man’s body, a kid who looked like a dried-out dwarf. The disease hadn’t touched Conchita’s face—she’d been spared that part—but the rest of her…
“Is it like that all over?” I asked gently.
She nodded slowly. “All over. From my toes to my neck. Every bit except…” Her voice caught. “Except for…” Tears were brimming in her eyes and she was starting to shake. “Except for my face,” she wheezed, then fell to the floor and sobbed.
I stood by helplessly, not sure if I should step forward and embrace her, keep silent or what. In the end I bent, picked up her exposed hand, raised it to my lips and kissed it.
She stopped sobbing, looked up and stared at me, shocked at first, then delighted. A tiny smile broke through the tears. She threw her arms around my neck, hugged and kissed me, a little girl’s innocent kisses.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you. Thank you. I knew you were a good guy. Lovely and kind. I used to think Ferdy was like that but he wasn’t.”
“Who’s Ferdy?” I asked softly. She’d mentioned the name three or four times. I thought he must have been her father.
“Ferdy’s my… he used to be my protector. He’s gone now. Will you be my protector instead? I thought I was all alone and would be forever, nobody to look out for me when nights are dark and cold. Will
you
protect me, Capac?”
“Yes,” I said, patting the back of her head. “I’ll protect you. I promise.” I stroked the back of her poor diseased neck, not really knowing what I was saying, aware only that a small, fragile girl had asked for help. I was in a vicious business but that didn’t mean I had to be a vicious man. Not all the time anyway.
Afterward, when the tears dried, we cemented our friendship by going into the bathroom to play the
Singin’ in the Rain
game. We stood in front of the mirror, one concealed behind the other, and performed. First up, I sang “Blueberry Hill” while she mimed it. Then I took to the stage and mouthed “Great Balls of Fire” while she sang behind me. I didn’t know all the words but neither did she, so it evened out over the course.
“What do you want to be?” she asked as we sat down to
The Wizard of Oz
later. “More than anything else in the world, what do you really want to be?”
“A gangster,” I smiled.
“You mean like Marlon Brando and Al Pacino in
The Godfather
? ”
“Maybe more like Cagney, a villain with a heart of gold.” I stuck my hands out and did a rotten Jimmy Cagney impression. “I liked Cagney the best. He always made good right at the end of the movie.”
“He didn’t in
White Heat
,” she said.
“True.”
A lull in the conversation for a while. Then she said, “That’s a funny thing to want. It’s not nice. Ferdy was a gangster. Then he said he wasn’t, but he was really. Why do you want to be a gangster, Capac?”
I shrugged. “You earn respect,” I tried to explain. “You get power, privilege, a say in the running of the world. People look up to you.”
“Is that so important?”
“Yes,” I said fiercely. “I’ve been a nobody. I’ve known what it’s like to be one of the walking dead and I didn’t enjoy it.” I was thinking of that night in the warehouse when death kissed my cheeks and let me go on a whim. “I want power. I want the protection, comfort and safety that it brings. Without power you’re nothing, a corpse waiting to be reaped.”
“Capac?
I
respect you.” She looked at me with sorrowful eyes, a lot like the young Judy Garland who was singing of life beyond the rainbow. “Isn’t that enough?”
I shifted uneasily and wished she’d drop this and get back to watching the movie. You were safe with movies. They can’t hurt you. Not like reality can.
“You have to hurt people when you’re a gangster,” she said. “To get your power you have to take theirs. Isn’t that right, Capac?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Would
you
hurt someone?” Her voice was low,
“Is it like that all over?” I asked gently.
She nodded slowly. “All over. From my toes to my neck. Every bit except…” Her voice caught. “Except for…” Tears were brimming in her eyes and she was starting to shake. “Except for my face,” she wheezed, then fell to the floor and sobbed.
I stood by helplessly, not sure if I should step forward and embrace her, keep silent or what. In the end I bent, picked up her exposed hand, raised it to my lips and kissed it.
She stopped sobbing, looked up and stared at me, shocked at first, then delighted. A tiny smile broke through the tears. She threw her arms around my neck, hugged and kissed me, a little girl’s innocent kisses.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you. Thank you. I knew you were a good guy. Lovely and kind. I used to think Ferdy was like that but he wasn’t.”
“Who’s Ferdy?” I asked softly. She’d mentioned the name three or four times. I thought he must have been her father.
“Ferdy’s my… he used to be my protector. He’s gone now. Will you be my protector instead? I thought I was all alone and would be forever, nobody to look out for me when nights are dark and cold. Will
you
protect me, Capac?”
“Yes,” I said, patting the back of her head. “I’ll protect you. I promise.” I stroked the back of her poor diseased neck, not really knowing what I was saying, aware only that a small, fragile girl had asked for help. I was in a vicious business but that didn’t mean I had to be a vicious man. Not all the time anyway.
Afterward, when the tears dried, we cemented our friendship by going into the bathroom to play the
Singin’ in the Rain
game. We stood in front of the mirror, one concealed behind the other, and performed. First up, I sang “Blueberry Hill” while she mimed it. Then I took to the stage and mouthed “Great Balls of Fire” while she sang behind me. I didn’t know all the words but neither did she, so it evened out over the course.
“What do you want to be?” she asked as we sat down to
The Wizard of Oz
later. “More than anything else in the world, what do you really want to be?”
“A gangster,” I smiled.
“You mean like Marlon Brando and Al Pacino in
The Godfather
? ”
“Maybe more like Cagney, a villain with a heart of gold.” I stuck my hands out and did a rotten Jimmy Cagney impression. “I liked Cagney the best. He always made good right at the end of the movie.”
“He didn’t in
White Heat
,” she said.
“True.”
A lull in the conversation for a while. Then she said, “That’s a funny thing to want. It’s not nice. Ferdy was a gangster. Then he said he wasn’t, but he was really. Why do you want to be a gangster, Capac?”
I shrugged. “You earn respect,” I tried to explain. “You get power, privilege, a say in the running of the world. People look up to you.”
“Is that so important?”
“Yes,” I said fiercely. “I’ve been a nobody. I’ve known what it’s like to be one of the walking dead and I didn’t enjoy it.” I was thinking of that night in the warehouse when death kissed my cheeks and let me go on a whim. “I want power. I want the protection, comfort and safety that it brings. Without power you’re nothing, a corpse waiting to be reaped.”
“Capac?
I
respect you.” She looked at me with sorrowful eyes, a lot like the young Judy Garland who was singing of life beyond the rainbow. “Isn’t that enough?”
I shifted uneasily and wished she’d drop this and get back to watching the movie. You were safe with movies. They can’t hurt you. Not like reality can.
“You have to hurt people when you’re a gangster,” she said. “To get your power you have to take theirs. Isn’t that right, Capac?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Would
you
hurt someone?” Her voice was low,
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