Read Online My Amputations (Fiction collective ;) by Clarence Major - Free Book Online Page A

time in one week. Kreutzer's shit-eating grin was loaded with sandbags and heretic clouds, a mist hung close to the floor of his swampy mind—all this: in his face. Mason's circumspection meant nothing to Electric Danny. Mason handed over the money scraped together from Edith's purse, Painted Turtle's savings, Brad's shirt pocket, Jesus'jeans, Mason's wallet. This was in exchange the scoop: The Berdseids, a sure shot, lived in Apartment Eight-F in a high rise at Riverside Drive and West Seventy-Eight: lots of valuable jewels, expensive dinnerware, antiques, perhaps stored-away cash, silk bedsheets. Mason asked Kreutzer if he knew a fence. We don't use that word around here, he said. “Transaction-agent” was the expression (Z state sez one thing, Z church Cs another: like Z difference between wiping ya arse with one hundred percent cellulose and steel wool.) Mason and his thuggish sidekick left armed with Berdseids' information and the address of Ota and Company. In search of their scheme they went down and checked out the Riverside Drive apartment door. Careful not to be too obvious. They'd have to take the hinges off? Natural movable joints these days were easier to crack than a hundred and eight varieties of dead-bolts. The Birdseids were always away mornings after eight and never home before three. Never? Well, risk was always. An old door with wood panels. Maybe they'd have to remove one.Could turn out easier. Jesus had equipment. When they got back Edith was upset, said McKay had been crying for over an hour. No response. How was that fink Kreutzer? Edith said she'd never put her confidence in him: something about the curve of his face. They could hear the whimpering. Mason felt bad. But maybe they were bogus tears? He thought: shit, this guy might really be The Author or even Pep West, who cheated his way into college, through college, who steamed open other people's mail. Mason wanted to kick himself in the butt for his boneheadedness. Now the problem: what to do with the remains of the unbreakable, uh, mistake. But his train was derailed when Painted Turtle came in wearing black lipstick, with punk paint on her cheeks. Imagine, a woman forty or more—! but there was a white feather stuck in her hair. Brad, in the kitchen doorway, cracked up. Jesus was telling Edith rumors about Danny being fluff. Mason was depressed suddenly: no one here was a breathing living character: he went over to the closet and looked in. “You'll get your justice so shut up!” Painted Turtle behind him, yanked his arm. “I need to talk with you. It's urgent. Let's go for a walk.”
    Breaking and entering had in them the seeds of cherries, the mustard of virginity. Nervous saboteurs, Mason and man-Friday gave up on the crowbar. (Jesus stood on the lower landing while Mason rang the Berdseids' bell and the one across from it: all was clear and now . . . ) Still, it was important not to wake the dead. Jesus was good with the small drill. It made only a tiny hissing. A round splash of daylight from the living room window inside gave them pride and hope. Couldn't use the damn hammer: big as an Irish banjo: too much noise. But wasn't it true New Yorkers minded their own . . .  (say what?) “No, try to get the tip of the saw in—” “Yessir, boss.” Jesus' Puerto Rican accent fitted the southern Negro attempt like catcalls at an opera.“Gimmie the damn thing!” Mason rammed the little saw in the freshly drilled hole. Jesus whispered. “Ouch! it hurts so good!” “Use the next size.” Jesus easily enlarged the opening. Then the saw got in and slowly Mason worked it back and forth. Slowly, at first—then in one fit of impatience and fear he swung the saw viciously in and the old panel wood split halfway down. Amazing. A swift kick from palsy-walsy's western boot sent it in on the apartment's highly polished oak floor. Jesus, smaller than Mason, crawled through first. Then Mason stuck his tense head in, ooly-drooly, pulled his