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her voice was a disguise, like a quickly executed artwork painted onto an Old
Master to hide it and protect it from recognition. Rachel wanted to be drunk.
She wanted to be happy and merry and unconcerned, drifting slightly on a glass
of beer, but it was not to be. She was pregnant, the father of her child was
far to the south, and people around him were dying. Meanwhile, a man who hated
us both was trying to free himself from the state prison, and his promises of
bargains and truces echoed dully in my head.
I mean it, I lied. I m okay. It s coming to a close. I understand now. I
think I know what happened.
Tell me, she said. I closed my eyes, and it was as if we were lying side by
side in the darkness. I caught the faint scent of her, and thought I felt the
weight of her against me.
I can t.
Please. Share it, whatever it is. I need you to share something important
with me, to reach out to me in some way.
And so I told her.
They raped two young women, Rachel, two sisters. One of them was the mother
of Atys Jones. They beat her to death with a rock, then burned the other one
alive.
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She didn t respond, but I could hear her breathing deeply.
Elliot was one of the men.
But he brought you down there. He asked you to help.
That s right, he did.
It was all lies.
No, not entirely. For the truth was always close to the surface.
You have to get away from there. You have to leave.
I can t.
Please.
I can t. Rachel, you know I can t.
Please!
I ate a burger at Yesterday s on Devine. Emmylou Harris was playing over the
sound system. She was singing Wrecking Ball, Neil Young s cracked voice
harmonizing with Emmylou s on his own song. In an age of Britneys and
Christinas, there was something reassuring and strangely affecting about two
older voices, both perhaps past their peak but weathered and mature, singing
about love and desire and the possibility of one last dance. Rachel had hung
up in tears. I could feel nothing but guilt for what I was putting her through
but I couldn t walk away, not now.
I ate in the dining area then moved into the bar and sat in a booth. Beneath
the Plexiglass of the table lay photographs and old advertisements, all fading
to yellow. A fat man in diapers mugged for the camera. A woman held a puppy.
Couples hugged and kissed. I wondered if anyone remembered their names.
At the bar, a man in his late twenties, his head shaved, glanced at me in the
mirror, then looked back down at his beer. Our eyes had barely met, but he
couldn t hide the recognition. I kept my eyes on the back of his head, taking
in the strong muscles at his neck and shoulders, the bulge of his lats, his
narrow waist. To a casual observer, he might have looked small, almost
feminine, but he was wiry and he would be hard to knock down, and when he was
knocked down he would get right back up again. There were tattoos on his
triceps I could see the ends of them below the sleeves of his T-shirt but his
forearms were clear, the bundles of muscle and tendon bunching then relaxing
again as he clenched and unclenched his fists. I watched him as he flicked his
glance at the mirror for a second time, then a third. Finally, he reached into
the pocket of his faded, too tight jeans, and dumped some ones on the bar
before springing from his stool. He advanced on me, even as the older man
beside him at last understood what was happening and tried to reach out to
stop him.
You got a problem with me? he asked. In the booths at either side of mine
the conversation faded, then died. His left ear was pierced, the hole
contained within an Indian ink clenched fist. His brow was high, and his blue
eyes shone in his pale face.
I thought you might have been coming on to me, way you were looking at me in
the mirror, I said. To my right, I heard a male voice snicker. The skinhead
heard it too because his head jerked in that direction. The snickering ceased.
He turned his attention back to me. By now, he was bouncing on the balls of
his feet with suppressed aggression.
Are you fucking with me? he said.
No, I replied innocently. Would you like me to?
I gave him my most endearing smile. His face grew redder and he seemed about
to make a move toward me when there came a low whistle from behind him. The
older man materialized, his long dark hair slicked back against his head, and
grasped the younger man firmly by the upper arm.
Let it go, he advised.
He called me a fag, protested the skinhead.
He s just trying to rile you. Walk away.
For a moment, the skinhead tugged ineffectually at the older man s grip, then
spit noisily on the floor and stormed toward the door.
I got to apologize for my young friend. He s sensitive about these things.
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I nodded but gave no hint that I recalled the man before me. It was Earl Jr. s
messenger from Charleston Place, the man I had seen eating a hotdog at Roger
Bowen s rally. This man knew who I was, had followed me here. That meant that
he knew where I was staying, maybe even suspected why I was here.
We ll be on our way, he said.
He dipped his chin once in farewell, then turned to go.
Be seeing you, I said.
His back stiffened.
Now why would you think that? he asked, his head inclined slightly so that I
could see his profile: the flattened nose, the elongated chin.
I m sensitive about these things, I told him.
He scratched at his temple with the forefinger of his right hand. You re a
funny man, he said, giving up the pretense. I ll be sorry when you re gone.
Then he followed the skinhead from the bar.
I left twenty minutes later with a crowd of students, and stayed with them
until I reached the corner of Greene and Devine. I could see no trace of the
two men, but I had no doubt that they were close by. In the lobby of
Claussen s, jazz was playing over the speakers at low volume. I nodded a good
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