Atmosphere (27 page)

The guard ushering Lester gave him a sudden, sharp push from behind. "Move along," he shouted, and Lester fell forward past the thugs, tripping over his own feet, landing on his knees.

"Good man," a dark gravely voice issued, hushing everyone within. "Kneel before your leader."

Lester peered up and saw him, the leader, the great black man, seated on a fairly new reclining chair—clearly stolen—his presence alone holding strict command of all those in the room. He was donned in torn jeans, a black tee, and a brown leather jacket that looked as though it had been through more battles than a championship prize-fighter. His head was shaved bald, a glistening sheen of sweat reflecting the torch-flames set up at either sides of his 'throne'. He wore sunglasses, and when he smiled at Lester, a gold tooth shone from within. "Well, well. I haven't seen your ugly face before."

Lester peered up at the impressive man. The story on Jyro was a familiar one amongst the ranks of homeless. He had been a professional entertainment wrestler once, did the WWF circuit for three years before overdosing on some bad steroids. He lost half his mind and it became impossible to negotiate a contract with him, much less have him get all his theatrical moves down. But Jyro had been extremely popular with the fans, a real money-maker, and with the promoters investing big bucks in him, he was forced to continue his participation in the circuit.

He hit rock bottom in a 'championship' bout with Killer Kalhoun. The prearranged scenario was that Killer Kalhoun would win the fight in the eighth round, pinning Jyro to the canvas after performing a triple twist flip on him about two minutes into the round. But Jyro, after blowing a number of serious moves that had Kalhoun fiercely angered, well, he decided to take matters in his own hands and force an upset. The three-hundred twenty pound man caught Kalhoun off guard as he tried to perform a double back clothesline drop and ducked down, slamming him in the nuts with his shoulder as he passed over him. Kalhoun went down in a convulsion. The maddened Jyro immediately dove down and sunk his teeth into the champ's jugular, which created quite a spectacle, not to mention a great deal of blood; the frenzied crowd had assumed it was fake all along. When WWF security finally pried Jyro away from Kalhoun—they had to give him a damn good beating with their nightsticks—the downed wrestler had lost two quarts of blood, nearly a quart of which the out-of-control Jyro vomited back up on the security guards as they tried to restrain him. It was at this moment the crowd quietened down a bit, finally realizing that something had gone dearly wrong, and by the time the paramedics arrived, the entire arena had been silenced into shock. They ended up watching their two heroes being escorted away, one on a stretcher, one in handcuffs.

Killer Kalhoun survived the ordeal, but retired immediately after and spent the next seven years performing charity work for children with AIDS. Jyro, on the other hand, spent three years in jail, resigning himself to a life in New York City's streets as a tyrant in the homeless community immediately after, providing leadership to all those lost souls willing to follow his command. Most were too afraid not to.

"I-I," Lester stammered. He peered down and saw two filthy white women, prostitutes perhaps, down on their haunches at either sides of the recliner. They could have been sisters, each possessing hair once blonde but now brown with soot, straggled and unruly. The colors of their eyes were dulled to lifeless grey circles, hanging lazily in their sockets, seemingly propped up by the blackened crescents underneath like two dead babies nestled in charred cradles. Measly threads for clothes hung forlornly on their emaciated bodies, heroin tracks racing up their sleeveless arms like parades of army ants. They mockingly sneered at Lester as he spoke, and he thought that in any minute snakes would sprout from their heads.

"I saw a man in black today," he finally managed.

Jyro stood from his throne, flexing his muscles. He stepped forward, bald head skimming the top of the tent nearly seven feet high. Lester squinted, fearing the worst, that Jyro would bite into his head and devour his blood just like he did to that Killer Kalhoun guy seven years ago. "What is your name, disheveler?"

"Lester." He was shaking badly.

"Lester—what did you see today?"

"The cops, they took one away."

Jyro smiled. "Good. That's one less we'll have to deal with." Jyro leaned down close to Lester. "The rebellion is tomorrow Lester. You up for it?"

"Y-yes, my Leader." He trembled like frightened cat.

Jyro spun around and stood before his chair, one foot up on the armrest. "We meet tomorrow at midnight!" he shouted, raising his arms triumphantly in the air. The dozen or so people sharing space inside shouted in return, one of the interior guards darting from the tent to spread the news. At once shouts emanated from the hundreds gathered at the site, the clamor growing by the second as word shot around the camp. The great black man looked down at the cowering Lester and smiled. "The rebellion has begun, Lester. Good job. Now take him away!" he shouted, the smile disappearing from his face.
   

Lester was forcibly ushered outside into the din of the night, into the growing crowd, where plans for the rebellion had taken flight.

P
ain wracked Jaimie's body as she woke, cramps darting from joint to muscle to tendon as if electric prods had been lanced into her body, making it nearly impossible to move. She tried to remember what had happened, and as she tiredly searched her brain for a recollection to her apparent injuries, she felt a terrible headache loom. She tried to twist her body, felt a hard floor through the pain, and realized with dismay that she was not at home: all the floors in her house were carpeted.

The subway perhaps? She remembered being there. Suddenly everything started to come back to her, a nightmarish flash of events hitting her like some weird recall in a movie, unfurling as if spilled out from an upturned bag: the bloody bald man chasing her across campus, escaping into the subway, riding to the Bronx, the terribly injured man on the platform. Then, her return to the city, trying to find her way home, the whole time struggling to keep herself conscious. Finally, making it home. Entering.

So then where was she now? Not in the subway. She made an effort to open her eyes, and it hurt to do so, tiny jolts of pain pinching the skin around her eyes. At once a cobalt illumination doused her vision like a splash of ocean water, and she tried to raise an arm to shield the radiance. But she could barely move her limb, the pain of the slight motion far worse than the neon impingement upon her eyes, and she could only twitter her eyes until her pupils managed adjustment to the strange illumination.

Finally her surroundings came into view. She felt dread; the place was unknown to her. She had never visited here before. Gazing warily about, she saw nothing of detail, just a black glossy sea racing away beneath her into an infinite horizon, as if she were floating in space. Looking up, a distant ceiling came into view perhaps a hundred feet high, its surface as smooth and as illustrious as the floor. Wispy streaks of blue neon floated above her like clouds in the sky, their source unexaminable in this place of darkness. A sudden popping noise resounded within her head and she became aware of an odd noise, a deep hum like that of a great engine operating from a distance. The hum infiltrated her senses, and she quickly realized that her pain felt much too real for this whole scenario to be some extravagant dream. Fear enveloped her like a sharp gust of wind, masking some of her pain, enabling her to reassume control of her muscles. She forced herself to sit up and a great wave of dizziness washed over her like a tidal wave, nearly pulling her back to the flooring, but she managed to brace herself with her hands, keeping still until the spins subsided.

She heard footsteps approaching. A hot flash melted over her, her wet fingers pressing against the smooth floor. Her tactile senses returned. She was soaked in sweat, her shirt matted to her body, her jeans itching her skin, sticking to her legs. Dirt was caked to her skin and clothes, she could feel the dried tightness of it. The footsteps grew louder, nearer. She stayed put, eyes rolling in all directions trying desperately to see through the wavy blue luminescence of the black room, but she could not discern from which direction they approached.

"Who's there?" she managed to call, but it came out only as a whisper, the enveloping hum that filled the room overpowering her ability to hear her own pained query.

Then, a hand, clasping down on her shoulder. She startled and turned, the motion sending intense pain through her entire body.

And she saw him, a gorge of fear rising in her throat. Bald. Sunglasses. Bathed in filth.

And smiling.

F
or the second night in a row, the babies invaded Frank's dreams. Again they stood in a procession as far as his eyes could see, an ocean of tiny bald heads disappearing into a neon blue horizon, a textured carpet of pink flesh laid it out so close together that he as their leader could virtually step out and walk atop them. Mouthless, noseless, they stared up at him, their glowing eyes big and black and wet, suddenly full of leering hatred. The eyes...they looked like...like sunglasses. Suddenly he felt not as their leader, but as their prisoner. He tried to move his arms, but could not. His wrists were tethered behind his back. His ankles too, shackled to the raised flooring on which he had stood so proudly not moments earlier. Now, he cowered, scared, crying like a baby—not like one of these babies, but like a normal one. Like Jaimie had been years ago.
No
, he said to himself,
these babies don't cry
.
 
No reason to. They had everything they wanted. Again he tried to move, but could not, and he felt great pains. Then in the distance he heard a cry, perhaps from one of the babies after all. He looked out across the sea of textured flesh and saw a single baby on its back floating across the expanse of heads, coming towards him, legs first. A single baby, unlike the rest, the body small, pink, naked, but the head, although bald, fully grown with bright blue eyes and freckles.
Jaimie
. Her eyes then rolled up into their sockets, exposing the whites, emotional and physical anguish tormenting her, her hands grasping at the sea of flesh, seeking his help, calling
daddy! daddy!
just like she did when she was young and needed him in the middle of the night when she awoke from a nightmare.

Frank woke, nearly leaping from the couch. Hector was clutching his shoulder. "Whoa, Frank, you okay? You were moaning out loud."

Frank gazed at Hector's looming face, the fatigue gone from his eyes, a few crumbs of toast lodged within the coarse hairs of his moustache. The aroma of coffee and eggs wafted in from the kitchen. Frank rubbed his eyes with his forearm. "I-I think I was dreaming," he lied, the image of the bald Jaimie riding the sea of baby Harold Grosses still frighteningly fresh in his mind.

"Why don't you take a quick shower," Hector said, "then have some breakfast. I called the precinct this morning. There was a message from Sam Richards at Strong Medical. He's got Gross under heavy sedation, and wants to see me first thing this morning."

Frank sat up on the couch. The small gust from the blanket blew a piece of paper from the end-table onto the carpet. A phone number in his handwriting met his gaze. "Oh no," he whined, retrieving the paper. "Lindsay's father. I forgot to leave a message for him last night." The sound of bacon spattering came in from the kitchen, the aroma of it making Frank's stomach grumble.

"Why don't you get cleaned up, have something to eat, and we'll start our day."

Frank nodded then moved to the bathroom. He dared not glance a look into the mirror at least until he could wash away some of the morning-mustered wrinkles on his face. He showered, using one of Hector's disposable razors to shave, then came out to the kitchen where Hector and Gloria were seated sipping coffee in front of two cleaned plates.

"Gee, you couldn't wait for me?"

Hector and Gloria smiled, both wishing him a good morning. A 'good' morning it really wasn't though. The few hours of broken sleep he managed hadn't been enough, and his body ached pretty badly from it. Too much activity for a cop only two years away from retirement. He inhaled his food and tossed down two cups of coffee in silence while Hector read the paper and Gloria cleaned up.

Wiping his mouth with a napkin, Frank finally broke the silence. "What time is it, anyway?"

Hector glanced to the digital LED on the microwave. "Seven AM, sharp."

Frank took another sip. "I'd like to call Lindsay's father now."

"It's four in the morning in L.A."

"That means he'll be home."

Before Frank could excuse himself, Hector tossed the NY Daily News in front of him. It had been folded open to reveal a page seven blurb:

Bobby Lindsay Out
o
n Bail

Frank grabbed the paper and read the short story in silence. It told of how Jo-Beth Lindsay and her husband had put up a million in cash for his release, and how Bobby was under high security electronic surveillance. It then went on to give a few details of the murder, which Frank skipped over. It mentioned nothing of his escape.

"It's a small story," Frank said, dropping the paper on the table. "No hindrance to us."