In the City of Shy Hunters (56 page)

It is this way, True Shot said. No matter what happens, stay aware of your breath. Keep your mind still and listen to your breathing.

True Shot put his leg in the hole in the cement foundation, pulled himself through. True Shot's hands on the concrete. Then his hands were gone and I heard a splash.

You OK? I said.

Water's deeper in here, True Shot said.

I jumped into the hole, stood on the cement foundation. Looked down. Circle of bright onto True Shot.

I jumped.

True Shot's arms were around me.

From around us, inside the dark, the smell.

My breath in. My breath out.

True Shot took a step ahead and so did I. Water sloshing. Another step. True Shot with the flashlight. My hand on True Shot's shoulder, now and then True Shot's braid against my hand.

A jukebox, an old wood bar back, broken mirrors, old radiators, rolls of linoleum.

Water sometimes so deep it came up mid-calf.

Flies, the high buzz of flies. Green flies and yellow flies and black flies through the circle of bright. Flies landing on my face, sticky on my hands. Flies all around True Shot's head.

My breath in. My breath out.

My stomach ready to barf like Bobbie.

A standing lamp, a coat rack. No water here, but the floor was slick with a dark green slime. I followed True Shot around some huge piece of cement.

True Shot put his hand on the buckskin bag around his neck.

It is this way, True Shot said.

We had to laugh. I can't tell you how funny
it is this way
was just then, so funny that the stink and flies and wet darkness all went away and there we were in all the world, just two people laughing.

Old two-by-fours poked out of rubble like broken arms and legs. A floating folding chair, stacks of cardboard boxes. Just beyond a stack of concrete blocks, True Shot stopped.

A gut sound came out of him.

Circle of bright on two skinny white naked legs, two white feet in the air, silver wire twisted around the ankles, hanging from the floor joists above.

True Shot threw aside a white metal kitchen cabinet, stepped over an overstuffed chair, kicked over a box of books, threw aside a broomstick. Shined the light onto a white body on a soggy mattress.

The smell.

Circle of light onto Ruby Prestigiacomo. The flies on him.

Just a T-shirt and his big Italian cock, legs hanging in the air.

Circle of light to the green Heineken bottle stuck up his ass.

True Shot dropped the flashlight and bent over and yelled a puke out of him that splashed. True Shot's foot kicked the flashlight all over the huge piece of cement, the milky water around our boots. Another puke yell splash and True Shot was crying big sobs.

In all the world, in wet darkness, flies, and the smell of death, I held on tight to my big friend. My other friend, Ruby, circle of bright onto Ruby's skeleton, smile poking through, flies in and out of his nose. Big sobs, snot running down my face, my chest up and down.

After a while, who knows how long, True Shot said, They found him last night.

Sergeant Richard White, I said.

True Shot knelt down on the mattress. Water circled around his knees. True Shot took a deep breath and grabbed the Heineken bottle sticking out of Ruby's ass. His hand pulled but the bottle end didn't budge. Circle of bright onto True Shot's hand rotating the bottle side to side, then another sound, an awful sound, and runny shit onto the mattress, the smell, and the beer bottle was out. Fly swarm.

True Shot threw the beer bottle into the dark. The shattering sound distant.

True Shot took Ruby's one leg and I took the other. I didn't think about it, just put Ruby's leg between my body and my arm and lifted.

True Shot held the light onto Ruby's foot and the silver wire. There were purple bumps on his ankles and feet and a deep gouge and open skin and dried blood around Ruby's ankle. That close, I saw the wire wasn't silver, it was a stretched-out coat hanger, white, the kind you get from dry cleaners.

Got a pair of pliers? I asked.

No pliers, True Shot said.

So I worked the wire, twisted, and after a while, Ruby's foot fell, but I caught Ruby's foot, held on.

True Shot handed me the flashlight to shine on Ruby's other foot while True Shot undid the wire hanger.

Ruby's other foot fell and True Shot caught Ruby's foot in time, and with me on one side of Ruby, True Shot on the other, we laid Ruby out straight. True Shot took the plastic body bag from his shoulder, laid the body bag out on the mattress next to Ruby, and unzipped the bag.

Roadkill, New York City fucking roadkill.

True Shot was holding Ruby's head in his extra-lovely hands. I was holding the circle of bright on Ruby's face. True Shot knelt down, pulled Ruby up onto his lap, wiped the long red strands of hair out of Ruby's face, brushed his hand over Ruby's red poky beard.

True Shot spit on Ruby's eyes, spit on Ruby's forehead, held Ruby's mouth closed, and spit on Ruby's lips.

I waved away the flies.

True Shot put his red handkerchief over his hand and touched the red handkerchief to Ruby's lower lip, pulled the handkerchief across Ruby's smile, slow like when you put lipstick on, and then True Shot touched Ruby's upper lip the same way.

True Shot wiped the mud from Ruby's forehead, but it's not the truth. It wasn't mud. He wiped the deep purple bumps and black-and-blue bruises on Ruby's cheeks, pulled Ruby's red stringy hair back from his face, and washed the spit across Ruby's face.

True Shot held Ruby's head for a moment longer, touched his forehead to Ruby's forehead.

We must give respect back to our friend, True Shot said.

Then: Roll him over on his belly, True Shot said, And roll him on his back onto the body bag. You get his feet.

True Shot put the flashlight in the white metal kitchen cabinet, on one of the shelves, so the circle of bright was on Ruby, right on Ruby's middle, below the T-shirt, on Ruby's cock. True Shot stood at Ruby's
head, put his hands on Ruby's shoulders, and turned. I took Ruby by the feet and turned.

Cockroaches, the big water-bug kind, the color of cooked lobsters, hundreds of them all over on the mattress and all over Ruby's back.

My big breath in.

Oh, God! True Shot yelled. Oh, motherfuckers! True Shot grabbed the broom handle and started beating the mattress, screaming and smashing cockroaches, cockroaches flying like locusts through the circle of bright, snot and spit flying out of True Shot's nose and mouth, buzzing green flies and yellow flies and black flies.

I was Art Family, even when the cockroach flew against my neck, even with the flies around my ears. I stayed in my place, stayed tight into myself, my breath in and my breath out, didn't move an inch—huge holes in the water all around me, bloodsucking dark alive water moccasins in the holes.

I squished onto the mattress. The cockroaches were gone, just yellow-black smashes.

Let's roll him over, I said.

True Shot still at Ruby's head, me at the feet, we rolled Ruby onto the body bag. I pulled the plastic up around Ruby's feet and started the zipper. True Shot put Ruby's hands crossed over his heart. Waved flies away. Zipped the body bag shut.

We got Ruby's body onto True Shot's shoulder. I shined the flashlight at the water at True Shot's feet and we walked step by step, water sloshing, through the flies, around the huge piece of concrete, past the white metal kitchen cabinet, the overstuffed chair, the boxes of books, the underwater typewriter. Past the old two-by-fours poking out of rubble like broken arms and legs, past the concrete blocks, past pallets of car tires.

I was in the lead. True Shot followed carrying Ruby. Past the floating folding chair, the plastic garbage can lid, the jukebox. Past the old wood bar back, the broken mirrors, old radiators, rolls of linoleum, back to the hole in the cement foundation we'd jumped through all the way to the manhole in the ceiling.

True Shot took the rope and tied the rope around Ruby's ankles. Then True Shot laid Ruby on my shoulder.

I held the flashlight and True Shot tied the rope around Ruby's middle, looping the rope around.

It ain't going to work this way, True Shot said. We got to open the bag back up.

True Shot unzipped the bag and there was Ruby's skeleton smile poking through. True Shot peeled the plastic down to where the rope was tied around Ruby's middle, then pulled out both Ruby's arms, made one loop around Ruby's body under the arms, a second loop, and then tied a knot.

We leaned Ruby against the screened-in shelf, left him there in the dark alone, and True Shot and I went back and shined the circle of bright up into the manhole we'd jumped down at the beginning.

True Shot put his hand under my butt and lifted, and I grabbed onto a solid-feeling two-by-four and pulled myself up. One leg up, then the other. I stood and stretched my back.

The narrow dusty hallway seemed so cheerful.

True Shot handed the flashlight up, handle first, and the end of the rope that was tied around Ruby. I was about to offer True Shot a hand when, just like that, he leapt up. I had the flashlight on his face, and just like that True Shot's face was right by my face and he was pulling himself up through the hole.

I laid the flashlight at the edge of the hole. True Shot straddled the hole and I straddled the hole and we took the rope in our hands and we pulled; hand over hand we pulled Ruby's skinny body from the screened-in shelf, dragged Ruby through the water, sitting up, standing up. Then Ruby's head came up through the hole, into the circle of light.

OUTSIDE
,
THE STREET
was a dark star, a crater on the moon. True Shot threw Ruby over his shoulder, opened the back door of Door of the Dead van, laid Ruby inside, slammed the back door, walked around, and opened the driver's side door. I opened mine.

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

Rolling a cigarette, I had death all over on my hand.

True Shot unbuttoned his vest pocket, took the Armani case out, took his mirrors out, put his mirrors on.

True Shot's mirrors kept staring at me. Staring and staring, reflecting nothing. True Shot turned on the headlights of Door of the Dead van.

All Dodges sound the same when you start them up.

* * *

AT THE CORNER
of Tenth and B, the red traffic light was in True Shot's mirrors. Life Café was just past True Shot's window. There were people still sitting at the outside tables, smoking, talking. Just as I looked, a guy in a green baseball cap let out a big laugh.

Café society. People were alive and laughing and drinking cappuccino. The waitress with green hair, the woman who waited on Ruby and me that one time, was leaning against the bricks on the wall. She had an empty drink tray in her hand. She toked off a joint, leaned her head back, and stared out at the English elms of Dog Shit Park.

True Shot turned the corner and drove halfway up the block, parked under the English elms, close to the arborvitae and the cement thing, close to Ruby's Home Sweet Home.

Just like that, as soon as True Shot cut the engine and shut off the headlights, a crowd of people—looked like Russian immigrants—came out of the dark and gathered around Door of the Dead van.

I quick locked my door.

True Shot said, It's OK, they're family.

True Shot got out and didn't slam the door; he shut the door quiet. I unlocked my door, got out, shut my door quiet. Somebody opened the back door and two people carried Ruby in the body bag into the park into the shadows around back of the big arborvitae. Nobody was talking, just whispering, and everybody was acting like they knew what to do next.

Some old guy in a stevedore's cap smelling of cigarettes and whiskey got in Door of the Dead van and drove off down Avenue B. He didn't turn the headlights on until Seventh Street.

Behind the arborvitae was the woman I'd seen a couple times in Dog Shit Park and one time on Third Street—Black Plastic Woman, I called her—a big black woman covered head to toe with black plastic bags, even her hair. She was standing next to her grocery cart. There were buckets full of water on the ground around her, lamplight reflected on the water. Black Plastic Woman had Ruby unzipped and lying on a patch of grass.

For a moment, Ruby looked like a streak of light from a lamppost or passing car. But it was Ruby, white white, lying on the grass in the dark. Just as I walked up, Black Plastic Woman made some kind of ululation in her throat, and I knew she was a he.

Black Plastic Woman threw a bucket of water onto Ruby.

Ruby jumped up, shook his long skinny white self, and hollered.

But it's not the truth.

A couple guys with gray beards picked Ruby up, one guy at Ruby's head, one guy at Ruby's feet, and turned him over. Another ululation out of Black Plastic Woman, and
whoosh
went another bucket of water.

Black Plastic Woman went to work on Ruby with a bar of Irish Spring, working up a lather on Ruby's back and butt and legs. She was singing low, her black hands in the white lather, the purple bumps on Ruby's back as if those cockroaches had got inside him.

Ululation,
whoosh
, another bucket of water, and the two gray beards turned Ruby back over and Black Plastic Woman soaped up Ruby head to toe, even washing Ruby's genitals.

Most of the time, though, Black Plastic Woman spent on Ruby's head, washing his hair and parting it down the middle, the way he liked.

Out of the dark, True Shot walked up next to me, put his arm over my shoulder.

We're burying Ruby, True Shot said, And having a pipe ceremony.

I looked up at True Shot, and the English elms were curvy black arms above his head and the light made the elm leaves look all on fire.

Elm tree fire in True Shot's mirrors.

Here? I said. In a city park?

Dog Shit Park ain't no city park, True Shot said. It's home.