“Yes, boss.”
“And come back alone.”
“Yes, boss.”
“Boss, cut it out. Cut it, boss!” Mark screamed, thrashing wildly.
Willie began walking. The first shell of water poured over his big feet. A second skin of water slid in, foaming soft. Mark shouted and a wave thundered, roared around the shout, folding it as Willie folded Mark. Willie stopped.
“Keep going,” said Hamphill.
Willie went in to his knees, then up, inch by inch, over his big stomach, to his chest. Mark’s yelling was farther away now because the night wind covered it over.
Hamphill stood watching like a frozen god. A wave broke over Willie into custard foam, leveled out, as Willie plunged ahead with Mark and vanished. Six waves came in, broke.
Then a huge water wall rushed in, casting Willie, alone, at our feet. He stood up, shaking water off his thick arms. “Yes, boss.”
“Go up to the car and wait there, Willie,” said Hamphill. Willie lumbered off.
Hamphill looked out at the point, listening. “Now what in hell are you up to?” I said.
“None of your damn business.”
He began walking toward the water. I put out my hands. He pulled away from me and there was a gun in one hand. “Get going. Go on up to the car with Willie. I got a date for a high mass,” he said. “And I don’t want to be late. Now, Hank.”
He walked out into the cold water, straight ahead. I stood watching him as long as I could see his tall striding figure. Then one big wave came and spread everything into a salt solitude.…
I climbed back up to the car, opened the door, and slid in beside Willie.
“Where’s the boss?” asked Willie.
“I’ll tell you all about it in the morning,” I said. I sat there and Willie dripped water.
“Listen,” I said and held my breath.
We heard the waves go in and out, in and out, like mighty organ music. “Hear ’em, Willie? That’s Sherry taking the soprano and the boss on the baritone. They’re in the choir loft, Willie, sending way up high after that gloria. That is real singing, Willie—listen to it while you can. You’ll never hear anything like it again.”
“I don’t hear nothing,” said Willie.
“You poor guy,” I said, started the car, and drove away.…
Where Everything Ends
In the old days a circus had dumped its ancient red wagons and yellow-painted cages into the canal. It looked as if a long parade had rolled and rumbled off the rim to pile up and rust brown under the grey motionless waters. There were about ten cages, wheels turned up, the paint of old years flaking like leaves from a calendar.
Steve Michaels stood on the edge of it, looking down and seeing it through a red mist.
Thirty years ago this was called Venice by the Sea, California. Like Italy. Gondolas had skimmed brightly, with green lanterns in the night, up and down, people singing, everything clean and new. That was all gone. Now it was a dump for empty cages.
Steve didn’t know it was five in the afternoon. He didn’t seem to notice the winter sun hung on a misty grey sky. The silence held onto him and wouldn’t let him breathe.
All of a sudden Lisa was beside him. She made the winter air warm and sweet. Her voice was low,
“Steve, you can’t stand here forever.”
His grey eyes didn’t look up.
“I can try.”