolish gun.
I’m afraid it’s time for you to go, he says.
It’s snowing, I say. The least you could do is give me a ride.
Don’t be foolish. Jude will be watching.
Tell me again: why should I do this?
The money. Do it for the money. Then you can buy your wife a new dress.
My wife is dead.
Of course she is.
What do you know about it? I say. I’m disgusted by the sound of my voice.
He shrugs. I might know who killed her. Or who didn’t.
I look at my hands; there is no blood on them. I tell the Blister I will think about it.
nine.
It’s a long walk to the train station.
Five minutes until eleven. The station is old and cavernous. It echoes like a cathedral. I stand in the center and let people stream past me. The panic of faces and thoughts colliding. Slow breaths and a half smile. I am a fool. I told Jude I was afraid of crowds and she will use it against me. I turn a slow circle but I don’t see her anywhere. I close my eyes and sniff the air. I try to feel her. I was sure that she would arrive early and take the high ground. But she’s expecting Pooh and she isn’t worried. She might still be sleeping, white sheets wrinkled around her yellow skin. Her fists clenched, her eyelids fluttering. She might be dreaming of me.