He called himself a priest.
Tossing the blood still might have been simple harassment had it not damaged property. As it was, the blood drenched not only Teddy’s face and her hair and her neck but it also soaked the front of thePRO-CHOICE T-shirt—$6.99 including the lettering when purchased in bulk, but property nonetheless—and this escalated the crime into a Crim Mis Three and the penalty to a possible year behind bars. The priest who threw the open plastic bag of blood at Teddy may not have known this, or might not have cared. He simply shouted, “Suffer the blood of the children!” and tossed the blood into her face. Teddy was totally unprepared for the sudden splash of foul-smelling stuff and for a moment thought this was actually human blood, and then correctly deducted that it couldn’t possibly be human blood, it had to be some kind of animal blood that had been allowed to sit unrefrigerated in order to achieve its present odious stench, dripping from her hair and down her face, and tasting vile where it touched her lips.
She had removed her coat and left it inside the clinic because the day had turned sunny and bright and mild, spring was truly here at last, though no one might have guessed from the anger roiling outside this place. ThePRO -CHOICET-shirt was short-sleeved, so there was nothing she could immediately use to wipe the blood from her face. As she fumbled for a possible tissue in the back pocket of her jeans, the priest put his face close to hers again and began screaming what sounded like a litany, flecks of spittle flying from his lips to mingle with the blood on her face.
“Taste the blood of the children!” he shouted. “Taste the blood of the innocent children,murderer who would slaughter them! Taste the blood of the unborn innocent,murderer who would pluck them from their mothers’ sacred wombs! Taste the blood of the defenseless progeny, slain by the murderers who would deny them birth! Drink the blood of the blessed unborn, fruit of the mother whose holy vessel the murderers would violate! Taste of the blood, drink of the blood, drown the murderers’ evil quest in the innocent blood of the issue torn from the sanctity and purity of all womankind!Murderers, give the children life !Murderers, give the children life !Murderers, give the children life !”
And now a handful of anti-abortion protesters formed behind their frocked leader in a tight semicircle, the focal point of which was Teddy, for she was the one streaming blood, she was the one they’d singled out to drench in blood, to target as the symbolic murderer of innocent children, she was the focus of their chanting now, eight of them standing shoulder to shoulder, pointing fingers in accusation and shouting in unison, “Murderers,give the children life! Murderers, give the children life! Murderers, give the children life! Murderers, give the children life !”
She could find no tissue in her pocket.
The blood kept streaming down her face.
SONNY SANSON was what he’d told Carter his name was, but Carter didn’t believe it for a minute. Big tall guy, blond, with a hearing aid in his ear, he’d make a good leading man if only he wasn’t deaf—hearing-impaired, excuse me, everything had to be so politically correct these days. It sometimes drove Carter crazy, trying to remember what was acceptable and what wasn’t; fuckin broads , it was all their fault. When he was in the slammer, a deaf man was a deaf man, period.
“The trouble with these uniforms you rent from costume supply houses,” the deaf man was saying, “is they all look fake.”
Carter tended to agree with him.
Carter didn’t like the idea to begin with—going in as a garbage man, which is what he gathered this was going to be—but he tended to agree that the stuff you rented always looked like it was for a summer-stock production of My Sister Eileen or Arsenic and Old Lace or The Price or Guys and Dolls or West Side Story, none of which had garbage men in them. Carter knew. Before he’d got caught dealing dope—on a very minor level, by the way—he used to be an actor. In fact, he’d played Officer Krupke in West Side Story and Officer Brophy in Arsenic and Old Lace, and he’d been up for the role of the cop brother in the Miller play, he couldn’t recall the name of the character, for a production they were doing at the Provincetown Playhouse, if he remembered correctly. It just went to show, you could play a hundred cops on the stage, it didn’t make a fuckin difference if they decided to bust you.
This deaf man here—Sanson, whatever his name was—knew that Carter had done time—for such a lowball operation, too, selling dope to the kids in Sound of Music —and he also knew that Carter had done some acting, which is what Carter supposed had caught his attention in the first place, the fact that he’d had acting experience—well, singing, too, for that matter. From what Carter could gather, the deaf man’s scheme had something to do with impersonating garbage men. Which was why he needed the uniforms. And this probably involved eyeball-to-eyeball contact, like theater in the round, which was why the uniforms couldn’t look fake. Carter was waiting to hear more about it, saying nothing for the moment, just listening. He had learned that the best actors in the world were also the best listeners.
“Which is why we’ll have to steal them,” the deaf man said. “The uniforms.”
“You plan to steal sanitation-department uniforms,” Carter said.
Deadpan delivery, like a take in itself, he’d learned that a long time ago. You just blankly repeated a man’s words, it made them sound preposterous.
“Yes,” Sonny said. “Or rather, I was hoping you’d steal them for me.”
“You want me to steal sanitation-department uniforms,” Carter said.
No emphasis on any of the words, just repeating the man’s statement flat out, deadpanned and deadeyed, you want me to steal sanitation-department uniforms, like a double take this time.
“Yes,” the deaf man said.
“From off the backs of garbage men?” Carter asked, and smiled, making a little joke, heh-heh.
“If that’s what it requires, yes.”
“Must be some other way to get them,” Carter said.
“I’m not too sure about that.”
“Without stealing them.”
“Stealing is sometimes the easiest way.”
“Stealing could also fuck up a job from minute one. You do something stupid like stealing garbage man uniforms, it could make the whole thing explode in your face. Which I don’t suppose you want to happen.”
“No.”
“So how many uniforms will you need?”
“Four of us will be going in.”
“Who are these four people? Cause I’ll need sizes, you realize.”
“Of course.”
“So who are they?”
“You, me, a man named Florry Paradise…”
“Florry Paradise.”
Same deadpan delivery.
“Yes, and another man yet to be selected.”
“How risky is this thing going to be?” Carter asked and gave him The Look. He had cultivated The Look when he was playing a small-time drug dealer in an episode of Miami Vice; this was before he himself became a real-life small-time drug dealer and got sent away on a five-and-dime, reduced to two-and-a-half for good behavior and an Academy Award performance before the parole board during which he convinced them that acting was a legitimate form of making a worthwhile contribution to society. Actually, he hadn’t acted a lick since he’d got out six years ago. Actually, he’d drifted into burglary was what he’d done, the things a man can learn in prison if only he pays attention. The Look said I am a reasonable man, so don’t fuck with me.