through my open jacket.
I have my hand on the gun: Access to the holster, a numbness. Palantine starts down the stairs. He will come down the stairs, toward me. Come toward my gun.
So amiable. Like three frogs in a swamp. That nice thin smile, and hardly any sweat on his face. He is coming toward me in the crowd. I have my hand on the gun. The S.S. leads the way, scanning through the crowd.
Access to the holster means I can now do as I wish, to anybody in the world, except that they have stopped the procession. S.S. motions to his buddy. They are pointing my way. Access to the holster starts to drift aimlessly into the crowd.
Pointing at me and talking the S.S. They have turned the Senator away who would come toward me. Access to the holster and second S.S. man bearing down in a collision course.
But they are pulling Palantine in another direction, a small child being led by the hand. Another way. Who would come toward me. A calf.
Access to the holster. Stuff of that sort. Our eyes bump: Palantine and S.S. and me.
Hot as I turn and start to run.
“Detain that man!”
I am wanted. Access to the holster running from his target. God will they come for me. Palantine knows I do not love him as I should. God for the love of one person. A woman.
“Detain that man!”
They are after me I know I can hear them but I am fast and only I know where I have parked the cab. I shall lose them. I can lose them. I have lost . . .
Sweat all over me and my scars as the S.S. are scanning every which way. Jump in my cab and I’m off.
“Detain that man! Detain . . . !”
I ride right through that crowd and out the other way again.
Don’t stop. Corners skidding under my cab, pedestrians shatter, and then the bridge again, racing the subway through those metal girders, Canal Street Manhattan, with clocks and pagodas everywhere, as though I have fled that place of death for another country. All kangaroos.
Slamming my way uptown through the lights and then along the West Side Highway to my place. Not quite so much going on there now. This jabbering in my head all the time has ceased its words to that effect. A still place somewhere with no access . . .
Check out the mail slot for my letter to Iris it’s been taken by the mail man, and then into my place, stripped to the waist, wiping myself dry of this heavy cold corpse sweat all along my body. Thinking of Jodey, of Jodey songs, and Captain Martinez at the range:
Macks Nix, Young Trooper
I strap that combat knife to my calf, refix those metal gliders. There is no choice a man has no choice if I am ever to feel manly again I must have access to this child of my young love my daughter Iris
Words to that effect, too.
It’s early evening, dusk, and gray, by the time I reach the Lower East Side and nobody following me. I am tracking so much better game, and bigger. Scum
In his doorway Sport chats with a pudgy little white-haired guy. Looks just like a cop. Well sorta like a cop. A Holmes man or Pinkerton.
He tells jokes and they laugh, slap each other on the back, exchange a soul shake.
They are discussing a little private business, taking care of business and then no money is exchanged. TCB: Pudge goes off in the direction of Iris’ flat.
I strap my .38 in place and feel for the Magnum. Access to the holster sees that cop has been granted access to Iris going up her stairs.
I will open that door. I will love.
Sport in his doorway waving to another girl. Slick prick. Don’t know what I did then. Can’t remember. Drove around a long while inside a container of lukewarm weak coffee, then back to Sport. Parked on the curb for access to that pimp.
Pimpley pimpelino Sport old Sport how are you Sport? You Pockmark.
Words to that effect
Walked right up to him in his doorway and put my arm around his shoulder
Said, “Hey, Sport. How are things?”
Said, “Hey Sport.”
The big shrug; “OK, cowboy.”
Big shrugger. Bugger. Said, “How are things in the pimp business, Hey
I have my hand on the gun: Access to the holster, a numbness. Palantine starts down the stairs. He will come down the stairs, toward me. Come toward my gun.
So amiable. Like three frogs in a swamp. That nice thin smile, and hardly any sweat on his face. He is coming toward me in the crowd. I have my hand on the gun. The S.S. leads the way, scanning through the crowd.
Access to the holster means I can now do as I wish, to anybody in the world, except that they have stopped the procession. S.S. motions to his buddy. They are pointing my way. Access to the holster starts to drift aimlessly into the crowd.
Pointing at me and talking the S.S. They have turned the Senator away who would come toward me. Access to the holster and second S.S. man bearing down in a collision course.
But they are pulling Palantine in another direction, a small child being led by the hand. Another way. Who would come toward me. A calf.
Access to the holster. Stuff of that sort. Our eyes bump: Palantine and S.S. and me.
Hot as I turn and start to run.
“Detain that man!”
I am wanted. Access to the holster running from his target. God will they come for me. Palantine knows I do not love him as I should. God for the love of one person. A woman.
“Detain that man!”
They are after me I know I can hear them but I am fast and only I know where I have parked the cab. I shall lose them. I can lose them. I have lost . . .
Sweat all over me and my scars as the S.S. are scanning every which way. Jump in my cab and I’m off.
“Detain that man! Detain . . . !”
I ride right through that crowd and out the other way again.
Don’t stop. Corners skidding under my cab, pedestrians shatter, and then the bridge again, racing the subway through those metal girders, Canal Street Manhattan, with clocks and pagodas everywhere, as though I have fled that place of death for another country. All kangaroos.
Slamming my way uptown through the lights and then along the West Side Highway to my place. Not quite so much going on there now. This jabbering in my head all the time has ceased its words to that effect. A still place somewhere with no access . . .
Check out the mail slot for my letter to Iris it’s been taken by the mail man, and then into my place, stripped to the waist, wiping myself dry of this heavy cold corpse sweat all along my body. Thinking of Jodey, of Jodey songs, and Captain Martinez at the range:
Macks Nix, Young Trooper
I strap that combat knife to my calf, refix those metal gliders. There is no choice a man has no choice if I am ever to feel manly again I must have access to this child of my young love my daughter Iris
Words to that effect, too.
It’s early evening, dusk, and gray, by the time I reach the Lower East Side and nobody following me. I am tracking so much better game, and bigger. Scum
In his doorway Sport chats with a pudgy little white-haired guy. Looks just like a cop. Well sorta like a cop. A Holmes man or Pinkerton.
He tells jokes and they laugh, slap each other on the back, exchange a soul shake.
They are discussing a little private business, taking care of business and then no money is exchanged. TCB: Pudge goes off in the direction of Iris’ flat.
I strap my .38 in place and feel for the Magnum. Access to the holster sees that cop has been granted access to Iris going up her stairs.
I will open that door. I will love.
Sport in his doorway waving to another girl. Slick prick. Don’t know what I did then. Can’t remember. Drove around a long while inside a container of lukewarm weak coffee, then back to Sport. Parked on the curb for access to that pimp.
Pimpley pimpelino Sport old Sport how are you Sport? You Pockmark.
Words to that effect
Walked right up to him in his doorway and put my arm around his shoulder
Said, “Hey, Sport. How are things?”
Said, “Hey Sport.”
The big shrug; “OK, cowboy.”
Big shrugger. Bugger. Said, “How are things in the pimp business, Hey
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