she had bought him and decided to keep them.
He figured, what he’d been through, he’d earned that much. Besides, they were really comfortable. He decided if he gave them back, he was gonna make sure they had a skid highway in the back, something she could remember him by. But no. He was going to keep them.
There was a knock on the door.
Harry got up and went to the window and looked out by moving the curtain slightly. A big man was looking right at him, and next to him, in front of the door, was Mr. McGuire. Still in party clothes.
Harry dropped the curtain.
“Open up,” said McGuire. “We just saw you at the window.”
Curses, thought Harry.
“Open the goddamn door, or Jimmy here will kick it down.”
“I’ll call the cops,” Harry said. “Fact is, I’m doing it right now.”
“Go ahead. I know the chief. He knows I’m here. Count of three, the door comes down,” McGuire said.
Harry opened the door.
McGuire and the moose named Jimmy pushed inside. Unlike McGuire, the moose wore blue jeans and a flannel jacket over a T-shirt.
“What a crummy place,” McGuire said. “You brought my daughter here?”
“Actually,” Harry said, “she preferred the backseat of the car.”
McGuire slapped out at Harry, and Harry stepped back and the slap passed by, and Harry thought: Cool, I’m really starting to learn something. I knew that was coming. I got out of the way, smoothly.
McGuire slapped him with the other hand.
It hurt.
Harry put a hand to his face. Thought, note to self: When you do something smooth and cool, best not to become too caught up in it. ’Cause then you get decooled in the following moments.
“I want you to stay away from my daughter,” McGuire said.
“Hey, I’m through.”
“Others have said as much, and they kept coming around. I know she’s always in heat, but you keep your dog nose out of her ass. Got me?”
“Promise you. I’m done.”
“You’re not done. Jimmy here, he’ll make you done. Like way fucking overcooked.”
Harry glanced at Jimmy. Jimmy didn’t seem too interested. He looked as concerned about this meeting as a pig might be over the proper use of dinner china. He probably had an overdue date with a beer, a nudie magazine, and a handful of Vaseline.
“Jimmy can really fuck you up,” McGuire said.
Jimmy slapped a big fist into a big open palm.
“I don’t want to be fucked-up.”
“Thought not,” McGuire said. “And don’t be spreading lies about me killing someone in the shelter. Visions, my ass. You were trying to impress my daughter and it backfired.”
“I saw something.”
McGuire studied Harry. He put his face close to Harry’s.
“You saw shit. Now forget it. You go around saying things like that…well, I won’t bring Jimmy. I’ll just bring me. I like to have someone else do my dirty work, pay them well. But for you, I might make an exception. Dragging my name through the dirt, that isn’t good. And as for cops, forget it. I could kill your ass and throw you in the riverbottom, bury you out back of the fucking Coke plant, and no one would look for you, and if they found you, one word from the chief and they’d put you back. Got me, pencil dick?”
“Loud and clear.”
“Jimmy, show him something.”
Jimmy came forward quickly, and Harry thought, I ought to do something. I ought to do something Tad taught me, except mostly what I’ve learned so far is concentration and don’t fall over roots. And then Jimmy sent an upper cut into Harry’s belly, and Harry folded with it, tried to relax, and did. It was a good shot, and he felt it, but not like he would have before. He let his breath out and went limp and the punch picked him up some, and when it was over Harry straightened and took in a deep breath. He was hurt, but not destroyed.
Jimmy and McGuire both looked at Harry for a long, odd moment.
“Tougher than you look,” McGuire said. “But nobody’s as tough as they would need to be if I get after them. You got me?”
“I still got you.”
“Good. Now, no more business about the shelter, and stay away from my daughter. Buy you a watermelon, drill a hole in it, fuck that. It’s more fitting to your station in life, which is just under the fucking dirt, southwest of nowhere. Good fucking night.”
They went out then and shut the door, and Harry sat down, feeling the pain in his stomach. Kind of proud of himself, really.
“Nighty-night,” he said to the empty room.
Harry glanced at the suit pants, the fancy shirt on the back of the chair, thought, damn, there was my chance to return that shit. Then he thought: You were just a pet, you idiot. And not even a loved pet. Just a dog she liked for a while, got tired of, was ready to send to the animal shelter. She’s already, this very night, petting another spaniel’s head. A full-blood. Not some mongrel.
He asked himself: In the long run, what did I get out of it all?
Well, yeah. There was that. That was something.
Still, those memories didn’t make him feel as good as he would have liked to have felt. And, of course, seeing someone murdered in the past inside an old shelter—well, really inside his head—squeezing Talia till she hurt, that didn’t work out so well.
Of course, he had met Jimmy. He was starting to get out and meet people. That was a kind of plus. Getting punched by a hired thug. That was new in his life.
He felt emotions wind up in a ball and bounce off the inside of his head, and they weren’t his emotions. They may have been released by his own, but these belonged to time travelers of a sort. Banged and battered, murdered, and in some cases self-destructive souls, released by sound, reverberating in his skull, flashing at the corners of his eyes, knotting up his nerves, squeezing all the juice out.
He hung his head between his knees, then slowly lifted it.
He had done well for a moment there. Took a punch, avoided a slap. But now he was feeling weak. Feeling a lot like he had always felt. And he thought about the sounds lurking. More bad memories and painful emotions ready to leap into his head and ride around on his nerve endings.
Sucked.
He looked about, considered putting the cardboard and egg cartons back. Except he had disposed of them. Maybe he could get more, starting tomorrow. He would have to consult his book, maybe do some research, as he hadn’t been to the Wal-Mart lately, and out back of it was where you found all the good boxes.
But there might have been an accident somewhere near there, so he had to watch that.
He paused.
Nope.
Not going to do that. Won’t slip back into the old ways. No, sir.
I’m one with the universe.
Except for this little snag, of course. It’s not every night you can lose your girl, accuse her father of murder based on visions from the past, get arrested, released, get the cop’s number who drove you home.
That part wasn’t so bad.
Course, Kayla was just being friendly. Old times, she said.
Pink?
What did that mean? What was she talking about? Did he misunderstand her?
No. He was fairly certain she had said, “Pink.”
He thought on matters awhile, decided the thing to do was go for a walk. He got dressed and went along the way he knew best, way out along Pecan Street, strolling briskly, hands in pockets, a cool wind on his face. It was
