Stone Junction

block to the Horsehead Nebula and sucked a boy’s dick till his skull caved in.’ That boy had to be Daniel, and we know he must have told her – bragging, probably – about Livermore. Or maybe she gave him drugs. Or found something in the house. Or convinced him it was wrong and he should call the cops. But maybe he called Volta. Annalee said they’d been given a number to call if they saw us. But we don’t need all the pieces to solve the puzzle. We can feel the truth. We can feel Daniel’s fear and hatred, and Volta’s cold, neutral touch. You were right to advise our independent investigation, right to sense their dissembling. Volta is brilliant. To suggest – after coaching Daniel – that it wasn’t an accident. The best lie is always the truth. He’s worthy of us.’

Shamus Malloy was talking to his horribly burned hand. He always took the white glove off now as soon as they were alone. He had the thumb tucked under his index and middle finger, making an opening like a mouth. Above it, on the knuckle joining the index finger to the hand, stray splatters of molten silver had left pocked scar-tissue that resembled two blank eyes. Shamus looked into them. ‘You have to help me. What should we do now? What should we do about Daniel and Volta?’

His hand said, ‘Destroy them.’

Transcription:

Denis Joyner, AMO Mobile Radio

Time to ID down to a bottom line: you got the DJ, the Direct Jolt, wired to fire some juice in your ear, and if you got the DJ, you know you have KUSH fuckin’ rollin’ ray-dee-ooo, natural as a six and five, and where you are is where it’s at, and who I am’s a mystery to me too.

Let’s run that bunny down to an illogical conclusion. I mean, come on people! Why are you covering me up with this deluge of cards and letters asking, ‘Hey, who are you, and what’s going down, and is this for real, and wow, who pays for your folly and where can I get me some?’ Asking, ‘What does DJ really stand for?’ Asking, ‘What does it all mean?’

My marketing consultants must be taking drugs. They must think demographics are some kind of visual aid. Who am I? Hey, who are you? And who are we if we’re turning the table together? Why is it wise to question all answers and stupid to answer all questions? Face it: Sometimes you have to beg for an answer. I mean get right down on your bony little knees and beg your heart dry.

But friends and countrymen of the roaring night, you don’t have to beg me. Answers I don’t know are my specialty. So, let me take your questions from the top:

My real name is Doe John. I was born of gypsy spawn and motion is my home. I am the Voice of the Blur and the Breath of Song. Hang on, honey – I got the pedal to the metal and I won’t be long.

Everything is going down, unless it’s rising or signed a short-term contract with equilibrium.

It’s for real and for sure. A true fucking story, friend. You can bet it with both hands.

When you lose the bet, AMO shoots some vig my way, keeping me on the air like some alternative PBS for the sorely bored and seriously demented. In the long run, I come out of your pocket when you’re asleep at night and tell you all the good ways to be bad.

DJ stands for disc jockey, as in I’m riding the wheel just like you and I guess we’ll just have to see for ourselves where it stops. If it does. If it’s moving to start with. Because if wishes were wings we’d all be risen, and if cream was butter we wouldn’t have to churn.

Don’t mean shit.

Churn on that.

And next time send me some tough ones.

This has been the Devout Jester whispering sweet nothings in your ear.

Three days after Daniel’s first disappearance, he came in for breakfast, sat down, squared his shoulders, shut his eyes, and instantly vanished.

Volta, who’d been chopping tomatoes for salsa to accompany his renowned huevos rancheros, laid the knife on the cutting board and applauded, murmuring, ‘Bravo.’ Then he went back to chopping.

He was aware of Daniel’s presence but tried mightily to ignore him. He was glad to get rid of him, if only for a few minutes. From the moment Daniel had reappeared and stumbled toward the porch, he’d showered Volta with questions. The only one Volta could answer with certainty had been the first.

‘What did you put the poison in, the wheatcakes or the ham?’

‘Daniel! I take pride in my wheatcakes, and I would never insult Tick Hathaway’s ham.’

‘Where?’

Volta couldn’t tell if Daniel was demanding or pleading. ‘I injected it in the apple in your portion of the fruit salad. I was in a Christian mood.’

‘What? Christian?’

‘The Tree of Knowledge. Forbidden fruit. Temptation and the Fall and all of that. Some tastes of the forbidden are rapturous; some make you sick.’

‘What’s sick,’ Daniel gasped, ‘is dosing somebody. And what’s really sick is mixing speed with it.’

‘I’ve offered the apology of necessity. I can only repeat it. And please – it wasn’t poison. It was a virus that took Charmaine weeks of intense work.’

‘She hates me,’ Daniel said.

Volta noted with surprise the disconsolate edge in his tone. ‘No, she doesn’t. She highly recommends you, as a matter of fact; and as you undoubtedly noticed, she is extremely aware and uncommonly insightful.’

Daniel doggedly shook his head.

After that first question, Volta had no certain answers. This uncertainty seemed to provoke Daniel into