The Haze by James Hall Page B

those already. But this one was a woman. An old woman. She was about his age. Suffering from the haze like him, only not so dense yet. She goes out every night, finds somebody doing wrong, it could be a little thing, a little mean thing, somebody purse-snatching, shoplifting, whatever, not bad enough to kill somebody over, but she goes ahead and kills. That helps her sleep.
    Something he should try.
    He could use a good night’s sleep.
    He reads. Comes to a good part. The old woman bumps into a man her age. A retired killer. They talk, they have dinner, they walk on the city sidewalk, Manhattan maybe, they laugh about something. They look at the moon. They look at the stars. The two of them, they’ve got things in common. Killing is just one. They like pasta. They like to read. They got problems with their kids who want to stash them away somewhere, force feed them pills.
    â€œI’m going to have to kill my daughter,” he tells her.
    â€œYour own daughter? That’s extreme.”
    â€œIs it?”
    â€œYour own flesh and blood, hell yes, extremely extreme.”
    â€œIf I’m going to escape the home, be with you, there’s only one choice. She’s got to go.”
    â€œMaybe you could sneak out of the home.”
    â€œI tried that. They’re always watching.”
    â€œI could help you.”
    â€œYou’d do that?”
    â€œWhat else I have to do? I’m tired of killing. I’m ready to hang it up. I just been doing it to fill up the hours.”
    â€œGiving up killing isn’t as easy as you think. Killing becomes a way of life.”
    They kissed. They went to bed. All of it described the way he liked it in books. None of this timid bullshit like they close the bedroom door and the reader is stuck out in the hallway, can’t even hear them moaning. No, this woman writer showed everything. Not flinching at any of it, or being coy like how he hated some writers did it. That was one of his peeves. Not showing the real world. Like nobody ever took a dump in books. Dumps were important. You couldn’t live without taking a dump. After the two old farts made love, both of them took dumps.
    It was a good book.
    He fell asleep.
    Woke in the haze. Deep gray smog.
    Javier was there with his sunnysides.
    â€œYou have a good night, Mr. Connors?”
    â€œYou ever screw an old lady, Javi?”
    â€œNot that I recall.”
    â€œYou having trouble with your memory, boy?”
    Javier set the breakfast tray on his table. Little round thing by a window.
    â€œEat your eggs, Mr. Connors. Drink that coffee while it’s hot.”
    â€œWho do I have to kill to get out of here?”
    â€œYou’re being funny again, Mr. Connors.”
    â€œA regular Jack Benny,” he said. “Know who that was?”
    Javier was gone, leaving behind the eggs and coffee and unbuttered toast.
    He spent the day with his book. The old lady serial killer and the retired hitman.
    They caught a cab together, went downtown, way down to the bookstore where his daughter worked. They walked past the store, looked in the window, kept walking.
    â€œShe’s pretty.”
    â€œDark-haired like her mother.”
    â€œOnly girl I saw was a blonde.”
    â€œYeah, that’s her.”
    â€œWhat’s her name?”
    â€œLike what, this is a test? I got to remember everybody’s name?”
    â€œDon’t get huffy.”
    â€œThat was huffy? You haven’t seen huffy.”
    Their first big fight.
    They walk for a while without talking. She’s mad. He’s mad too and hurt.
    At a corner, it’s down near Soho, she hails a cab, gets in, drives away. Doesn’t look back.
    â€œShit,” he said. “Left me standing in the cold, not sure where I am. Shit.”
    He threw the book at the door.
    Javier is there to check on him. Wondering why there’s noise. Why the book’s sprawled on the floor.
    â€œI’m fine. It’s the