Blaze

the last time. He supposed a draft could have blown it open again, but he didn’t feel any dra —

“They’ve almost got you, Blaze,” George said. Then, in a kind of despairing growl: “Dumb shit.”

“Who does?” Blaze asked.

“The cops. Who did you think I meant, the Republican National Committee? The FBI. The State Police. Even the local humps in blue.”

“No they ain’t. I been doin real good, George. Honest. It’s a clean gag. I’ll tell you what I did, how careful I w —”

“If you don’t blow this shack, they’ll have you by noon tomorrow.”

“How…what…”

“You’re so stupid you can’t even get out of your own way. I don’t even know why I bother. You’ve made a dozen mistakes. If you’re lucky, the cops have only found six or eight so far.”

Blaze hung his head. He could feel his face heating up. “What should I do?”

“Roll outta this pop-stand. Right now.”

“Where —”

“And get rid of the kid,” George said. Almost as an afterthought.

“What?”

“Did I stutter? Get rid of him. He’s dead fuckin weight. You can collect the ransom without him.”

“But if I take him back, how will I —”

“I’m not talking about taking him back!” George stormed. “What do you think he is, a fuckin returnable bottle? I’m talking about killing him! Do it now!”

Blaze shifted his feet. His heart was beating fast and he hoped George would get out of the bathroom soon because he had to pee and he couldn’t pee around no fuckin ghost. “Wait…I got to think. Maybe, George, if you went for a little walk…when you came back, we could work this out.”

“You can’t think!” George’s voice rose until it was almost a howl. It was as if he were in pain. “Do the cops have to come and put a bullet in that stone you carry around on top of your neck before you realize that? You can’t think, Blaze! But I can!”

His voice dropped. Became reasonable. Almost silky.

“He’s asleep now, so he’ll never feel a thing. Get your pillow — it even smells like you, he’ll like that — and put it over his face. Hold it down real tight. I bet the parents are sure it’s happened already. They probably got to work making a little replacement Republican the next fuckin night. Then you can take your shot at collecting the swag. And go someplace warm. We always wanted that. Right? Right?”

It was right. Someplace like Acapulco or the Bahamas.

“What do you say, Blaze-a-roonie? Am I right or am I right with Eversharp?”

“You’re right, George. I guess.”

“You know I am. It’s how we roll.”

Suddenly nothing was simple anymore. If George said the police were close and getting closer, on that he was probably right. George had always had a sharp nose for blue. And the kid would slow him down if he left here in a hurry — George was right about that, too. His job now was to collect that fuckin ransom and then hide out someplace. But killing the kid? Killing Joe?

It suddenly occurred to Blaze that if he did kill him — and very, very gently — Joe would go right to heaven and be a baby angel there. So maybe George was right about that, too. Blaze himself was pretty sure he himself was going to hell, as were most other people. It was a dirty world, and the longer you lived, the dirtier you got.

He grabbed his pillow and carried it back to the main room, where Joe slept by the stove. His hand had fallen out of his mouth, but the fingers still bore the marks of his frantic chewing. It was a painful world, too. Not just dirty but painful. Teething was only the first and least of it.

Blaze stood over the cradle, holding the pillow, its case still dark with layers of hair-tonic he’d left on it. Back when he still had hair to put it on.

George was always right…except when he wasn’t. To Blaze this still felt wrong.

“Jeez,” he said, and the word had a watery sound.

“Do it quick,” George said from the bathroom. “Don’t make him suffer.”

Blaze knelt down and put the pillow over the baby’s face. His elbows were in the cradle, placed on either side of that small ribcage, and he could feel Joe’s breath pull in twice…stop…pull in once more…stop again. Joe stirred and arched his back. He twisted his head at the same time, and began to breathe again. Blaze pressed the pillow tighter.

He didn’t cry. Blaze thought it might be better if the kid would cry. For the baby to die silently, like an insect, seemed worse than pitiful. It was horrible. Blaze took the pillow away.

Joe turned his head, opened his eyes, closed them, smiled, and put his thumb in his mouth. Then he was just sleeping again.

Blaze was breathing in ragged gasps. Sweat stood out in beads on his dented forehead. He looked at the pillow, still in his fisted hands, and dropped it as if it were hot. He began to tremble, and he grasped his belly to stop it. It wouldn’t stop. Soon he was shaking all over. His muscles hummed like telegraph wires.

“Finish it, Blaze.”