wheels and wide low tires. Jack Liffey was just wondering why anybody would bother putting expensive rims on a Hyundai, when the light changed and he noticed the driver was reading something in the seat beside him. He tapped the horn gently and the guy crammed on his parking brake and jumped out. A wiry-looking young man in cutoff jeans came around and huffed and puffed by his door so he rolled the window down.
“What the fuck you honk at me for?” The man’s hands worked asymmetrically and his eyes kept jumping from place to place.
Anger had a bad effect on Jack Liffey. A little hammer in his forehead started thumping and his vision narrowed down. At moments like this he recalled the gang of tough black kids he’d seen go for a puffy hopeless white boy in basic. They knew they were all headed to ’Nam to die and they were getting their last licks in at anything they could humiliate, full of taunt and dare. It was the feel of a baseball bat he remembered, the taped handle in his hand as he had waited for them to come after him next, ready to take a couple down with him, but they hadn’t.
“Before we do something here, let’s both settle down.”
The man glared at the ground and one of his knees was wobbling. He started to rock and Jack Liffey could see he was egging on his own insanity.
“Sorry, man,” Jack Liffey said. “I didn’t see the way you were.”
“You cuntlick!” He wrenched the door open and Jack Liffey came out after it, seeing red. Something sharp hit his shoulder and a woman only a few feet away screamed at the top of her lungs. It sounded like pain and it confused him and made him turn to look. But it was only a heavyset woman watching him, holding her hand to her mouth.
When he looked back, the Hyundai was getting sideways into the cross traffic with smoke off the fat tires, and he stood there in the street wanting badly to feel a baseball bat. He glanced at his shoulder and saw his shirt was torn and blood was spilling out. He wondered if it was a ring or some little palm weapon. He hadn’t seen a knife. Ambient sounds came back up and the urge to kill something diminished slowly like a hot fog burning off.
M IKE Lewis and his wife had a rental, shingled bungalow overlooking the Arroyo not far from the Rose Bowl. The wind that funneled up the canyon had found the flagpole on a much bigger house across the street and was banging the metal pulley on the rope and sending a bright Japanese doodad shaped like a carp out over the lawn. The little old Saab wasn’t in the drive so Lewis’s wife, Siobhann, was still at work. She’d been best friends with his own wife, and when they’d divorced nobody’d felt the need to choose up friends.
Lewis was a social historian who’d been ignored for years until a book on the hidden agendas of L.A.’s elite had gotten hot and now everybody wanted a piece of him, even the elite. When he got out of the car he could hear the manual typewriter going in the front room. Lewis was the last human being to write on a big, black upright L. C. Smith, and it bore the same graffito as Woody Guthrie’s guitar, THIS MACHINE KILLS FASCISTS.
The door was unlocked, and he walked right in, holding tight to the rag he’d tied over his shoulder, through the kitchen and then past Lewis. “ ’S up, Mike? … Use your bathroom.”
“Hi, Jack. Is that blood?”
“Sort of.”
Lewis kept on typing as he went through into the bathroom and took off his blood-soaked shirt. The flow had slowed to an ooze. He found some Band-Aids in the cabinet and made a big X over the slash cut on his bicep, not far above the tattoo, then tied some gauze over that. He knew he should have got stitches, but he didn’t get along with needles.
“You know what synesthesia is?” Jack Liffey called.
“Yup.”
“Do you believe in it?”
“Who knows? I’m not a senses guy, I’m a data guy. In fact, I’m into white knowledge.”
“What’s that?” Still holding his arm, he
“What the fuck you honk at me for?” The man’s hands worked asymmetrically and his eyes kept jumping from place to place.
Anger had a bad effect on Jack Liffey. A little hammer in his forehead started thumping and his vision narrowed down. At moments like this he recalled the gang of tough black kids he’d seen go for a puffy hopeless white boy in basic. They knew they were all headed to ’Nam to die and they were getting their last licks in at anything they could humiliate, full of taunt and dare. It was the feel of a baseball bat he remembered, the taped handle in his hand as he had waited for them to come after him next, ready to take a couple down with him, but they hadn’t.
“Before we do something here, let’s both settle down.”
The man glared at the ground and one of his knees was wobbling. He started to rock and Jack Liffey could see he was egging on his own insanity.
“Sorry, man,” Jack Liffey said. “I didn’t see the way you were.”
“You cuntlick!” He wrenched the door open and Jack Liffey came out after it, seeing red. Something sharp hit his shoulder and a woman only a few feet away screamed at the top of her lungs. It sounded like pain and it confused him and made him turn to look. But it was only a heavyset woman watching him, holding her hand to her mouth.
When he looked back, the Hyundai was getting sideways into the cross traffic with smoke off the fat tires, and he stood there in the street wanting badly to feel a baseball bat. He glanced at his shoulder and saw his shirt was torn and blood was spilling out. He wondered if it was a ring or some little palm weapon. He hadn’t seen a knife. Ambient sounds came back up and the urge to kill something diminished slowly like a hot fog burning off.
M IKE Lewis and his wife had a rental, shingled bungalow overlooking the Arroyo not far from the Rose Bowl. The wind that funneled up the canyon had found the flagpole on a much bigger house across the street and was banging the metal pulley on the rope and sending a bright Japanese doodad shaped like a carp out over the lawn. The little old Saab wasn’t in the drive so Lewis’s wife, Siobhann, was still at work. She’d been best friends with his own wife, and when they’d divorced nobody’d felt the need to choose up friends.
Lewis was a social historian who’d been ignored for years until a book on the hidden agendas of L.A.’s elite had gotten hot and now everybody wanted a piece of him, even the elite. When he got out of the car he could hear the manual typewriter going in the front room. Lewis was the last human being to write on a big, black upright L. C. Smith, and it bore the same graffito as Woody Guthrie’s guitar, THIS MACHINE KILLS FASCISTS.
The door was unlocked, and he walked right in, holding tight to the rag he’d tied over his shoulder, through the kitchen and then past Lewis. “ ’S up, Mike? … Use your bathroom.”
“Hi, Jack. Is that blood?”
“Sort of.”
Lewis kept on typing as he went through into the bathroom and took off his blood-soaked shirt. The flow had slowed to an ooze. He found some Band-Aids in the cabinet and made a big X over the slash cut on his bicep, not far above the tattoo, then tied some gauze over that. He knew he should have got stitches, but he didn’t get along with needles.
“You know what synesthesia is?” Jack Liffey called.
“Yup.”
“Do you believe in it?”
“Who knows? I’m not a senses guy, I’m a data guy. In fact, I’m into white knowledge.”
“What’s that?” Still holding his arm, he
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