She opens the door and says, “Johnny?” like she’s talking to a nervous six-year-old. “There are some friends here to see you. Can I let them in?”
I don’t hear anything, but Tracy waves us in.
“Johnny, this is Allegra and Stark. They brought you some presents.”
She nods at us to put the cooler and jelly beans on the floor near Johnny.
Johnny Thunders is hunched over a metal folding table wearing a magnifying visor on his smooth white head. He’s studying something microscopic in his left hand while his right hovers above it with a delicate paintbrush. He’s wearing black sweatpants and nothing else. He looks like an albino mantis about to strike. Johnny is beyond skinny. He’s Auschwitz thin. You can count each of his ribs. Practically strike a match on them. But he doesn’t look sick or weak, more like he’s a separate breed of minimalist humans designed to take up as little physical space in the world as possible.
“Can you say hello, Johnny?”
“Just a minute,” he mumbles.
His right hand moves almost imperceptibly. I’m not sure Allegra or Tracy saw it. I barely caught it and I can see down to the quarks in his fingernails.
Johnny holds his microscopic object at arm’s length, studies it for a second, blows on it, and sets it down in a small upturned box lid. There are dozens of other flea-size objects in the lid. Apparently satisfied, Johnny turns and looks at us. He smiles and for a minute looks sort of human.
“Hi. I’m Johnny.”
He stands and puts out his hand. It’s reflexive. Something he’s learned or remembers from another life. Allegra shakes and I follow. He holds on to my hand and looks at me, cocks his head like a dog listening for a strange sound.
“They brought you some goodies,” says Tracy.
Johnny touches the cooler and bags of candy with his toes.
“Thanks.”
“Glad to,” I say. “Mind if we sit down?”
“Of course not.”
Tracy gets us a couple of folding chairs from the closet.
Johnny crosses his long legs and waits for us to start. I heard that the dead are usually patient. What else do they have to do?
Allegra takes an old Polaroid camera out of her shoulder bag.
“Do you mind if I take your picture?”
Johnny smiles and sits up.
“Is this all right?” he asks.
“Perfect,” says Allegra. She presses a button and the flash goes off. The camera’s motor grinds and ejects the shot. Allegra takes the photo and rests it on her lap while it develops.
I ask, “Do you know about the other dead people in the city, Johnny?”
“Not really.”
“Some got out into the streets last night. They’re probably going to cause a lot of trouble.”
“I’m sorry. But I don’t know anything about them. I know I’m one of the twenty-seven, but I don’t know much about other revenants.”
It was a long shot that the smart ones might have a sense about or a psychic link to the dumb ones.
“What are the twenty-seven?”
“I don’t know. It’s my understanding that no one knows.”