“Peckerwood,” he said, still smiling, “Blood’s been spilled, so I been called. Take this bird inside. Have ’em cook it up for me. I gotta set.” I took the chicken. “You don’t mind,” he said, nice and slow, but he definitely said, he did not ask. I didn’t mind, not once I saw the horn the driver was pulling out of the front side passenger seat of the car. I led them into Secrets, my decision made, and waved the chicken, still alive (one stunted wing fluttered, but its eyes were closed and content) under the bouncer’s nose. He nodded economically towards the freckle-faced girl leaning by the kitchen door. She smoothed down her apron when she saw me. I lost the Negro, handed over the bird, found a seat, snatched a cocktail from the table next to mine and blew my mind. The music had stopped; so had the chatter around me. The only thing that was, the only thing in the icy now of San Santo’s beerlight section was the Negro. He was slow, head low, practically on the nod, but he was a pillar of his race. The other saxman shuffled off the stage to make way for this man, who stood as upright as a sequoia except for his sleepy, smiling head. He licked his lips. He didn’t smile because he wasn’t some sort of Satchmo gladhander. He just said “Suite,” and played.
Blue and yellow fire belched from his horn. The ground shook like the Big One had finally hit the still far-off City, and something, sweat or blood or even gray brain started dribbling from my ears. It was beautiful; the Negro wasn’t even breathing, just blowing, just tying notes in knots, making a tapestry of sound and burning the threads just as quick. Blam! The head to the left of me just exploded, empty lobster exoskeleton and black meat everywhere. The beer boiled away in my mug and I inhaled it like dreamy opium. And the Negro blew some more, terribly, beautifully, in time with the blood swirling in my ears. Another patron, some dude in a dark corner, burst into flame and ran out the door and Negro still blew. Except for the two casualties, the rest of us were really digging the set. He let it die easy, the cornucopia of fireworks sizzling in his horn quietly fading. Blue and yellow to subtler reds and oranges, the key shifting, a downbeat taking over nice and slow like summer.
Then time stopped. No beat, just a low siren whine. Even the light was still, black and color splattered like a Pollock across the bar. But I could move, and I stood up and saw them more clearly. A few sailors (four, one of them without a head, his neck ended in a mass of burnt bone and black meat), a tired older man in a nicely pressed shirt. Beetle mandibles instead of lips stretching from their cheeks. A woman, too, had the mandibles, hers stretched wide open, and she had tentacle fingers wrapped three times around a tall glass. They were frozen, but a few of the other patrons weren’t. A good ol’ boy poured some horrible booze over the head of one of the sailors and set him aflame. Sort of, he did. It was holy flame, frozen flame, like a cape of phoenix feathers draped over a body due to the timeslip. Flame that didn’t crackle or dance, it just was, waiting for the world to start again so it could really eat up the air. The barback pulled a shotgun from under the bar, walked around it and put the barrel of the gun right between the beetle-woman’s pincers. And he pulled the trigger. Her head didn’t explode, it swelled, then waited. The others were dispatched too by a few of the rougher customers—the whore with her straight razor, some frantic queer in denim overalls with a broken chair leg digging into the chest of another of the squares. The murder was well-practiced, like the local ringers who manage to show up for every game of darts or billiards in bars across the nation. They don’t know much, but they know every warp of the felt, or every wayward draft that might push a point into a bull’s eye. The folks knew what they were doing, and as the one-note thrum of the sax started slowly turning into the wheedling whine of a siren, I knew that this whole performance had been planned just to draw in and eliminate a few beetlemen and squidhanded girls. The sailor went up like a Roman candle and singed my eyebrows from across the room. Eyes dazzled, nose filled with beefy smoke, taste of sour ink on the tongue, but in the ears, “Scrapple in the Apple.” And then it faded away.
I was alone in the bar, except for the besmocked girl sweeping up a corner full of dust. Three pitchers stood upright, one rested on its side, the handle keeping it from rolling off my little table. I was peering into a knot in a plank of the wall. The freckle-faced girl limped over to me finally, and even her freckles looked mean, but not as mean as her bloody smock. The sun was up, she’d have to close for an hour or so (heck, make it two) to hose down the floor. She thanked me for tipping so well all night, and shooed me outside with slow hula-wave hands and I got to the cul-de-sac just in time to see my truck, the truck I’d stolen anyway, drive off with a heap of limbs, torsos, and leaking trash bags in the bed. Easy come, easy go. So I went, into the morning streets of San Santo.
Or should I say street? San Santo was like a town in an old western film, it may as well have been all facades, and a bunch of extras just shuffling around nonsensically in the background. Only the main drag was paved; the side streets were packed dirt, gravel and dried mud. The little diner smelled bland from the open doorway. As weird as the jazz massacre was last night, as insane as the spontaneous mass suicide of two days ago, it was a restaurant full of grown men and women, every single one of them eating oatmeal and sipping water, that was the most unnerving thing I’d seen. I didn’t walk out, I backed out, but not one person so much as looked up from their oatmeal. I turned the corner and took one of the rutted footpaths into the downtown area, and oh yes was it down and out. Shacks not only leaning but about to fall over, jury-rigged phone wires low and bowed like clotheslines, a drooling hand pump and not much else in the little square except for life, brilliant sensuous life. A pair of kids whooped it up in a puddle; hobos three of them, two old and a young fellow probably right out of reform school, sharing wisdom in their slurred cant. Girls’ hips swayed when they walked here, back down on the mainline, they just tromped like they were wearing summery snowshoes.
I settled in next to the trio once I spotted the bottle they shared. Upstanding already, the young fellow silently passed it to me without even looking to his elders for permission. Chuck was the young guy and Jed and Smitty the older ones. (Lord, what names!)
“What’s this all about?” I asked. Chuck opened his mouth, but didn’t say anything and didn’t close it. Smitty ran his fingers over his crackling white stubble. “Well, some people believe,” he said, deliberate and slow, like Morse code, “that these are the End Times. But not the very end. The end of one thing, like the town,” (he nodded back to the main drag) “and the beginning of something else,” (he turned north towards my sweet City) “and the only place left for life is right here. In-between town for in-between people.” Then he smiled and showed me his teeth, rotten but pleasant, a natural rot for once. “But it’s Jed who has religion, he knows his Revelation. My conceptual framework is more of a Marxist existentialist one; the world’s patina of logic and reason is melting away under this summer heat. We’re seeing absurdity laid bare.”
I looked at Jed; he shrugged and shook his head. So I rapped about Buddha and told them the story of how Kilaya came to me in the form of beautiful woman (Smitty expressed a basic appreciation for that, though the fine point of even the most base of black beings turning towards protection of the dharma was probably lost on a Red, even a half-drunk one) and how a little burst of the absurd had saved me from a shambling horror born of dreams and eldritch force.
“Explain Yardbird then,” Chuck piped up. “C’mon Smitty, a damn ghost does three sets a week in this little one-outhouse town, just so the lumpenprole can take out a few bugmen? How does a dialectical materialist conception of history explain that?”
Smitty just flicked a finger against the bottle, making the glass ring like a bell. “Big hominid brains perceive the world in unusual ways, especially under unusual circumstances. That doesn’t mean, however, that reality doesn’t exist. Why would supernatural beings create a town full of Organization Men? To stuff envelopes?”
A train whistle blew in the distance, bringing me to my feet. “There’s a train line here?” I asked. Smitty and Chuck shrugged, Jed spoke. “Evil. It’s an evil train.”
I just put my hands on my hips and laughed. “Damn, I’ve seen gods and suicides and ghosts and bug-faced businessmen, all in the past two days, but an evil train?