“Do you have his number?” he asked.
“Why would I?”
“Do you know where he could be?”
“Maybe,” Anton answered, reluctantly. “At his place, his garage, over on the other side of the river,” he said, pointing down the hill. “You know those garages?”
“Yep.”
“He has a repair shop there. The one with the dog skull nailed to the wall—that’s his place. But do you really need the hassle?”
Thomas didn’t answer. Anton waited a bit. Someone’s head poked out of the bar—fearful eyes, unkempt hair, dark skin. Anton bolted, nodding goodbye and disappearing inside. Thomas left his car parked there, descended the hill, crossed a bridge, passed a factory fence, and stepped into a maze of garages, laid out in rows like storage units.
Clay, there was so much clay, it looked as though they were getting ready to burn something on a bonfire, as though nothing ever grew here and the dead came here at night to quench their thirst by imbibing dry, thick lumps of clay. Black tires, half-buried in the ground along the road, an unending white brick wall blanketed with Bible quotes—the clay gave way under his feet, and the scorching sun shone overhead, newspapers and dead cats lay in the grass, and the smell of hell and river water hung in the air. A rusty gate arm blocked the entrance, and the security guard’s booth stood off to the side—broken glass, pocket calendars, random pamphlets, a taped-together length of hose, the door wide open, and black blood that had eaten into the cement floor. The security guard wasn’t there. Thomas hesitated, then peered inside the booth. The security guard smoked terrible cigarettes and didn’t bother stepping outside to do it. He probably couldn’t wash the smell of tobacco out of his clothes. A path made of crushed asphalt ran up ahead; rows of white brick garages stretched out to the left and right. Thomas thought for a second, then hung a left, walking past metal doors and glancing at heavy padlocks lining the sides of the path. Scrap metal was lying by the walls here and there; some startled birds flew by overhead. There was nobody around, and eerie silence prevailed. Thomas sped to the end of a long straightaway, ran up against a brick barrier, turned right, reached the next row of garages, noticed a side alley, and turned down it. He got to the end and turned right again. The garages stretched out ahead of him, without end and without hope. “Where is everybody?” he thought. “There has to be somebody around here.” He stopped and listened hard. Little lizards were scurrying through the charred grass, swallows were rustling under slate roofs, the wind was blaring, whipping through the frames of the metal doors, as if it were alerting the drowsy city that unseen enemies were approaching. A flash of color blazed by somewhere far up ahead. Thomas darted forward, realizing that it was somebody in a colorful shirt whipping around the corner. Thomas ran to that corner, barreled out into the next row, and caught a glimpse of the stranger’s back as he walked quickly past the garages, wearing a bright Hawaiian shirt and gray pants, his bare feet in sandals. He appeared to be holding some heavy metal object. Thomas was nearly at ease and was thinking about chasing down the stranger; however, the man suddenly ducked into a side passageway, so Thomas dashed forward, in a panicky frenzy once again. He ran, turned, reached a narrow tunnel, sprinted down it, high walls on each side of him, pounding the crushed bricks beneath him with his polished dress shoes and stomping on empty cigarette packs and used condoms. The man wasn’t getting any closer; somehow, he managed to stay ahead, his shirt flickering in and out of view and his feet knocking stones flying. No matter how much Thomas accelerated, the gap between them wasn’t closing. Finally, Thomas decided to go for it, and yelled:
“Hey!”
His voice cracked and shattered in the overwhelming silence, but the stranger seemed to have heard it; he stopped and turned around. Thomas paused to think and then charged ahead. Then the stranger bolted, clearly trying to escape. Thomas bolted after him. Heavy footfalls filled the silence. The man ran up to the far wall, hesitated at the intersection up ahead, unsure where to go from there, then hopped off to the left and disappeared around the next corner. Thomas could hear his steps fading away, so he ran to the corner. The stranger was gone. Thomas ran forward, tearing past rows of garages, always hoping to catch a glimpse of the stranger’s flashy clothes, but he had simply disappeared, as though he wasn’t the one stricken by fear, as though he hadn’t hesitated at the crossroads. Thomas was panting, yet he kept running forward, unrelenting, striving to reach the stranger, catch him, and finally figure out what was going on around here. At some point, he felt the path between the garages bend to the left ever so slightly—he must have been running around in circles for some time now. He’d already started thinking about stopping and turning back when his eye suddenly caught an open garage, with a small door visible inside it, also open. He stopped, caught his breath, walked over, and peered inside.
The smell of grease and burnt fur seeped through the darkness farther back as rays of sun poked through and sprawled out across the red, polished surface of an automobile—an old Kopeika. She had clearly given her owner many years of faithful service, but hadn’t quite earned a peaceful retirement—there was something in her past, something for which she was atoning, even after her death. Thomas immediately realized that her death had been a terrible one—she was lying all over that garage, ground up like hamburger. Demons had intercepted that car, tossing it around like a rugby ball for a while and then hurling it into the hot sky over and over again. Chewed-up metal, junked internal components, black burnt rubber, finely shattered glass—the automobile looked like the body of a saint tortured by Roman legionaries. Thomas took a closer look. There was a felt blanket hanging behind it. Swaying in a light, invisible draft, it looked like a dark, heavy sail; evidently there was another unseen exit at the back of the garage. It was worth exploring. Thomas skirted past the dismembered Kopeika, cautiously pushing the felt partition to the side. Sure enough, there it was—another room, cluttered with paint cans and bottles of polish. He stepped forward carefully, saw another door up ahead, and opened it, entering the next room, which was much smaller. There was an office desk in the corner, covered in old, yellowed newspapers. He stepped in and surveyed the space. The next door was tucked away, a tiny hole in the wall, fading like an old scar. Thomas walked over and rammed his shoulder into the door, which wouldn’t give at first, but eventually squeaked open. Hot, concentrated sunlight flooded his vision. Thomas ventured outside, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the painful rays and immediately sensing breathing nearby. He moved his hand away—still too blind to make anything out—crouched, backing out of the sun, and tentatively raised his hand again. He held that position for a bit, unmoving, still feeling a presence nearby and gradually regaining his vision; yellow balls and black planets were bouncing around in his eyes as they teared up and focused again. Thomas stood up. Right in front of him, no more than two steps away, breathing laboriously, dry tongues lolling, stood a pack of stray dogs, sniffing, moaning from the heat and their own exertion. The door slammed shut behind him with a clang of rusty metal. There was no way out. Their empty, hostile eyes aimed at him, the dogs came no closer, but they were clearly readying themselves to pounce on him any moment now and rip his throat out. The top dog, the most battered and muscular of the bunch, had gray fur, a scarred forehead, and a heavy tongue peppered with black dots. Two young hounds—both bow-legged, with tough, yellow coats—were waiting in the wings. Those two looked the most threatening, and they were clearly eager to pounce the instant their leader gave them the order. A bit farther back, behind them, a young bitch with cold fangs was arching her back fiercely, her head held high. A young pup, whose paws were incredibly powerful for a canine its age, was growling next to her, exposing some red spots on its stomach. An old stray with a mangled front right paw, eyes filled with hatred and despair, dried-up saliva around its mouth, and thorns sticking out of its gashed nose was limping off to the side. Yet another dog, young, shiny, and black, stood way in the back. A bit frightened, yet bold and fierce, not particularly worn down or battered and eager to demonstrate his ferocity, the strength of his muscles, the sharpness of his incisors, and the seriousness of his intentions for the only female around. She could feel that, too, but she didn’t let on, turning her back to him and growling, reacting anxiously to each of Thomas’s movements. His head inching forward, the top dog paused and started hoarsely exhaling all of his black aggression; Thomas realized that he was cooked, that everything was just about to go down, and that the leader had signaled to his pack that there was no point delaying any longer—they just had to rip this intruder to shreds. As the leader stretched out toward Thomas and softly dug his paws into the dead clay, Thomas thought, “I’m cooked. I’m really cooked, and nothing can be done about it. I just have to accept things the way they are, even if it’s cruel, even if it’s unfair.” He looked the top dog in the eyes, so he would at least see the blow death landed on him. The top dog observed Thomas with a great deal of reverence, but no concessions would be made—everything must play out the way it’s supposed to; everyone will get what he deserves, nobody will be saved—exceptions are degrading. Thomas gritted his teeth, clenched his fists, and took a half-step forward, preparing himself for a blast of salty dog breath on his throat—then an elderly woman appeared somewhere off to the side. She was tall and had dark skin on her face, a blue men’s jacket on her torso, and heavy shoes on her feet. She was holding countless purses and shopping bags, which she was dragging along the hot clay. Those bags were stuffed with ancient clothing and empty bottles, food she’d fished out of dumpsters, and prehistoric kitchenware—bowls, knives, plates, and spoons. All that stuff rattled and rolled along, and it seemed as though her bones and joints were rattling along, too. Dust had settled around her. She smelled like an apartment where an older person had just died. Her empty gaze rubbed up against Thomas, as though he didn’t even exist and she hadn’t seen him at all. The dogs tensed up and stood still, continuing to growl and gnash their teeth, but their aggression was just riding its own momentum now. They didn’t want to retreat from this victim who had just wandered onto their turf.