knew he could be as old as thirty. Seeing as how he could only guess from remembering Haunted Week and a couple vague things before, like the red-suited men waving bells in the snow, he had no way of being certain. But he were at least twenty-seven, and he’d stopped being a virgin for real about sixteen years past and he’d had himself a lot of women in between. He guessed that meant he were old enough and been around enough to start thinking on being with just one woman. On having one he could call his, for good.
Bump thought he were crazy. But Bump had he a wife somewhere he ain’t seen in twenty years, and Bump had he some fucked-up thoughts on dames heself.
Voices from Bump’s room, now; they was either waking up or finishing up. He ain’t wanted to know which, so he tuned it out, sat there smoking, planning what he needed to say and writing it down in his notebook. Bump’d ask a lot of questions, and Terrible oughta have answers fast. That meant thinking ahead on what he’d say, causen it seemed like he got the answers in he head but they ain’t seemed to make it out right. Like he had some disconnect there, between he mind and he mouth. Guessed iffen he were smarter he wouldn’t, but since he weren’t smart he had to think of how to say everything ahead so he ain’t would get stuck.
The bedroom door opened, and Bump came out, knotting the belt of his purple silk robe. Under it he wore silk pajama bottoms the same color. His hair stood up in tufts off he head. “When you fuckin getting here?”
“Couple minutes past.”
Bump nodded and sat on the edge of his desk. His black box sat on it, the one he kept he stash in; he pulled it up to his side, opened it, and started chopping heself a line while he talked. “What knowledge you fuckin got? Gots me some, yay, sure fuckin do, but you telling me on the first.”
Terrible flipped open he notebook, squinted at it for a second. Bump’s ex-woman Lisa taught him to read, aye—among other things—but she ain’t cared too much on what he writing looked like; sometimes even he had a hard time figuring it out, least when he wrote fast he did. “Talked to Sharp-eye Ben, you know he? Gots he some connections, Ben do. Gave me that he knows a dude knows a dude got paid to be a lookout when Sue got attacked.”
He glanced up, expecting Bump to comment, but he were busy sucking up he lines so Terrible kept talking. “Say be a dude name of Gav, squats at Forty-eighth an Grant. Works a duff game up Northside, so won’t be there now, aye? I give it a look-in later.”
Now Bump did respond. More like he spat , he voice a furious cat-hiss, he face pinkish, but whether that was from the speed or from being so pissed Terrible didn’t know. “Bring that fucker here, yay? Ain’t you even—nay, nay, not fuckin here. Take he the warehouse. You taking he the fuckin warehouse, yay, you strap he down an gimme a fuckin ring-up so’s I getting my fuckin look-see.”
“Aye.” He checked the notebook again. “Hearing from Edsel—sells magic in the Market, aye? There regular, every day—says people saying be a ghost. Amy say me the same on the last night, too, that she got told be a ghost killed Slick. Gave em the tell it ain’t, asked Ed spread that on, only—”
“Fuck. Last fuckin thing we needin, yay? That ghost shit.”
“Edsel got the hearing somebody say were a ghost around the night Slick killed.”
Bump tilted his head and drummed he fingers on his desk; the lamp-light hit he diamond rings and sent sparks jumping all over the red walls. “Thinking got truth in it?”
“Ain’t can say. Were told the dude dumped Slick’s body were talkin, dig, an ghosts don’t talk, but maybe we oughta—”
“Ain’t callin the fuckin ladybird on the yet.” Bump waved his hand. “Just causen one fuckin crazyass saying see them fuckin selfs a ghost. Half them inna fuckin pipe-rooms say them seein dead ones, yay, you fuckin knowing that shit. Ain’t can fuckin
Bump thought he were crazy. But Bump had he a wife somewhere he ain’t seen in twenty years, and Bump had he some fucked-up thoughts on dames heself.
Voices from Bump’s room, now; they was either waking up or finishing up. He ain’t wanted to know which, so he tuned it out, sat there smoking, planning what he needed to say and writing it down in his notebook. Bump’d ask a lot of questions, and Terrible oughta have answers fast. That meant thinking ahead on what he’d say, causen it seemed like he got the answers in he head but they ain’t seemed to make it out right. Like he had some disconnect there, between he mind and he mouth. Guessed iffen he were smarter he wouldn’t, but since he weren’t smart he had to think of how to say everything ahead so he ain’t would get stuck.
The bedroom door opened, and Bump came out, knotting the belt of his purple silk robe. Under it he wore silk pajama bottoms the same color. His hair stood up in tufts off he head. “When you fuckin getting here?”
“Couple minutes past.”
Bump nodded and sat on the edge of his desk. His black box sat on it, the one he kept he stash in; he pulled it up to his side, opened it, and started chopping heself a line while he talked. “What knowledge you fuckin got? Gots me some, yay, sure fuckin do, but you telling me on the first.”
Terrible flipped open he notebook, squinted at it for a second. Bump’s ex-woman Lisa taught him to read, aye—among other things—but she ain’t cared too much on what he writing looked like; sometimes even he had a hard time figuring it out, least when he wrote fast he did. “Talked to Sharp-eye Ben, you know he? Gots he some connections, Ben do. Gave me that he knows a dude knows a dude got paid to be a lookout when Sue got attacked.”
He glanced up, expecting Bump to comment, but he were busy sucking up he lines so Terrible kept talking. “Say be a dude name of Gav, squats at Forty-eighth an Grant. Works a duff game up Northside, so won’t be there now, aye? I give it a look-in later.”
Now Bump did respond. More like he spat , he voice a furious cat-hiss, he face pinkish, but whether that was from the speed or from being so pissed Terrible didn’t know. “Bring that fucker here, yay? Ain’t you even—nay, nay, not fuckin here. Take he the warehouse. You taking he the fuckin warehouse, yay, you strap he down an gimme a fuckin ring-up so’s I getting my fuckin look-see.”
“Aye.” He checked the notebook again. “Hearing from Edsel—sells magic in the Market, aye? There regular, every day—says people saying be a ghost. Amy say me the same on the last night, too, that she got told be a ghost killed Slick. Gave em the tell it ain’t, asked Ed spread that on, only—”
“Fuck. Last fuckin thing we needin, yay? That ghost shit.”
“Edsel got the hearing somebody say were a ghost around the night Slick killed.”
Bump tilted his head and drummed he fingers on his desk; the lamp-light hit he diamond rings and sent sparks jumping all over the red walls. “Thinking got truth in it?”
“Ain’t can say. Were told the dude dumped Slick’s body were talkin, dig, an ghosts don’t talk, but maybe we oughta—”
“Ain’t callin the fuckin ladybird on the yet.” Bump waved his hand. “Just causen one fuckin crazyass saying see them fuckin selfs a ghost. Half them inna fuckin pipe-rooms say them seein dead ones, yay, you fuckin knowing that shit. Ain’t can fuckin
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