"Some dreams turn to screams, bro'. Ain't no big thing."
"Yeah."
"There was a cop…" Clarence started to say.
The Prof waved away the explanation. In our world, "why" won't draw flies.
I made the introductions. "Prof, this is Clarence. Clarence, my brother the Prof."
"Prof?"
"Some call me the Prophet for what I preach— some call me Professor for what I teach."
"What do you teach, then?"
"Time and crime, son. Time and crime. You from Jacques?"
"Yes, mahn. He is my boss."
"You working with Burke?"
"Learning, more like."
"And what you think this schoolboy could teach you? He's still learning himself."
"From you?"
"You ever been to prison, boy? Ever been behind the walls? I met this fool, he was a crazy rookie. Gunfighter, he wanted to be, posing for bank cameras until they dropped him for the count. I taught him to play with fire, walk the wire, you understand? I'm a thief, boy. A sweet thief. Make a buy, tell a lie. No guns, son. I don't fall, been through it all."
I nodded. "The stone truth," I assured Clarence.
"You work free-lance?" the Prof asked. "Or you on apprentice? Jacques gonna teach you to run the guns?"
"I'm on the payroll, mahn. But to run the business…Jacques has plenty ahead of me."
"Cold beats bold, son. You don't wait, you visit the State, understand?"
"Yes, I know this."
"That pimp, back there by the tunnel, the one running those scaly-leg girls…you'd shoot him?"
"No, mahn. I was just showing him some firepower. Playing backup."
"Play ain't the way, boy. Your eyes fire when he call your name, then the man knows your game. You want to scare a motherfucker, hot ain't worth a lot— ice is nice."
"He said…"
"Hey, say ain't play. Jump, and you're a chump. Man slaps you in the face, what you do?"
"I kill any man who slaps me. I'm not a woman, a man be slapping me."
"Schoolboy, what's the first two things I taught you, a man slaps you."
I lit a smoke, buying some seconds. The Prof had done the voice-over, but it was Wesley who walked it through. Years ago, on the prison yard. An iron-freak named Dayton had slapped the ice man in the face, right in front of everybody. Wesley just slumped to the ground, didn't say a word. Dayton strutted off, floating on the whispers. The cons said Wesley was a dead man— a man who won't fight when he's slapped is pussy. Free meat. They kept saying it until the guards found Dayton dead in the weight room.
I looked over at Clarence. "Smile," I said. "And wait. You're gonna come, come quiet."
The kid wouldn't let it go. He turned to the Prof. "That religion stuff I heard you run down…you're a preacher, where's your church?"
"You think the Lord's got nothing better to do than be sitting up there taking attendance? I got the call when I was small. Where I walk is where I talk."
"I was just…" Clarence's voice trailed off. I wondered if he got it, if he understood the legless man on the cart was a giant.
"You got a silencer for that pistol?" the Prof asked him.
"Yes, mahn. I mean, not with me, but…"
"Get one for your mouth," the little man snapped, lighting himself a smoke.
156
Limestone town house just off Fifth Avenue. I pulled to the curb. "I'm going inside," I told them. "Clarence, when you drive, watch the gas, this thing'll pull stumps. The guy I'm going to see, he's about forty-five. Rail-thin, dark hair, going bald on top. Face makes kind of a triangle, wide across the top. Thin lips, long fingers. Name's on the door, brass plate right over the bell. Come back in about an hour. I'm not here, just park anywhere on the block, wait, okay?"
"Sure, mahn," Clarence said, sliding over behind the wheel.
The Plymouth drove off. The Prof would tell the kid what to do if I didn't come out.
157
The teak door sat smugly behind a wrought-iron gate set flush in the frame. I pushed the pearl button. No sound from inside. Waited.
The door swung open. The vampire was wearing a quilted burgundy robe of heavy brocade, a black length of braid knotted at his waist. Hard to make out his features in the shadows, but I recognized the shape of his face, the hair dark at the sides. Saw the skull beneath the taut skin.
"You," he said, a whisper-hiss of surprise.
"Can I talk with you?"
"We've already talked."
"I need your help."
"Surely you know better than that."
"If you'll hear me out…it's something you'll want: to do. And I have something to trade."
"You're alone?"
"Yes."
He touched one finger to the tip of his nose, deciding. Then a twisting gesture with his other hand. I heard a heavy deadbolt slide back, tugged gently on the wrought iron, and the gate came toward me. I stepped inside.
"After you," he said, gesturing toward the staircase.
The room hadn't changed. Old-money heavy, thick and dark. Only an amber computer screen marred the antique atmosphere. The screen had several rows of numbers across the top— it blinked into darkness as I glanced at it, defying my stare.
"Notice anything new?" he asked, pointing to the chair I'd used last time.
I sat down— swept the room, playing the game. In one corner, a rectangular fish tank, much longer than it was high. I got up to look closer, feeling him behind me. The fish were all some shade of red or orange, all with wide white stripes outlined in black.
"This is different," I said. "What are they?"
"Clowns. The family name is Pomacentridae. They come in many varieties. The dark orange ones are Perculas," pointing at a fat little fish near the top. "And we have Tomatoes, Maroons, even some Flame Clowns— my favorites."
The Flames had red heads with a white band just behind the eyes— the bodies were jet black. They stayed toward the bottom of the tank.
"Saltwater fish?" I asked him.
"Oh yes. Quite delicate, actually."
"They're beautiful. Are they rare?"
"More unusual than they are rare. Clowns get along wonderfully with other fish. That is, they never interact— they stay with their own kind, even in a tank."
"They don't fight for territory?"
"No, they don't fight at all. Occasionally, a small spat among themselves, but never with other fish."
I watched the aquarium. Each tribe of Clowns stayed in its own section, not swimming so much as hovering. I saw his reflection in the glass fade as he went over to a leather armchair and sat down. I took the chair he'd first indicated, faced him.
He regarded me with mild interest, well within himself, safe where he was.