hell," one of the others said, looking not at me but at the moustache bearer. His shirt was yellowish white with
rust-colored stains baked into it on trips through his mother's electric dryer, so it looked a little like he was wearing
a plate of spaghetti. "Now some nigger thinks he's gonna tell us what to do?"
"What not to do," I corrected him, as the third one shook his head in wonderment. What was this world coming to? He'd be the one the others shoved around, gave a hard time, made fun of.
"What is it, man," Spaghetti said, "you can't find enough trouble for yourself back in the projects, you gotta come out here
where you know your kind aren't wanted looking for more?"
Moustache took in my black suit. "Shit, and it ain't even Sunday. You one of them Muslims or something?"
I pointed to the things they carried. "Guess I'm not the only kind you don't want."
"It's a neighborhood thing. No business of yours."
"Maybe I'm Jewish."
Since he couldn't decide how to take that, he ignored it. "Those people don't belong here."
"Jews, you mean."
"Shit, man, for two thousand years ain't no one ever wanted them. You think there's not a reason for that?"
"Guess I ought to feel proud, then, since you wanted my people. Wanted us so bad you came all the way to where we lived and carried us off. Paid top dollar, too."
"Yeah, and look where that went," Spaghetti said.
"No offense," Moustache added.
"Look. You boys have no reason to be here. None of you has met Mel Gold, or any of his family and friends, or knows anything
about them." All told, they weren't much worse than others their age, mimicking what they saw around them, filled with frustrations
and undirected energies, lightning taking the shortest path to the ground. "Why don't you all just go on back home?"
"What the fuck you think you are, these Jews's bodyguard?" From the look he shot the others, Moustache thought that was pretty
funny.
"No. I'm your shadow," I said. "Big black thing that follows you around."
He looked out across the acre or so of dark houses set in regular rows like vegetables in a plot, one of them almost certainly
his, looking for reassurance, a reminder of why they'd come here, what this all meant. It wasn't supposed to go like this.
"You boys lay down your burdens and get started now, you can have everything back together inside the hour."
Spaghetti took a measured step towards me. "What you mean back together?"
"Well, I walked in from down there." I pointed towards the stand of water oaks a couple of blocks off. "And as I came by your
truck—that blue Dodge back there is yours, right?—I couldn't help but notice as how someone's let the air out of all four
tires."
"Damn!"
"I agree. Terrible thing to do to a man. And so far from home, too."
They looked at one another and started towards the truck.
"Boys. . . . Now you won't be needing them, why don't you just go ahead and set those things down right there."
After a moment they did.
I went over and looked. A can of bright yellow paint, some homemade stink bombs, and a sack of freshdogshit. About what you'd
expect. Just like I'd expected the flyers, with that crooked Fs foot becoming the cross for a T, in the glove compartment of their truck.
They'd get the tires aired up quick enough, I knew, no problem. I'd also reached around behind the wheel well on the passenger
side and cut the ground wire from the starter. It was going to take them a lot longer to findthat.
"Y OUR PROBLEMS NOT over, Mr. Gold. It's never that easy. But I don't think the boys will be back, at least. Not these boys."
I hung up the phone and looked at the clock. 7:36. I'd Verne had come weaving through the door dead tired not long after I
had, six or so, and now was asleep, half dressed still, in the back room.
I cracked a third beer and leafed again through the pages Lee Gardner sent me, scanning them superficially atfirst, like a
true believer who's not looking for understanding, for
rust-colored stains baked into it on trips through his mother's electric dryer, so it looked a little like he was wearing
a plate of spaghetti. "Now some nigger thinks he's gonna tell us what to do?"
"What not to do," I corrected him, as the third one shook his head in wonderment. What was this world coming to? He'd be the one the others shoved around, gave a hard time, made fun of.
"What is it, man," Spaghetti said, "you can't find enough trouble for yourself back in the projects, you gotta come out here
where you know your kind aren't wanted looking for more?"
Moustache took in my black suit. "Shit, and it ain't even Sunday. You one of them Muslims or something?"
I pointed to the things they carried. "Guess I'm not the only kind you don't want."
"It's a neighborhood thing. No business of yours."
"Maybe I'm Jewish."
Since he couldn't decide how to take that, he ignored it. "Those people don't belong here."
"Jews, you mean."
"Shit, man, for two thousand years ain't no one ever wanted them. You think there's not a reason for that?"
"Guess I ought to feel proud, then, since you wanted my people. Wanted us so bad you came all the way to where we lived and carried us off. Paid top dollar, too."
"Yeah, and look where that went," Spaghetti said.
"No offense," Moustache added.
"Look. You boys have no reason to be here. None of you has met Mel Gold, or any of his family and friends, or knows anything
about them." All told, they weren't much worse than others their age, mimicking what they saw around them, filled with frustrations
and undirected energies, lightning taking the shortest path to the ground. "Why don't you all just go on back home?"
"What the fuck you think you are, these Jews's bodyguard?" From the look he shot the others, Moustache thought that was pretty
funny.
"No. I'm your shadow," I said. "Big black thing that follows you around."
He looked out across the acre or so of dark houses set in regular rows like vegetables in a plot, one of them almost certainly
his, looking for reassurance, a reminder of why they'd come here, what this all meant. It wasn't supposed to go like this.
"You boys lay down your burdens and get started now, you can have everything back together inside the hour."
Spaghetti took a measured step towards me. "What you mean back together?"
"Well, I walked in from down there." I pointed towards the stand of water oaks a couple of blocks off. "And as I came by your
truck—that blue Dodge back there is yours, right?—I couldn't help but notice as how someone's let the air out of all four
tires."
"Damn!"
"I agree. Terrible thing to do to a man. And so far from home, too."
They looked at one another and started towards the truck.
"Boys. . . . Now you won't be needing them, why don't you just go ahead and set those things down right there."
After a moment they did.
I went over and looked. A can of bright yellow paint, some homemade stink bombs, and a sack of freshdogshit. About what you'd
expect. Just like I'd expected the flyers, with that crooked Fs foot becoming the cross for a T, in the glove compartment of their truck.
They'd get the tires aired up quick enough, I knew, no problem. I'd also reached around behind the wheel well on the passenger
side and cut the ground wire from the starter. It was going to take them a lot longer to findthat.
"Y OUR PROBLEMS NOT over, Mr. Gold. It's never that easy. But I don't think the boys will be back, at least. Not these boys."
I hung up the phone and looked at the clock. 7:36. I'd Verne had come weaving through the door dead tired not long after I
had, six or so, and now was asleep, half dressed still, in the back room.
I cracked a third beer and leafed again through the pages Lee Gardner sent me, scanning them superficially atfirst, like a
true believer who's not looking for understanding, for
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