“Which one is Spitt?”
Nightmare’s face swung back, ruptured with disbelief. “Which one is Spitt?” Disbelief erupted into mockery. “You wanna know which one is Spitt?” Mockery erupted into laughter. “Hey, Spitt! Come here.” He turned in the hall.
“Yeah?” The white youth came from the room. A matted belly, massing toward the pubic, disappeared under a turquoise and silver buckle. A scar careened across the tight, bald pectoral, and turned down toward his navel. He wore no vest. His only chain was his projector. Wrists and forearms were furry, his biceps veined and bald. His cheeks wore the few hairs of someone who could never have a beard. “What you want?”
“The Kid here thought he’d like a formal introduction. Kid, this is Spitt. Spitt, this is the Kid.”
“Huh?” Spitt said. “Eh…Hi.” He wiped a wet hand on his black jeans and held it out.
“Hi,” Kid said, but didn’t shake.
Spitt put down his hand and looked uncomfortable. “I was in the kitchen, trying to wash up some of the God-damn dishes. They ain’t gonna stay clean very long, but I thought for the first day, maybe. Did you want something?”
“You go on back,” Kid said. “Nightmare’s a clown, you know? Yeah, and throw out some of that garbage, huh?”
“I was gonna.” Spitt’s eyes flicked, questioning, between them. He looked down, moved his feet a couple of times, grunted, then went into the other room.
“Now you mean to tell me you don’t know who put the split in Spitt’s tit?” Nightmare demanded; with his finger, he flicked the orchid hanging at Kid’s neck. It ticked and chattered in the chains.
After silent seconds Nightmare, aping frustration, shook his head and assumed a theatrical whisper. “He’s the guy you cut, man, when him and Glass and Copperhead first beat the shit out of you up at Calkins’! You mean you didn’t know that?” Nightmare’s expelled “Ha!” of laughter made at least two of the scorpions in the front hall turn around. They turned back. One, a black woman, was hammering a nail into the wall, using a piece of plank to hit with. “They been tellin’ me you’re a little punchy sometimes, too. Like you’re not always there, you know? Well, I tell ’em just to watch out for you, huh? The Kid knows what he’s doing better than any of you motherfuckers, I tell ’em.”
“Glad you think so,” Kid said. “You going to stay here?”
“Me?” Nightmare buried a thumb in the links looping his chest. “Am I gonna stay here, with these scroungy motherfuckers?” The thumb wagged. The links rattled. “Shit!”
“What about you and Dragon Lady?”
“We’re around, you know. Dragon Lady used to have this all-suede gang, man, over on the edge of Jackson. You know where Cumberland Park is?”
Kid nodded.
“Man, they were some mean motherfuckers. I mean, man…” Nightmare looked in the living room again, stepped inside.
Kid followed.
On the table in the corner were stacked a dozen copies of Brass Orchids.
“You got to watch out, down there,” Nightmare said. “I mean it’s getting pretty hungry, down there. Since the water main broke, it’s just been sort of terrible. Two guys I know already got killed, down there. Yesterday. And somebody else two days before that.”
“I heard most of the people moved.”
“And the one’s that are left, man, are pretty God-damn strange, you better believe it. Dragon Lady got her nest down there. She’s pretty cool, you know?”
“And you’re really going to leave all this for me?”
“I don’t want it.” Nightmare frowned at the table.
“Why?”
“You asked me that already.”
“And I may God-damn well ask you ten times more, too! Until I find out.”
“I told you I was just curious—”
“Me! Why me?” (The three scorpions who came through the room now and didn’t look were making a noticeable effort.) “Come on, Nightmare. Talk to me.”
“Well; you come.” Nightmare turned around and leaned his butt on the table edge. “You go. You got a certain style.” He shook back his hair. “You’re crazy. People say you don’t even know who you are. That’s okay by me. I don’t want nobody asking about Larry H. Jonas before he come here, either—Then, every once in a while, you do something really crazy-ass brave.” Nightmare gripped the edges of the table. “Now I ain’t brave. I think anybody who is, is stupid. I’m just not so spaced out today I can’t remember what I did yesterday—which is more than I can say for you. I think that’s the only reason I ended up the boss.” He shrugged. “Now you got it. You don’t want it, you just take off all them chains, ball ’em up in a little ball, throw ’em in Holland Lake and go on do something else. Somebody else’ll pick it up—Copperhead, Raven, Lady of Spain…maybe some nigger you don’t even know their name yet.” Nightmare’s face twisted. “But I don’t see you doing that, you know?” He pawed something from his back pocket, brought it up between them. “And this shit—” A copy of Brass Orchids, folded. “You know I been actually trying to read this? I don’t understand shit like this, man! But every day for a fuckin’ week you got a fuckin’ page or half-page in the fuckin’ newspaper. Like it was a fuckin’ movie, or something.” Nightmare turned, and with his book knocked the stack. Copies spread the table. Three fell on the floor. “You don’t ever talk about it; least I never heard you.” Nightmare turned the folded book. “It ain’t got no name on it. I mean I don’t even know if it was really you wrote the stuff. I mean that’s what some people are saying. But I’m gonna look at it anyway, see? And I’m looking. Then I find that part about me!”
Kid frowned.
Nightmare conducted the next sentence with the folded book. “Yeah, you know; don’t tell me you didn’t put nothing about me in there.” He opened the cover, brushed over the pages.
Kid stepped around to see.
“Here!” Nightmare thumped the page with bunched fingers, leaving four prints. “That ain’t me you talkin’ about?” The whole page was grey with finger marks, the corners limp.
Kid took the book. The next page was clean. So was the page before. “Yeah…” Kid said. “I guess I had you in mind when I was writing that.”
“You did?” The question’s falling inflection rang with mistrust.
Kid nodded, closed the book and thought how inaccurate a truth he was perpetrating.
“Oh.” Nightmare pulled the book from him. The pages parted automatically at the questioned passage. “Well, reading a fuckin’ book and finding somebody talkin’ about you is some pretty weird shit, you know? I mean I haven’t made up my mind whether I like it…course, you didn’t say anything bad about me.” Once more he nodded, pursed his lips, parted them in a silent shape: “You don’t say anything good, either.” Again he stared at Kid. “That is pretty weird. I just wish I understood shit like this better, you know?” Suddenly, a grin opened around Nightmare’s broken tooth. “That really is me, huh? And you weren’t puttin’ me down or nothing? I told Dragon Lady that was me, and she tried to tell me I was full of shit. You just wait till I tell her.” He folded the book, tapped Kid’s arm with it, and stabbed at his back pocket a couple of times, till it went in. “You are a very strange person. And you do some very strange things.” Nightmare stood up and walked out of the room.
Kid saw Spitt and Glass, who had been standing just inside the kitchen door, going toward the table.