In the City of Shy Hunters (55 page)

I was walking East Village streets I'd walked so many times. People sat in sidewalk cafés same as ever, reading the
Sunday Times
, coffee, omelets.

Everywhere, all around me, law and order prevailed.

But in my heart, there was no home.

At Stranded Beings Searching for God, I walked down the three steps to the door, and that morning the poster of the Sacred Heart of Jesus and the three Polaroids were different too. As if I'd really never looked at them before.

Ruby possessed by the devil. Ruby being healed by the Word of the Lord. Alleluia Alleluia. Ruby healed. Alleluia Alleluia.

Rose possessed by the devil. Rose being healed by the Word of the Lord. Alleluia Alleluia. Rose healed. Alleluia Alleluia.

Charlie possessed by the devil. Charlie being healed by the Word of the Lord. Alleluia Alleluia. Charlie healed. Alleluia. Alleluia.

In my apartment, the red to pink walls, Rose's poster as Antigone, the drawing of Daniel's beer-can dick, the futon, the
Father Knows Best
table, the ladder, the broken green plate, the boom box, the wagon-wheel lamp with cowboys and Indians on the lampshade.

Hi, honey, I'm home! I said. My Art Family was the cast from
Les Miserables
. They all smiled, whispered quick things to one another.

I took off my black cutoffs, my black T-shirt, the pearls, socks, and combat boots, my underwear. My God, the shower! I was so happy to be in my shower! Even the cockroach in the shower. I opened all the windows.

My bare feet, just a towel wrapped around me, I walked the thirteen steps up to Rose's room. Knocked.

No dogs.

No Rose.

I left a message on Rose's machine.

Vive la Rose!
I said, Where are you? Give me a call.

THAT EVENING, THE
red light on the red answering machine was blinking.

Ruby.

I stood in front of the red telephone and the red answering machine the whole time, stood among my Art Family, through all the beeps, through the whole long message Ruby left, Ruby's quarters dinging in the pay phone, stood and listened, for the last time ever, to Ruby's voice, to Ruby far away trying to get to his voice.

Do you still respect me? Ruby laughed his low laugh and coughed and started singing,
Just call me angel of the morning
.

Then: You men are all alike, Ruby said. He cleared his throat, spit, coughed. So, Ruby said. I'm calling from a phone booth somewhere in the Midwest, Ruby said. Midwest Manhattan. Actually I'm calling from the special phone booth I pointed out to you one day, the Saint Jude phone booth, in Alphabet City somewhere in the southeast. Last call, Ruby said.

Lletre ferit
. The word that hurts

I've got to tell you some things. First off, Ruby said, I loved holding your cock all night. I knew it would be beautiful. Wish I could have seen your legs, your chest. I got close enough to smell, though, and I must say, William of Heaven, you smell like heaven.

Then: Now listen up, William of Heaven, because this is important. Fools and pharisees, Will. When I'm done telling you this here stuff you should know, I'm going to hang up and go kill me a cop, going to find that motherfucker Sergeant White Supremacy and kill him dead.

Today's the day, Ruby said.

Your girlfriend, the one with the white skin that looked like piece of moon—her name has to be Fiona or Phaedra or Persephone or Daphne, or the fair Ophelia, one of those fucking
f
's—the chick in the leather outfit, she's a damn fool, Ruby said. And last night she was Harlequin, a fool in costume.

It remains to be seen, Ruby said, Whether or not this Fiona knows what the fuck she's doing—whether or not she knows she's a fool. And if she knows she's a fool, does she knows she's hiding? I gave her a hard time, Ruby said, Which she deserved. She's one of those Helen Reddy women with a Lolita problem. They think all they have do do is put some tiny thing on, tits and ass, and the world is theirs. Trouble is, in most cases it's true. More power in a pair of tits than any chariot. But I think your friend Fiona might be all right. Just be careful. Before you fall in love with her, make sure she knows what the fuck she's doing, because falling in love is always trouble, and if she don't know she's a fool, if she ain't Harlequin, you're in for a world of hurt.

Wish I could give the bitch a run for the money, Ruby said, But by the looks of the inside of this telephone booth here, I'm out of the running altogether.

Ruby dropped another quarter in. I heard only street noise for a while and then: The singer's OK too, Ruby said. Got a voice on him, a little too opera pants for me, but a good spirit. You'd be better off falling in love with him. You could help him with the high notes. But the rest of them, Ruby said, The rest of your friends last night—pharisees, Will. Be careful.

Last night, being in between things like I was. There you were, at first just another yuppie fucking-pharisee asshole in my park trying to exploit me, and then all of a sudden it was you, my sweet William of Heaven, and it was
satori
, and my life went by me in one flash, just like they say in the books.

Ruby's voice was higher now, or lower, just different, like you do when you come to the end of something, and you make your voice higher or lower because it's your last chance to make it sound good.

The hope of theater to lay bare the human heart.

Ruby put another quarter in. Sirens. Cars, trucks.

True Shot said he finally told you the secret of Wolf Swamp, Ruby said. That's good. Myself, Ruby said, I think the words themselves, the words of the story of Wolf Swamp have a power, the words transform you, so when you hear them you're never the same.

William of Heaven, Ruby said, You're never going to be the same.

When the veil falls, Ruby said, Manhattan is only a foggy swamp, a pack of wolves, a damn damsel in distress, and a scared stallion.

My money's on True Shot to fall in love with, Ruby said. He's a fat old fart and full of tall tales and spooks and soccer games—all that male stuff; only cock he'll ever hold is his own—but still my money's on True Shot. There's so many ways to love. And when the shit comes down, Will, when the truth comes out, don't be too hard on him. He's a lovely man and only done right by me.

Ruby was coughing so hard. Ruby's cough rattling around and around on the tape of my answering machine, all over the apartment, all of us, me and my Art Family, still completely present, listening.

I feel a song coming on, Ruby said, and then he's singing:

Fools rush in where wise men never go,
but wise men never fall in love.
So how are they to know.
When we met I felt my life begin.
So open up your heart and let this fool rush in
.

Life Café, Ruby said, his voice all wavy, Travel mode's the key.

Then: William of Heaven. What am I going to do with you?

Only silence, for a moment, in all the world, all of New York, only silence. Dead silence.

Well, buddy, Ruby said, It's the puritan undertow you got to beware of. I'm tired of these fucking pharisees. Time to kill me a cop.

I could hear Ruby smile.

Liberation from suffering can be found in any moment, Ruby said. Having a wonderful time, Ruby said, Wish you were queer.

Then it was the dial tone. Ruby hung it up and it was the dial tone.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE

A
week or two later, True Shot's voice on my red answering machine.

I found Ruby, True Shot said.

The tape of my answering machine rolling around and around. All over in the apartment, all of us, me and my Art Family, still, completely present, listening.

He's dead, Will, True Shot said. Murdered.

Sergeant Richard White, I said.

My Art Family gasped, darted, ran for cover.

True Shot's breath in. His breath out.

Will, True Shot said, You're going to have to help me on this one.

TRUE SHOT PICKED
me up in Door of the Dead van. The sound of the van door opening, the smell inside, the seat against my butt and back, the hole in the floorboard, the heater going full blast.

True Shot's face was hanging on his skull. When he shook my hand, it was not the square firm handshake I remembered.

True Shot, I said, Where have you been? Why haven't you called?

True Shot's mirrors looked back only to show a contorted circus me on the surface of his mirrors.

True Shot parked Door of the Dead van on East Eighth Street, not far from Saint Jude phone booth, just east of Dog Shit Park. There were all kinds of parking places because there were no cars. True Shot cut the engine, shut off the headlights.

Next to me, True Shot's mirrors reflected nothing.

Our breath together, in and out, in and out.

The buckskin bag with the beaded blue horizontal beads and the red vertical beads on the buckskin strand around True Shot's neck. The silver rings on his fingers, reflecting moon.

True Shot took off his mirrors, folded them up in the leather Armani case, stuck them in his vest pocket, snapped the pocket shut, opened the door, and got out of the van. So did I. He slammed his door and I slammed my door.

Up and down the dark empty street, the only sound was the doors slamming.

True shot had picked up a body bag on one of his Spirit Schleps. The body bag was hanging over True Shot's shoulder next to True Shot's hair, which was hanging down in one long braid. I carried the rope, looped around my shoulder.

He's in there, True Shot said, and pointed at the front door to a condemned building.

The building leaned over us, a slanting rectangle black against the dark burning sky. Big planks were nailed across the door and a
NO TRESPASSING
sign, and spray-painted words covered the front of the building. You could see where people had been going in and out, through the planks, the wood worn smooth like the poles of the corral behind the barn where Bobbie and I kept the horses.

True Shot hunched his extra-lovely body and pulled himself through the worn place between the planks. I was right behind him.

Inside, in the narrow dark hallway, all around us, cold and dark. The only light we had was True Shot's flashlight, the kind airplane guys use to signal planes. Just one circle of bright with True Shot's cowboy boots and my combat boots on the cracked-open green linoleum floor. One circle of bright down through the dust of the long hallway, on the spines of glass in the window, the exploded stairway, the caved-in ceiling.

A rat ran along the wall. I followed True Shot, my hand on his shoulder and on the plastic body bag, his braid now and then brushing my hand.

Under what used to be the stairway, True Shot shined the flashlight into a doorway. A gray mop, a can of Drano, cockroaches overflowing the toilet.

I jumped away and ran into True Shot's extra-lovely arm he quick stuck out.

Don't move like that, man! True Shot said.

True Shot shined the circle of bright onto a hole in the floor right next to my foot. The hole was the size of a manhole cover. I leaned over True Shot's arm and looked down. Bright circle showed water below.

He's down there, True Shot said.

True Shot squatted by the hole. I held the flashlight and pointed the circle of bright at the water, and just like that, True Shot jumped down off the world into the hole, bright circle all on the splash.

You all right? I yelled down. My voice like talking through a long tube. How deep's the water?

Couple inches, True Shot said.

Then: Tie the rope around the newel post, True Shot said. A slip knot.

One circle of bright on my boots. One step, two steps, three steps to the newel post. I stuck the flashlight in the crook of my arm, and as I lashed the rope the circle went wild on things in the dark—an archway up the stairs, a deco ceiling light, dark wood molding around a door, circle of bright up and down a broken hand rail, up and down the balusters—the strange extreme baluster shadows alive on the gray wall. I tied the slip knot and pulled hard. The newel post didn't budge.

Throw down the rope! True Shot yelled. His voice like in a tank.

I threw the rope down, the circle of bright onto True Shot's face.

You're sure the knot is good? True Shot said.

Yeah, I said.

And the newel post'll hold?

Looks like it, I said.

Now you got to jump down here too! True Shot said.

My mother's nerves.

I hunkered down, gave True Shot the flashlight, handle first, the light in my face, in my eyes.

There's a terrible smell, I said.

Wait till you get down here! True Shot said.

All daring and courage, all iron endurance of misfortune, I held my arms close in and jumped.

The only way out is in.

True Shot had his arms around me.

You OK? he said.

The flashlight was between us, its bright circle poking up through our faces. The gap between True Shot's front teeth. The shadow of True Shot's buckskin bag on his throat. Saint-Vitus'-dance eyes.

From around us, there in the dark, the smell.

True Shot pointed the flashlight. All over above us, every which way, a hundred twisted arms of octopus furnace, circle of bright on slimy wet dark things hanging. To our right, a screened-in shelf and green mason jars with yellow lumps in them, a Barbie doll head, a can of Raid.

Water seeping in my boots.

My God, the smell! Putrefaction of the flesh.

True Shot walked slow. My hand on his shoulder and the plastic body bag. His braid brushing up against my hand. The circle of bright on a hole in the cement foundation wall ahead of us. True Shot walked toward the opening.

True Shot shined the light through the opening, into a whole huge dark room on the other side with dark objects standing in the room. He turned, put his face up close to mine, coffee breath and chocolate doughnuts, and grasped my shoulder with his extra-lovely hand.