when you’re ready, just slowly make a fist.”
“Suicide is s-sin,” he said. “Only Allah may t-take life. I will have to repeat this on Ju-Judgment Day. Please, no.”
“Don’t be afraid, this is God’s will. I’ll help you. We’ll do it together.”
“No.” Abdelaziz watched a discarded holiday balloon bounce along the beach in the gathering light, the Easter bunny cartwheeling across tendrils of seaweed. The blasphemy of suicide! But no, she
“So-Somali,” he said.
“Shh. No more talk.”
“I-I am shamed, I have soiled…”
“It’s all right. Anyone can have an accident…”
“Will it hurt?”
“You’ll see light,” she said.
“Light?” He was floating high above the cab; looking down, he could see right through himself. The cards were right, he was going to die behind the wheel.
Then across golden sand, streaking through the pale dawn, a rainbow rush of flashing lights. Abdelaziz felt ushered to the Garden gates.
“Do you know the Bible?” Dolores whispered.
“I know that which was written before Jesus.”
“Then you understand an eye for an eye.”
“Yes-”
“And a
“Please!”
Dolores saw red and blue lights strobe in the mirror. She heard a door opening, frantic shouts, footsteps stumbling in the sand as their hands closed, voices joining, blasted apart by the gunshot, “God forgive me.”
THE CENTER OF THE UNIVERSEBY ROBERT LOPRESTI
Let me do the talking, says Petey.
Who’s asking? says Fox.
Nobody yet. But they will. We gotta be ready.
No offense, dear boy, says Strabo. But you are the worst possible spokesperson. You’re like Cassandra, of ancient legend. He warned and warned, but no one believed a word he said.
Was he crazy too? asks Fox.
Shut up, says Petey. Just shut up.
It’s barely morning, the sun peeking from behind the clouds over Wallingford. Too early to be up, but the playground on Linden wasn’t all that cozy, especially when the mist turned to drizzle.
Besides, fresh memories made sleep impossible.
I was up all freaking night, says Fox. Waiting for the Gestapo to show up and drag us away.
I’m too old to dodge
But nobody found us, says Petey. Now it’s an easy walk down the hill and out of enemy territory.
People were already leaving their houses and apartment buildings, getting into cars, or strolling toward the neighborhood center.
See all the worker ants, says Strabo. Starting their pleasant peasant days, serving their futile lords.
A bell jingles and Petey dodges as a bicyclist charges down the hill.
Bastard, says Fox. Don’t pedestrians have the right of way on the freaking sidewalk anymore?
He’s a wheeler-dealer, says Strabo. Hurrying to fuel himself on lattes and sushi before making his million-dollar deals. We, on the other hand, contribute nothing. We do not toil, neither do we sin. Society wouldn’t care if we were wiped off the face of the earth by our bicycling betters.
Don’t say that, says Petey, thinking of last night.
The biker parks his flashy white hybrid in front of a coffee shop.
See that? asks Fox.
Yeah, says Petey. Starbucks. Typical.
Get over that, will you? I meant Lance Armstrong there didn’t lock up.
I didn’t see that, says Petey.
You saw, lad, but you didn’t observe, says Strabo. The lock dangles helpless from the rear rack. The ship is unanchored, gentlemen. Shall we be pirates?
I dunno, says Petey.
I do, says Fox. I know a shop near Pioneer Square where they’d pay cash for that bike, no questions asked.
That’s the point, says Petey, shivering. We’re out of our territory.
Out of this city is where we need to be, says Strabo. With the sugar from Sugarman and the ransom from the bicycle we could journey to Everett or Tacoma. Stay incognito until this blows over.
It’s not gonna blow over, says Petey. That woman is
There’s a cop by the Greek joint, says Fox. Let’s hang a left.
Thirty-Fifth Street is quieter.
Condos everywhere, says Fox. When did this neighborhood fill up with freaking condos?
Why can’t you swear like a normal person? asks Strabo.
Cause I was raised right.
Oh please, Foxy. You were raised by wolves, like Romulus and Rebus.
All these people going by, says Petey. They don’t even see us.
If they did, they’d call the fuzz.
And why not? asks Strabo. What purpose does the constabulary serve if not to protect good citizens from homeless riffraff?
They didn’t protect the girl last night, says Petey.
Something we have in common, dear boy.
We couldn’t stop them, says Petey. By the time we knew what was going on, it was too late.
You said they were up to no good, lad. You could have done
You didn’t either.
I’m not the hero, says Strabo. Just an old, old man.
You were scared, says Fox.
Damn right I was, says Petey. You saw Widmark’s face.
Widmark?
The blond one. He looked like Richard Widmark used to. And the dark one with the big puppy eyes looked like Sal Mineo.
You and your cinema worship, says Strabo. What a waste of brain cells.
Sounds like you’re queer for the shortie, says Fox.
I’m not… Damn! We gotta turn around. I’m not going under that bridge.
You’re a real head case, says Fox. Scared of cops, scared of bridges, scared of Starbucks.
I’m not scared of
A red PT Cruiser squeezes into a parking space, and a family of tourists pops out, covering their cameras with raincoats and umbrellas, all talking at once.
