Haiku (8 page)

“I read you, bro,” Lamont said. “But no cash don’t make us trash. So how about if we trade you, instead? A little magic for a little dial time?”

“Magic?” a young girl with spiked purple hair immediately responded.

“Magic,” Lamont solemnly confirmed. He pointed at a medium-height, very muscular youth, whose only upper garment
was a yellow sleeveless shirt. “You go, what, about two twenty?”

“Pretty close,” the muscular young man said, folding his arms to emphasize his biceps.

“Bench, what, four fifty, four seventy-five?”

“So what?” the young man said, not acknowledging that Lamont had overestimated his lifting capacity by a considerable amount.

“So this, bro.
Magic!
I say, even those big guns you’re packing, you still can’t move my partner here.”

“The old man?”

“Yeah,” Lamont said, his teeth forming an ice-smile that went unrecognized by the younger man. “I’m saying, you can’t budge him an
inch
, okay? My man, he got
powers
. All he has to do is say this spell he knows, and he can root himself right to the ground, like he was a tree.”

“Lamont …” I said, very softly. But it was too late.

“I can’t move
this
old man?” the heavily muscled youth said, jabbing a stiffened forefinger at my shoulder. I flowed with his gesture, so that his finger felt only the illusion of contact.

“Magic,” Lamont answered calmly. “Ten bucks’ worth.”

The muscular youth did not reply. Instead, he grabbed my coat in his fists and rammed his shoulder into my chest. I turned into his thrust using an ebb-and-flow technique, being careful not to move my feet.

“Fuck!” the youth said.

“This will not work,” I cautioned Lamont.

“You motherfucking right it won’t work,” the youth said, grimly, as if to announce to the others that his earlier attempt had not been in earnest.

“Whoa, bro! You don’t get to play for free,” Lamont told the young man, loudly enough so that all in the vicinity could hear.

“Knock him on his ass!” the dreadlocked leader authorized.

Instantly, the muscular youth’s features contorted, announcing his strike well before he committed to it. I transformed the energy of his awkward punch so that his face was urged to become one with the concrete.

But when I looked up, I saw that instead of honoring their agreement the others had fled … taking their radio with them.

Only the girl with the purple-spiked hair remained. I recognized the look on her face, so I locked Lamont’s arm against my body and walked him rapidly out of the park.

“Why must you constantly do such things?” I asked him.

“Hey, Ho, that wasn’t me; it was him. His desire to do you an injury is what injured him, right?”

I bowed slightly, accepting that Lamont was mocking that part of me I had yet to fully cleanse.

“And yet we still have no radio,” I pointed out, gently.

“Plenty of rounds left in the clip,” Lamont replied, undiscouraged. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying himself.

Brewster’s library is on the top floor of a building that was once an arsonist’s playground. The interior first-floor walls have crumbled, leaving only a single huge room which has become a public toilet.

Even the most desperate of our tribe would not venture to sleep in such a place. The first floor is urban quicksand—human waste alive with voracious rats. And the only remaining stairway to other floors is not trustworthy, its slimy treacherousness amplified by the ever-present darkness.

Brewster has contrived to make the passage to the highest floor—the fourth—even more difficult, by use of strands of razor wire purloined from construction sites. He knows that none who enter the building would be seeking anything more than a place to relieve themselves, aware that the price of sleep could be death. Nevertheless, Brewster must be absolutely
certain
his treasures are safe in his absence—even the thick bales of rat poison that line the space he uses are constantly refreshed.

As a further precaution, all Brewster’s paperback books are carefully sealed inside multiple layers of plastic storage bags.

Maintaining his library is hard labor; Brewster’s diligence to his task is remarkable. I was impressed by the extent of his precautions, especially in regard to personal hygiene. Each time he enters the building, Brewster carries a complete change of clothing inside several thick trash bags. When he exits, he removes all his fouled clothing and throws it away. Then he cleanses his body with antiseptic wipes, and changes into the clothing he brought with him.

Even though Brewster can accomplish all this at amazing speed, he has twice been apprehended by the police while still in a state of undress. Apparently—I do not actually understand how this works—Brewster carries certain identification that allows him to avoid arrest on such occasions.

Although Brewster acquires his books only by honest means, be they purchase or laborious scavenging, his personal code allows him to shoplift anything required to maintain them. The book-storage bags he uses are apparently sold in numerous comic-book stores throughout the city. Brewster is a very successful shoplifter, because he always presents a neat, clean appearance and is unfailingly polite. Additionally, he does make occasional purchases, so his “browsing” is not viewed with suspicion.

Lamont explained that Brewster’s “no fall” history is due to the fact that such stores will zealously guard their most expensive merchandise, but pay no real attention to trivial items such as storage bags.

Michael and Ranger had once managed to procure several large cartons of these plastic bags. I do not know how they achieved this, although it was clear they had meshed their respective skills to collaborate on the project. Brewster was almost overcome with gratitude. Michael was quite proud of the achievement, but provided no details. Ranger was silent.

“I just hope that psycho didn’t ice some delivery guy,” Lamont had whispered to me at the time.

Brewster’s older sister allows him to visit her home whenever he wishes. Each time, he returns with fresh clothing, and small amounts of money. He can visit only in the daytime; his sister’s husband objects to his presence.

None of us has ever asked him why he chooses to live our life.

For many years, Brewster was able to spend every night in his library. Inevitably, his collection grew so that it took up
all the available space, and he was never insane enough to try sleeping downstairs. Now any agreement to “meet at Brewster’s library” actually signifies that we will assemble outside the building. From there, we move as one until we find a place to discuss whatever is necessary.

That evening, immediately upon his arrival, I noticed that Michael was wearing a new pair of running shoes. “New” as in “different,” to be more precise. Between the privileged joggers who fervently believe such gear must be replaced every few months, and the sheep who would rather suffer physical pain than be seen wearing out-of-fashion footwear, the Dumpsters throughout the city provide a steady supply for those of our tribe.

Outwardly, Ranger was dressed as he always is, but his body posture spoke clearly to me.

“Did we not agree there would be no weapons?” I said, taking care to phrase it as a question, not a command.

“But, Ho, we’re on a mission,” Ranger said, plaintively.

“An
undercover
mission,” I reminded him. “And the presence of weapons might compromise our position if the police were to … intervene.”

Ranger reluctantly nodded agreement. Somehow, his brain had retained sufficient cognitive function to process the fact that his intermittent hospital stays were always greatly extended when preceded by a weapons charge. He extracted a large, formidable-looking knife from his coat and handed it to me.

“That’s a Ka-Bar,” Lamont said, whistling. “Looks brand-new, too. Got a sheath for it, Ranger?”

“Roger!” he replied, producing a complicated-looking black nylon harness.

“Now, this, this is
exactly
what we’ve been looking for!” Lamont said, excitedly.

“A knife?” Brewster asked, puzzled.

“Knife! Life! Wife! Strife!” Target muttered.

“I can get us a
sweet
radio for this,” Lamont vowed. “With plenty of batteries, too. Have to go uptown, though.”

The others listened closely as I explained Lamont’s theory that the car we sought might have belonged to a pimp. “A dead pimp,” Lamont added. I watched Michael’s eyes flare with gambler’s lust, but he remained silent.

Once it became clear that a radio was vital to our mission, all agreed that we should do whatever was necessary to obtain one, and that Lamont should be entrusted with the task.

Michael and Brewster understood they could not accompany Lamont. Their understandings came via different channels, but reached to the same depth. Ranger saw obtaining the radio as a “one-man job.” Target is capable of attaching himself to any of us, but only when at least one more is present. Two is a number he fears.

In addition to his new shoes, the day’s fishing had gone well for Michael. This even though Ranger had never left his side, which usually creates a significant handicap. There was enough money for us all to eat a healthy meal of noodles and rice. It had taken me a very long time to wean the group away from the filthy, chemically processed foods they had previously preferred. But now the eating habits had become
part of our band’s culture, an accepted fact of life. Several Japanese restaurants in our part of the city had come to expect my periodic appearances.

Whenever we decided on a variation—Korean, say, or Vietnamese—Brewster or Michael would be sent in to make the purchase. It is another comic-book myth that all Asians consider themselves brothers. The truth is quite the contrary. Although being able to converse in Japanese had undoubtedly produced larger portions of food in some of the take-out places we frequent, it would have a distinctly adverse effect were the proprietor to be Chinese.

Dividing our food never presents a problem. Ranger is in charge of this, and believes that troops should share their rations in the field. He is meticulously fair, to the point of self-denial, and is trusted unequivocally. By now, all of us are passably competent with chopsticks, but Target is by far the most adept.

When Lamont rejoined us later that night, it was nine minutes past one o’clock. Ranger announced the time.

“I had to keep this sucker under wraps,” Lamont said, as he removed a small portable radio from under the black wool overcoat he wears year-round.

As we all visually admired his acquisition, Lamont proudly demonstrated how the radio had multiple bands, accessible via its extendable antenna. “You can pick up the BBC on this little jewel easy as the local weather,” he told us, pointing out various listening options as he spoke.

“You did well,” I told him.

“Goddamn right!” Michael agreed.

Ranger had not spoken. Lamont reached in his coat pocket, and handed him something.

“What’s that?” Brewster asked.

“It’s a … compass, man!” Ranger said, temporarily overcome with emotions he has long since lost the ability to comprehend. “Damn! I
needed
one of these. Thanks, Lamont!”

That was the first time I ever heard Ranger call Lamont by name.

We listened to our radio throughout the night. The city has several “all-news” stations, and we alternated among them. Several different homicides were reported, but none remotely matched the criteria we sought.

“Maybe they don’t know yet,” Michael finally said. “I mean, say she killed him indoors—the body could stay there for days without anyone discovering it, especially if she turned the air conditioning way up.”

“And that car would be hot,” Brewster chimed in. “So she’d want to keep it off the streets.”

“Sweep the ville!” Ranger volunteered.

“It would seem there might be too many houses,” I pointed out, spreading my arms to indicate the vastness of the city, as if this were the only impediment to his psychotic suggestion.

“I’ll keep monitoring the news,” Lamont promised, showing us a small bag full of batteries. “And we can check the papers, too.”

“How about we put it on the grapevine?” Brewster said, speaking out of the side of his mouth.

Michael, who refuses to accept that Brewster’s every word is some sort of re-enactment of the books to which he is addicted, immediately said, “No!” I noted the unnecessary sharpness of his tone. “This is
ours,”
Michael said, pointing his finger as if accusing Brewster of betrayal. “If people get the idea that car’s worth something, you think they’re going to come back to
us
if they spot it?”

“Man’s telling it true.” Lamont supported Michael—another uncommon occurrence. “We gotta keep this to ourselves. Remember, we’re holding aces. We’re the only ones who know. And we got nothing
but
time.”

Several days passed without incident. Each of us waited, each in his own way.

One especially fine day, Lamont and I were anticipating Brewster’s arrival—he had promised to bring some fresh batteries for our radio. The early-afternoon sun was still strong, and we relaxed under its soothing warmth. Our pleasure was enriched by the knowledge that the sun’s blessing was distributed without regard to status.

“I got them!” Brewster announced his arrival. True to his word, he had three packets of batteries, still in their plastic seals.

“You did well,” I told him.

“I found out something else, too!” he burst out. “This is really important, Ho.”

“Yes?” I said.

Lamont took another drink from his paper bag.

“I went to the library,” Brewster said. “The big one, on Forty-second. You know what Michael’s always saying, you can find
anything
there? So I figured I’d check the papers from other cities. Ones close to here, I mean, like over in Jersey. Maybe there would be something in there about a dead pimp. Or a missing Rolls-Royce.”

I said nothing. Lamont took another sip of whatever was in his paper bag.