probably be pouring again in a few minutes. He looks down at the twenty in his hand, the crumpled wad of paper and green ink, and he thinks if he only had one of these for every time he went down on his fucking stepfather, shit, he'd have an apartment in the Pontalba.
He's heading back to the square, eager to show Robin and the others that he didn't wuss out, even more eager to be out of the stinking alley. Then the thunder rattles the sky above him again, rumbles like the growl of something vast and predatory, and
Michele decides that he's at least earned a cup of coffee and ten minutes or so out of the weather. Just a short break before the next John, he tells himself. Maybe he'll buy Robin a cup too.
"Does the thunder scare you, Michele?" someone says, someone standing somewhere behind him. He spins around, stares into the shadows crowding the empty length of Père Antoine.
"No," he answers the darkness, and his voice sounds very small and vulnerable, not the big street-voice at all.
"Not even a little?" the voice asks, insistent and unconvinced. "All that power above your head, like the sound of the sky breaking. That doesn't frighten you?"
"It's only thunder," Michele says, straining to see the speaker, and then the thunder comes again: closer, more immediate, as if it's heard what he said, his casual denial of its authority, and is angry.
"Then you're a very brave little... girl," the voice replies, and the speaker steps out where Michele can see him. Another tall man, wearing a black windbreaker, his hair soaked, hanging across his face in stringy wet hanks. Michele cannot see the man's eyes.
"Do you want something, mister?" Michele asks. This time at least he almost sounds like he has his shit together, almost sounds the way he imagines Robin would. Never mind that this guy is starting to seriously creep him out, that the urge to just turn and run back to the safety of the gates of Jackson Square and the company of the others is so strong it's almost impossible to stand his ground.
"I want..." the man begins, but his voice is lost in another clap of thunder.
"What?" Michele takes one step backward, wishing now that someone would come along, a bum or a haunted-streets tour or even a fucking cop, anyone to interrupt, to break the spell and get him moving.
"I want to talk to you, Michele," the man says. "There are things happening tonight that you and I must talk about."
"I don't have time for talk," Michele replies. "I have to make a living." When he turns around, the rain-dulled lights of the square seem so close. Just a few steps and he'll be among people again, back out in the open.
"You'll be paid," the man says behind him, "if that's what you're worried about. You'll get what you've got coming to you. For your time."
"No thanks, mister," Michele says. "I think you've got the wrong person." Now he actually is walking back toward the others, and he's amazed at how much brighter the lights are after only a single step away from the man's oily, vacant voice. He's already beginning to feel a little silly at letting himself get spooked so easily, knows how Robin would rag him if she found out. You gotta get a thicker skin, girl, he hears her say, if you're gonna be turning tricks in the Quarter. There's a whole lotta weirdos out there...
There is the deliberate sound of footsteps behind him then, and a sudden pricking pain at the base of his neck. I've been stung, he thinks, Jesus, I've been fucking stung, remembering once when he blundered into a nest of angry red wasps behind his grandmother's garage. And then the light is far away again, farther than he ever thought it could be. In another moment it is gone and he's alone in a cold and perfect darkness.
The man who wears the names of rivers knows that he is no longer like other men, that some part of his fearful work has changed him forever and he can never return to the simple, painless life he lived before. Sometimes the knowing of this hurts him so
He's heading back to the square, eager to show Robin and the others that he didn't wuss out, even more eager to be out of the stinking alley. Then the thunder rattles the sky above him again, rumbles like the growl of something vast and predatory, and
Michele decides that he's at least earned a cup of coffee and ten minutes or so out of the weather. Just a short break before the next John, he tells himself. Maybe he'll buy Robin a cup too.
"Does the thunder scare you, Michele?" someone says, someone standing somewhere behind him. He spins around, stares into the shadows crowding the empty length of Père Antoine.
"No," he answers the darkness, and his voice sounds very small and vulnerable, not the big street-voice at all.
"Not even a little?" the voice asks, insistent and unconvinced. "All that power above your head, like the sound of the sky breaking. That doesn't frighten you?"
"It's only thunder," Michele says, straining to see the speaker, and then the thunder comes again: closer, more immediate, as if it's heard what he said, his casual denial of its authority, and is angry.
"Then you're a very brave little... girl," the voice replies, and the speaker steps out where Michele can see him. Another tall man, wearing a black windbreaker, his hair soaked, hanging across his face in stringy wet hanks. Michele cannot see the man's eyes.
"Do you want something, mister?" Michele asks. This time at least he almost sounds like he has his shit together, almost sounds the way he imagines Robin would. Never mind that this guy is starting to seriously creep him out, that the urge to just turn and run back to the safety of the gates of Jackson Square and the company of the others is so strong it's almost impossible to stand his ground.
"I want..." the man begins, but his voice is lost in another clap of thunder.
"What?" Michele takes one step backward, wishing now that someone would come along, a bum or a haunted-streets tour or even a fucking cop, anyone to interrupt, to break the spell and get him moving.
"I want to talk to you, Michele," the man says. "There are things happening tonight that you and I must talk about."
"I don't have time for talk," Michele replies. "I have to make a living." When he turns around, the rain-dulled lights of the square seem so close. Just a few steps and he'll be among people again, back out in the open.
"You'll be paid," the man says behind him, "if that's what you're worried about. You'll get what you've got coming to you. For your time."
"No thanks, mister," Michele says. "I think you've got the wrong person." Now he actually is walking back toward the others, and he's amazed at how much brighter the lights are after only a single step away from the man's oily, vacant voice. He's already beginning to feel a little silly at letting himself get spooked so easily, knows how Robin would rag him if she found out. You gotta get a thicker skin, girl, he hears her say, if you're gonna be turning tricks in the Quarter. There's a whole lotta weirdos out there...
There is the deliberate sound of footsteps behind him then, and a sudden pricking pain at the base of his neck. I've been stung, he thinks, Jesus, I've been fucking stung, remembering once when he blundered into a nest of angry red wasps behind his grandmother's garage. And then the light is far away again, farther than he ever thought it could be. In another moment it is gone and he's alone in a cold and perfect darkness.
The man who wears the names of rivers knows that he is no longer like other men, that some part of his fearful work has changed him forever and he can never return to the simple, painless life he lived before. Sometimes the knowing of this hurts him so
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