Clown in the Moonlight by Tom Piccirilli Page A

abomination?"
    "You really want to find out?" I ask.
    She nods, but tears well and she sniffles and whimpers, "Oh God–"
    "I'm mischief.   I'm corruption.   Maybe I'm salvation.   Whatever you desire, Mercy...remember, it costs."
    "No, you're–" She falls into my arms one more time and I force my mouth against hers and let my teeth slide down across the raven.   I bite hard and she screams.   "Please–give me...no...!"
    "I'm just a man, baby," I say, alive in rage, alive in death, alive with my black life, pressing her back against the coven tree and then drawing her down beside me in the field.   Something breaks inside my chest that might be a laugh or might be my heart.   Venom fills my mouth.   I kiss her and she struggles.   I twist the razor wire around her throat, tug gently, and she lets out an erotic moan.   She tries to pull away and her throat spurts.   I'd watched her closely.   All I had to do was tighten my draw a little more, saw back and forth, and her head would come off.  
    Her eyes are black and full of terror, awe, and desire, the same as mine.   "I'm everything you need," I tell her, and I am.

PART III
     
    RECOGNITION

1.
     
    R icky's shadow follows me down through the years.   I put my violent tendencies to work and become a narc.   They say you can't be a police officer if you've got a felony jacket but narcotics and vice play by their own set of rules.   My partners are gung ho and staunch men of justice when they're not robbing dealers or acting as couriers for the mob.   The Teflon Don keeps us all busy, whether we're trying to bring him in or keep him out of jail.   Old-timers on the force all have definitive lines between right and wrong, and cross them freely without conscience.  
    I take money.   I let big shots go. I don't rock the lifeboat.   I bully informants.   I shack with whores.   I keep the streets clean.   I work my beat in Manhattan and rise through the ranks.   The mayor personally pins medals on my chest.   The headlines hail a hero.   I do what's expected of me, mostly.   On occasion, when the world grows too wide beyond the windshield of my patrol car, and there's a sheen on the glass as if it's stained by spit-up blood, I drive around the worst neighborhoods in the five boroughs, and find where the mutilated bodies are laid out in the open.  
    In the woods, the alleys, and abandoned apartment buildings in the meat packing district, the corpses rest.   I talk and they listen.   I watch over them before the kids come around, leading their friends in packs.   The teens always come ready to party, and we share a beer or a J or a girl, and play out the continuous rituals of the ages.   Sometimes they try and outplay me.   They're packed and I'm packed.   Every so often it leads to a shootout or a knife fight or a bloodletting.   So far I haven't been taken down, but there's always the chance, and I keep hoping.
    Ricky's shadow is often nearby, gesturing, sniggering.   I spot it from time to time, falling across the faces of friends and strangers.   He knew if his legend was going to transcend itself, the meaning of it all had to remain a mystery.   A riddle that would continue to fuel and reflect the times, his name spoken in whispers, carved alongside the name of Satan.   He had to die in a grand gesture, by his own hand.   He urges me to do the same.  
    Three more years have gone by and Linda and Gwen live together in an apartment in Brooklyn Heights.   Linda's still in a wheelchair.   They go to mass twice a week.   They usually arrive at church in time for Vespers.   I sit in the back pew and watch.   I stare at Christ.   Christ stares at me.
    Teens whittle down the posts and benches of the gazebo in Cow Harbor Park, carving SAY YOU LOVE SATAN and SAY YOU LOVE RICKY and RICKY LIVES FOREVER and RICKY BURNS IN HELL.
    The last time I visited her in her apartment, hiding in shadow, her eyes shot open and she sat straight up in bed.