"He ran for it. I'm not as young as I used to be,Mike."
"Bullshit!" Stepovich exploded.
"True." Ed's voice went harder. "I let him go. I didn't think he deserved to die for hitting on a girl dressed like a whore, even if the girl was only fifteen.fifteen.NowI'm telling you true. Laurie was dressed to trick. And from what Tiffany told me, she was with the gypsy there when the other guy made her an offer. But!" Ed gripped Mike's arm hard, forced him to meet his eyes. "But the gypsy wasn't selling her, he beat the other guy to a pulp for even asking, and he even mouthed off to me when I bawled Laurie out for acting like a chip pie. Listen, dammit! He's not a pimp,and I don't think he's a trick. He's some kind of street musician, and for what it's worth," Ed tightened his grip as Mike tried to shake him off a second time, "he protected her. And I don't think they did anythinganything.Hecked me up when I told her to go home.So,home.So you talk to him, think where Laurie would be right now if he hadn't been around."
Both men stood silently. Stepovich could feel Ed's eyes on him as he, himself, stared at the gypsy. The gypsy stared back as if he knew every word passing between them.
"You okay?" Ed asked.
"Yeah," Stepovich said tightly. "Un cuff him. I just want to talk to him."
"You can talk to him with the cuffs on. At my place.Heplace. He in the back of the head with something. I figure we'll take him there, let him clean up a little,and talk to him. Where it's quiet and private."
"Un cuff him. I want to talk to him first. Right here."
"I don't think so," Ed said slowly. "I think we'll leave him cuffed and go to my place."
"Ed."
"You're not the type to hit a man when he's cuffed.Acuffed.And I'm not protecting just him, I'm protecting you.Two you.Tworom brutality charges and from beating insensible someone who might be able to tell you something about this other gypsy thing."
Stepovich strangled for a moment, cop warring with father. He reached inside himself for coldness, got a tentative grip on it. "Okay." He could wait. He'd hear it all first. And when he'd heard it all, then…He felt Ed's eyes on his face, forced the muscles to relax, his eyes to empty. "Okay. Your place. Let's go."
There's no whiskey in the jar
I'm so dry I need a drink
I need a place to lay my head down
I need to find some time to think.
"HIDE MY TRACK"
The horses were resting, now, content. Memories of them came back to him from a place he didn't know:Setal, who wouldn't stop moving, even in her stall; Sztrajktoro, who everyone else thought was bad-tempered, but who was only frightened; Madar, who was never really stubborn, just always had her own ideas of what she wanted to do: Nagyful, who listened so intently when he spoke. And the rest, down through the ages.
Now they were resting, as was he. The only thing left was a nagging feeling of something left undone,but it was too late now. The coach had stopped at last, and he must climb down, though he had no passenger for whom to hold the door. He regretted very little, he decided. The brandy, there at the end, had been a mistake, but he had hurt so much. Too late now, though. A feeling like a blanket was creeping over him; he felt warm, comfortable, as if the pain was over and wouldn't be back. He could rest now,and that was what he wanted. He was drifting, ready to sleep, except that he couldn't, because, off in the distance, someone was making a noise. It wasn't loud, but it was there, and it wouldn't stop. He had not been aware of it at first, but it was growing more annoying by the instant.
He was suddenly puzzled. He was dead, wasn't he? Why should there be a racket? Odd. What was it?A thump and a click-a-click, and a thump and slap.Likslap. Likebourines the gypsies had played.
As this thought formed, he heard it louder, more insistent, more annoying. Damn those gypsies anyway. Ever since he'd met them they'd been nothing but trouble, and now they wouldn't even let him die.He tdie.Heo yell for it to stop, but his mouth didn't work. The noise stopped, however, and he saw a familiar face floating before him.
Can't you leave me in peace? he cried, or tried to.
Leave you in peace? Of course not. The other laughed.laughed.Which he? The Owl, yes of course. I am hardly going to leave you in peace, you have to drive us home when we're done.
But I can't. They've killed me.
Oh, yes, I know. And they've wrapped me in a cocoon of darkness, which I cannot leave. I cannot use my body,and yours is damaged, but I can still hear the songs of the ritmus ordog, can I not?
I see the horses, he admitted.
Well, there you are. Time to be up and about. I have something for my brother now, and I'll get it to him if he can find me before I die of the cold. I have a scarf the color of fire and smoke, but it may not be enough.
But what can I do?
The one who knows is dead; bring my brothers to the one who acts.
It was all so damned confusing. He wished he had a drink. No, on the other hand, it was probably best that he didn't. All right. Where are you, then?
Why, I have no idea, said the Owl. Tell them to listen for the tambourine.
Very well. But what about me?
Live.
The damned gypsy seemed to be laughing now.The now.Then wondered why. Then, suddenly, he hurt too much to wonder about anything. The face vanished in a haze of bright lights and pain.
For as long I remember
I've hated those red lights
And hotel rooms with plaster walls
And loud and lonely nights.
"RED LIGHTS AND NEON"
Csucskari the Gypsy hung back and let Madam Moria go up to see what the flashing lights meant. There were two police cars and an ambulance in the alley,and he had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.stomach. When Madam Moria returned after an interminable five minutes, the look on her lined face matched this feeling.
"Well?"
"He was in an accident. He is alive, and they are bringing him to a hospital. I don't know-"
She was interrupted by a siren. The ambulance turned around in the alley and sped away, Csucskari watched as it went by, spitting gravel, leaving a ringing in his ears. The ringing faded very slowly. Very slowly. He fancied he could hear, behind it, the ring of the zils of a tambourine. He listened, and it was still there. He looked at Madam Moria, and saw from the look on her face that she heard it, too. He started to speak but she held a hand up and motioned him to follow. He did so, the tap-tapping of her canes blending with the rhythm still faintly thrumming in his ears.
That old river keeps on rolling
And Old Hannah won't go down.
I can't give back what I ain't taken.
I won't give up if I ain't found.
"HIDE MY TRACK"
Timothy stared into his bathroom mirror, willing Her to him. He thought of how beautiful She had been the first time he saw Her, tried to focus his mind on how Her eyes had warmed him. He tried to see Her in the mirror, but the glass stayed cold, hard to his fingers when he pressed his hand flat against it. All it showed him was on his own face, pale, his hair disheveled. Timmy hated the way he looked, so mussed and sickly. "Poor little Timmy," his mom would have said, and put him to bed and brought him a dish of warm milk spooned over soda crackerscrackers. Sheave scolded him, sadly, for getting into such a fight, and then she'd have called the police and complained about those neighborhood hooligans intimidating her son. But then his dad would have come home, and told him to get his ass out of bed and stop being such a sissy, why the hell don't you ever stand up for yourself, you little pussy.