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Authors: Timothy Hallinan
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got all squinched.”
The cab, at long last, makes the right into the street that leads to the street that leads to the street that Miaow’s school is on. Rafferty exhales heavily and says, “Jesus, this is a long ride.”
Miaow’s not giving him an inch. “That’s because you can’t think of anything to say.”
“Why have you been so grumpy lately?” Rafferty asks.
“Don’t change the subject. They said ‘or something.’”
“All right, you’re absolutely correct. They said if I wrote the book, they’d attack me with garden tools, chop me up, and make me into sandwiches.”
“I’m not five ,” Miaow says. “Why would anyone make a sandwich with garden tools?”
“They’re farmers,” Rafferty improvises. “That’s all they have.”
“Why don’t they just back the buffalo over you?”
“Then they wouldn’t have the sandwiches.”
The remark gets the silence it deserves, and Miaow allows it to stretch out. Then she puts a small brown hand on top of his, the first time she’s touched him in days. “Are you going to get us into trouble?”
“Absolutely not.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Very simple,” he says. “I’m not going to write the book.”
IT TAKES ONLY a second for his life to change.
The thrust of something hard into his back. The solid grip on his upper arm.
“It’s a gun,” a man says in English. “Stop walking. Don’t look around.”
“Or what?” Rafferty says, Miaow’s voice in his ears. The door to her school is a few yards behind him. She disappeared through it ten seconds ago.
“Or I’ll blow your spine to bits.” The English is almost completely unaccented.
“Just asking.”
“Hold still,” the man says, and something dark brown is pulled over Rafferty’s head and he’s shoved forward. “Bend down, pull the hood away from your chest, and look at your feet. There’s an open car door in front of you. Get in. Leave the door open behind you and sit in the middle. Clear?”
“Crystalline.”
“Then go.”
The car is black, and the bit of it he can see is clean and highly polished. He climbs in. It is cool and smells of leather. He slides to the center of the seat, his feet straddling the bump for the drive shaft, and waits. The front door opens, and the car dips as someone very heavy climbs in. A second later the back door to his left opens. A man gets in, and then there is another man sitting on his right. A gun probes his ribs on each side.
“With all friendly intent,” Rafferty says, “if those bullets go through me, you’re going to be shooting each other.”
“They won’t go through you,” says the man who had spoken before,who is now to Rafferty’s right. “They’re .22 hollow-points. They’ll just turn you to hamburger inside and stay there.”
Rafferty says, “Good. I’d hate to worry about you.” He hears a ticking that he identifies as the turn signal, the driver preparing to enter the stream of traffic.
“On the other hand,” the man says, “no exit wounds. You can have an open-casket funeral.”
11
Peep
T he baby’s name is Peep.
The night whispered the name in Da’s ear just before she dropped off to sleep. She had spent hours, extravagantly letting her candle burn down, studying the child’s face. He is a beautiful baby with features of bewildering delicacy, especially the impossible miniature perfection of the nose and ears, the long, dark fringe of eyelashes, the soft curls of black hair. All of it so defenseless, all of it so new .
“Peep” is the first sound a chick makes, when its wings are silly, useless elbows and its feathers are yellow baby fluff. It’s a small sound, breath-edged, perfect for a baby.
So: Peep.
Don’t drop it , the man in the office had said.
How could she drop him?
Early the next morning, they were jostled down the stairs and across the drying mud into the back of a pair of vans. The men and the cripples were herded into one van, the women with children
The cab, at long last, makes the right into the street that leads to the street that leads to the street that Miaow’s school is on. Rafferty exhales heavily and says, “Jesus, this is a long ride.”
Miaow’s not giving him an inch. “That’s because you can’t think of anything to say.”
“Why have you been so grumpy lately?” Rafferty asks.
“Don’t change the subject. They said ‘or something.’”
“All right, you’re absolutely correct. They said if I wrote the book, they’d attack me with garden tools, chop me up, and make me into sandwiches.”
“I’m not five ,” Miaow says. “Why would anyone make a sandwich with garden tools?”
“They’re farmers,” Rafferty improvises. “That’s all they have.”
“Why don’t they just back the buffalo over you?”
“Then they wouldn’t have the sandwiches.”
The remark gets the silence it deserves, and Miaow allows it to stretch out. Then she puts a small brown hand on top of his, the first time she’s touched him in days. “Are you going to get us into trouble?”
“Absolutely not.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Very simple,” he says. “I’m not going to write the book.”
IT TAKES ONLY a second for his life to change.
The thrust of something hard into his back. The solid grip on his upper arm.
“It’s a gun,” a man says in English. “Stop walking. Don’t look around.”
“Or what?” Rafferty says, Miaow’s voice in his ears. The door to her school is a few yards behind him. She disappeared through it ten seconds ago.
“Or I’ll blow your spine to bits.” The English is almost completely unaccented.
“Just asking.”
“Hold still,” the man says, and something dark brown is pulled over Rafferty’s head and he’s shoved forward. “Bend down, pull the hood away from your chest, and look at your feet. There’s an open car door in front of you. Get in. Leave the door open behind you and sit in the middle. Clear?”
“Crystalline.”
“Then go.”
The car is black, and the bit of it he can see is clean and highly polished. He climbs in. It is cool and smells of leather. He slides to the center of the seat, his feet straddling the bump for the drive shaft, and waits. The front door opens, and the car dips as someone very heavy climbs in. A second later the back door to his left opens. A man gets in, and then there is another man sitting on his right. A gun probes his ribs on each side.
“With all friendly intent,” Rafferty says, “if those bullets go through me, you’re going to be shooting each other.”
“They won’t go through you,” says the man who had spoken before,who is now to Rafferty’s right. “They’re .22 hollow-points. They’ll just turn you to hamburger inside and stay there.”
Rafferty says, “Good. I’d hate to worry about you.” He hears a ticking that he identifies as the turn signal, the driver preparing to enter the stream of traffic.
“On the other hand,” the man says, “no exit wounds. You can have an open-casket funeral.”
11
Peep
T he baby’s name is Peep.
The night whispered the name in Da’s ear just before she dropped off to sleep. She had spent hours, extravagantly letting her candle burn down, studying the child’s face. He is a beautiful baby with features of bewildering delicacy, especially the impossible miniature perfection of the nose and ears, the long, dark fringe of eyelashes, the soft curls of black hair. All of it so defenseless, all of it so new .
“Peep” is the first sound a chick makes, when its wings are silly, useless elbows and its feathers are yellow baby fluff. It’s a small sound, breath-edged, perfect for a baby.
So: Peep.
Don’t drop it , the man in the office had said.
How could she drop him?
Early the next morning, they were jostled down the stairs and across the drying mud into the back of a pair of vans. The men and the cripples were herded into one van, the women with children
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