climate than the heat of the sun, the pull of the moon, or the direction of the wind.
He walked away from the Terminal, past Nathan’s, over the boardwalk, onto the beach. He knew they were there behind him. That was okay. She was safe. He was old. He was tired of running. Still, he got the shakes. The salt smell of the sea was nearly overwhelming, but the clank and rumble of subway wheels blending with the swoosh and retreat of the waves relaxed him. He liked it here. He liked how Coney displayed its decay like a badge of honor. It didn’t try to hide the scars where pieces of its once-glorious self had been cut off. Stillwell Avenue West was like a showroom of abandonment, the empty buildings wearing their disuse like bankrupted nobility in frayed and fancy suits. He had come to the edge of the sea with the other last dinosaurs: the looming and impotent Parachute Jump, the Wonder Wheel, Nathan’s, the Cyclone.
He stared out at the caravan of container ships queuing up to enter the mouth of New York Harbor. He tried imagining what this odd slice of Brooklyn—then populated only by rabbits and local Indians—had looked like to Dutch sailors as they laid their eyes on the New World for the first time. Could they, he wondered, have imagined what this tiny peninsula would become? Ashe turned to his left to look at Brighton Beach and the Rockaways beyond, he heard their soft footsteps in the sand. He held his ground.
“Hey, Doc.” It was Johnny Rosetti and two of his boys.
Boys!
They were the size of the damned Parachute Jump and didn’t look nearly as impotent.
“Hey, yourself, Johnny Rosetti.”
“Where is she?”
He smiled at Johnny and realized he didn’t smile much anymore. “I don’t know, and I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”
“You know, Doc, for some reason I believe you.”
“I never lied to you before.”
“She used you, Doc. She made a fool of you, old man.”
“That may be.”
“Was she worth it?”
“I thought she was, but I guess I’m about to find out, huh?”
“I guess you are. I guess you are, Doc. Do us both a favor, old man, and turn around, face the other way. Okay?”
Doc turned his back to the ocean and beheld the amusement park’s moth-eaten splendor. From where he stood, in the first light of morning, it still looked a grand place. At that distance, it all seemed in working order. Even the Parachute Jump appeared ready to shine again. From Doc’s place in the sand, he thought, you might be able to fool yourself that the sun-faded, blue-finned Astroland rocket atop Gregory and Paul’s food stand might fire up its engines and blast off. You had to get much closer to see the truth of it, the rust and folly of the place. So Doc walked ahead.
“Where the fuck is he going, boss?” One of Rosetti’s boys asked.
“Fuck if I know,” Rosetti answered. “Doc, cut it out. Stop. This isn’t going to help you,” he called after him.
Doc didn’t answer. He didn’t stop. He didn’t turn back. With each step forward, the truth of the place became more evident. He found a strange comfort in its truth. The truth was that the Parachute Jump was a useless steel carcass and that the Astroland rocket would never fly. Coney Island’s truth was its fate, and its fate was Doc’s fate, everyone’s fate: in the end, we all fall down. In the end, we all have reservations at the Terminal Hotel.
He heard the first shot, but not its echo.
Called “a hard-boiled poet” by NPR’s Maureen Corrigan and “the noir poet laureate” in the
Huffington Post,
Reed Farrel Coleman has published fifteen novels. He is a three-time recipient of the Shamus Award for Best PI Novel, a two-time Edgar Allan Poe Award nominee, and he has won the Macavity, Barry, and Anthony Awards. He is a founding member of Mystery Writers of America University and an adjunct professor of English at Hofstra University. He lives with his family on Long Island.
THE ANT WHO CARRIED STONES
----
----
David
He walked away from the Terminal, past Nathan’s, over the boardwalk, onto the beach. He knew they were there behind him. That was okay. She was safe. He was old. He was tired of running. Still, he got the shakes. The salt smell of the sea was nearly overwhelming, but the clank and rumble of subway wheels blending with the swoosh and retreat of the waves relaxed him. He liked it here. He liked how Coney displayed its decay like a badge of honor. It didn’t try to hide the scars where pieces of its once-glorious self had been cut off. Stillwell Avenue West was like a showroom of abandonment, the empty buildings wearing their disuse like bankrupted nobility in frayed and fancy suits. He had come to the edge of the sea with the other last dinosaurs: the looming and impotent Parachute Jump, the Wonder Wheel, Nathan’s, the Cyclone.
He stared out at the caravan of container ships queuing up to enter the mouth of New York Harbor. He tried imagining what this odd slice of Brooklyn—then populated only by rabbits and local Indians—had looked like to Dutch sailors as they laid their eyes on the New World for the first time. Could they, he wondered, have imagined what this tiny peninsula would become? Ashe turned to his left to look at Brighton Beach and the Rockaways beyond, he heard their soft footsteps in the sand. He held his ground.
“Hey, Doc.” It was Johnny Rosetti and two of his boys.
Boys!
They were the size of the damned Parachute Jump and didn’t look nearly as impotent.
“Hey, yourself, Johnny Rosetti.”
“Where is she?”
He smiled at Johnny and realized he didn’t smile much anymore. “I don’t know, and I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”
“You know, Doc, for some reason I believe you.”
“I never lied to you before.”
“She used you, Doc. She made a fool of you, old man.”
“That may be.”
“Was she worth it?”
“I thought she was, but I guess I’m about to find out, huh?”
“I guess you are. I guess you are, Doc. Do us both a favor, old man, and turn around, face the other way. Okay?”
Doc turned his back to the ocean and beheld the amusement park’s moth-eaten splendor. From where he stood, in the first light of morning, it still looked a grand place. At that distance, it all seemed in working order. Even the Parachute Jump appeared ready to shine again. From Doc’s place in the sand, he thought, you might be able to fool yourself that the sun-faded, blue-finned Astroland rocket atop Gregory and Paul’s food stand might fire up its engines and blast off. You had to get much closer to see the truth of it, the rust and folly of the place. So Doc walked ahead.
“Where the fuck is he going, boss?” One of Rosetti’s boys asked.
“Fuck if I know,” Rosetti answered. “Doc, cut it out. Stop. This isn’t going to help you,” he called after him.
Doc didn’t answer. He didn’t stop. He didn’t turn back. With each step forward, the truth of the place became more evident. He found a strange comfort in its truth. The truth was that the Parachute Jump was a useless steel carcass and that the Astroland rocket would never fly. Coney Island’s truth was its fate, and its fate was Doc’s fate, everyone’s fate: in the end, we all fall down. In the end, we all have reservations at the Terminal Hotel.
He heard the first shot, but not its echo.
Called “a hard-boiled poet” by NPR’s Maureen Corrigan and “the noir poet laureate” in the
Huffington Post,
Reed Farrel Coleman has published fifteen novels. He is a three-time recipient of the Shamus Award for Best PI Novel, a two-time Edgar Allan Poe Award nominee, and he has won the Macavity, Barry, and Anthony Awards. He is a founding member of Mystery Writers of America University and an adjunct professor of English at Hofstra University. He lives with his family on Long Island.
THE ANT WHO CARRIED STONES
----
----
David
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