glistening bald man labored over an Asus7, heavy with watery reverb, the tune bearing no relation to any blues Hodge knew. His shoulder blades pained him. The door didn’t give until someone employed a fist to Hodge’s face, and his carcass dropped into hard currents.
“Who knows what the drowned have to say,” Hodge had said sometimes, “but for the washed up?” Lame pun, and puns were for people, Lilah said, who couldn’t be bothered to immerse themselves in jokes, let alone conversations. Patrons set upon him, their shoes fitting gaps in his ribs. They lacked the decency to drag him to a back alley. The owner stepped from his club, worrying his fey soul tag with his teeth, and Hodge crabbed to the curb, asked for air, but tasted blood. An orange Fiesta fumed past.
“Excuse me,” someone said; the crowd backed off to reveal man and woman—arms linked for an evening promenade. He wore a navy-blue pin-striped suit, a yellow tie loosened from his starched collar. Her sequined skirt flashed like perch at docksides, and her silver shoes matched—Dorothy in Baum’s Oz . “Look it up,” he’d told Lilah, when at age six she’d requested sparkling red pumps for Halloween. “They ain’t ruby.” The woman seemed distorted by thick glass—long tanning-booth legs, substantial bust, too-tight cotton blouse. Her teeth were large and bluish. Not long ago she’d played Barbie Ferraris on pressure-treated decks in Lenexa, maybe, a quarter mile from cornfields. She crossed the state line monthly from Johnson County to buy cocaine.
“Oh, hey, Hodge,” the man said, stepping over him.
Blood clouded Hodge’s eye. The woman smiled. “It’s me. Remember? Lilah.” She was not Lilah; Lilah was long dead. After that he failed to remember.
* * *
For two days of a five-day visit to Truman Medical Center, Hodge lay unconscious. If he’d had visitors, they left neither notes nor flowers. On his third morning, a uniformed cop stood at the foot of his bed.
“Dell,” Hodge said.
Hodge and Dell had wreaked mild havoc at Southwest High. They’d streaked the Nelson-Atkins one night, their teenage frontal lobes too underdeveloped to comprehend twenty-four-hour surveillance on grounds where billions of dollars of art were stored. Hodge’s father picked him up naked at the downtown jail. Dell’s father left him for two days; he’d worked CIA in Indochina four years past the Kennedy assassination. Dell heard his father scream some nights from his parents’ bedroom. Now he patrolled Central, but lived over the river—Northland. “Know what goes on down there?” he once said. “I wouldn’t run my girls through that.”
“Same as anywhere,” Hodge replied, but he knew. On a Sunday-morning drive he witnessed one man blow another outside UMB bank downtown; the recipient paid with bagged rock—all while Hodge waited on a light.
“Tip of the iceberg,” Dell said.
Dell loved a nervous blond wife, Elaine, who rubbed his thick neck and cooked casseroles Campbell’s style. His two girls could sing the score of Oklahoma! : everything was up-to-date in Kansas City; they’d gone about as far as they could go.
But now, Dell stepped to the bedside, tapping his wedding ring on the rail. “Told me you weren’t quite with us yet.”
“That’s news?”
“Bruised spleen, three cracked ribs, busted molar, severe concussion, internal bleeding. Here’s what I like—four fractured bones in your hand. You hit back, Hodge.”
“You gone sorting through my bills?”
“Nurses find it queer when cops ask after juiceheads.”
“You weren’t my savior, were you?”
“Wasn’t even on duty. You plan to press charges?”
“At fists and feet?”
“People attached to them. Know what got you here?”
“Bottom-shelf gin.”
“Insulted a woman,” Dell said.
“Newscaster,” Hodge said. “Half Vietnamese. Fox.”
“TV station? Or is that a description?”
“Full hour of fire, murder, and
“Who knows what the drowned have to say,” Hodge had said sometimes, “but for the washed up?” Lame pun, and puns were for people, Lilah said, who couldn’t be bothered to immerse themselves in jokes, let alone conversations. Patrons set upon him, their shoes fitting gaps in his ribs. They lacked the decency to drag him to a back alley. The owner stepped from his club, worrying his fey soul tag with his teeth, and Hodge crabbed to the curb, asked for air, but tasted blood. An orange Fiesta fumed past.
“Excuse me,” someone said; the crowd backed off to reveal man and woman—arms linked for an evening promenade. He wore a navy-blue pin-striped suit, a yellow tie loosened from his starched collar. Her sequined skirt flashed like perch at docksides, and her silver shoes matched—Dorothy in Baum’s Oz . “Look it up,” he’d told Lilah, when at age six she’d requested sparkling red pumps for Halloween. “They ain’t ruby.” The woman seemed distorted by thick glass—long tanning-booth legs, substantial bust, too-tight cotton blouse. Her teeth were large and bluish. Not long ago she’d played Barbie Ferraris on pressure-treated decks in Lenexa, maybe, a quarter mile from cornfields. She crossed the state line monthly from Johnson County to buy cocaine.
“Oh, hey, Hodge,” the man said, stepping over him.
Blood clouded Hodge’s eye. The woman smiled. “It’s me. Remember? Lilah.” She was not Lilah; Lilah was long dead. After that he failed to remember.
* * *
For two days of a five-day visit to Truman Medical Center, Hodge lay unconscious. If he’d had visitors, they left neither notes nor flowers. On his third morning, a uniformed cop stood at the foot of his bed.
“Dell,” Hodge said.
Hodge and Dell had wreaked mild havoc at Southwest High. They’d streaked the Nelson-Atkins one night, their teenage frontal lobes too underdeveloped to comprehend twenty-four-hour surveillance on grounds where billions of dollars of art were stored. Hodge’s father picked him up naked at the downtown jail. Dell’s father left him for two days; he’d worked CIA in Indochina four years past the Kennedy assassination. Dell heard his father scream some nights from his parents’ bedroom. Now he patrolled Central, but lived over the river—Northland. “Know what goes on down there?” he once said. “I wouldn’t run my girls through that.”
“Same as anywhere,” Hodge replied, but he knew. On a Sunday-morning drive he witnessed one man blow another outside UMB bank downtown; the recipient paid with bagged rock—all while Hodge waited on a light.
“Tip of the iceberg,” Dell said.
Dell loved a nervous blond wife, Elaine, who rubbed his thick neck and cooked casseroles Campbell’s style. His two girls could sing the score of Oklahoma! : everything was up-to-date in Kansas City; they’d gone about as far as they could go.
But now, Dell stepped to the bedside, tapping his wedding ring on the rail. “Told me you weren’t quite with us yet.”
“That’s news?”
“Bruised spleen, three cracked ribs, busted molar, severe concussion, internal bleeding. Here’s what I like—four fractured bones in your hand. You hit back, Hodge.”
“You gone sorting through my bills?”
“Nurses find it queer when cops ask after juiceheads.”
“You weren’t my savior, were you?”
“Wasn’t even on duty. You plan to press charges?”
“At fists and feet?”
“People attached to them. Know what got you here?”
“Bottom-shelf gin.”
“Insulted a woman,” Dell said.
“Newscaster,” Hodge said. “Half Vietnamese. Fox.”
“TV station? Or is that a description?”
“Full hour of fire, murder, and
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