Volta was sitting on the porch, trying to read a bundle of letters fluttering in the strong easterly breeze. He seemed less interested in the messages than the shed.
Watch this, Daniel thought, even though he wasn’t sure what he would do. Not that it mattered. He felt serene, powerful, invincibly wise. He began to dissolve in pure pleasure. He understood this was the danger Volta had warned him about, but he wanted to feel it forever, wanted to stay there, pouring into joy. He almost flirted too long. With immense concentration he imagined a mirror, then his image in the mirror, and, when their eyes met, himself.
Daniel’s return was wrenching. As he staggered sideways on the lawn, right in front of Volta, he felt a searing pain, followed immediately by a rush of melancholic exhaustion. Confused, he looked up at Volta.
Volta’s eyes glittered with delight. ‘Daniel,’ he called, rising from his chair, ‘you did it. Excellent. Excellent! Finally, someone to compare notes with. Come in, come in – you must be hungry.’
Three: WATER
Sensitive Chaos.
—Novalis
In its unbounded state, it's water's nature to seek a spherical
from. That's why rivers meander.
—Schwenk
Gurry Debritto started with the CIA when he was twelve years old. His father, a marine colonel, served as a CIA liaison officer. When they needed a young boy to pose as the son of a female agent, the colonel suggested Gurry.
Gurry trained all winter at Norfolk with Claudia Lord, the woman agent who would be posing as a bitter war widow and Department of Defense secretary with a child to raise and some information to sell. They were hoping to flush a Russian agent.
It went down in a Baltimore hotel. Claudia fumbled pulling her gun. She’d just flipped off the safety when the Russian shot her. He stepped up quickly as she slumped to the floor and shot her again to make sure. Then he turned the gun on Gurry and pulled the trigger, but Gurry was diving over Claudia’s body and the bullet grazed his calf. Gurry picked up Claudia’s gun and kept rolling as three more slugs tore chunks from the carpet. As the Russian bolted for the door, Gurry came up kneeling, the gun held steady with both hands. He shot the Russian in the neck. Hearing his father’s war stories, he’d wondered what it would feel like to kill someone. Now he knew. It felt good.
With his father’s blessings, the CIA put him on salary. His training was thorough, his teachers the best. At sixteen, he performed his first solo hit, a Dayton reporter about to reveal some bad news about cash movements in the Cayman Islands – not that Gurry cared why. But when he was twenty he did ask himself why he was killing people for a loutish bureaucracy he had come to despise for the monthly pittance of sixteen thousand dollars.
Gurry declared himself independent. The agency graciously gave him his leave, sending two men to kill him. When their bodies were found mummy-wrapped in scarlet ribbon at the bottom of a dumpster two blocks from the director’s house, a truce was negotiated: Gurry would continue to take on special assignments for them at a reasonable wage, but could accept or reject assignments as he chose.
Gurry Debritto’s career wasn’t limited to assassination – he did security work and general demolition as well – but assassination, he often said, was ‘the biggest buck for the bang.’ His fees grew in direct proportion to the narrow legend he became. The most he’d received was twenty million dollars for poisoning Jack Ruby. The least was the twenty thousand for killing Annalee Pearse. That one still pissed him off. It wasn’t his fault it was botched.
‘We’re drunk in a Motel 6 in Stockton, California. You didn’t find Miss Rainbow Moonbeam Brigit Fifth Bardo or whatever the fuck her name is, but we know enough already, don’t we? Other people at the party said she wandered back around dawn and announced – it was the sort of thing people remember – ‘I just went around the block to the Horsehead Nebula and sucked a boy’s dick till his skull caved in.’ That boy had to be Daniel, and we know he must have told her – bragging, probably – about Livermore. Or maybe she gave him drugs. Or found something in the house. Or convinced him it was wrong and he should call the cops. But maybe he called Volta. Annalee said they’d been given a number to call if they saw us. But we don’t need all the pieces to solve the puzzle. We can feel the truth. We can feel Daniel’s fear and hatred, and Volta’s cold, neutral touch. You were right to advise our independent investigation, right to sense their dissembling. Volta is brilliant. To suggest – after coaching Daniel – that it wasn’t an accident. The best lie is always the truth. He’s worthy of us.’
Shamus Malloy was talking to his horribly burned hand. He always took the white glove off now as soon as they were alone. He had the thumb tucked under his index and middle finger, making an opening like a mouth. Above it, on the knuckle joining the index finger to the hand, stray splatters of molten silver had left pocked scar-tissue that resembled two blank eyes. Shamus looked into them. ‘You have to help me. What should we do now? What should we do about Daniel and Volta?’
His hand said, ‘Destroy them.’
Transcription:
Denis Joyner, AMO Mobile Radio
Time to ID down to a bottom line: you got the DJ, the Direct Jolt, wired to fire some juice in your ear, and if you got the DJ, you know you have KUSH fuckin’ rollin’ ray-dee-ooo, natural as a six and five, and where you are is where it’s at, and who I am’s a mystery to me too.
Let’s run that bunny down to an illogical conclusion. I mean, come on people! Why are you covering me up with this deluge of cards and letters asking, ‘Hey, who are you, and what’s going down, and is this for real, and wow, who pays for your folly and where can I get me some?’ Asking, ‘What does DJ really stand for?’ Asking, ‘What does it all mean?’
My marketing consultants must be taking drugs. They must think demographics are some kind of visual aid. Who am I? Hey, who are you? And who are we if we’re turning the table together? Why is it wise to question all answers and stupid to answer all questions? Face it: Sometimes you have to beg for an answer. I mean get right down on your bony little knees and beg your heart dry.
But friends and countrymen of the roaring night, you don’t have to beg me. Answers I don’t know are my specialty. So, let me take your questions from the top:
My real name is Doe John. I was born of gypsy spawn and motion is my home. I am the Voice of the Blur and the Breath of Song. Hang on, honey – I got the pedal to the metal and I won’t be long.
Everything is going down, unless it’s rising or signed a short-term contract with equilibrium.
It’s for real and for sure. A true fucking story, friend. You can bet it with both hands.
When you lose the bet, AMO shoots some vig my way, keeping me on the air like some alternative PBS for the sorely bored and seriously demented. In the long run, I come out of your pocket when you’re asleep at night and tell you all the good ways to be bad.
DJ stands for disc jockey, as in I’m riding the wheel just like you and I guess we’ll just have to see for ourselves where it stops. If it does. If it’s moving to start with. Because if wishes were wings we’d all be risen, and if cream was butter we wouldn’t have to churn.