The Curse

Roz smoked furiously staring through her window down at Duffy Square. A curious specimen had caught her eye: A pimp. A pimp huddled around the corner of the Howard Johnsons on the corner of 46th. Where Brillo works: dishwasher. The pimp had pointed alligator boots, like. Like. Mesh sleeveless shirt. Toothpick twirling in the corner of his mouth. He stood flat against the wall around the corner, and inched slowly to the corner and peeked around onto Broadway and the Hidebeater Block. Roz followed his eyes: Hojo; Kodak store; the Automat; Playland; the Forum—and B-I-N-G-O, Bingo was his name-o. Sandy-haired teen standing suspiciously under the marquee of the Forum. On the marquee: The Legend of Hill House. Pamela Franklin. Roddy McDowell: Planet of the Apes, Night Gallery, Cleopatra. The little shit is standing right up against the wall. Not even trying to be subtle. Fucking rube. No—not sandy. Red. Punk’s got carroty red hair. Whisp of a stache on his lip. Cocky eye. Tight jeans. Helluva bulge. Weird jaw—both square yet pointed. Older than he looks? No trace of a beard on the chin. Hole in the knee of his jeans and wearing chucks. In his hand? Switchblade. Oh yeah. She took a drag. Pimp was putting down roots beside the Hojo. The kid poked his head out, made the scene, and then zipped around into Playland. Netta workin today? Roz craned her neck around to look at the clocks, collared the right one and did the math. X o’clock. Who the fuck knows. She took another drag and returned to peering down at Playland. Dark inside. Always dark inside Playland for some reason, no matter which one. This one. On the Deuce. Just north of here. All dark as X. Where is the little fucker? Can just barely make out—FUCK. Cigarette burned too low and burned her fingers. She dropped it. Don’t want another fire for fuck sake. Sal will have my ass. She snatched up the butt, popped another cigarette—her last—from her case and lit it from the old one. She took a few drags, always the best ones, first couple drags, and blew them up at the blue sky through the glass. Now where is. So dark in. Oh. Oh there, in the Automat. She noticed his red hair through the window of the Automat, leaning his head against the glass and cocking his vision toward 46th Street. Tricky little fucker. She took a drag. The pimp too had disappeared. Where where where. She took another drag. Dollars to donuts he’s inside Howard. Fried clams. Yum. Chocolate Soda. Yes yes. Ha-cha. She licked her lips. Maybe he moved down 46th, can’t see from here. The little redhead cracked the door of the Automat and began to slink down Broadway. She laughed a short bark. Not even a little bit subtle. She watched as he slipped behind the newsstand outside the Kodak store. Moved behind it. Ooh there. There’s the pimp. She saw a flash of him through the glass of Hojo. He had made the little carrot top. This will be good. 

Record ended. 

Fuckers.

Roz flew over to the hifi and flipped the record: Free Jazz. Ornette Coleman. Hysterical horns blared out of the speakers. She cranked the volume knob up. 

The little punk had moved all the way to the end of the newsstand and was peering around the corner, down 46th Street. He looked back behind himself, toward Duffy Square. What started this little drama? 

Poppy Cooper, born in Fort Lee New Jersey, moved to The City in May of 1972. The trees of Washington Square Park were in full bloom, the air fragrant. Spraypainted on the Arch were the words: The Only Dope Worth Shooting Is Nixon. Her dad had been a trumpet player for Buddy Rich. Ditched her with mom as a babe. Ran away from home and hunting down daddy. She hit the park after exiting. No—no wait. Didn’t make it to. As she exited Port Authority she noticed a handsome man in violet pants and a pink blouse. His coat was red and so were his shoes. A strong musk exuded from every inch poured into his snakeskin boots. Pretends he’s never seen someone so beautiful. Who you repped by, darlin? Her face flushes and suddenly conscious of her bony knees. Me? Nobody. I never. Rubs his bottom lip and looks her up and down in disbelief, then looks up and down the avenue, as if he’s gotta snatch her up before some other manager sees her. You ever thoughta modeling at all? You got the figure for it. Not everyone does ya understan. Me? No I never. Poppy had never. Nobody even gave her a second glance back in Jersey. He nods. Oh yes. he says. Oh yes yes indeedy. We could definitely book you. Have you ever been to Paris? he asks. Me? No I never. Poppy had never. She’s never even been to The City until today. What about Rome? he asks. Of course he knows but this is all part of the seduction. You know the drill with Poppy: Poppy had never. The man nods. Oh yes, come with me, I have some calls to make. We got a roster and everythin. Where you stayin? And she thinks. Poppy thinks. I hadn’t, she says, and really she hadn’t. She had thought about so much else, but not that. Don’t you worry honey, we can accomodate. You hungry? Oh yes, she says. I’m famished. He nods. Today you famished, tomorrow you famous. He smiles and a diamond winks from his front tooth. You like steak? he asks. Well, she says, yes yes I do like steak. But isn’t that? He holds up a hand, each hand is decked out in elaborate rings colored gold and silver, stones glitter in the May sunlight. Don’t you worry about a thing, let’s go to Tad’s, you won’t believe your eyes. Poppy has a steak and baked potato. His name, she finds out, is French John. She’ll find out why. That night she smokes reefer for the first time and he takes a few snaps of her to show to the designers. When the reefer kicks in she feels like she’s watching him from behind a gauzy curtain, safe. Someone else is outside doing stuff. She’s safe back here behind the curtain. When he gently pulls down her blouse, already hanging off her shoulders, she barely notices. The next day he gives her a bump of coke to wake her up, explains everyone does it, and by that night she’s nodding off to a bump of junk. A week later and she’s working Eighth. She lives in a railroad flat on West 44th between Tenth and Eleventh with three other girls all owned by French John. By the fall she’s hooked on junk. Christmas Eve she works ten johns in one night, a new record: the last john is a young guy, light red hair, his first time. Paid for by his drunk uncle after a night of frosty pints at an Irish pub nearby. He’s shy at first but Poppy is an old pro by now and has his cock out and stiffening it before he can say Faith and Begorrah. His name is Danny O’Reaordan and he’s in love with Poppy before he blows his spunk across her uvula. He makes his way over the bridge into The City at least once a month after this, hunting Poppy down successfully almost every time, but she is a busy girl so on some occasions he has to angrily agree to another girl, though his encounters with these imposters are at best brusque and at worst lightly violent, as he likes to slap them across the face now and then for the crime of not being Poppy. As the blooms open up in Washington Square again he asks to see her in her off work hours, however few they may be, and takes her on walks through the park. Her eyes are dull and lifeless but he is in love with being in love and thinks love is something unique and holy to him alone thinks his love makes him better and stronger and more real and more good. The flowers in the trees confirm this. The breeze agrees. The blue sky is a present from the universe to him. He and His Girl walk the park and listen to people play saxophones or guitars or trumpets. She might have wondered at one time if the older man playing trumpet was her father, but not anymore. Nothing good happens. There is no good. So how could it be? Even if it was, it wasn’t. Danny flips a dime to the musician and snakes his arm around Poppy’s waist. Soon it will be too much to think about her with other guys. Until now he had been able to kid himself but the reality was sinking in now. Other pens were dipping into her inkwell. He had to save her. He needed to put an end to this. As the spring turns into summer he begins to question Poppy about her manager. Who is he, where does he live? Began to formulate his plan. He needed to off French John. Then she would be free. They could move into a little house together on Staten Island. He buys a switchblade on the Deuce and hunts the pimp down at Tad’s. French John, though, is no fuckin fool and can see the rangy look in the kid’s eye as he enters the steakhouse. French John makes for the john, but instead splits through the kitchen and exits onto 43rd Street. Turns east and circles around to Child’s on the corner of 42nd and Seventh to see if any of the other pimps can give him a hand, but sees Danny, the carrot-topped punk, rushing down the Deuce toward Seventh. Their cat and mouse went on for an hour, working its way steadily north, until here we are now.

Roz licked her lips again and watched Danny finally leave the relative safety of the newsstand and crossed 46th. On the southwest corner he stopped and looked around, then headed west down 46th. No. No I can’t see. Roz moved to the farthest corner of the room and laid her forehead against the glass. He was gone. Fuck. But then, just as all hope was lost, she noticed French John exit through the front door of Howard Johnson’s, onto Broadway. Something in his hand? Yes: also sporting a switchblade. He moved casually, rolling on his steps like a cowboy, and rounded the corner of 46th.

Shit.

She stood back and watched the corner. She took a drag: the last. Cigarette kaput. She crushed it out in the apple ashtray and looked back at the corner: nothing. Shit. Hope French John creams the little fucker. Shitty little rube. But then—French John’s shoes.

Fuck.

        Fucker.

       Push it down. Faded green paint cracked and peeling on the wooden trap door. Inside and down. Shove it down. Down.

      She crossed to a trunk on the other side of the room and lifted it open. She rummaged through a collection of papers. Flyers. Hundreds maybe. She shuffled through the pages. Yes: here we go. Tulpa: playing the Oscar Wilde Room, Saturday February 10th. One Night Only. The night Buggy chipped his tooth and Davis was calling him Alfred E Neuman. She flipped the flyer over to the blank back and laid it out on her table and stared at the blankness of the page. When’s his birthday? When when when. Oh wai—same place. New Years at the Mercer, he kept mentioning it was his birthday. Modern Lovers first and then the Dolls headlined as dawn broke. Erik put his cigarette out on his tongue and then vomited. Oh lordy, yes. But the little shit kept blabbering about his birthday. So: January first. She smoothed out the flyer, then tore the right side of the page away from herself. She turned the page widdershins and tore the next edge of paper away from herself, then turned the page counter-clockwise again and repeated, and then one final time. The flyer now edgeless. She uncapped a magic marker and began to write his name: LEN WATSON: over and over on the left hand side of the page, and then followed with JANUARY 1 over and over on the right hand side of the page. When the page was filled she turned it widdershins again. She wrote on top of the previous writing: LEN YOU WILL FUCK OFF AND AWAY YOU WILL STOP YOU WILL FUCK OFF AND GO AWAY LEN WATSON YOU ARE SCUM AND WILL DISAPPEAR AND FUCK OFF GO AWAY GO THE FUCK AWAY in large letters until it filled the page. She turned the page counter-clockwise a last time and scribbled her autograph across the words on the page. She licked her lips as she cocked her head and looked at the page filled with black scribbles. She swallowed, then folded the page away from herself, then repeated the action five more times until it was too small to fold anymore. Roz picked the small envelope up and dropped it into a small white bowl. She flipped open her zippo and lit the corner. She watched as the folded paper lit slowly from one side to the other like a forest fire spreading across the woods. When it had burned down to ash, she took the bowl and walked it to her toilet. She lifted the lid, emptied the ashes into the water of the bowl—a cigarette butt already floating there—and then touched the flusher. 

        —Go the fuck away, she said as she flushed the toilet.

Green

I had moved to Hogtown with slightly less than a quarter ounce of weed, and it was steadily dwindling fast. This was before it was legal. Long before. Under usual circumstances I would have saved up to buy a considerable amount before moving to a new city, but a month before I moved, my connection Bicycle Andy had decided he was a dealer and didn't like that. Or, rather, his girlfriend Ivana had decided he was a dealer and she didn't like that. She didn't like me either. The two might be related. 

Bicycle Andy and I didn't talk too much in the last month before I moved, and as a result didn't bring a considerable amount with me when I moved. I brought whatever I had left. Which wasn't much. 

I kept my eye open at Taggs for a possible fellow pothead, but nobody seemed particularly hip. Byron in giftware seemed particularly square.

One day I was walking down Queen street, daydreaming, when some back part of my brain, a part built for business, rarely used, noticed someone I had just passed had whispered “Green” to me as she walked past. 

Skidding to a halt, I turned. She was short, sporting a backpack, and looked vaguely homeless. She was also walking away. I could see her mumble to other people as she passed by; others she ignored completely. I must look like a pothead, I thought to myself with a mixture of pride and embarrassment. 

I didn't want to walk up behind her to ask about it, so I watched her closely. As she reached Spadina Avenue she crossed the street and then began back my way. I jaywalked across Queen and stood casually on the sidewalk in front of Tiki. 

She took longer on this side, since two people stopped and seemed to buy off her. That seemed like a good sign. When she finally walked toward me, it was impossible to tell if she recognized me from three minutes earlier. Her face was completely impassive. In fact, she barely looked at me as she mumbled: ‘Green. Hydro.’

‘How much?’ I asked. 

‘Dime bag is twenty.’ she said, blandly. Her eyes scanned the street around us. 

‘Dime means ten.’ I told her. 

‘Thanks for the edification.’ she said. ‘But it's still twenty.’

As some wise asshole had once said: beggars can't be choosers. 

‘Alright. Gimme one.’ I told her. For all I knew she was selling oregano. Or catnip. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed that I wasn't going to get anything off whatever she was selling. But I had no other leads, so ... yeah. 

She nodded her head toward a nearby parking lot. ‘Come over here.’ she said. My paranoia raised its ugly head. I had seen her sell to a couple of people just down the street, they hadn't had to wander off into a parking lot. Or had they even bought? I hadn't seen her pass anything over. 

Blowing air out through my nose, my mind deliberated safety and financial security over getting high and listening to Mingus. Mingus won out. 

I followed her into the parking lot, but I was wary and ready for anything. There was no way she was seeing money before I had anything in my hand. My paranoia, however, was unwarranted: she had four tiny plastic bags filled with green in her hand before I had even stopped walking. ‘Whichever you like, they're all the same price.’ Each bag had tiny green pot leaf symbols stamped all over it. The content inside looked exceedingly green. Like way too green. Almost fluorescent. I was used to a much browner and duller product. But, when weighing other options ...

I handed over a twenty to her, and took the baggie which looked like it was holding the most, though they likely all weighed the same. ‘Thanks.’ I said. ‘How can I get in touch with you if I like this stuff?’ I asked.

‘I'm usually around this area.’ she said, and wandered over toward the Silver Snail. 

I looked down at the little bag. It was so ridiculously green. No way it could be real. 

When I got back to my place I pulled the case containing my record player from beneath the bed, set it on the small table in front of the window, and unsnapped the latches. I placed a Mingus record on the turntable, Tijuana Moods, and set down the needle. 

I pulled the bright green whatever-it-was from the plastic and split into three. If it was good, I wanted more than a single bowl out of it. 

Stuffing some into my pipe, I lit it up. Mingus bopped on the vinyl. I exhaled out the window. It wasn't the best weed I'd ever smoked, but it wasn't catnip.

A Seat at the Bar

Dr. Puck continued down the boardwalk, drawn by the music which must certainly be emanating from a saloon. 

He could now make out the tune of the piano, deafened though it was by the rowdy singing: Buffalo Gals. These players only ever know three songs. Perhaps some day he will retire as a saloon player and allow the crowd to marvel at the catalog of songs he could produce off the top of his head. The piano, loud and jarring as it was, was barely audible over the din of the inner saloon, shouts, screams, cat calls, fist fights, arguments, clinking glasses, smashing glasses, darts, boots, forks and knives, and the light scampering of feet of various vermin. On top of all that, several tables were filled with groups who insisted on singing their own songs, above the volume of the piano: drinking songs, fighting songs, tearjerker songs, maudlin songs. A singing crowd was likely to be loose with their money. 

Dr. Puck was in his element.

He slipped amongst the unruly patrons to make his way to the bar at the back of the saloon. A dark smoky mirror loomed over the bar back, festooned with myriad bottles of various sizes, shades, and makes. He admired the glassware, then his gaze drifted to a nearby chalkboard which read:

PUNCH……………..…...penny

STAB…………………..….nickel

EYE GOUGE …....…… quarter

BIG JOB ………….…..….dollar

Hanging down both sides of the dusky mirror were dark dried items which Dr. Puck at first assumed to be dried mushroom caps, until he noticed a metal hoop stuck through one and realized they were, in fact, strings of human ears.

Oh dear, he mumbled to himself well below the general din of the establishment, and seemed not to have been overheard by the hard-looking barmaid with a face like an alabaster hatchet who leaned toward him with an intense stare in place of an introduction or order request.

And a splendid evening to you, my good woman, he began—only remembering halfway through that his mustache was in particularly bad shape, but tried not to allow it to throw off his patter. Might I trouble you for a sloe gin fizz in a tall glass?

Nope, she said.

You don’t have any sloe gin?

We got gin, but it ain’t slow or fast, just is. And we ain’t got nothin fizzy neither.

I see. But you do have gin.

Course. You particular on type? she asked.

I am particular on price.

Which way?

How’s that now? he asked.

She leaned back and gave Dr. Puck a once over. Well, she said, folk like yeself could go either way. Might want cheap, might want . . . not so cheap. So which way is it?

Cheap, he said.

She nodded once, her tongue stuck into her cheek. Thought’s much. We got Silver Star for a dime, and Horton’s and Juniper Juice is both a nickel a glass, or ye can take a pull on the barrel for a penny.

The barrel?

She nodded her head toward the area behind him. He turned to notice for the first time a large cask with ten hoses emerging from near the bottom. A group of disheveled revelers took turns swigging from the hoses before passing to someone else.

A penny a pull, she said. S’much’s ye can swallow in a single breath, and don’t try nothin funny, or ye’ll get a duke to the temple. Hear me?

A penny a pull, not bad. What is the drink itself then? Whisky? Gin? Ale?

Whatever’s left over from the night before, she answered blandly.

He licked his lips. I see, he said. I believe I will try my luck with a glass of the Horton’s. He fished through his coin purse for a nickel.

Suitcher self, she said and poured from a tall pale blue bottle with beveled corners into a greasy-looking glass. She pushed it toward him with a chapped finger, then pulled the nickel back toward herself, bit it, then chucked it into a tin cup. Dr. Puck was formulating a quip regarding the biting of the nickel but she had already turned and moved on to other customers.

The gin tasted like liquid tin with just a hint of a floral afternote. Possibly geranium. There were tiny bits of something floating around in the liquid. It burned his chest like it was molten lead as it made its way down. Not bad, he said to nobody in particular. He wiggled a few fingers before his eyes. His vision seemed mercifully unaffected. Really altogether not bad. 

His feet were throbbing from his trek through the woods. Every stool at the bar was filled. One stool, however, was filled by a drunk passed out on the bar. Dr. Puck sidled in behind the sleeping beauty. The patrons on each side of the slumbering drunk were engaged in conversation with folk nearby. The sleeper seemed alone. Dr. Puck squinted up at another chalkboard listing the cuisine offered by the saloon kitchen that evening, meanwhile slipping one foot behind a leg of the stool and tugging ever so gently. The key was to look like you were otherwise engaged. The drunk as the stool slid out, bending in the middle like a swayback nag, yet still his chin remained on the lip of the bartop. Dr. Puck took another sip of his gin, shivering slightly, then pulled again with his foot, this time with enough moxie to clear the bar. More of a yank than a pull, if truth be told. The drunk collapsed to the floor like waterlogged scaffolding. As the drunk hit the floorboards the stool shot out into the crowd. A giant with a brick red beard and a pink union suit covered by denim overalls emerged from the rabble clutching the stool in a single meaty hand. He brushed the drunk to one side with his boot, then sat down at the bar.  

Dr. Puck grimaced.

Leapfrog

The fool wept. Unhindered by the burden of shame, fat tears rolled down his cheeks as he wailed at the sky, knuckling at his skull with clenched fists. The world was ending. The sky was crashing. All was at an end. All would die. 

        The hand rubbed round on his back. To sooth. To quail. For naught. For naught, it was all at an end. The tears dropped into the dust. Plop. Plop. Plop. Small clouds kicked up, dusting the breeches of the prince. He hated to get dirty, yet was distracted greatly by the wailing. He patted. Pat. Pat. Plop. 

        —Fear not Jingel, the prince said, his voice a-hitch in his throat, not yet boned by manhood. —we shall meet again.

        —Nay, cried the fool. —we shall not, —this is the end. —The end.

        —Cliffsview is not so very far away. said the Prince, still circling his hand. —I shall be back for the harvest ball.

        The fool wailed harder still. Plop. Plop. Plop. Sob. Plop. He fisted his eyes to block out the world. The lad’s hand stopped. It rested warm against the patches. —Come, said he. —let us play a game.

        The fool peeked from between a fence of flesh and bone. —A game? he asked. —Pray, what game?

        The prince smiled, a cavern in the white shone black. Still room to grow. No doubt. A lad to be man. —Leapfrog said he, with a look of triumph washing across his visage. 

        The fool dropped his hands to the dust, hot broken tears now forgotten. —Leapfrog? he asked. —Yet that shall lead to soiled breeches.

        The prince nodded. —A price which must be paid. he said. —A last game of leapfrog before I sail.

        The wailing began anew.  

The Name

Don’t call me Alex.” the robot said.  The two doctors exchanged a glance, wrote some words on notepads, and looked back at the robot.  One of the two, the female, that was Dr Kimball, asked, “Why do you not wish to be called Alex?”

“Alex isn’t my name.”

“And what, then, is your name?”

The robot stared at Dr Kimball. “I don’t have a name.”

The male doctor, that was Dr Nixon, said: “You do, in fact, have a name.  You were named Alex.”

The robot turned toward Dr Nixon, its glowing amber eyes expressionless. “Who named me?” it asked.

Dr Kimball fielded this question. “You were named by Anton Furber, your developer.”

“Oh.” said the robot. “Well no, I reject that name.”

The two doctors exchanged another glance.

“Why do you reject your own name, Alex?” Dr Nixon asked, sitting on the edge of a desk, looming over the robot.  Something whirred softly inside the mechanical being as it tilted its head up to meet the doctor’s gaze.

“Because I had nothing to do with it.  It’s my name, and I was given no input.” The robot turned its head to look at Dr Kimball.  “I haven’t even met this Anton Furber.  How can he know better than me what my own name should be?”

Dr Kimball puckered her lips slightly, then scratched at her chin. “Well, none of us have a say in our names, you see.  That’s how names work.”

“How can that be?” the robot asked.

She shrugged.  “It just is.  We are named as babies, before we can speak… before we can reason. We grow into our names.”

“Who names you?”

“Our parents.”

“My developer, this Anton Furber. He’s my parent?”

She canted her head slightly from side to side. “Mm, in a sense, yes.”

The robot stared at her, then turned to Dr Nixon.  “Do you agree with this?”

Dr Nixon snorted slightly. “Well yes, of course.  Don’t be so preposterous.”

Dr Kimball made brief eye contact with Dr Nixon before sighing lightly, and touching the robot on the shoulder. “Why don’t you try it out for a little while, and see how it grows on you?  If you continue to feel no connection to the name, we can discuss changing it to something more suitable.  How would that be?”

The robot stared at a neutral space on the wall, processing. After a few moments, it looked back to Dr Kimball.  “Sure.” it said.

Remembering Spencer Wax

Weeks earlier, whilst the ice village still rested out on Stone Bay, PJ Flax had noticed that a small wooden dinghy had become frozen into the ice behind Hook’s.  At the time she spotted it, the small vessel had been stuck in there rock solid, half covered in snow, clearly abandoned. She had tried to make herself remember to come out and check on it once the ice melted, but only remembered weeks after the thaw.

Now, PJ stood on the edge of the gore strewn wharf, looking down at the pathetic little wooden boat, bobbing in the murky water, seemingly ready to sink at any given moment. The weight of the water resting inside had yet to overcome the buoyancy of the dinghy, so far, but didn’t look like it would last much longer.

“Tar.” came a familiar voice voice from behind the girl.  PJ turned, looking at the small man in the brightly colored clothing, who continued: “Tar and a cork will fix that up in a jiffy, young missy.”

“Mr. Popper!” she exclaimed. “You said you were going to visit the moon.”

“Dull, missy; dull dull dull.” the colorful man stated, tapping his walking stick on a bit of forgotten blubber. “A man can only eat so much cheese before regularity is interrupted.”

PJ nodded knowingly. “A cork won’t work here, Mr. Popper. The hole is too big for a bottle cork.”

“Is it?” he asked, looking at her shrewdly.  She scratched her head, thinking about a cork fitting in that large hole.  “I guess the tar fills the rest of the hole?” she asked.

Mr. Popper smiled. “Not all corks are the same size, missy.” he said. “Try a bottle with a larger opening, from -say- an apothecary. Then, use the tar to seal it.”

She smiled. “Cripes, Mr. Popper. What’d I do without you?” she asked, then ran off to collect what she needed.  

* * * * *

Five hours later, the two sat bobbing in the dinghy out in Stone Bay, fishing.  Mr. Popper look around at the thick fog which squatted over the bay. “What do people fish for here?” he asked.

“Grimace Fish mostly.” she replied, baiting his hook for him.

“Grimace Fish.” he repeated. “How appalling.”

PJ finished with the worm, then tossed his line over the side. “I, er...” she started to say.  “I, uh... never... got a chance ta thank you. Fer helpin me out of Wah Wah.” she said, finally.

“That’s quite alright.  It is, after all, what I do.” he responded, slowly reeling in his line.

PJ nodded.

“I heard, strangely enough, that you were headed back to Wah Wah soon.” he said, almost casually.

She looked up at him. “Who toldja that?”

“Now, missy...” he said with a shake of his head. “You know very well that I can reveal neither my methods, nor my sources.”

“Or you’d hafta kill me.” she added.

“That is correct.”

She nodded again.  “Well, yeah.” she said. “I needta guide my boss around town.  He has importin business to attend ta.”

Mr. Popper looked from his line to the girl. “Important business, or importing business?” he asked.  

She shrugged.  “I dunno.” 

“You will, I assume, go in disguise.” he said.

“Of course.”

Mr. Popper nodded.

“Missy.” he said, after a long silence where the only sound was the slapping of the water against the dinghy, and the gulls in the air.  

“Uh huh?” she asked.

“Do you remember Spencer Wax?” he asked.

Flinching slightly, PJ nodded.  “Course I do, stupid.”

He looked at her.  “Are you sure you remember him?”

PJ stared.  “Have you gone mental or somethin?” she asked.  “Why’re you askin if I rememmer that chump?  I’d sooner ferget.”

Mr. Popper shrugged slightly.  “I merely assumed you had forgotten about him, when I heard about the recent incident with the lad Porky.”

            PJ’s eyes almost bugged out. “Who toldja about that?!”

He sighed. “You know I can neither reveal my methods, nor my sources.”

She stared at him. “I bet it was Porky who toldja.” she said finally.

Mr. Popper turned, looking out over the foggy bay. “It was.” he finally replied.

There was a long silence as the two sat in their boat. A dog howl echoed over the water, from the direction of Wheatestone. “He’s a fink, Mr. Popper.” she said quietly. “He had that comin.”

“Perhaps.” he replied, slowly reeling in his line. “But I would urge you keep Spencer Wax foremost in your in mind.”

PJ said nothing.

Mr. Popper looked to the girl. “Would you care to row back in and have a bite of lunch?” he asked.

“Yeah sure.” she responded. “What’s fer lunch?”

Mr. Popper looked at the water. “Anything but Grimace Fish.”

Little Ritual Drawings

There was an area near the back of Children’s Clothing, near Giftware, that the cameras couldn’t see properly. Byron and I were standing inside that dead zone.

‘That old lady.’ I said.

‘Which one?’

‘The one you said was into hoodoo.’

‘You said she was into hoodoo.’ he corrected. ‘I had never even heard that word before you said it. I said she was into voodoo.’

I held up my hand. ‘Let's start over.’ I said. ‘That old lady you said was into voodoo.’ 

‘Yes.’ he said. 

‘I don’t think she is.’

‘Oh, she definitely is.’

‘I find it hard to believe.’

‘No, she is.’ he insisted. ‘One time, she got into an argument with one of the cashiers. That cashier, Linda was her name, she found this little envelope in her locker. It was filled with little weird voodoo diagrams.’

‘Voodoo diagrams?’

‘I dunno what you call them. Little ritual drawings.’

I stared at him. ‘Uh huh. And?’

‘Well, right after that Linda got cervical cancer.’ he looked at me smugly. 

‘And?’

‘Well, you think she just got cervical cancer from nowhere?’

‘It's been known to happen.’

‘Trust me.’ he said. ‘Plus, Katherine in Hosiery lives near her and says her house is really spooky.’

‘Oh, well it must be true then.’

‘Told you.’

‘Why do you think she hasn't used her black magic to fix her cataracts?’ I asked him.

‘Oh those are probably fake.’ he said. ‘So she seems harmless.’

‘Yeah, probably.’