water pipe.
And that’s where he hanged himself
. . .
Then Hudson froze at a sound: a quick
snap
!
A cigarette lighter?
That’s what it reminded him of. His heart hammered. This was crazy and he knew it. An abandoned house in
this
neighborhood?
Vagrants, addicts, or gang members
. . .
Yet he didn’t leave.
He turned the flashlight off and walked down a shabby side-hall toward the sound. He paused and, sure enough, in a dark bedroom he detected what could only be the flicker of a cigarette lighter. In addition, he heard an accompanying sound, like someone inhaling with desperation.
I could be killed
. . .
so why don’t I leave?
Hudson had no answer to this logical question, save for,
God will protect me. He HAS to
. When he took a step forward, the floor creaked.
His heart nearly stopped when a woman’s voice shot out of the dark. “Oh, good, you’re back. I’m in here.” Then the lighter flicked again but this time to light a candle.
In the bloom of light, Hudson couldn’t believe his eyes.
A woman sat on a mattressless box spring, holding a crack pipe. A white woman, with dark lank hair, wearinga bikini top and cutoff shorts. The hostile face glared at him.
“Shit, you’re not her,” she complained. “Who the . . .” But then she squinted. “Wait a minute, I remember you . . .”
Indeed, and Hudson remembered her. It was the pregnant prostitute he’d seen in the Qwik-Mart last night. It didn’t take him long to realize why she looked different.
She was no longer pregnant.
“Yes,” Hudson droned. “At the store. And I see that you’ve had your baby.”
She maintained her glare. The huge breasts hung satcheled in the faded top. Her exposed midriff below the top looked corrugated now, rowed. All she said was, “What the fuck are
you
doing here? Are you with that woman?”
That woman
, Hudson’s brain ticked. “Do you mean . . . a blonde woman in a black gown? A white collar?”
The prostitute idly fingered groovelike stretch marks on her belly. “Yeah, like what a fuckin’ priest wears, but it’s a chick, not a guy.” Then she calmly lit the pipe, inhaled deeply, then collapsed against the wall. Her expression turned to a mask of oblivion.
“What is this woman to you? Deaconess Wilson?” Hudson actually raised his voice.
The prostitute slipped up the stuffed bikini top to cover a great half circle of nipple. “She paid me six fuckin’ hundred bucks, that’s what.”
Hudson was dismayed.
And I got 6,000
. “So, you’ve won the Senary as well?”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. All I know is what I’m supposed to do.”
“And what was that? What
did
you do for the six hundred?”
She shrugged. “Dug up a grave. Think I give a shit?”
Hudson stared in the flickering light, thinking of the article. “Was it . . . a child’s grave?”
“Yeah, man. A baby’s. She said the baby was murdered in this house, had its head cut off. Said she needed the head.”
Confusion circled round Hudson like a feisty crow. “But . . . what happened to
your
baby? You were pregnant last night.”
“I popped the kid out behind the Qwik-Mart,” she said, pressing another piece of crack into the pipe. “Fuckin’ mess. I dropped it in one of those blue bins the recycling trucks pick up; then I split. Couple hours later, I met
her
.”
“And she—”
“Paid me six hundred bucks to dig up the grave.” She sucked off the pipe and chuckled. “Kind’a weird, you know? An hour after I dump my own baby, this chick pays me to dig up somebody
else’s
baby. Ain’t that a trip?”
“Yes,” Hudson uttered. “A trip . . .”
“She waited for me in her car. Didn’t even take as long as you’d think, and the coffin was tiny, barely weighed anything. They always say six feet under, right? But this was like two, three. So I put the coffin in the back of her car, and she drives me downtown . . . and gave me six hundred bucks. Said she’d give me another six
And that’s where he hanged himself
. . .
Then Hudson froze at a sound: a quick
snap
!
A cigarette lighter?
That’s what it reminded him of. His heart hammered. This was crazy and he knew it. An abandoned house in
this
neighborhood?
Vagrants, addicts, or gang members
. . .
Yet he didn’t leave.
He turned the flashlight off and walked down a shabby side-hall toward the sound. He paused and, sure enough, in a dark bedroom he detected what could only be the flicker of a cigarette lighter. In addition, he heard an accompanying sound, like someone inhaling with desperation.
I could be killed
. . .
so why don’t I leave?
Hudson had no answer to this logical question, save for,
God will protect me. He HAS to
. When he took a step forward, the floor creaked.
His heart nearly stopped when a woman’s voice shot out of the dark. “Oh, good, you’re back. I’m in here.” Then the lighter flicked again but this time to light a candle.
In the bloom of light, Hudson couldn’t believe his eyes.
A woman sat on a mattressless box spring, holding a crack pipe. A white woman, with dark lank hair, wearinga bikini top and cutoff shorts. The hostile face glared at him.
“Shit, you’re not her,” she complained. “Who the . . .” But then she squinted. “Wait a minute, I remember you . . .”
Indeed, and Hudson remembered her. It was the pregnant prostitute he’d seen in the Qwik-Mart last night. It didn’t take him long to realize why she looked different.
She was no longer pregnant.
“Yes,” Hudson droned. “At the store. And I see that you’ve had your baby.”
She maintained her glare. The huge breasts hung satcheled in the faded top. Her exposed midriff below the top looked corrugated now, rowed. All she said was, “What the fuck are
you
doing here? Are you with that woman?”
That woman
, Hudson’s brain ticked. “Do you mean . . . a blonde woman in a black gown? A white collar?”
The prostitute idly fingered groovelike stretch marks on her belly. “Yeah, like what a fuckin’ priest wears, but it’s a chick, not a guy.” Then she calmly lit the pipe, inhaled deeply, then collapsed against the wall. Her expression turned to a mask of oblivion.
“What is this woman to you? Deaconess Wilson?” Hudson actually raised his voice.
The prostitute slipped up the stuffed bikini top to cover a great half circle of nipple. “She paid me six fuckin’ hundred bucks, that’s what.”
Hudson was dismayed.
And I got 6,000
. “So, you’ve won the Senary as well?”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. All I know is what I’m supposed to do.”
“And what was that? What
did
you do for the six hundred?”
She shrugged. “Dug up a grave. Think I give a shit?”
Hudson stared in the flickering light, thinking of the article. “Was it . . . a child’s grave?”
“Yeah, man. A baby’s. She said the baby was murdered in this house, had its head cut off. Said she needed the head.”
Confusion circled round Hudson like a feisty crow. “But . . . what happened to
your
baby? You were pregnant last night.”
“I popped the kid out behind the Qwik-Mart,” she said, pressing another piece of crack into the pipe. “Fuckin’ mess. I dropped it in one of those blue bins the recycling trucks pick up; then I split. Couple hours later, I met
her
.”
“And she—”
“Paid me six hundred bucks to dig up the grave.” She sucked off the pipe and chuckled. “Kind’a weird, you know? An hour after I dump my own baby, this chick pays me to dig up somebody
else’s
baby. Ain’t that a trip?”
“Yes,” Hudson uttered. “A trip . . .”
“She waited for me in her car. Didn’t even take as long as you’d think, and the coffin was tiny, barely weighed anything. They always say six feet under, right? But this was like two, three. So I put the coffin in the back of her car, and she drives me downtown . . . and gave me six hundred bucks. Said she’d give me another six
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