mayhem.”
“Folks find it compelling,” Dell said. Hat in hand, he scratched his hairline, his left arm sunburned. “Ain’t my show.”
“I called her a newswhore,” Hodge said. He stole a breath that pained him. “Said she instilled fear, encouraged white flight, sharpened needling noses for misfortune. She maintained she did her job; I told her she shits in her own sandbox. She threw a Vodka Collins. Look. I was an SOB. I recall my honest moments.”
“Lots of folks like her on TV.”
“They like her face; it’s a nice one.”
“And it’s on TV. So you gonna press charges?”
“Against my love of liquor? My smart mouth?”
“Hell,” Dell said. “Call when you get out. I’ll buy if you keep that piehole shut.”
The day faded on him, bed backlit with fluorescent light, window illumined with pollen-yellow dark. Dell had left a cutting of lavender from his wife’s garden in a styrofoam cup. Hodge reached for it, hand steady—phenobarbital, benzos, Dilaudid. He’d have to ask a nurse once he tracked the call button.
* * *
“Ain’t you got AC?”
“Old car.”
“How old you got to get for no AC?” Somehow, she’d worked her skirt above her underwear, which was plain white cotton. “I do it all now,” she said.
“As opposed to when?”
“You’re a funny one,” she said.
Cars fled past, watery sounds rushing in, nowhere to stand. He’d swum in the Pacific once, sand shifting underfoot, which unsettled him. The rest of the day he made drip castles on the beach with Lilah while Rachel dived at curling waves.
“I said we weren’t happening,” Hodge said.
The woman slung her arm onto the top of the seat. A car pulled from behind them, but the T-bird remained, headlights shuttered against the coming dark.
“I got a four-year-old,” the woman said. “Want to fuck you some of that?”
“What?”
“Charge you more, but that sweet young body? Honest goodness costs.”
“Get the fuck out.”
“Honeydew, you need you sweet and pure but can’t find it. She do you right, now.”
“Get. The fuck. Out of my car.”
“Jesus ran with our kind.” She drew a forefinger down the back of his ear. “Scripture says.”
“Goddamnit.”
Already she’d slammed the door, though, blending into blue dark. Legs trembling, Hodge got the car into first. The cassettes were gone from the floorboard; no big deal except for the Julia Lee, a bootleg from Milton’s Tap Room in 1949. Hodge’s old friend who’d transferred the recording off a Tefifon was dead of AIDS; the lover had finagled through the courts his friend’s property, then trashed it.
“Jesus wept,” Hodge said. The T-bird floated past him, the prostitute on the passenger’s side flicking ash from a filtered blunt. Hodge let out the clutch and eased into the lane. He tracked the silhouettes of risen birds on the taillights.
* * *
“You did what now?” Dell said.
“Spent the night.”
“In your car.”
“North side of what’s left of Fairyland,” Hodge said. “No numbers on the door. Streetlamps’re out.”
Dell poured milk onto frosted flakes. Gloria and Georgia had come to the table in pajamas, blue eyes shifting over their cereal. “Darkness makes for good business,” Dell said.
“I got to get back there.”
“For cassettes?” Dell had his spoon halfway to his mouth. “You ain’t got to do nothing.”
“If there’s some girl—” Hodge glanced at Gloria and Georgia. In a cornsilk-green nightgown Elaine leaned on the kitchen counter, coffee pot in hand. “It’s got to be stopped.”
“Stop what, Daddy?” Georgia said. The elder at age ten, she called police work obscene; Dell agreed.
“More coffee, Hodge?” Elaine said, but she poured before he answered.
“If—” Dell worked his cereal to the side of his mouth. “Then it ain’t your business. If they don’t, still ain’t. Make it yours, you got a death wish.”
“I know the neighborhood. I read a route
“Folks find it compelling,” Dell said. Hat in hand, he scratched his hairline, his left arm sunburned. “Ain’t my show.”
“I called her a newswhore,” Hodge said. He stole a breath that pained him. “Said she instilled fear, encouraged white flight, sharpened needling noses for misfortune. She maintained she did her job; I told her she shits in her own sandbox. She threw a Vodka Collins. Look. I was an SOB. I recall my honest moments.”
“Lots of folks like her on TV.”
“They like her face; it’s a nice one.”
“And it’s on TV. So you gonna press charges?”
“Against my love of liquor? My smart mouth?”
“Hell,” Dell said. “Call when you get out. I’ll buy if you keep that piehole shut.”
The day faded on him, bed backlit with fluorescent light, window illumined with pollen-yellow dark. Dell had left a cutting of lavender from his wife’s garden in a styrofoam cup. Hodge reached for it, hand steady—phenobarbital, benzos, Dilaudid. He’d have to ask a nurse once he tracked the call button.
* * *
“Ain’t you got AC?”
“Old car.”
“How old you got to get for no AC?” Somehow, she’d worked her skirt above her underwear, which was plain white cotton. “I do it all now,” she said.
“As opposed to when?”
“You’re a funny one,” she said.
Cars fled past, watery sounds rushing in, nowhere to stand. He’d swum in the Pacific once, sand shifting underfoot, which unsettled him. The rest of the day he made drip castles on the beach with Lilah while Rachel dived at curling waves.
“I said we weren’t happening,” Hodge said.
The woman slung her arm onto the top of the seat. A car pulled from behind them, but the T-bird remained, headlights shuttered against the coming dark.
“I got a four-year-old,” the woman said. “Want to fuck you some of that?”
“What?”
“Charge you more, but that sweet young body? Honest goodness costs.”
“Get the fuck out.”
“Honeydew, you need you sweet and pure but can’t find it. She do you right, now.”
“Get. The fuck. Out of my car.”
“Jesus ran with our kind.” She drew a forefinger down the back of his ear. “Scripture says.”
“Goddamnit.”
Already she’d slammed the door, though, blending into blue dark. Legs trembling, Hodge got the car into first. The cassettes were gone from the floorboard; no big deal except for the Julia Lee, a bootleg from Milton’s Tap Room in 1949. Hodge’s old friend who’d transferred the recording off a Tefifon was dead of AIDS; the lover had finagled through the courts his friend’s property, then trashed it.
“Jesus wept,” Hodge said. The T-bird floated past him, the prostitute on the passenger’s side flicking ash from a filtered blunt. Hodge let out the clutch and eased into the lane. He tracked the silhouettes of risen birds on the taillights.
* * *
“You did what now?” Dell said.
“Spent the night.”
“In your car.”
“North side of what’s left of Fairyland,” Hodge said. “No numbers on the door. Streetlamps’re out.”
Dell poured milk onto frosted flakes. Gloria and Georgia had come to the table in pajamas, blue eyes shifting over their cereal. “Darkness makes for good business,” Dell said.
“I got to get back there.”
“For cassettes?” Dell had his spoon halfway to his mouth. “You ain’t got to do nothing.”
“If there’s some girl—” Hodge glanced at Gloria and Georgia. In a cornsilk-green nightgown Elaine leaned on the kitchen counter, coffee pot in hand. “It’s got to be stopped.”
“Stop what, Daddy?” Georgia said. The elder at age ten, she called police work obscene; Dell agreed.
“More coffee, Hodge?” Elaine said, but she poured before he answered.
“If—” Dell worked his cereal to the side of his mouth. “Then it ain’t your business. If they don’t, still ain’t. Make it yours, you got a death wish.”
“I know the neighborhood. I read a route
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