PROLOGUE

LATE AUTUMN, HALF MOON, WAXING

/ hope you don't mind

If I rest inside your door

Please forgive the snowy footprints

I'm tracking on your floor.

"RED LIGHTS AND NEON"

Doom teka teka teka doom teka tek.
Doom teka teka teka doom teka tek.
Doom teka teka teka doom teka tek..
Doom teka teka teka doom teka tek.
There is something about the sound of the tambou-
rine.

The zils rattle or ring in the same tones and pitches
as the kettles in which you heat the water or stew the
meat, and the calfskin head that is as old as Nagy-
papa will predict the rain by saying dum or the dry-
ness by saying doooooom. When the tambourine is
played well, the feet move on wings of their own, and
the heart leaps with them, while the lips/ distant ob-
servers above, cannot help but smile a little/ no mat-
ter how somber the mood. This is why the dance and
the laughter are one, and whoever says different is
either deluded or in the service of You Know Who.
And You Know Who has many servants.
Some are weak, some are strong. Some need guid-

2                  THE OYPSY

ance day by day; others, well/ others can work their
evil on their own, and bring more souls into the sway.
For example, there is the Fair Lady, Luci, who—

No. We will not dwell on that now, there is plenty
of time later. Now, we are remembering the tambou-
rine, which is as perfect a match for the fiddle as the
onion is for the bacon, and the memory of the ear
and the tongue is forever, which is as it should be.
These things stay with a person, no matter how many
years have passed, or what paths he has trod. Once
those sounds are in his blood/ he can never forget—

Never forget—

Umm. . . .

Somewhere, perhaps half a mile to his left, a siren
divided the evening into sections. Why do they call them
sirens, he wondered. What sort of sailor would be at-
tracted to them? The question was rhetorical and ironic.
He wasn't worried. He had no reason to think the
siren was for him, so he continued to stroll down
Saint Thomas, which seemed to be the street where
appliance stores gathered, with a few grocers and li-
quor stores interleaved between them like the thick
cloth that keeps the pottery from breaking against it-
self when—

Umm. . . .

He had been a sailor once—twice? Something like
that. He remembered rope burns on his hands; end-
less buckets of fash soup; toothless, fair-haired men
with food in their beards shouting to him in Dutch;

salt water in his mouth; the sick-sweet smell of rum;

earplugs so the batteries wouldn't deafen him; scrap-
ing sounds of a too-small tool against an ugly green
metal hull; salt water in his mouth. He almost re-
membered meeting a small shark once/ but this could
have been a dream. He'd never met a siren, in any
case.

It was coming closer. He almost ducked into a
storefront from some urge to flee, but there was really

Prologue                    3

no reason to think they were looking for him. He kept
walking.

A wooden door opened almost in his face and a
burly figure in a red plaid jacket walked away from
him. He noticed the jacket and thought. Is it cold, then?
He could see his breath, and there was a light coating
of snow on the sidewalk, so it must be. He looked at
his own clothing and saw only a very thinly woven
cotton shirt/ pale yellow with a few blue threads for
embroidery. He wore baggy blue pants of the same
material, and high doeskin boots. These should not
be enough to keep him warm. Perhaps he ought to
go inside. A sign above the door said ST. THOMAS
BAR, which meant it was a public house. The door
had opened before him, which could as easily be a
Sign as it could be a Trap or nothing at all, and the
siren, which ought not to have anything to do with
him, was getting closer. He opened the door and
stepped inside, entering another alien world, which
is what any new place is, after all, isn't it?

Cigarette smoke, an anemic blue, hung over a pool
table, entwined with a neon BUDWEISER sign, and
crept over to a long bar where a fat man in an apron
was talking with a smiling patron. The fat man's fea-
tures were not unpleasant, and his nose had been
broken at least twice; the patron hunched his shoul-
ders as if the world had been too much for him for a
long time, and he had a large scar down the side of
his neck—a knife scar.

The fat man noticed him and said, "What'll it be?"

"I ... that is, brandy."

"How d'you want it?"

"How—?"

"You all right, buddy?"

"I think so."

"Want me to call someone?"

"No. Just let me sit down."

4                  THE GYPSY

"Sure. Sit down. Maybe you shouldn't have any-
thing right now."

"Maybe you're right."

"You driving?"

"What?"

"You got car keys?"

"Car . . . keys? I don't think so."

"Good. Just sit there for a while and I'll call you a
cab. You got any money?"

"Well, I—I don't know." He put his hands in his
pockets and began removing things; An oddly formed
lump of heavy grey metal, the key to room fourteen
of some hotel somewhere, an empty bottle for sixty-
five milligram pills of Darvon, a nickel and three pen-
nies, He stared at this collection, wondering if it had
any significance. The pillbottle; he remembered
something about that—he had just been trying to get
more pills/ when—what happened? He shook his
head/ frustrated.

The fat man said/ "Shit. Never mind, now. What's
your name?"

"Ummm, Chuck—Charles, I think."

"Yeah, you look like a Charles. Okay/ just sit tight.
No one here will hurt you. You'll feel better in a
while. I'm Tony, by the way."

"Thank you. Tony. Do not write the letter."

"What?"

"Do not write the letter. It will bounce three times
and bite three times and leaving you kissing dust."

"Is that a poem or something?"

"It is for you."

"What letter are you talking about?"

"I don't know."

The man with the scar looked up. "He some kind
of nut. Tony?"

"Hell if I know."

"Did you write a letter?"

The bartender paused/ glanced at Charles, then

Prologue                    5

back at the patron. He cleared his throat. "I just told
you about my daughter."

"The dyke?"

"Shut the fuck up."

"Hey, you said it first."

The bartender stared at a soapy glass in his hand.
"I was gonna write and tell her not to bother coming
home for winter break/ but. ..."

"This guy gives me the creeps. Tony."

"So go to the other end of the bar. He ain't bugging
nobody."

"I guess not."

But Charles, after replacing his possessions in his
pocket/ decided he should be the one to move to the
other end of the bar/ as a result of which he spotted
the policemen before they spotted him. His throat
tightened. They can't be looking for me. They can't be
looking for me. Can they? One was very young and
made Charles think of the phrase, "One hand grabs
for the reins while one foot runs for the ditch." Who
had said that, and in what language? The other po-
liceman was like an old wolf-leader, whose eyes miss
nothing even if they appear closed.

Charles turned away, hoping to be missed in the
blue fog/ but he felt the old policeman's eyes seize
the back of his neck. This was pursuit, and pursuit
led to capture, and capture led to—

No, there was no time for that, now, either.

The room was heavy with tobacco smoke; it could
become heavier, he knew that. He could hide himself
in it, although there would be a price to pay.

He did what was necessary, vaguely aware that he
was losing something as he did.

There was a back way, and he found it, and he was
gone. His headache returned, bringing with it the
memory that it had been an almost constant compan-
ion for a long time. He felt pursuit, and it frightened

6                  THE GYPSY

him, but at least now he knew it was not an irrational
fear which had gripped him since—

—Since-
Blind man's night is music to the deaf, and every-
one has two paths, not one, whence comes tragedy
and comedy, forsooth and damn straight, son.

He stood just within the flap of the tent and the old
woman saw him and he saw her and the statuette,
and it would be hard to guess who was more sur-
prised of these two strangers who somehow knew.
And, oh, the things they said without speaking or
moving; the anger, the pain, the justifications, all si-
lent, perhaps all imagined, until he ran, once more/
never stopping until he reached the river, which
agreed to carry him, once more, away from one set of
troubles into another. Out of pangs of the heart and
into torments of the flesh.
Hell of a way to run a coach service.

—Since-
After all, they had entered the bar, and, more im-
portantly, he must trust his instincts, which had got-
ten him out of as many faxes as they'd gotten him
into. The same could be said of his knife, and perhaps
there's a moral there.

Was this time going to be any different? Of course.
They all are. He was breathing heavily but not pain-
fully, his strides were long and even, though he was
tired. He stopped and rested for a moment beside a
high wrought-iron fence, with a lower chain-link fence
outside it, then he walked on, looking back fre-
quently.

There was a gate in the fence/ and someone stood
beside it. His first thought was. It is Luci; I am caught.
But no. He could make out little of her form in the
gloom, but her face had the stamp of beauty with
suffering etched into the lines over her brows and next
to her eyes. A squirrel at her feet chittered loudly as
he approached, started to run, then relaxed. The

Prologue                    7

woman turned at his footstep. He looked into her eyes
and she into his. He felt a slight tingle at the base of
his skull. Her eyes glittered. She said, "You are here
to replace me, that I may rest?"

"I don't understand."

"Why are you here?"

"I am merely walking. Running, in fact. You?"

"I guard this place, so none may pass who should
not. You should not, I think, unless you are to replace
me."

He looked past her, through the high wrought-iron
fence, and understood. "No, I still live. You must
wait for the next to die to take your place."

"How then can you see me?"

"Because I am who I am."

"Who are you?"

"I'm not certain. Who are you, and how did you
come to die, so young?"

"Leukemia," she said dreamily, as if it made no
difference to her at all, and perhaps it didn't. "My
name is Karen."

"How long have you stood vigil here?"

"I'm not certain. Only a few days, I think. I re-
lieved a tired old man who had been here four days."

The squirrel jumped closer to him, then back again.

"You will not have to wait long, I think. Then you
may rest."

"Yes," she said. "Will you see to my man? We
lived together for three years, and he was very kind
when I was dying, but it was hard for him. Harder
than for me, I think."

"What is his name?"

"Brian MacWurthier. We lived at three twenty-
seven Roosevelt, upstairs."

He repeated the name and address to himself, so
he wouldn't forget it. "Very well," he said. "I will—"
A light fell upon him. He turned and his heart jumped

0                  THE GYPSY

as he saw the police car. He began to run/ knowing
already that it was too late.

"I'm sorry/' he heard her say. The squirrel bolted
between the bars of the cemetery as if escaping from
a cage.

"It is nothing," said Charles softly as the two po-
licemen took his arms and threw him against the
chain-link fence. Their hands were rough and thor-
ough as they searched him. What are their feelings at
such times/ he wondered. Boredom? Professional
pride?

"My head hurts/' he said softly. They didn't seem
to hear him.

The older one found his knife and let it fall with a
gesture half careless and half deliberate. Charles
winced as he heard it strike the sidewalk. The younger
one held his upper arms in a grip like steel. It was
painful- He thought about resisting then and there,
but he couldn't decide/ and soon it was too late/ for
they wrenched his arms behind him and put hand-
cuffs on him.

This felt familiar. Why? A piece of the Sight, or the
shards of real memory? The policemen pushed him
into the back of the car. He had to sit sideways be-
cause of the cuffs. He tested them/ and found that
they were connected by a rigid bar, rather than a mere
chain. They knew him then. He frowned, his shoul-
der pressed uncomfortably against the seat back.
There was a time when it would have pleased him
that they showed such fear. There was a time, . . .

He walks aimlessly upon the Old Manor Way/ his feet
twisting in the coach tracks. He sees her before him—the
one whom he had loved, and who betrayed him to marry a
rich man.

"You have destroyed me," he cries. "You have broken
my heart." He reaches into his chest, then, and pulls his

Prologue                    9

heart from his body to show her, but she, filled with shame
or pride, won't look, so he flings it down onto the road.

Soon, an old dry-nurse comes along and sees it. "Vi/ell, "
she says. "We can't have this." And she calls three times
like a raven and screams three times like an owl, and a
shape appears beside her. The apparition, a woman who is
younger than the nurse and older than the lover, takes the
heart from the roadside, and brushes the dirt from it and
holds it to her bosom. He looks closely, and sees that it is
the ghost of his mother, still watching out for him from
beyond the grave.

Lover, dry-nurse, and mother all vanish into the mist,
into the dust. He takes back his heart and replaces it in his
chest and continues on his way.

The holding tank was seven paces by nine. The
walls were of tile, to chest height. The floor was of
cement, with a large drain in the middle so the place
could be hosed down. A tiled bench, perhaps eight
inches off the floor and eighteen deep, was built into
two of the walls. Across from it was an aluminum
toilet, all of one piece. Charles, realized, after a mo-
ment's thought, that this was to ensure no one could
use the toilet seat as a weapon. The sink was also
aluminum. There were neither soap nor towels. The
cold water worked, the hot didn't. A chest-high wall
next to the toilet provided a token measure of privacy
from the thick, wired-glass window next to the door.

Two pair of fluorescent light fixtures, two bulbs in
each, made the tank very bright. The fixtures were
covered in heavy plastic shielding. To protect them
when the place was hosed down, perhaps/ since the
ceiling was far too high for anyone to reach.

There were two others in the tank with him. For
just a moment, Charles thought of his brothers, but,
though he no longer remembered what they looked
like, he knew these were not they. One prisoner was
in his later thirties, perhaps. He had already been
there when Charles was brought in. He was tall,

10

THE GYPSY

stringy, with dark hair that was graying just a bit at
the temples. He was sitting on the bench and he wore
a black tee shirt. The other looked to be in his middle
fifties. He'd been let in just a few minutes before/ and
Charles had the impression that this wasn't his first
time in this place. His grey hair was slicked back, he
had a bit of a potbelly. He wore a faded red shirt with
fake pearl buttons, very old jeans, and cowboy boots.
He paced in a lazy oval near the door. He was short
and he stank very badly when Charles got too dose.
Charles wondered if he'd been fished out of a sewer.
All three of them avoided proximity with each oth-
er, so staying away wasn't dimcult-

He tried to reconstruct the events since he'd been
picked up, but they blurred and faded and slipped
through his fingers. He had been thoroughly searched
by two bored guards with a camera watching, and
there had been an old, sour-faced woman who took
his picture and fingerprints while a fresh-scrubbed
clerk with a weak attempt at a blond mustache had
asked him questions he mostly couldn't answer/ and
then his possessions and even his boots had been
taken and he'd been put into the tank by a guard who
looked like a Nazi and carried the largest key Charles
had seen since—

—Since—

He'd been a child, and his mother carried a huge
ornate key on a chain around her neck. "What is that
for, Anya?" he had asked.

"It is the key to our palace," she said.

"Palace?"

"We are royalty, you know. And someday we will
take our place, and you will be a great king." She
smiled and winked as she said it.

"Will I like being a king?" he had asked, all somber
and earnest.

She had smiled, like the rippling laugh the fiddle
made when Sandi led the csardas. She said, "Ah, my

Prologue                   II

little man, sometimes I think you will never like any-
thing you do, because you must suffer to be happy."
She hugged him, and his face pressed against the or-
nate iron key she wore, and he wondered.

—Since—

He sat down on what could perhaps be called a
bench, and looked at his companions. He wondered
what their crimes were. It came to him then that not
everyone put in this place was innocent. A shiver be-
gan somewhere low down on his spine and shot up
it like a rocket. To be innocent of a crime and to be in
this place, stripped of identification, dignity, and
shoes, with people who smelled like pigs, behind
wired glass, yes, that would truly be damnation. A
man could panic in here—think that he'd been for-
gotten, that no one would ever come for him. There
was no way to see the sky, nor was there a clock.

Suddenly desperate to take his mind from these
thoughts, he addressed his companions. He said
carefully, "Do either of you know how long they're
likely to keep us here before something else hap-
pens?"

Echoes echoes echoes, banging around inside his
head, which now hurt so badly he wanted to scream.
If the police, for some reason, wanted to listen in to
conversations in this place, they would be unable to
hear anything but echoes, Charles wasn't sure if his
companions had understood his question, but he had
no wish to repeat it. The one who stank glowered at
him, and Charles was startled by the deep blue of his
eyes. The younger, taller one shook his head and
went back to contemplating the floor between his
arms.

Charles closed his eyes and took two deep breaths.
He assessed his options as best he could. From the
way he was treated by the policemen, and the dili-
gence of their search, he was considered dangerous,
and was wanted for a serious crime. Had he, perhaps,

12

THE GYPSY

killed someone? His feelings gave him no answer, ex-
cept that the idea of having take a life filled his heart
with no sense of denial.

If he left himself in their hands/ could he expect
justice? Did he want justice? The answer to that was:

Yes, but it as doubtful that they would see justice in
the same way he did. The bench was hard, but the
floor not as cold as he would have expected. He
waited, his eyes nxed on the door/ hardly blinking,
hardly breathing. The younger of his companions
spared him one curious glance, almost a grimace. The
older continued to pace.

Charles could not say how long it was before the
door opened once more. A policeman with a straight
back and a grey mustache stood with the huge key in
his hand and called out, "Jeffrey Simmons." The
taller one stood and moved toward the door. The po-
liceman said/ "Vincent Petersen," and the smelly one
looked up and shuffled to the door. The policeman's
eyes locked with Charles' for just a moment/ but he
couldn't see anything in them.

The cell door shut, sending off echoes like a stone
thrown into a pool. The echoes, hard and metallic,
set off a ringing in his ears. The ringing continued,
too high to sing comfortably/ like the long screeching
note of the violin at the end of a wild csardas. In his
mind, he filled in the tambourine. Doom teka teka teka
doom teka tek. Doom teka teka teka doom teka tek. His
throat burned and he tasted his tears. He reached out,
as if to touch his home, and then squeezed, as if to
tear apart anything that would keep him from it.

Doom teka teka teka doom teka tek.

The ringing became louder still, until it nlled all of
the world that was or ever could be, and he breathed
with the imaginary tambourine.

Doom teka teka teka doom teka tek.

He wrapped himself in his arms, and, as he did,
the rhythm became buzzing of bees and the ringing

Prologue                   13

became church-bells. He let it take him, nil him, ex-
pand him, and move him in a way that was more
physical then he would have thought.

Movement?

Music.

His headache was gone.

The fiddle came to accompany the tambourine once
more, and, just for an instant, he remembered his
brothers. But then, the instant was enough, that time.

Doom teka teka teka doom teka tek.

Doom teka teka teka doom teka tek.

Doom teka teka teka doom teka tek.

Doom teka teka teka doom teka tek.

ONE

A Wolf, A Man/
and an Old Gypsy Woman

05 NOV 17:30

My partner is an asshole, my ex-wife is a bitch.
My daughter is a hooker, the suspect is a witch.

"STEFDOWN"

"Will you guys pipe down?"

No one noticed. The background buzz and rattle in
the squad room, loud for a Sunday, didn't even fal-
ter. Bad enough that his desk was out in the middle
of the room, with other guys always walking behind
him, spooking the hell out of him on bad days. Did
it also have to be butted up against Dumbshit's desk?
He lifted his eyes from the smudged keys of the
Smith-Coronamatic and the multilayered sheaf of pa-
per that he'd just crammed in its maw and found
himself looking at Durand's butt. Dumbshit was sit-
ting on his own desk, his back to Stepovich, his feet
on his chair, for all the world like a high school punk
bullshitting his way through study hall. The kid had
about twenty extra pounds of gear packed into all the
shiny leather pouches on his Sam Browne belt. In-
cluding the nonregulation and probably illegal sap
Stepovich had had to take away from him earlier,
when he'd wanted to use it on the gypsy. Dumbshit

A Wolf, A Man, and an Old Gypsy Woman    15

Durand hadn't been content with throwing him up
against the fence, he'd wanted to sap him, too. Ass-
hole.

Stepovich spoke to Durand's butt- "What's the
name of the street that goes past the cemetery?"

Durand interrupted his monologue to say/ "Quince."
And resumed it again, saying to Colette, who was
hanging on his every word, "so I just catch a glimpse
of him going into the St. Thomas, and I say to Step,
here, 'There's the bastard now/ and 1 hit the brakes
and I'm out of the car and after him before Step's
even got his seatbelt unbuckled, and ..."

Stepovich let Durand's words dwindle in his mind.
Step. Where'd that dumbshit rookie get off anyway,
shortening his name? Mike, that's what he could call
him if he wanted to be informal. Mike. That's what
Ed had always called him before he retired eight
months ago. But Dumbshit had to take his last name
and cut the end off it. Yesterday one of the office
temps had called him Step. Pissed him off. The kid
had been his partner for threcJnonths now, and Ste-
povich still couldn't get used to him. If anything, he
just grated on his nerves more each day.

He glued his attention to the form, used the release
lever to recenter it in the machine, and tapped in
"South on Quince." He paused, his fingers on the
keys, thinking how to recount the arrest. He'd al-
ready left out losing the gypsy inside the bar, simply
because he couldn't think of any way to explain it,
Nor any way to explain how he had picked up the
man's trail again, "Instinct," he'd growled at Durand
when he'd had the brass to ask him. Stepovich typed
in a couple more bland but informative sentences, in
which the gypsy became "the suspect" and he and
Durand "the arresting officers." Like that traditional
Japanese theater, where the actors held up the masks
and struck the poses, the expected faces that hid the
real faces behind them. Get the arrest report about

16 THE QYPSY

two steps away from reality. No one wanted to hear
how the chain-link had sproinged when Durand
threw the gypsy up against it. There hadn't been a
struggle, not really. So leave out the sudden chill that
had run over him when he'd touched the gypsy/ don't
mention how Durand had bared his teeth and swore
and pulled out his sap in a response that was totally
out of proportion to the gypsy's preoccupied glance
and passive resistance-
He typed a few more sentences and read them over
swiftly. He'd leave out that Durand had wanted to
give the gypsy a "screen test" in the car. "You know,
Step/ build up some speed and hit the brakes? He's
got nothing holding him down back there. So when
he hits the screen between the seats, we can see if it
holds like it's supposed to. Screen test/ get it?" And
Durand had giggled, like a kid. Stepovich wondered
if there were any cop jokes he hadn't already heard,

He realized he'd forgotten the knife. An unex-
pected tightness coiled briefly around Stepovich's
spine, a clenching of almost guilt- How had Durand
not noticed the knife clattering to the sidewalk at the
scene of the arrest? He'd certainly said nothing when
Stepovich had failed to turn it over when they were
booking the gypsy. And that was wrong. If Stepovich
leaned back right now and pressed against the sup-
port of the creaking chair, he'd be able to feel the
knife in its sheath against his spine inside the lining
of his jacket. The knife had slithered quickly through
the hole in his pocket and into the lining of his jacket
like a small animal seeking shelter.

Stepovich's fingers went on typing. He glanced
briefly at a scribbled note and nlled in the name as
"Chuck?—John Doe." But he wasn't thinking of the
paper before him, nor the other work to be completed
before his shift was over; he was feeling the weight
of the sheath knife pulling at his jacket like someone
touching his shoulder; he was thinking of the un-

A Wolf, A Man, and an Old Gypsy Woman   17

usual hilt/ bone or antler, not plastic; and the sensible
leather sheath. He should put the knife in the report/
should have turned it in when they booked the guy.
Hell, it was another offense, carrying a concealed
weapon, and maybe it tied into the killing they'd col-
lared the gypsy on. If anyone found out, they'd nail
Stepovich for concealing evidence or some such shit,
and for what?

For what?

Stepovich didn't have any answer to that. And
when you start doing things that you don't have rea-
sons for, and they're things that could get your ass
chewed off, it's time to back off from the job and take
a break. But get yourself clear. He should do some-
thing like lean back and then jerk forward, saying,
"Oh, shit, I forgot the knife, it musta fell through the
hole in my pocket." Then fish it out and hand it to
Durand, and have him go explain to booking while
Stepovich used the whiteout to fix the arrest report.
Then everything would be all square. Easy.

His desk phone rang, and^without even looking,
Durand reached back and snagged the receiver off the
cradle. "Hello/" he answered it, irking Stepovich
even more. Damn kid couldn't even answer a phone
properly, didn't identify himself, didn't even say the
caller had reached Stepovich's line. "Just a sec," he
said, and handed the receiver to Stepovich.

"Who is it?" he asked as he took it.

Durand shrugged. "Dunno. They wanted to talk to
you."

Stepovich swallowed an irritated response, took the
phone- "Officer Stepovich here, can I help you?"

"Daddy?"

"Laurie! How's my girl?"

"Fine, Daddy, except that I'm in the school square-
dance program this Friday/ and I have a skirt that's
okay for it, but I need a blouse, a white frilly blouse."

There had been a time when Laurie would have

18

THE GYPSY

beaten around the bush, would have told him all
about the program and who her dance partner was
and if he was yucky or nice, and then hinted, ever so
slyly, that she'd be able to dance better in a frilly white
blouse. Not anymore. And Stepovich didn't know if
it was because she was getting older and more direct,
or because now she only calleAlim when she really
wanted something, and didn't want to bother with
him anymore than was necessary.

"Daddy?" came her voice, and he realized he
hadn't answered her yet. "I know you sent the sup-
port check, and Mom got it and all, but this is the
month she has to pay property taxes she says, so she'
says we can't afford it. But I thought, since you're in
an apartment and don't have property taxes, maybe
you. ..."

"Sure thing, pussycat. You want me to come by
this evening and take you out to one of the malls to
get it?"

"Um, well/ actually, I know the one I want, it's
twenty-two dollars at Carson's, and uh, if you said
okay. Mom said I could go get it on her card right
now, with Chrissy and Sue. They're like, you know,
waiting right now."

"I see," Stepovich tried to think of some other
words to say, something that would reach down the
phone and touch her, pull her closer to him. He
leaned back in his chair, shifting his weight, and the
chair squeaked as the gypsy's knife pressed up
against his spine. He straightened quickly. "Well,
honey, you tell your mom I'll put an extra check in
the mail, and you go get your shirt. When is this
dance thing, anyway?"

"Friday at seven. We're doing it for the PTA meet-
ing. Uh, Daddy, don't forget tax. I mean, it will prob-
ably cost more with tax and everything."

"Right. I won't forget." Stepovich scratched $30 on
the corner of his blotter, drew a lazy circle around it-

A Wolf, A Man, and an Old Gypsy Woman   19

"So, what else is new around there? Got a boyfriend
yet?"

"No." The irritation in her voice was not feigned.
He guessed that the old tease really wasn't funny
anymore. Which meant that maybe, yes, she did have
a boyfriend. She was what, almost fifteen? Already
fifteen? He sampled foot in mouth, swallowed it.

"Just teasing, sweetheart. So, what is going on with
you lately?"

"Nothing, really. Dad, just this dance thing. Look,
Chrissy's waiting, and Sue has to phone home to
make sure it's okay if she goes with us, so I've got to
hang up now, okay? Oh, and if you make the check
to me, I can cash it while Mom's at work, and she
doesn't have to stop at the bank. Less hassle, you
know. Thanks a bunch. I'll tell Jeffrey you said 'hi.' "

"Yeah, okay, Laurie. Listen, I'll try to make it Fri-
day, okay, but if . . ."

"Okay, Daddy, that's great, I'll see you then. Bye."

And she was gone and he was holding the phone
too tightly, listening to its emptiness. He wanted to
reach out and punch her number in again, call her
back, say something to her to make her understand
how much he missed her, how afraid he was that she
was growing up and leaving him behind like a worn-
out stuffed toy.

Instead he rolled the report pages out of the ma-
chine, scanned them quickly and inked in a couple of
corrections and signed it. Then shoved it at Durand's
butt.

"Here. You take care of the rest."

And before Durand could turn around and say any-
thing, Stepovich got up and stalked out of the room.
He had to move, had to be doing something, not sit-
ting still.

He got a drink at the water fountain, then walked
past the elevator, down the hall between walls the
color of old sour cream to the door marked EXIT—

20 THE GYPSY

STAIRWELL. He went up two flights, listening to his
footsteps echo, not using the handrail/ forcing his
body to do this extra little bit just to prove it still
could. The knife rubbed against him as he walh^.
The gypsy was up here, locked into one of the hoTd-
ing cells.

Stepovich slowed his progress up the stairs. The
man had shown no understanding of why he was be-
ing arrested. It hadn't felt good to Stepovich, not like
a righteous collar. This wasn't the guy. He already
knew it when they stopped him, and he hadn't really
wanted to haul him in. But that damn Durand was
like a pit bull, all jaw and no brain. The gypsy
matched the description of the killer who had shot
the liquor store clerk, right down to the clothes/ and
Durand was always dreaming those hot glory dreams,
about commendations and the five o'clock news and
grateful feminine hands groping his crotch. It had been
an ugly killing, one of those things where the thief al-
ready had the money in his hands when he shot the
guy. There'd been no reason to shoot the clerk at all.
Ugly. The press would play with this one, and everyone
would want blood.

Maybe that was why he'd held back on the knife.
He was sure the gypsy was going to be shaken loose,
eventually. But they would let him go reluctantly, and
it was going to be damn tough on him until then. And
maybe he felt the guy didn't deserve a concealed
weapons charge that would stick, simply because he
looked like someone else, someone who'd blown
away a liquor store clerk for a hundred and seventy-
nine dollars plus loose change.

They waved him through the checkthrough, not ca-
sual, but respectful. He was the guy who'd made the
big collar for the day. No one was going to stop him
from inspecting his catch. He replied to their con-
gratulatory words without thinking, a few nods, a
couple of sure, sure's. Holding cell three.

A Wolf, A Man. and an Old Gypsy Woman   21

He walked down the hallway, and remembered for
an instant the first time he'd walked through here. It
had reminded him of visiting the zoo, of looking at
animals made unreal by their unnatural enclosures.
Now it seemed normal. Now when he went to the
zoo, it reminded him of this place, and he'd stare at
the animals and imagine what they'd been booked for
and which ones would be found guilty. The zoo. Hell,
it had been two years since he'd taken Jeffrey to the
zoo. It only seemed more recent than that because of
all the empty spaces between then and now. All the
afternoon matinees of movies neither he nor Jeffrey
really wanted to see. That was the trouble with this
kind of fathering. Too much of doing stuff with the
kids, and not enough of just being around. Too many
organized outings and carefully planned days. Not
enough watching the tube and knowing they were in
their rooms doing homework or messing around with
their friends. Too much acting like a father, and not
enough being one.

Shit.

And here was holding cell three, and someone had
screwed up/ because the gypsy wasn't in it. He
checked two and four, and then one, quickly and pro-
fessionally. The gypsy wasn't in any of them, either.
Funny. If this were the zoo and those had been ani-
mals, the gypsy wouldn't have been so out of place.
He'd seemed feral to Stepovich/ naturally dangerous
the way some men pretended to be. The gypsy would
have been right at home caged between the tigers and
the wolves. But he didn't belong here. And that he
wasn't here seemed to prove that.

Stepovich leaned against the door, staring into the
tank. He wasn't there. And he should be hurrying to
report that to someone, to ask if he'd been kicked
loose by mistake, if he'd been taken somewhere for
questioning. But instead all he could feel was the

22 THE GYPSY

hanging weight of the knife in the back of his jacket
lining.

SOMETIME

The Lady smiles when she looks into your face
She open up her arms for you. awaiting your embrace.

"THE FAIR LADY"

The Fair Lady is hard at work, knitting a scarf. It must be
pretty, or no one will wish to pick it up, and it must be
strong, to snare a soul. When it is done, she might cook a
broth in which to boil the purity of a maiden, or craft
bellows with which to create a storm to wreck ships. She has
done these things for a thousand thousand years, and she
takes no less care then she ever has. At her side sits a bald-
headed nora. In front of her stands a mother who has killed
her own child in order to become a midwife. The Fair Lady
rocks before her hearth, in which bum the bones of those
she has caused to die before their time, and she is content.

"Well?" she says.

The midwife, all a-tremble, says, "Here it is, mis-
tress. " The midwife hands the Fair Lady a lock of grey
hair.

The Lady inspects it carefully, and grants the midwife
an approving smile. "It will do," she says. "Did the old
woman suspect?"

"No, mistress. She never saw me."

"Then how did you get this?"

"I bribed the bellboy to let me into the room, and I took
it while she slept."

"Very well. You are resourceful, my dear. Go back to
your knitting, now."

"What must I knit, mistress?"

A Wolf. A Man, and an Old Gypsy Woman    23

"A veil to confuse the sight of an old woman. With this
lock of her hair, it should not be difficult."

"Very well, mistress. It will be done—" she pauses, con-
fused. She cannot say when it will be done, because she no
longer understands the passing of time. The Fair Lady
grants her another smile, however, and she is content.

NOVEMBER ELEVENTH, AFTERNOON

Old woman, your hands are thin,
And I think as scarred as mine.
Old woman, is this all a lark,
Or is it how you spend your time?
Old woman, they tell me here
What you do is called a crime.
Old woman, your predictions
Aren't worth a copper dime.

"BLACKENED FACE"

She woke with her hands in her hair as if she'd lost
a comb, not realizing what had wakened her. A glance
at the old wind-up alarm clock told her that it was too
early to be leaving to see her sister/ and what could
it be?

The Sight was a rare gift, and one that could come
or go at its own whim, so she should not have been
surprised that at first she didn't recognize it. There
had been so many years, so many roads, so much
living. Yet, after all of that, here it was. Hardly sur-
prising that she didn't know, at first, what had caused
her to wake from her afternoon nap, or why she felt
that vague, undefined, yet familiar disquiet that was
located somewhere below her heart.

She sat up in the narrow motel bed and looked once
more at the clock. Sitting up was often the most dif-

24 THE GYPSY

ficult thing she did all day. Once she had been fright-
ened by the way her heart sped up/ but now she
accepted it/ as she had accepted each day since—

Ah, there it was.

She knew it for a Seeing because it brought to her
the memory of those dark, haunted, condemning
eyes. Shirt open to the middle/ baggy pants tied
around the ankles, dark curly hair, strong hands, yes,
she remembered that one, and it was something about
him that had awakened her. The Sight then. She ac-
cepted it without amazement, and with only a little
pleasure, for she had lived enough to know that
knowledge is a burden exactly as often as it is a blessing.

She got out of bed, stepped over her pile of knit-
ting, and put on her torn quilted blue robe. The suit-
case, small, brown, handle missing and one snap
broken, was under the bed. Inside it was a cedar box,
inlaid with knotwork similar to Celtic, though per-
haps not as finely detailed and with a bit more ba-
roque filigree work. Inside the box, folded in red satin,
was a two-inch length of quartz crystal. It was about
half an inch thick, with a small chip out of one side,
and felt very slightly cool as she held it between
thumb and forefinger. The quartz had been given her
at a fair somewhere in New England, by a customer
who had liked the reading she'd given him. Tarot,
she thought, or perhaps the leaves. But he'd been a
nice young man, with eyes that were unusually in-
nocent for this time and place, and the crystal always
carried a certain part of the nice young man, which
was why she used it. If she had realized then that
she'd come to like it so much, she'd have asked him
of its history, but most likely he'd bought it at a mu-
seum or something, so it was just as well she didn't.

My mind is wandering again. Must stop that.

She worked herself into the stuffed chair the hotel
provided, and stared idly at the crystal. She turned it
with her fingers, and wondered about the man in

A Wolf, A Man, and an Old Gypsy Woman   25

baggy pants with a scarf around his head, the man
who had stumbled into her life and out again, so
quickly, so long ago. Who had he been, she won-
dered once more. There had been that mark on him,
even then, that said he would become part of her life
in some way. If anything, she was surprised it had
taken so long. What sort of difficulty was he in? The
police? Did it have anything to do with an old police-
man with grey eyes and a wide jaw, holding a knife?
The knife was probably important, although not in
any obvious way, perhaps only in that the policeman
thought it was. Who was the policeman, and why
was he so confused about which side he was on?
Should she look for him, or for him? And how should
she begin to look, if she chose to do so? Perhaps she
ought to begin with Little Philly, and check hotels
there, especially one facing the sunrise, with a narrow
street where the curbs were broken and there was a
motorcycle shop with a long crack in its window, and
several young men sitting protectively in front. And
perhaps she should do so soon—before the brothers
failed to come together, or coming together, found
themselves paralyzed by ignorance.

Yes.

She rolled the crystal between her palms. It was
rather like a bullet, in shape. Interesting that this
should occur to her. Her mouth became dry, and there
was a moment of fear, of a palpitating heart. She had
become more and more aware of her heart over the
last few years, more conscious of its strength and
weakness. She would probably know before it gave
out, which might be good or bad. It wasn't about to
give out now.

She got dressed slowly, her mind racing, her
thoughts unfocused. In her left earlobe she put two
thin silver hoops, in her right she put three smaller
ones. A skull ring went over her little finger because
she had worn it the first time she'd seen him. About

26

THE GYPSY

her neck she fastened a lapis lazuli on a gold chain.
Her dress was conservative and pale yellow/ with a
light blue shawl. She studied herself in the mirror,
looking for traces of the future and finding none. At
last she called for a cab.

SATURDAY AFTERNOON

What is your desire? Fame. or love. or gold?
It's there in your hand, my friend.
But answer if you can, my friend
What are you reaching out to hold?

"THE FAIR LADY"

"So what? So at least I did it, didn't I?" Laurie tossed
the check her dad had sent her on the dresser. Thirty
dollars! More money than she'd ever asked for at once
in her whole life. And her dad had sent it/ right away,
but now they said it wasn't enough. She walked past
that stuck-up Sue girl and flopped down on her pink
bedspread. Strawberry Shortcake. She'd had it since
she was nine, but now she hated it, especially be-
cause of the way Chrissy's older friend was looking
at it. She was beginning to wish this Sue would just
leave. Where did Chrissy get off, anyway, just bring-
ing some stranger over to her house? Anymore/ all
Chrissy talked about were her "older" friends, and how
mass cool they were. She made Laurie feel like a baby.
And her mom would be home soon. She wouldn't be
cool about Laurie having a guest that she hadn't met
yet. Especially someone like Sue. She must have been
at least sixteen/ maybe eighteen. And she acted so rad,
it was like she was even older. Like now/ lighting a
cigarette/ like it was no big deal.

Sue exhaled smoke at Laurie. "So, really, you blew

A Wolf, A Man, and an Old Gypsy Woman   27

it. Getting twenty or thirty bucks, that's easy. I told
you, we need fifty. And you coulda got it if you'd
done it like I told you."

"But I don't really need shoes." Laurie protested.

"Shit!" Sue blew smoke out her nose in long thin
streams. "I know that. You don't need a blouse
either. All you had to say was, like, 'My old shoes
pinch my feet a little when I dance/ but Mom says
they'll do until the next paycheck.' He'd a been in
such a hurry to show up your mom, he'd probably
express the money to you."

"No, he'd probably have called my mom and asked
about it," Laurie said. She was getting tired of this
older girl pushing on her, acting like she knew every-
thing. Look at her now, blowing smoke out her mouth
and inhaling it up her nose. Gross. Laurie was begin-
ning to think she didn't like Chrissy's new friend at
all.

"I betcha he wouldn't have called your mom. Hell,
your dad hardly ever calls you, let alone your mom."
Chrissy jumped in.

Great! Now her best friend \vas siding against her.
Laurie wished they'd both leave. The cigarette was
stinking up her whole room. Sue saw her looking at
it. She flicked it/ sending ashes all over the rug.

"Hey!" Laurie objected, but Chrissy just giggled,
"Use this for an ashtray, okay?" Laurie added, taking
the saucer out from under one of her African violets.
Sue took it from her like it was a big favor. No one
said anything for a while. Sue just sat there smoking
and looking around her room and smirking.

"Look!" Laurie began fiercely. "You might think
you know it all/ but you don't know my folks. They
might be divorced, but when it comes to us kids,
they're still together. He'd phone her. Besides, a cop
doesn't make that much. My dad probably couldn't
send me fifty bucks if he wanted to."

"Shit!" Sue said again, and Chrissy giggled. "Cops

28 THE GYPSY

make all the money they want. Half of them are on
the take. I oughta know, I seen enough of them.
There's this one old fart/ down in juvie, said if I'd
come across, he wouldn't write up my probation vi-
olation. Don't talk to me about cops."

"They're not all like that!" Laurie's heart was beat-
ing really fast. She knew her face was getting red,
like it always did when she was mad.

"Bullshit!" Sue drawled, and looked sideways at
Chrissy, cracking her up. It suddenly dawned on
Laurie that she was being baited, that Sue was getting
her worked up and sharing the joke with Chrissy.
Her eyes hurt like she was going to cry, but she didn't
let the tears out. Her old bear was still on the bed,
and she picked him up and squeezed him tight.
Chrissy seemed to see how upset she really was, be-
cause she sat up suddenly and changed the subject.

"So. What now?" she asked brightly, sending Lau-
rie a brief look that said sorry. But she didn't say it
out loud, Laurie thought bitterly. Not in front of her
new friend.

"What now?" Sue echoed. She leaned over and
deliberately stubbed her cigarette out against the soft
furry leaves of the violet instead of on the saucer.
Laurie gritted her teeth, trying not to show her anger,
but the little smile on Sue's mouth showed she knew
she had scored. "Now nothing, Chrissy. Your little
friend blew it. If I take you to meet the Lady and Her
friends with less than fifty bucks, they'll laugh in my
face. The Lady expects presents from Her friends. You
wanta be Her friend and be in with Her, you gotta
bring Her presents. Money and jewelry and stuff."

"Well, maybe I don't wanna be Her friend!" Laurie
broke in.

"Fine with me. Miss Piggy," Sue said, and Chrissy
cracked up. It took a few seconds for Laurie to catch
the joke. Then, "Get the hell out of my house!" she
cried out.

A Wolf, A Man, and an Old Gypsy Woman   29

"Fine with me," Sue said slowly. She got up lazily,
looked around the room in disdain. "I'm a little tired
of sitting around in the nursery, anyway. You com-
ing, Chrissy, or you want to stay here and play Bar-
bies?"

Chrissy looked trapped. "I'll be along, I guess,"
she said lamely. "In a little while. I gotta get my
stuff."

"Yeah. Sure. Well, better hurry, kid, cause I ain't
waiting. I got other things to do. See ya around. Miss
Piggy." Sue drifted out of the room, and a few sec-
onds later Laurie heard the front door slam,

"Great, Laurie, you really blew it for us!" Chrissy
huffed as she grabbed up her bookbag and coat.

"I blew it? What do you want to go around with
someone like that for? She's awful!"

"Not usually. She was just pissed because you
didn't get the money- Usually she's really cool, and
you should see her boyfriend's car! Talk about rad!
On the freeway, night before last, he got it up to a
hundred and twenty! And then he turned off the
headlights! It was like flying in the dark. Oh, Laurie,
you got to get that money, so you can come with us.
You should see the stuff that Lady gives her. Jewelry
like you wouldn't believe, and this scarf, it looks
black, but when you shake it, it's silver! And. . . .
Look! I gotta go, because she won't wait for me. But
I'll tell her you were sorry, that you were feeling sick
or something. And I'll try to get the rest of the money,
'cause we've just got to meet this Lady. Usually, you
got to be at least a senior to be invited, so we're really
lucky."

Motormouth Chrissy was still talking as she
wrapped her scarf around her neck and left the bed-
room. Laurie didn't bother walking her to the door;

Chrissy didn't notice. Some best friend. Ever since
she met that Sue, she'd been acting like a jerk. As
soon as Laurie heard the door shut, she got up and

30 THE GYPSY

took the cigarette butt out of her plant. It was the new
one/ too/ the one that was supposed to have double
blossoms. A burnt hole gaped angrily in the soft green
leaf. Laurie carefully pinched it off/ and carried both
cigarette butt and leaf into the bathroom/ where she
flushed them down the toilet.

NOVEMBER ELEVENTH, LATE AFTERNOON

Old woman, it's only
A false joy you bring,
Old woman upon your hand
I see a death's-head ring.
Old woman, it's our winter.
We'll never see a spring.
Old woman, it's time to cry.
Why must you stiH sing?

"BLACKENED PACE"

The cab driver was a fat man who reminded her of
Jackie Gleason/ which made his deep/ gravelly voice
quite startling. When she told him where she wanted
to be taken he didn't say anything/ but gave her a
quick, speculative look in the rearview mirror as he
pulled away from the curb. During the ride/ which,
because of the Veterans' Day traffic, took half an hour,
she paid little attention to the area they were passing
through. She let her mind drift, free associating, find-
ing melodies in the whine of passing cars and pat-
terns in the cracks along the streets.

He let her off at a comer where an old black man
sold newspapers and shoeshines in front of a grocer
whose green and yellow produce lay in bushel bas-
kets below the barred storefront. The thought of try-
ing to connive her way out of paying the fare popped

A Wolf, A Man, and an Old Gypsy Woman   31

up unbidden from her childhood, and she tipped the
driver lavishly by way of putting the thought back
where it belonged. She wondered at it, though- Was
it a sign of age, or was there significance to this un-
expected recurrence of the old ways?

The cab roared off; she sniffed, as if hoping to catch
a scent, and began walking east down the block, be-
cause it seemed to be slightly downhill. She knew
that what she sought was around here somewhere,
and she would find it more quickly and easily on her
feet, slow as they were. They hadn't always been
slow. Once she had danced. Once she had danced
well enough to earn—

Stop now, she told herself firmly. Fools live in the
past, as saints live in the future. It was her lot to feel
the waves from one—she couldn't afford to let her
mind remain in the other.

Children played in the street, and didn't see her,
because she had nothing to do with their world. She
passed men and women her own age, all of whom
were so wrapped up in their dreams that they never
looked outside themselves. Sne came to the place she
had Seen, and the excitement of a true Seeing was
far back in her mind. The scene before her held a
promise and a threat, and she could almost taste them
both on her tongue, sour and juicy as lemon, fear and
pleasure.

She identified the hotel by its neon sign, which was
mostly burned out, then looked around briefly. It was
on a hill, and the side she could see was done in
peeling red paint. It had a single door, also red, that
was no bigger than the door to a house and had no
window. She felt almost young again as she pushed
it open and entered the lobby.

TWO

The Wolf and the Gypsy

11 NOV 13:22

The city is a cesspool, my apartment is a mess.
You say you got a problem, just give me your address.

STEPDOWN

"Hell of a thing/' said the hotel manager. He wiped
his shining forehead with a dirty hanky/ dragging it
roughly across two ripely swollen pimples. He shifted
around, glancing at the body, and away, shying like
a nervous horse. Guy was too young to be managing
a flop house. Stepovich could tell the kid felt ill, but
that being here made him feel so important he
couldn't stand to leave. This poor old woman leaking
blood onto the hotel's cheap carpeting was probably
the most exciting thing that had ever happened to
him.

"Think they raped her?" The kid scrubbed at his
forehead again, scratched at one of the zits, then ab-
sently squeezed it. Stepovich looked away. He'd
rather look at the body.

"Sure," Durand said, heavily sarcastic. "What man
wouldn't get it up for her? I mean, the streets are
crawling with granny bangers, aren't they?"

"Shut up." They made him tired, both of them.

The Wolf and the Gypsy           33

Someday, when Durand had seen what elderly
women looked like after they'd been raped, he
wouldn't joke about it anymore. "Leave the kid/ uh,
witness alone. Homicide will want him first."

"Yeah. They'll have a lot of questions for you. And
they like their meat fresh. Hope you don't have any
plans for the next twelve hours or so," Durand said
cruelly.

The kid stared at him, not sure if Durand was se-
rious or not. Durand cop-stared at him. "I/ uh, I
should be down where I can answer the phone, shit
like that," the kid muttered uneasily. "If I'm not right
at that desk, you'd be surprised how many people try
to sneak out without paying."

"Probably not," Durand said.

"No, really, they do," the kid insisted righteously.
"They . . ."

"No. I mean I wouldn't be surprised. Go ahead,
get back to your phone, kid. We want you, we'll call
you." Then, "Try not to touch the door as you leave,
okay?"                   v

Stepovich wondered why Durand bothered. The
kid had already smeared it up once, coming in here,
and then again when he led them up here. Besides,
it wasn't like homicide was going to get all worked
up and dust the whole place. The department's funds
were limited; right now all of them were going to-
ward that child mutilation case and the Exxon Basher.
Media loved those. Some old gypsy woman getting
herself killed wasn't exactly the Manson murders.
What was it Durand had said as they came in?
"Mighta known. A gypsy. They're always killing each
other."

He'd already phoned it in. Now there wasn't much
to do except wait until homicide arrived to take over.
He and Durand had taken the call as a domestic vio-
lence. Well, maybe it had been. But the kid manager
hadn't seen anything, and wasn't even sure who the

34 THE GYPSY

room had been let to. Stepovich glanced back to the
body. It pissed him off. Dying bloody in a cheap hotel
room, that was something to happen to a pimp or a
pusher, not to an old woman. Anybody who'd lived
that long deserved a better death.

She'd fought it. He had to say that for her. There
would be skin under her fingernails, he'd bet, and it
was obvious it had taken more than one blow from
the knife to take her down. The last one had been as
she lay there, a driving jab into her back and out, to
make sure of her. Her legs were flung wide, one shoe
half off. An intricately patterned blue shawl led from
her body to the door. Had it snagged on her killer's
watch? No one would ever know. Her face was turned
away from him but her hair, thick as a young girl's,
though grey, had come half undone. A pink edge of
ear and a silver hoop earring peeked out of it.

Durand was crouched over her, staring at her face.
His head was cocked, like a puppy staring into a
stereo speaker at a recording of wolves howling. Puz-
zled.

"What?" Stepovich demanded.

"Gypsy told my fortune, once. I was wondering if
it might have been her."

Stepovich frowned. "You saying we should call
bunko, that she's been working scams lately?"

"No. Naw," Durand seemed embarrassed. "It was
a long time ago, at a fair when I was a kid. In a little
white trailer covered with dust, hooked to a battered
old Caddy. She said that thirty-two was my number,
and that foxgloves would be important to me."

"Foxgloves?"

"You know, kind of a pinkish flower, grows by the
roads some places."

Stepovich stared at his partner, waiting.

Durand stood. "So." He cleared his throat, folded
his arms. "Maybe we should call bunko, maybe
they'd recognize her."

The Wolf and the Gypsy           35

"Maybe. And maybe we should let homicide do it,
so we don't have to repeat everything bunko says to
us to them." Most homicide cops Stepovich knew got
bent out of shape if they thought a regular cop was
trying to muscle in on their work. No, it was better
to just take it easy and wait here, protect the scene
until the homicide dicks got here and took over. Then
it would be time for their afternoon break, and then
there'd be another couple of hours of riding around,
and then he could go home. He walked to the room's
single window and stared down at the street, won-
dering how long it would take for homicide to arrive.
And how many questions they'd ask, and how long
they'd keep him and Durand here. It seemed to Step-
ovich that time had stopped, and wouldn't start again
until they got here. It would never start again for the
old woman. But when the detectives got here, it
would be the end of the "waiting by a body" time
and the beginning of the "waiting for the shift to be
over" time. He wanted to go home.
And then he could get rid of that knife.
The thing was sticking in his brain, bugging him.
He wished he'd never seen the damn thing. Just
touching it made him feel crawly. He should have left
it on the sidewalk, he should have gone ahead and
booked the gypsy for concealed weapon. He thought
of all the times he'd leaned switchblades up against
the curb and stomped them so he wouldn't have to
book a kid for concealed weapon. Well, the gypsy's
knife wouldn't have yielded to that sort of treatment.
Thick blade, at least two inches across at the hilt. And
a weird hilt. On the surface of the hilt, toward the
blade, there were these three little pins or pegs,
shaped like stars. All three stars were enclosed in an
engraving of a crescent moon. He'd never seen any-
thing like it. He had it at home, in the bottom drawer,
with his socks. It had been there since that night he'd
gone to the tank and the gypsy hadn't been there. No

36 THE GYPSY

one had sorted that out yet; all the paperwork said
he should still have been there. What the hell. Step-
ovich was betting he wouldn't see the gypsy again.

So maybe the best thing to do was to take the knife
back to the cemetery gates where they'd rattled the
gypsy. Dump it there, kick it under the bushes. He
sure as hell didn't want to keep it. He'd thought about
tossing it into a dumpster or slipping it down a sewer.
But those solutions didn't feel right either. No/ he'd
take it to the cemetery, and toss it in the bushes,
where it would have ended up if they'd overlooked
it when they shook the gypsy down.

"Step?"

"Yeah?" He didn't look away from the street. He
was kind of watching their car, and kind of watching
the loungers in front of the motorcycle shop down the
street. Were they lounging, or were they watching?
Looking out for what? Protecting what? And was it
worth his while to make an effort to nnd out?

"Step. you think maybe this dead gypsy's got any-
thing to do with the one we booked last week?"

He shrugged. "City's full of gypsies this time of
year. Come in from God knows where, renting old
storefronts, selling cheap tapestries from Japan in
rundown bars, making up futures for people who
don't have any. A week or a month from now,
whoosh, they're all gone to God knows where. Makes
you wonder if they were really here in the first place.
And that's why we'll never know who killed this one,
or where the other one went."

"Step?"

"No, I doubt if they're connected." He sighed and
turned away from the window.

"Wish we knew what happened to that one we
dragged in. I got a gut feeling he was the one blew
away the liquor store clerk."

"Yeah? Well, I got a gut feeling he wasn't."

"How come?"

The Wolf and the Gypsy           37

"Just because." He turned back to the window. An
unmarked car pulled in behind theirs. A man in a, for
God's sake, trench coat got out. He didn't know him,
but the other detective was Scullion, Good. Scullion
was fast and thorough. They'd be out of there in no
time. A meat wagon was turning the corner.

"You know," said Durand softly. "I really think
she was the same gypsy. The one that told my for-
tune."

TWENTIETH CENTURY

Walkin' down an empty street

In a city I don't know,
Whistlin' something catchy

As I make my way through snow.
Ain 't got no gloves so I keep my hands

Balled up in fists;

I'm trying not to think

How it all came down to this.

"NO PASSENGER"

The Coachman awoke, realizing that he'd been drunk
again. This made him laugh, until it came to him that
he was no longer drunk, and yet he was awake. This
puzzled him. Next to him was a bottle labeled Mr.
Boston Five-Star Brandy. There was about a third of
the bottle left. He started to unscrew the cap, then
closed it again. He blinked.

He remembered that he had dreamed that he'd had
a passenger.

And now he was suddenly, inexplicably sober.
He stood up, looked around the shabby room he
could afford from money he begged and what he

38 THE QYPSY

didn't drink, and suddenly laughed. Something was
happening/ somewhere.

He unscrewed the cap, smelled it, and decided it
wasn't good enough. If it had been/ he'd have poured
a shot into a glass and drunk it that way, to celebrate,
but it wasn't so he didn't. He checked his pockets
and found almost three dollars in change, which
would be enough to get him coffee and a Danish.
Good. He whistled as he showered, no longer mind-
ing the low water pressure and he wondered how
and where he would hnd his coach.

LATE FALL, EARLY EVENING

/ haven't seen or heard from them

In far too many years,
But banging from the copper pans

Still echoes in my ears.

"RAVEN, OWL, AND I"

The Gypsy went walking, as he had so often before,
not so much looking for anything as just looking/ only
he was walking where there was nothing to see and
nowhere to go. He wore yellow, but it was brighter
than he thought it should be, and his boots felt sorter,
although it was too much effort to look at them.

A hand halted him, and he, oddly, recognized the
ring on it; he couldn't remember from where. A pair
of familiar dark eyes locked with his, but then the
light in them went out. The thought came to him that
he'd just been saved from something.

He walked further, and there was a wolf, growling
and bristling. He paused, and looked closer; the
wolf's foot was trapped. He thought that he would
release the foot/ but the wolf snapped at him. He

The Wolf and the Gypsy           39

stopped then, puzzled. "Why snap at me?" he said.
"Am I your enemy? No. I'm the one who is trying to
help you."

The wolf stared at him with old, intelligent eyes.
He continued, "I will let you go, but you must not
attack me; you must find your proper prey. Will you
do that?"

The wolf studied him carefully, suspiciously, and it
occurred to him that the wolf wondered, not if he
could be trusted, but if he were capable of releasing
him. The Wolf is no fool, he thought to himself, star-
ing into its eyes.

The eyes contracted and became one, against a field
of darkness, then they resolved until they became a
single pinpoint of light, which became the universe,
and it pulsed a very pale blue. His concentration was
total, his questions, none. A moment ago, it had
seemed, he could hear that pinpoint, that blue, that
pulsing. A moment ago it had been the beat of the
tambourine, zils laughing merrily, head thrumming.
It had been that way forever, a moment ago, and now
it was a pinpoint of light, and ha.d been that, too,
forever.

There was the smell that came from cars, and it was
stifling. The pinpoint grew into a flower as sound re-
turned, and he opened his eyes to the dryness of his
mouth and gravel against his cheek, and a beam of
evening sunlight striking his face, as he tried to re-
member what he had just escaped. He squeezed his
eyes tightly shut. Visions came at his bidding, and
then wouldn't leave: something scary chased him,
then became his brother with a knife, then became
his other brother, crying, yet he knew it was not from
his brothers that he had fled.

One vision was of-an old woman, who pointed her
finger at him and said, "Do not squander my gift,"
to which he had replied, "It was not just to me you
gave it. Mother, yet I'll make the best use of it I can."

40 THE GYPSY

Another was of a small girl, who seemed to be the
old woman with brown eyes at the same time/ only
she laughed as if she knew it were only a game. An-
other was of a man in an apron asking his name/ and
he being unable to remember. That was strange; he
knew who he was. He was . , . Charles? No/ that
wasn't right. What did they call him? Umm . . . "Ci-
gany," he said aloud/ and began coughing from the
dust. He swallowed several times, but was still very
thirsty.

Overhead, a cement bridge held up a freeway; next
to him a street passed below it, and around him was
a retaining wall, which had kept him hidden/ in the
open, in the middle of a large city. He smiled at this,
in spite of his discomfort. The day seemed to be end-
ing. He realized that he had lain there for more than
a day, perhaps several. Could he have died from ex-
posure? Why not? He needed water, a toilet, and
food, in that order.

He almost relieved his bladder in his protected ce-
ment grove, but this felt wrong, as if by doing this he
would be sacrificing something he couldn't afford to
lose, now that he lived in the wilds of the city. He
pulled himself to his feet, braced himself against the
wall, and began walking. He saw a filling station just
across the street and knew that he would live.

11 NOV 19:00

/ look for troubles all over town,
My nerves are shot but it don't get me down.

"STEPDOWN"

He wanted chicken and biscuits for dinner. Uke they
used to have, the chicken braised and then cooked in

The Wolf and the Gypsy           41

a gravy, and Jennie's white biscuits with the crispy
brown points on top, and Jennie laughing as she told
Jeffrey and Laurie that by God she never wanted to
see them sopping up gravy with biscuits like their
dad did. And then he'd laugh and tell her his man-
ners were her fault, for making the gravy so good he
didn't want to waste a smear of it.

Maybe that's what he wanted, more than the food.
The laughing around a table.

He dumped the can of Dinty Moore stew into a pan
and put it over a burner. It smelled like dogfood, cold.
Hell, it looked like dogfood, but heated up it was
okay. A little too peppery, but okay. And the peas
came out the color of an old fatigue jacket, but it was
okay. It was okay. It was all okay, just take it easy,
don't get worked up.

He took his beer to the couch, turned on the tele-
vision. News. He clicked through the channels, not
wanting to hear about an old gypsy woman found
stabbed to death in a cheap hotel. He found the Jet-
sons, a quiz show, "Sesame Street," more news, and
a Jesus for sale program. He went back to the quiz
show, A woman was jumping up and down and
screaming while holding onto the host's arm. She'd
just won a refrigerator. It was frost-free, with a no-
migerprint surface, a drink dispenser, and an ice
maker.

The Gypsy said, "Too bad there wasn't a no-
nngerprint surface on the knife."

"Yeah," Stepovich agreed. He took another pull
off his beer.

"You bring me the message from the old woman?"

"Yeah. I got it here somewhere." Stepovich
slapped his pockets for the letter, but he couldn't nnd
it. He found a rock crystal and pulled it out instead.
"Scullion found it in her scarf. Inside her bag. It was
addressed to you." Stepovich held it out, but the
Gypsy wouldn't take it from him.

42 THE GYPSY

"That's your name on there, not mine," said the
Gypsy. He was carving on a stick with his knife/ and
the shavings were going all over the floor. Jennie
would be mad. Stepovich held the crystal close to his
eyes, trying to see whose name was really on it.
"Don't bother/' said the Gypsy, making long curling
shavings. "All it says it, 'Find out who killed me.' "
A raven hopped up and pecked at the shavings- The
Gypsy shooed him away with a wave of his knife.

"Not my job," said Stepovich, taking another pull
off his beer,

"No one's job," agreed the Gypsy. "No one gives
a shit anymore." He got up and took the blackened
coffee pot from the fu-e. It was made of that old blue
enameled ware, the kind that has black speckles on
it. Stepovich wondered why it didn't burn him. The
Gypsy poured himself coffee into a heavy china mug.
He stirred it with his finger. He sipped at it, and the
rising steam from the mug floated up toward the cres-
cent moon. He pointed at the coach, where a dark
ngure waited, holding reins that drifted off into fog-
Or was it a knitted scarf? "You just want to leave?"

Stepovich frowned, wondering. Did he want to
leave? "What about the old woman?" he asked.

"Not your job. Remember?" The Gypsy smiled
kindly. "We can leave any time you want. How about
now?" He scratched his chest through his yellow
shirt. Stepovich could see that a few threads of the
blue embroidery were coming undone. Jennie could
hx that in a minute. He knew she could, but she
wouldn't. She didn't nx things anymore.

Something else was cooking on the fu-e, something
that boiled over the lip of the old kettle and fell in
slow drips into the fire. The flames leaped up to catch
the drips, eager to devour, and a terrible stench and
smoke arose. The smoke stung Stepovich's eyes.
"Where does the coach go?" he gasped, rubbing his
eyes and trying to see the Gypsy through the smoke.

The Wolf and the Gypsy           43

"The one place you can't get to from here," the
Gypsy said. He stood up and put his knife away. "Do
you want to go?"

"It's the only place I want to go," Stepovich said,
and stood up.

The corner of the coffee table hit him on the cheek-
bone, and the sharp pain almost stunned him. He
got slowly to his hands and knees, staggered to the
kitchen, dragged the pot off the stove and turned
the burner off. He clicked on the fan in the range
hood. It squealed annoyingly, but he let it run. The
stew that was left in the pot looked disgusting, thick
and stringy- He scraped it into a bowl and got some
bread to go with it. And another beer. He set it all
out on the coffee table, turned off the fan and went
to look in the bathroom mirror.

Well, it was going to swell, but at least it wasn't
going to be a black eye. He looked at himself. Square
jaw. Blue eyes. The kind of hair they called sandy,
just starting to slip back at his temples. He'd lost
weight in the last two years. Steadily. At his last cop
physical, the doctor had comiflimented him on it.
"Looking fine, Stepovich," the man had said, prod-
ding his belly muscles. "You'd put a lot of younger
men to shame. Work out regularly?" Yeah, he'd told
the doctor. Sure. Real regular. For a while, it had been
the only way he could stop thinking. Now even that
didn't work.

He went back to the couch. The quiz show was
gone. Three people were in a living room, and the
studio audience was laughing uproariously while one
of the characters struck an offended pose and the
other two simpered. Stepovich opened his beer,
drank, had two spoonfuls of the burnt stew. He
reached to the other end of the coffee table, dragged
the phone toward him. He punched in the number,
then hung up before it could ring.

He wondered what she'd do if he ever really did it.

44 THE GYPSY

Just called her up and said, "I'm sorry/ it was a big
mistake/1 love you, can I please come home?"

He ate more stew. Probably get another restraining
order. Probably send the kids to her mother.

He drank some beer. It hadn't been a mistake. They
both knew that. The divorce had been right. And he
didn't love her. He loved something else, the idea of
being married and having the kids and all. That's
what he loved. If he went home right now/ they'd
probably have a fight before two hours were up. No.
He'd screwed it up too badly. Screwed it up once by
walking out when she dared him to. Screwed it up
again by following her everywhere, always trying to
talk to her/ phoning her up at midnight, being out-
side the building when she got off work, by following
her as she drove home each day. She'd thought he
was going to hurt her, had gotten the restraining or-
der, had filed harassment charges, had nearly made
him lose his job.

So now it was this. Send her a check, talk to the
kids on the phone. Eat alone, sleep alone, because
you're too damn tired to go throug.h all that dating
shit. So zone out on the tube, after exercising for three
hours so you can sleep, then fall asleep and dream
about goddamn gypsies.

He set down the empty bowl. Well, he was through
with the last part. He was going to take the knife back
to the cemetery, tonight. Somehow he was sure that
would get the Gypsy out of his mind.

THREE

The Gypsy and the Wolf

LATE FALL, AFTER SUNSET

Beasts and demons laugh and yell.
The lonely midwife sings;

They dance around like puppets,
But the Lady works the strings.

"THE FAIR LADY"

Cigany left the diner without paying; simply got up
and walked out before they noticed him, turned the
corner around a building and was gone. He was
cleaner, though he wished he could jump into a river,
and there were two pieces of tasteless chicken in his
stomach along with a great deal of city water.

As he walked, scenes from his most recent past be-
gan to return to him. The holding tank, for one; where
they put you before they knew where to put you.
That, he had figured out. He wasn't certain how he
had escaped it, or what the cost had been. Moreover,
he wasn't certain why they had arrested him. He
didn't think he'd done anything, but/ then, it was
always like that. A pal from Ireland once sang him a
song about being born in the wrong place. He smiled
at the memory. But he, Cigany/ had been born in the
right place, and then had left. Why?

His head began to hurt, and he reached for, for
something he couldn't remember. Pills of some sort?

46 THE GYPSY

He had had this sort of headache before/ he knew; in
fact, now that he thought of it, he almost remem-
bered getting it every time he ate—that strange puls-
ing in his head/ and then his vision would waver, and
then the pain.

He shook his head. Ignore the pain. There was some-
thing he had to do, he knew that. He'd been trying to
do it for so many years that he could no longer estimate
the decades that had passed. But what was it? Had it
been so long that he'd forgotten his mission? He had
promised to do something, he knew that. He took a
deep breath, brushed his mustaches, and—

—And realized that his knife was missing.

He began to tremble.

Of course it was missing, the police had taken it.
Why was he so upset? What was it about the knife?
He knew that it could protect him, but—

It had killed. While out of his possession, someone,
who didn't know what he had, had allowed it to kill.
That meant that there was an enemy who knew that
he, Cigany, didn't have it, and that he was vulnera-
ble, and the enemy had killed a friend.

He leaned against the wall, and he wondered who
his enemy was. He almost knew. Was it his brother
in the vision? No, his brothers were scattered, lost.
The enemy was the one who had been preventing
him from completing his mission for so long.

What mission? What enemy? He ducked behind a
building, squatted there, and tried to think. His head
throbbed, like his skull was being split with an ax.

It had snowed, not too long before, and then melted,
although he hadn't noticed it at the time. But there was
water dripping from the gutter, and it formed a puddle
on the paved ground, perhaps a foot wide.

Cigany felt his mouth become dry again. Here he
was going off to find his knife, and, because he didn't
have it, he hardly dared to go. He stood up and
waited for several minutes until the moon was in the

The Gypsy and the Wolf           47

proper place over his shoulder. It wasn't quite full,
but he thought it might be close enough. He stepped
forward once with his left foot, once with his right,
and again with his left, the last landing him squarely
in the puddle.

The Fair Lady looks up, suddenly, seeing before Her a
figure all of fire, with one leg that of a goose and the op-
posite arm that of a horse. She puts down Her knitting and
smiles sweetly. "Yes, what is it?" Her voice is the tinkling
of fine crystal, with a very faint echo if you listen closely. Her
face is young. Her eyes are old, and they reflect the firelight;

Her hair and skin are fair. There is a crown of candles on Her
head, making folds in the skin of Her forehead. There are nine
candles, but three of them have gone out.

"Fair Lady," says the liderc. "Someone is coming."

"Coming? Here? A visitor?"

"Indeed, yes, mistress."

"Well, who can it be?"

"A mortal, fair mistress. A Gypsy."

"But his name," She says gently. "Don't you know his
name?"

"I do not, for he knows it not.y'

"Ah, well he may attend me then. "

"It shall be as you wish, most precious one, " says the
liderc, and rushes to admit the visitor.

He stands before Her, and his black eyes reflect the fire-
light too, so that for a moment they seem to be kin, and
She says, "Well, little boy, what is it you want of me?"

He says, ' 'You have my memories, Luci, and I will have
them back."

"Your memories? What would I do with them?"

"Keep me from completing my task," he says.

"But what is your task, little boy?"

"I don't know, for you have taken my memories. And
my knife, Luci, return me my knife. "

"How is it you know to come here without your memo-
ries? And how is it you dare without your knife?" The
nora thinks this very funny and begins to laugh. The Fair

48 THE GYPSY

Lady cuffs him without rancor, and he scampers away on
his arms and legs, like an ape.

"If I do have these things, little boy," says the Fair
Lady, "why should I return them?"

"Because if you don't, I shall find the calk from a Coach-
man 's whip and send you back to your home below the earth."

The Fair Lady laughs, "Well, little boy, you have found
your task. But I fear it is too late to find your knife, for it
has killed the only one who could have set you on the path.
And it is far, far too late for a calk to help you. And since
you have come here unguarded, there is no reason to let
you leave at all." With that, she lifts the bellows and begins
to work them, and he suddenly finds that he cannot breathe.
He struggles, but to no avail, until, at last, he pulls from
his pocket an oddly formed lump of grey metal, which was
made by pouring molten lead into holy water, and he throws
this at Her, and She cries out, and—

—Cigany fell backward against the building, taking
many deep breaths. For several minutes he stood
there, wondering if the dream had been real. He
checked his pocket, but the lead was gone, although
he still had his key, and a scrap of paper which he
now remembered had something to do with his head-
aches, although he couldn't remember the spell nor
understand the symbols. But, hadn't the police taken
these things before? He couldn't remember. He
shrugged. He hoped he could do without it. His
headache seemed to be receding.

Whatever had happened, it had taken a long time;

it was now fully dark. When he felt strong enough,
he pushed away from the wall, not sure where he
was going, but needing to walk. Somewhere, not too
far off, a siren wailed. He winced and continued
through the back streets. The night brought with it a
slight chill, but he scarcely noticed.

After a while he realized that he had been here be-
fore. Yes. The cemetery. Why have my feet brought me
this way? he wondered. He remembered the ghost,

The Gypsy and the Wolf           49

and wondered if someone else had died yet, allowing
her to rest- Poor child. So young. But she had died of
the wasting disease, and that was the work of a liderc if
anything was, and the liderc was a creature of Luci, the
Fair Lady, who dwelt below the world, with the dark
sun and the dark moon to light Her dark ways.

What had allowed Her to reach the middle world,
with the half sun and the half moon? And how had
it become his, Cigany's, job to return Her to where
She belonged?

He stopped in his tracks. Suddenly there was a
Wolf before him, blocking his path, bristling- He
shook his head to clear it, and saw that it was only a
man. The man was staring at him, shocked. Cigany
wondered if he were the last to die, who had released
the girl.

But another step closer and he recognized him,
even without his uniform, and his mouth became dry
and his heart beat very fast within his breast.

11 NOV 25:40

Someone knifed a granny, someone shot a clerk.
I'm sick of seeing bodies, but it's just a day at work.

"STEPDOWN"

Three beers. No, maybe four. Hell, even if it had been
six, that was still no excuse for this. Stepovich swayed
slightly, in rhythm with the big oak that rustled softly
from its side of the high wrought-iron fence. Hell, maybe
it had been six. He was almost hoping it was six, and,that
as the man came doser, his features would resolve into
the face of someone Stepovich had never seen before.

The Gypsy halted, no more than a step and a lunge
away. His dusky face seemed pale in the gloom, and

50 THE GYPSY

Stepovich wondered how that could be. His eyes were
dark in his face, darker than the night around them,
and that, too, made him wonder. They stood facing
each other on the quiet street. Neither spoke. Neither
wanted to offer the other an opening.

The knife in his jacket pocket dragged, seemed to
weigh twice what it should. He could feel the pull on
the fabric at his shoulder, could feel the shape resting
against his hip. His hand reached into his pocket,
gripped the sensible leather sheath. The Gypsy did
not move as Stepovich reached for the knife, but he
sensed the change in the Gypsy, the activated still-
ness that was really a readiness to move in any direc-
tion, to attack or flee or defend. Stepovich's eyes
didn't leave him as he drew the knife from his pocket.

He'd expected some reaction. But the Gypsy's dark
eyes only flicked once to the knife, and then back up
to Stepovich's face. Like a cornered animal, he waited.
Stepovich shifted the knife through his hngers, felt
his fingers brush the raised stars on the hilt before he
it turned so that the hilt extended toward the Gypsy.
Stepovich held it out, waiting. Got nothing. The
Gypsy offered him only stillness and carefully empty
eyes. Not even the phony innocence that most sus-
pects tried for. Not a blank face, either. This was more
like a mask to trick authority.

A red-hot wire of anger speared down his back-
bone, raced along his nerves. The Gypsy's impassive
face was like a challenge. No. Like an insult. The care-
ful mask was classifying Stepovich as not human, as
a blue uniform with shiny buttons, filled with rules
and laws and legal technicalities. During the day, he
would have expected it. But somehow, by night, out
of uniform, on this deserted street, for the reason he
had come here, it was the worst kind of insult.

Anger won, or perhaps humiliation. He flipped the
knife, a hard practiced movement, so that it struck
the Gypsy's breast hilt first and then clattered to the

The Gypsy and the Wolf           51

pavement- And still the Gypsy moved not at all,
though Stepovich would have sworn that he could
have caught the knife in midair and returned it blade
first if he had chosen to do so. So Stepovich spoke,
broke the silence with hard cutting words, as cold
and callous as he could make them. "We found a
dead gypsy granny today. Stabbed to death in a cheap
hotel. Don't suppose you'd know anything about
something like that."

For a long time the Gypsy didn't speak. Stepovich
listened to his own words hang in the air between
them, the vocalization of the law-thing the Gypsy's
mask had invoked.

"With this knife," the Gypsy said at last.

Music in the voice/ accent of a homeland whose
existence was lost in the shadows of time. And ac-
cusation, it seemed to Stepovich.

"You asking if I offed her," said Stepovich, "the
answer is no. But I suspect you'd have a line on who-
ever did. Not that you'd tell me anything. But maybe
you won't have to. Whoever did it left behind plenty
of sign. Before noon tomorrow, we'll know the size
and shape of the weapon, and a hell of a lot about
the man who used it, right down to his blood type."
Bluff, you're bluffing, Stepovich, and that Gypsy
knows it. Look into his black, black eyes and see how
he despises you.

"You find the one who held the knife," and again the
accent left Stepovich wondering if the words were a re-
quest, a command, or merely a question, a comment.

"Damn right we will," he growled, and felt himself
grow smaller with the lie. "With or without any help
from you," and he tried not to let the last sound like
a plea.

The Gypsy moved, very slightly, looking down at
his own hands which opened and clenched, and
opened again, as if he were making sure they were
empty. "I have nothing to give you." He stooped in

52 THE GYPSY

an unconcerned way, picked up the knife carefully,
as if it were dirty with unspeakable filth. "I wish you
had been more careful with this. But you didn't know
what you had. The fault rests between us." His eyes
moved in his face, and it was as if his whole body
had shifted, as if he looked at Stepovich from another
place and time. "It isn't a comfortable harness to
share, is it?" There might have been kindness in those
black eyes, or pity, or maybe just a stray glint from a
street lamp. The Gypsy moved his hands, and the
sheathed knife was gone, secreted somewhere on his
person.

"You knew she'd been murdered?" Stepovich
asked, groping after professional suspicion. "You
knew the old woman?"

"I guessed only that a friend had been killed. Noth-
ing more."

"You didn't know her?"

The Gypsy looked disoriented. "What was her
name?"

"Which one? She had ID for four different ones, and
two social security cards. Rosa Stanilaus? Cynthia Kac-
marcik? Molly Kelly?" He uttered the last name with
heavy sarcasm, but the Gypsy appeared not to notice
any change in his voice. He tipped his head to one side,
as if he were listening to some other voice.

"No," he said, and it did not seem to be in answer
to any of Stepovich's queries. "She left no message
for me." Statement? Question?

Stepovich felt an insane desire to laugh. "Only the
crystal. And all it said was, Tind out who killed
me.' " The words were out before he could curb
them. Shit. That had been stupid. The crystal was
just the kind of detail Homicide might hold back,
might reserve to test who knew it was in her purse
and who didn't. And he must have sounded like an
idiot, voicing the words from his dream.

But this Gypsy was nodding, as if it was something

The Gypsy and the Wolf           53

he had expected, but was not glad to hear. Nodding
and turning and walking away from him. Stepovich
watched him go, his dark shape fading into the night
and his footsteps were lost in the sound of the wind
blowing trash down the street.

And then it was suddenly late, very late at night,
and Stepovich shivered. His jacket was too thin for
this cutting wind. He wondered how long he'd been
standing there. As he walked back to the corner where
he'd parked his Dodge, he was thinking that tomor-
row was a day off, and that Ed had asked him to meet
him. If he had the time. As if time wasn't the only
thing he had.

As he walked back to the car, he felt strangely light.
Not lighthearted, but unburdened. He was opening
the car door before he realized what it was. The
weight of the knife was no longer dragging at his
pocket.

NEAR MIDNIGHT

/ only want to stop and rest,
Don't want to start no fight;

I'll just stay here for a while
'Til the police car's out of sight.

"RED LIGHTS AND NEON"

The Wolf stood bristling and growling, as surprised
to find Cigany in its path as Cigany was to find it.
That is what I must remember, he told himself. It is
frightened of me, and will not attack unless I show fear or
threaten it. The unbidden voice of his grandmother
from long ago added. Or it is desperately hungry. The
Wolf growled again, daring Cigany to show fear. Ci-

54 THE GYPSY

gany held himself still and met the Wolf's gaze until
the growling subsided a little.

He became aware that his knife had appeared be-
tween his feet/ and realized that the Wolf must have
brought it. Why? How? The Wolf growled some more
and Cigany spoke softly, soothingly. It seemed that
the Wolf was questioning him, asking him for help,
for guidance-

Cigany said, "Yes, this is my knife, you are right
to bring it to me."

The Wolf growled again, puzzled. Cigany struggled
to explain as much as he could. "The Fair Lady held
the knife. You find Her servant and the old woman
will have peace. I cannot help you. Or perhaps I can.
I don't know." The Wolf growled again, angry or
frustrated, and Cigany said, "I would give you what
I have, but I have nothing. Should there come a time,
I will feed your pack, with my body if need be. What
more can I offer?"

The Wolf seemed to consider this. Cigany picked
up the knife and shuddered as he did so. He could
feel the cold touch of Luci's fingers on it, and he knew
that this knife had killed the old woman. He stared
at the Wolf, wondering, but wolves do not kill with
knives. Although he could have wished the Wolf
would have found it sooner or kept it safer. The
Wolf's head twisted, as if it could sense Cigany's dis-
comfort. "No," he said. "You have not known how
to keep it from Her hand. It is a knife made from the
iron at the heart of the world/ iron that never saw the
light of day before it was forged; how are you, wolf-
brother, to know the care one must take of it? You
have done what you could and I do not blame you."

There was a blurring and a sundering and a tearing,
and the Wolf was gone; in his place was, once more,
the policeman Cigany had known he was from the
beginning. "Did you know she was slain?" the po-
liceman demanded.

The Gypsy and the Wolf           55

Cold shivers raced down Cigany's spine. Yes, he
almost answered. In my dreams, I knew. Instead he
said, "I knew someone died—someone who was
bound to me, though I don't know how."

"You didn't know her?"

Know? What does "know" mean? "What was her
name?" he said, stumbling to answer.

The policeman snorted and listed several, none of
which meant anything to Cigany. He shook his head,
wondering desperately how to escape. Why was this
man asking about his dreams? How was he to parry
questions that the policeman could not have known
enough to ask? And it is one thing to set tasks to a
dream wolf one meets on a city street; it is quite an-
other to do so for a policeman. Dreams are real to
one, not to the other. All Cigany could think of was,
this man can confine me again. I'll not let him. I will
kill him if I have to. No, I will not. I cannot. By my
lost brothers, what am I to do?

The policeman was demanding help, but what help
could he give? Was he supposed to lay the burden of
his life on this man? But he thought about the dreams,
and the old woman who had spoken to him. Had she
said anything I could pass on to the old Wolf to satisfy him?
No, she left no message for me. What can I—

But the policeman was speaking again. "Only the
crystal," he said, as if answering a question Cigany
hadn't asked. Or had he? "And all it said was, 'Find
out who killed me.' "

A crystal? The woman told fortunes with them,
perhaps, but how could that . . . still. The bargain
was plain. He had been given his life and freedom by
the policeman on the condition that he discover who
had killed the old woman- It was fair, he decided,
since she'd been killed with his knife, and, moreover,
since she'd as much as told him her death had pre-
vented his, and allowed him to continue his quest.

He nodded, looking the policeman in the eye to se"

56 THE GYPSY

cure the bargain, and walked away. He was well around
the comer before it came to him that a policeman, not a
Wolf, had returned him the knife, and that policemen
can use knives to kill old women. He shuddered there,
in the dark next to the cemetery, and he hurried on.

LATE TWENTIETH CENTURY, AFTERNOON

Been looking for a sparrow
In a city full of wrens,
Been asking for the cost
So I can make amends,
Been waiting for the questions
So my answers will make sense,
Been looking for the way home
But the snow is much too dense.

"MO PASSENGER"

Maybe it was a mistake to stay sober, for this was
certainly not the coach.

Ten years ago their language would have been gig-
gles; now it was full of strange words and hints of
things these two couldn't know enough to hint about.
But it was really no different. Fourteen? Fifteen? Six-
teen? Wishing they were eighteen, which was the age
at which they would be trying to be twenty-two. And
they were dressed—how? What did it mean here and
now? What had it ever meant? Maybe it was a mis-
take to stay sober, for this was certainly not the coach.

He climbed into the driver's seat, pretending that he
was climbing up high on top, above the count and his
current mistress, who sat inside, below, with the cur-
tains pulled against the wind from the mountains and—

But never mind. The horses knew him by now, and
Bunny's ears flicked back as he spoke to them. Bunny

The Gypsy and the Wolf           57

liked his voice, had liked it the nrst time they'd met.
Stallone was slower, but her neck came up high, like
a feeble old grandmother who pretends, for a mo-
ment, to her former pride and health. Heh.

There were only the nve of them. Bunny, Stallone,
and two children as he set off; and, of the hve/ the
two passengers were in their own world, one of cars
and boys and stolen cigarettes. He picked up their
names from their conversation, but said nothing be-
cause they didn't speak to him, and habit is habit,
and a job is a job, even if a ride through the park isn't
a race against a mountain storm.

"Hey, driver," said the one called Sue. "Can't you
make this thing go any faster?"

"Yes," he said, "1 can." But he didn't- The ques-
tion made him realize how much he enjoyed these
occasional chances at the seat; he wouldn't risk them
for the likes of these.

"Oh come on," said the other one. "Let's really
move."

For a moment, something almost snapped, but he
held it back. Every time the^young "driver" (he
couldn't be called a coachman) let him use his "rig"
(it couldn't be called a coach) two or three customers
would try to make him race the horses, or attempt to
bribe him to take them off the regular path. He was
always tempted, but he held it back.

The one called Sue began to abuse him, but he
stopped listening. The wife of one of his old masters
used to do that, two or three times a week, when he
refused to take the Bobolos Trail (which his master
had forbidden). He was good at ignoring abuse.

But he heard the other one say, "Oh, cut it. Sue.
It's his job."

There was a sound like Bunny made when she got
food in her nose. "Some job. Shit. Driving snotty ass-
holes around the park all day."

The Coachman remained impassive.

58 THE GYPSY

"It's probably all he can get. Right, mister?"

That called for an answer. "It is what I do," he said.

"What," said Sue. "You can't get a taxi gig, so you
do this?"

"I am the Coachman," he said.

"So?"

"I am the Coachman."

"Is that s'posed to mean something?"

"My horses are called Vision, Experience, Wisdom,
and Love. By the skills of my hands I hold the reins
of Will and Desire. I will take you by roads that climb
and fall, twist and go straight."

He was no longer speaking to them/ didn't care if they
listened, or even if they could hear him. "Sometimes
the horses try to run wild, and I fight them, or let them
run, as may be. Sometimes they go where I guide mem,
and I can bring you to places of which you have never
dreamed, or perhaps you have- Sometimes you, in the
coach, may direct me, and then I will bring you where
you wish. Perhaps you will be glad to arrive.

"But, always and ever, I drive the coach.

"I am the Coachman. You are here. Ten dollars,
please."

He watched sadly as they walked away after paying
him and even tipping him a quarter. Across the path,
a man who was far too old for them watched them
leave with an intensity that, in another place and time,
would have gotten him hanged. But this was here
and now. The Coachman reached down into the seat
for his bottle, thought better of it, shook his head and
went around to scratch Bunny between her ears.

"I am the Coachman," he told her.

She nodded.

FOUR

The Wolf and the Badger

12 NOV 15:51

Can't take the aggravation; I'm tired to the bone.
I'm sick of watching cable and sleeping here alone.

"STEPDOWN"

The park was a pleasant place, still. The neighbor-
hood around it was declining, and the people walking
the paths and the mothers pushing babies in strollers
reflected the change, but the park itself—the plantings,
the grass, the pond—seemed immune to the chang-
ing fortunes of the economy. More swings were van-
dalized, perhaps, and the ducks more wary of stone
throwers, but the park itself was still nice. Cold. Quiet,
this time of the morning.

Stepovich found a bench and sat, facing the play
equipment. A small boy dug determinedly in the
sandbox, despite the cold and the snow. A couple
walked by the pond. The swings hung slack and
empty. He could remember sitting on one of those
swings, holding Jeffrey and swinging. And singing.
Old songs, the same old songs his dad had sung to
him. And Jennie and Laurie feeding the ducks, pre-
tending they didn't know the strange man who was
belting out "Barnacle Bill The Sailor" to the little kid

60 THE GYPSY

on his lap, swinging high and pumping his legs to
carry them even higher.

For one aching instant, he wondered if Jeffrey could
remember any of that. Jeffrey had been so small. Step-
ovich reached back into himself, trying to see where
his own memories of his father began. But he couldn't
put a date to it. Big hands. That's what he thought of
when he remembered his father. Big hands, with the
thick nails rounded off short. Big hands that could
swing him up to touch his head against the ceiling/
but could also tie his shoelaces in double knots that
wouldn't come undone. He looked at his own hands,
and wondered if Jeffrey would ever remember them.

He glanced from his hands to the ground. Two
small sneakers faced him. He looked up to find the
sandbox kid regarding him steadily with confident
brown eyes. "Push me," he said, and then fumed
and ran toward the swings. Stepovich didn't move.
The boy grabbed the chain of one swing, rattled it
impatiently. Stepovich pulled himself to his feet,
wondering why, and obediently came to help the boy
get into the swing. He pushed him, small pushes at
first, and then as he laughed aloud and kicked out his
short legs, harder. Then, "Down, down," he was
saying, and Stepovich caught at him, slowing the
swing's momentum, catching boy and swing and eas-
ing them to a stop. The kid jumped from the swing,
his shirt pulling out of his jeans.

"Merry-go-round," he announced, and reached up
for Stepovich's hand.

"A moment, little man," he said, and knelt to tug
the boy's shirt straight and pull his jeans back up over
his shirt tail. The boy wriggled in his hands, giggling
as if tickled.

"Get up, you son of a bitch!"

Stepovich came up from his knee in a controlled
spin that put him face to face with the male half of
the duck-feeding couple. He had muscular arms and

The Wolf and the Badger           61

a punk's spoiled face and he was still trying to look
tough as he stepped back from Stepovich. "Touch my
kid's pants again, I'll kill you, asshole," he snarled.
Stepovich glanced past him/ habit of a career, keep
the eyes moving, and spotted the woman, still clutch-
ing her bag of bread. She was watching the scene
with neither fear nor anxiety, but absorption, as if it
were her two o'clock soap- Stepovich's eyes went
back to punk dad, locked there. He kept his face im-
passive as he said, "The kid's shirt was untucked."

"Yeah, I'll bet it was," Dad sneered, rocking away
as if he knew how deep and still the other's anger
was. He sidestepped Stepovich at a distance he prob-
ably believed was out of fist range and glared at the
kid. "You, Jamie. Didn't I tell ya never to let no one
touch you? You let that old faggot shove his hands
down your pants?"

Jamie's eyes went from bright to confounded. Much
like Stepovich, the boy could think of nothing to say.

"You get your ass over to your mother. Right
now." And as the boy scrambled away. Dad put his
fists on his hips and swelled ms chest. "I oughta kick
your ass for touching my kid. I catch you hanging out
around here again, I just might, old man."

"I wasn't molesting your child," Stepovich spoke
softly. "But if you want to try kicking my ass, feel
free." Little bits of anger, floating loose for days, at
Durand for answering the phone wrong and always
being such a dumbshit pup, at the old gypsy woman
for dying so ugly, at the Gypsy for not knowing or
giving him the answers to who had killed her, all the
little bits of anger were coalescing in him, not hot,
but cold and uncaring. He'd rip him a new asshole.
He'd make him bleed, not the easy blood from nose
and cheekbones, but the deep blood that comes out
over the tongue and chokes a man with his own salt.

Punk Dad took a step back. "There's laws in this
town about people like you. We don't like your kind."

62 THE GYPSY

"It's mutual," Stepovich said softly. His hand went
slowly to his jacket pocket, groping after the knife as
he set his balance and waited. A smile he didn't feel
gripped his face and twisted his mouth.

Something in punk Dad's face changed when Step-
ovich smiled at him. His own sneer faded, to be re-
placed with an uncertain fear. A fear that blustered.
"You touch me/ I'm calling a cop."

Stepovich had started to lift his foot for the step to-
wards him when the horn sounded. No little import car
toot, but the deep throated bellow of the all-American
Cadillac. The punk glanced toward it as he was backing
away and Stepovich's eyes instinctively followed.

Ed. In his goddamn baby blue land-yacht. The win-
dow glided down and Ed leaned out. Even across the
distance, his dark brown eyes locked with Stepovich's
and drew his anger out like a poultice draws poison from
a wound. The couple and the kid were gone, the father
hurrying them down the pond walkway and Stepovich
was halfway to the car before he had his next thought.
He felt just wakened from a dream. He took his hand
from his pocket, half-surprised to find it empty.

As he got in the passenger side/ Ed demanded,
"What was that all about?"

"Damned if I know," Stepovich replied, settling
back in the seat and stretching his legs out. One thing
this car had was room. Lousy gas mileage, and a di-
nosaur in a parking garage, but roomy. Ed toed the
gas pedal and they glided away from the curb.

"I didn't even recognize you for a minute, back
there, you know," Ed pushed.

"Yeah. Me neither." The car interior was warm af-
ter the morning's brisk air. It smelled of car wax and
spice from the little tree-shaped car deodorizer and
Ed's pipe tobacco. Stepovich leaned back into it as if
it were a summer hammock. "Sometimes," he said
conversationally, "I feel like an old bull elephant. One
the young males have driven out of the herd. And

The Wolf and the Badger           63

any time I get close at all to the females or the young,
they turn on me- Instinctively. You ever feel anything
like that?"

"You need a few days off, Mike," Ed told him.

"I need a few days off like you need a few days of
work."

"Well, maybe that's true, too. So why don't we
combine them. You take a week off and help me do
a little work on this baby, and then go fishing on the
lake. Or maybe get out of Ohio all together. I know a
kid in Michigan, in the U.P., who said he could get
me a special rate on cabins on Black Lake."

"What you doing to this car now?" Stepovich asked
idly. Not that he was actually considering Ed's plans.
But it was easier to distract him into talking about the
Caddy than it was to argue with Mm.

"Automatic dimmer switch. See, it's a two person
thing. I'm supposed to be able to set it on automatic,
and then it dims when it senses oncoming headlights,
and goes back to bright after they're past."

Ed was lighting his pipe, a nerve-wracking juggling
of steering wheel, pipe, tobacco and lighter. Stepovich
looked out the window and reminded himself of all the
times their squad car had survived the pipe-lighting rit-
ual, and observed, "You had the Caddy dealer adjust
that a month ago."

"Yeah, well, they didn't get it right," Ed replied
testily.

"Oh." The dealership never got anything right ac-
cording to Ed. He was always redoing adjustments
he'd just had them make.

"No. It dims way too late. So, what I need is some-
one outside the car, to set off the dimmer switch with
a light, while I'm inside doing the adjustment. Won't
take long, I promise. And then we can go fishing."

It would take four hours, if it didn't take all day.
The Caddy was an older model, a pre-gas-crisis di-
nosaur among cars and Ed's pride and joy. He in-

64 THE GYPSY

sisted that everything in it had to work perfectly, not just
the power windows and the clock, but the automatic
dimmers and the adjustable steering column and the hy-
draulic load levelers and the button in the glove com-
partment that opened the trunk from inside the car.
Sometimes Stepovich got tired just thinking about all the
gadgets in the damn car. And there wasn't a one that Ed
hadn't taken apart and put back together. He was always
saying that when he got it running perfectly, he was go-
ing to take off, crisscross the U.S., see the whole country.
"Well," said Ed. "What about the fishing?"

Stepovich half turned in his seat. "There's this
gypsy," he said/ not even knowing that he was going
to say it. But once he had started he told him, not just
what had happened, but all of it: The knife and the
dream and the creepy feeling and the crystal in the
old gypsy woman's bag. By the time he had finished,
they were pulling into the parking lot of the Sham-
rock Bar and Grille. Ed stopped the car and turned
the key and the gentle vibration of the engine ceased.
He looked across at Stepovich.
"Well?" asked Stepovich after a long pause.
"I think you need to go fishing," Ed replied.
They got roast beef on rye and potato salad and
dark Becks to go with it and the sweet hot mustard-
horseradish spread that was the Shamrock's only
claim to fame. They sat in a high-backed booth with
red leather on the seats and ate as they had eaten
when they were partners, companionably, without
speech, giving their attention to the food and trusting
some other parts of themselves to pay attention to
whatever problem was currently besieging them. Oc-
casionally Stepovich stole a glance at Ed. He hadn't
changed that much. A little thicker, his chest merging
into his belly. Less hair/ and what there was getting
grayer. Same snapping dark eyes. Eyes that could ask
one question while Ed was asking a suspect another,
and half the time the guy would end up answering

The Wolf and the Badger           65

both questions before he'd thought about it. A good
cop and a better friend.

Stepovich went for two more Becks, and when he
sat down, Ed asked, "You want I should look into it
a little?"

"How?"

"Turn over a few rocks, shake out a few people
who used to know things for me. Ask some tactless
questions in ways you aren't allowed to ask them.
You know."

Stepovich did know. "I don't want you getting
your ass in a crack over this," he said.

Ed snorted. "Give me a little credit. But here's the
deal. I shake out what you want, then you take a
week off and we go fishing. Right?"

"Okay," Stepovich conceded. Some part of him felt
relieved, and another part of him felt ashamed to have
dragged Ed into this. Over what. Over a bad dream
and a peculiar feeling.

"Feeling guilty?" Ed read him, and Stepovich nod-
ded sheepishly.

"Good." Ed grinned wickedly. "We can spend the
rest of the day adjusting my automatically adjusting
dimmers."

AFTERNOON

/ got no home I can go back to,
I got no one to call a friend.
I can't find the place I started.
I can only guess how it will end.

"HIDE MY TRACK"

They almost caught you, said the Voice. They almost
caught you, and now they're closing in.

66 THE GYPSY

Timothy moaned and rolled over, pushed damp
sheets away from him, and pounded his hst into the
pillow. The Voice didn't go away, though; it never
did. They almost caught you, it repeated. He sobbed.

Tim, it said. Timothy. Little Timmy.

"No!" he cried. He hated being called Little
Timmy. He'd always hated that. Little Timmy got
pushed around. Little Timmy got beat up, and, most
of all. Little Timmy got laughed at.

Little Timmy, said the Voice.

He sat up and cried to the air, not caring by this time
if the whole building heard him. "If they catch me it's
your fault. You said you'd protect me, damn you."

There was a pause, but then the voice inside his
skull answered him. Damn me? it said. How redundant.
Timmy felt a shudder go through him, and, more than
anything else, he wanted to be away. But it wouldn't
let him go. I disguised you, Timothy. I made you look like
someone else, and the police caught him, but he escaped.
You were almost found three days ago, Timothy, but I pro-
tected you. So you see—

"You did that?" he spoke to the walls, and there
was hysteria in his voice. "I did that. You made me
kill an old woman who had never—"

Shush, Timothy. You tire me. Yes, you killed her, but
what took you so long? Was she too strong for you? If you
had killed her quickly, they wouldn't be after you. But I
acted to protect you. Now 1 will act again. It is time for
you to get up and go out. It is no longer enough to count
on your police, Timothy. You must act yourself.

He sat on the bed and looked at his hands. There
was a power there, as there was a power in the Voice.
His stomach churned once more as he thought of the
old woman, her eyes bright with anger and pride and
hate, and he felt the fear in his bowels as she had
struck the gun from his hand, and then he'd been
holding a knife, and where had it come from? And
where did it go?

The Wolf and the Badger           67

"What must I do?" he said.

The knife has fallen from our hands, and we could not
use it against him in any case. You must get your gun. I
will tell you what to do with it.

He still sat at the edge of the bed and stared at his
hands, "Why are you doing this to me?" he asked.

To his surprise, she answered.

Because I can. Little Timmy.

MtD-AUTUMN, AFTER SUNRISE

/ keep finding hands to help me with the load
So I'll keep walking further up this road.

"UP THE ROAD"

Early morning: Cigany sat cross-legged in his hidey-
hole beneath the overpass and stared at his knife. It
would need to be cleaned, he. knew, before he could
fully trust it again. Until it was, it could draw the Fair
Lady to him, and who knew what form the attack
would take? He was not invulnerable, he knew that.
He had lived a long time because of his wits, and
skill, and luck/ but now the Fair Lady had seen him,
and he Her, and the battle was joined in earnest, and
he knew that She had the power to destroy him if he
wasn't careful.

Death didn't frighten him, but the idea that he
could die after all of those forgotten years, and all of
that heartache and pain; this was not to be borne.

As he stood up, the sun's rays struck him across
the face, and he shuddered, knowing that today
someone would try to kill him. He made the sign of
the cross in the air and looked around for a piece of
wood to touch. There were none, so he picked up
some gravel and threw it in front of him saying, "May

68 THE GYPSY

my road be higher than the river and lower than the
sun, and may my feet find a safe way home."

He brushed his hands on his shirt and set off/ keep-
ing to alleys as much as possible, always staying alert
for the police. As he walked he found a clothing store
and stole a snakeskin belt (the only snakeskin he
could find), pulled a twig from a hazel tree, and
begged a small quantity of holy water from a con-
fused priest. He drank a bowl of tasteless soup and a
cup of weak coffee at a Howard Johnson's, then con-
tinued to forage. As he walked, his vision began to
blur, and he felt his headache coming back. He took
the piece of paper out of his pocket and tried to re-
member how the scribbling on it could cure the head-
ache, but it was no good- He laughed grimly to
himself. "When my head doesn't hurt/' he thought,
"1 don't think of it, and when it does, I can't read
it." He took wheat flour from a grocery store and a
white candle from a pharmacy. He took a piece of
bark from an oak, and, with the knife, scratched de-
signs of the moon and the stars on the bark.

Armed with these things, he made his way back to
his place beneath the overpass and waited for the ris-
ing of the full moon of autumn.

1980S

They said. "Why are you here?"
I said, "I'm doing time,
'Cause I'm willing to break laws
But I won't commit no crime."

"MO PASSENGER"

It was humiliating to be a coachman and to be forced
to ride in a cab; a humiliation only partly alleviated

The Wolf and the Badger           69

by riding up front, with the driver. Sometimes they
wouldn't let you do that, but this man, big and burly
like an innkeeper and gnarled like a peasant woman,
didn't seem to mind. His nod was an implied shrug,
and as the Coachman settled into place he said, "Where
to?"

"The bus station," he said. More humiliations in
store.

The cab pulled away. "Meeting someone?"

"No, going somewhere."

The driver frowned for a moment then shrugged.
The lack of luggage probably puzzled him. He said,
"Where ya going?"

"I'm looking for birds," he said, only coming to
realize it as the words were spoken.

"Birds?"

"I have to find a Raven and an Owl before the Dove
kills himself."

The driver cleared his throat and twitched ner-
vously, obviously having second thoughts about hav-
ing this wacko in the front seat "Whatever you say,
buddy," he nnally said. They spoke no more during
the journey.

13 NOV 09:47

My partner doesn't even know my name.
If he did I think I'd hate him Just the same.

"STEPDOWN"

Stepovich wished he were driving. Durand always
talked while he drove, and flapped his right hand at
Stepovich, as if that were an essential part of talk-

"g-

ing.

"So the lab guy says, 'Yeah, that bastard drove that

70 THE GYPSY

knife into her like he was trying to shove it dear to
China, but that wasn't the weirdest part of it, though,'
so I says, 'Oh, yeah,' kind of casual, and he says/
'No, the weirdest part was the wound configuration.
I didn't know what the hell it was, I thought maybe
the killer had a defective knife or something, but one
of the older guys, he looks at it and says, hey, will
you look at the hilt impressions on this wound?' "

The taxicab at the corner barely curtsied to the stop
sign before it swung out in front of them. Durand
crammed on the brakes and Stepovich's palm, slapped
the dash as he braced himself.

"Shit," hissed Stepovich, and spent a few futile
moments groping for the ends of the seat belt, but as
always it was stuffed somewhere in the crevice of the
seat back.

"Yeah!" Durand agreed enthusiastically, hardly
pausing in his story. "You know, a hilt impression.
It's a mark around the knife wound when a blade gets
really driven in. This one was really weird. The lab
guy tells me the old guy said the knife must be a
custom job. It left these three little bruises around the
wound, like there were little studs sticking out from
the guard. That knife—"

"Durand." Stepovich spoke without looking at
him, but his cold tone stopped the story in midsen-
tence. "It's a homicide, isn't it?"

"Well, yeah," Durand sounded sulky.

"Then leave it to the homicide guy. They hate it
when guys like us sniff around in their shit. You
won't get any thanks for it. No one's going to think
you're Sherlock Holmes. Even if you come up with
something, you won't get the credit. The only thing
you'll get is a reputation as a hotshot boy scout who
can't mind his own business. Worse, they're gonna
hgure you're out to make them look bad, so they're
going to devote a little time to making you look bad.

The Wolf and the Badger           71

Only they're going to be better at it. You're suddenly
going to hnd that you've screwed up any crime scene
you're called to, that you've mishandled evidence and
handled witnesses all wrong. And that's going to go
in your file. You get what I'm saying?" Dumbshit.

"Fuck."

"Yeah/" Stepovich agreed, and leaned back, scan-
ning the street and listening to the gabble and hiss of
the radio.

"But don't it count for nothing that we were there
first, that we found her? And that we probably even
had brought them the guy, cause the description from
the tenant next door matched our bust. Hell, we had
that gypsy, all locked up/ and it never woulda hap-
pened if some fuckup hadn't cut him loose before ..."

A sick, cold little animal had gotten into Stepo-
vich's belly, and now it was stretching. He hadn't
been listening that closely to Dumbshit's story/ and
he should have. "You talking about that old gypsy
woman? And the guy we'd hauled in from in front of
the cemetery, on suspicion of the liquor store kill-

^g7"                   * .

"Shit, yes! I wouldn't a been pumping the lab guy
if I didn't think we had a stake in it, and ..."

"Say the thing about the knife again," Stepovich
cut in, but he didn't really need to hear it again. He
could feel it, cold under his thumb as he pressed
down on the little stars and wondered what they sig-
nified. He hadn't really thought about what kind of
marks they would leave when he was sitting on his
bed looking at the piece of evidence he hadn't turned
in. Hadn't thought of anything at all but getting rid
of it. Of returning the damning evidence to the mur-
derer. ...

"Couldn't have been," he said, suddenly remem-
bering that he'd had the knife when the gypsy woman
was killed, that it had been tucked away in the drawer
of his night stand. But whoever had one custom blade

72 THE GYPSY

was likely to have two, or would at least know where
the other one had come from, hell, it could be some
kind of cult/ all of them using the same weapons, and
maybe Durand had been right/ they'd had the thread
that could unravel it the day they'd had that John Doe
Gypsy.

"You okay?"

Durand's question was very careful, and Stepovich
suddenly realized it had been very quiet in the car for
some time. He looked at his hands braced against the
dashboard as if to hold off some sudden collision. He
forced them to drop down, felt his elbows rubbery
with tension. "Just stretching. And thinking. That lab
guy, he say anything else?" He stared out at the pass-
ing panorama of Cushman Street. Transition blocks.
Old hotels that were more like cheap rooming houses
now, lobbies full of snoozing winos and the smell of
dirty carpets/ interspersed with cheap bars and sex
show places. LIVE NUDES ON STAGE flashed with the
sign. Well, hell, at least it didn't say DEAD NUDES ON
STAGE. Maybe that would be next week's show. "I
mean, was there anything else weird about the kill-
ing?" he nudged Durand. Shoulda been listening be-
fore, he chided himself.

"Thought you said it wasn't smart to get mixed up
in a homicide investigation?" Durand asked coyly.

Stepovich flicked his eyes at his partner, and away.
Like Joey Petmann, he suddenly thought. Ted Pet-
mann's little brother, and when Stepovich and Ted
were kids and best friends, Joey had followed them
everywhere, bugging the shit out of them. But his
favorite thing to do had been to get something they
wanted, and then hold out on them. Bubble gum or
the latest Blackhawk comic or a Polaroid picture of
Stevie Caldwell's big sister in the bathtub- That's how
Durand's face looked right now/ just like Joey Pet-
mann's face had looked as he leaned over the edge of

The Wolf and the Badger           73

the tree fort with the rope pulled up and waved the
Polaroid out of reach.

Stepovich turned and looked out the window and
said, "Well, those lab guys are taught to be pretty
tight-lipped. Probably wouldn't part with anything
important anyway. Not to some patrol cop in a bar,
anyway. Hey!" Stepovich interrupted as Durand's
mouth opened in an "oh, yeah!" face. "Hey! How
in hell did Willy get back on the street so soon? I
thought Rich and Trope busted him hard for beating
one of his girls."

"Where?" Durand demanded, and nearly side-
swiped a parked car craning his neck to look back.

"You missed him. Or maybe it wasn't him." Du-
rand hated Willy. The wiry little pimp was meaner
than hell, and completely unafraid of cops. No one
liked to bust him because Willy had ways of making
it unpleasant for the arresting officers. Cut up the up-
holstery in one squad car. Smeared the chili burger
he was eating down another cop's uniform. Rumor
had it he'd taken a dump in the back seat of Kelly's
patrol car. And the first time Durand had collared
him, Willy stuck his finger down his throat and threw
up all down the front of him. The guy was crazy.

"Where was he?" Durand demanded again- His
bottom teeth clamped against his upper lip. Looked
like a bulldog. Tenacious as one, too-

"Hell, he's gone now. You want to take a coffee
break pretty soon?" Stepovich smiled at him.

"I guess." Durand kept glancing in the rearview
mirror, and then over at Stepovich, as if unable to
decide which to pursue. "There was one other weird
thing about the dead gypsy. woman," he offered.

"Yeah? Well, turn left at the next light and go about
six blocks/ get us out of this hole. I don't wanta get
served by some waitress that probably gives hand jobs
on the side. Let's go to Norm's/ okay? It's clean and
cheap."

74 THE GYPSY

"\ mean, the knife was weird enough, you know,
but it gets weirder/' Durand offered desperately -

Hey, Joey, we don't wanta see your stupid Polar-
oid. We got a whole Playboy at our fort, and it's fulla
pictures of real girls, not somebody's sister. Stepovich
flicked a glance at Durand. "Yeah?" he offered, then,
"Or we could go to that new place, the one the Ko-
rean guy opened on Fifteenth. I hear it's clean. You
been there yet?"

"No- Uh, Norm's let's go to Norm's. But there was
something weird about that killing. I mean, besides
the knife with the little studs. Four separate stab
wounds, I tell you that? Every one right to the hilt.
Lab guy says the first one was the fatal one. She
musta known she was already dead, but she kept on
fighting. Can you beat that?"

"Mean old ladies are like that. Harder to kill than
cats." Stepovich knew he just had to wait now and
he'd get all that Durand had.

"Maybe. Yeah, maybe. But stuff had been done to
the body."

Stepovich was silent, a little sick. What could she
have done to make someone want to kill her? And
what kind of a person could push a knife into another
human being, not just once, to kill her, but over and
over as she was struggling and dying? He thought of
the Gypsy with his black unreadable eyes and empty
face. Could you do it, he asked the image in his mind,
and the Gypsy in his mind shrugged his wide shoul-
ders and told him nothing.

"Not rape. It wasn't anything like that. Someone
had cut a lock of hair from the back of her head, down
underneath at the nape of her neck."

"Souvenir?"

"Maybe. Or maybe proof that a job had been
done."

Stepovich shook his head wearily. "Lock of grey
hair is too generic. They'd have taken something more

The Wolf and the Badger           75

personal, a piece of jewelry, something like that.
Sounds like a souvenir to me."

Or a cult killing of some kind, some kind of crazy
with a special knife who kills her and takes a lock of
her hair, some kind of a wacko. Or a very personal
revenge of some kind. Or a total crazy, with no rea-
sons at all, only impulses. The Gypsy in his mind was
smiling secretively now. That day they busted him,
he hadn't even seemed sure of his name. Chuck
maybe, but he wasn't sure, so they'd made him John
Doe. Man like that, couldn't remember his own name,
maybe he wouldn't remember what he'd done the
day before. Maybe he'd look in Stepovich's face and
seem baffled and innocent.

"Here's Norm's."

And he'd sent Ed after him, to look at things a lit-
tle. Great, Stepovich. Don't just fuck your career up
by withholding evidence, and then turning over what
might be a murder weapon to some whacked-out
gypsy by a cemetery. Go ahead and drag Ed into it,
send him out to look for someone who was probably
psycho, who'd probably cut up" your old buddy and
take a hair sample when he was through. Great. Some
cop you are.

"We going in, or what?"

"What?"

"You want to get a cup of coffee here?"

They were parked outside Norm's, Stepovich no-
ticed belatedly. He wondered if Tiffany Marie was
working, hoped she wasn't. She always looked so
damn glad to see him- He didn't want to deal with
any kid grinning and chattering at him right now- He
shouldered the door open, nearly banging it into the
parking meter, and stumbled out. He felt as if he'd
been asleep and had suddenly wakened. Durand was
looking at him funny. He restrained the impulse to
glare back, and followed him into Norm's. They
claimed a couple of stools at the counter and ordered

76 THE GYPSY

coffee. "Back in a second," Stepovich told Durand,
and headed for the phone. Time to start cleaning up
the mess he'd made.

Ed's phone rang. Four. Five. Six. "Hello." Pissed
voice.

"Ed, it's me. Listen. About that little thing I asked
you to look into. Don't bother. It's fizzled out into
nothing, no big deal. No sense you messing with it."

"For this I come in all the way from the garage? To
hear you tell me to forget it/ it's nothing. Shit. Just
when I thought I had a hot tip for you, too. Hey.
Guess what? This is gonna make you laugh but it
ain't really funny. I opened the trunk of the Caddy
this morning/ and you know what I find? A big hole
in the carpeting. I look around a little more/ and I find
this wad of paper and fiber in the spare tire well. A
mouse nest. I got a mouse living in my car. Chewed
the hell out of the carpeting in the trunk and I think
part of the nest is made from my upholstery stuffing/
so God knows how much damage it's done. Pretty
weird/ huh?"

Weird? Weird is cutting a lock of hair off the nape
of a dead granny's neck. Weird is killing someone
with a knife with little stars on the hilt that leave tell-
tale bruises. "That's pretty strange/ all right. Set a
trap for him, Ed. What was this hot tip, anyway?"

"Hell, nothing probably. Guy I got it from's been
doing coke so long that he's only got three brain cells
left and none of them connect to the others. Told me
something about a guy driving a horsedrawn cab in
the parks on Sundays when the regular guy's off. Ac-
cording to him/ this guy probably knows every gypsy
in the city. But he also says he's usually drunk. Peo-
ple been complaining about him because he don't al-
ways keep the cab on the right path, you know. Guess
they caught him on the bike trail one day. Regular
guy's called Spider. Has a rig with two horses/ a grey
and a brown. Anyway. You coming over Saturday

The Wolf and the Badger           77

night? Game's on at six. You bring the beer, we'll
have spaghetti."

"Yeah. I guess so. Hey/ thanks, Ed. Sorry this came
to nothing like this."

"Yeah. Me/ too. That info cost me ten bucks/ pal.
But I'll forget it if you bring some munchies to go
with the beer. Hey/ why not bring your kid? Jeff's old
enough to watch a game now."

And Jennie had warned him that she'd have his
visitation rights reviewed the first time he started tak-
ing the kids around any of his "cop buddies." "Not
this time/ Ed. He asks too many questions. Maybe
another time. We'll see you."

"Okay. And if I get any more back on the feelers I
sent out/ I'll let you know."

"Forget it, Ed. It's dead, come to nothing, I told
you."

"Sure. Go ahead, treat me like an old man. I can
still kick your ass, if it comes down to cases. Tell Du-
rand I said hi. And lighten up on the kid. He's not
that bad. Not too different from someone else I knew
as a rookie."

"Bullshit," Stepovich told him, and hung up.
Damn Ed and his instincts.

He went back to the counter, sat down heavily on
the stool. Durand held up his coffee cup and a pass-
ing waitress gave him a refill. "Tiffany's not working
today?" he asked her. She shook her head, went on
without speaking. Stepovich sipped at his own still-
brimming cup. It was lukewarm and on the bitter side.

"Know what?" Durand said.

"What?" He tore open two sugar packets and
stirred them in.

"I think we should go back to that bar where we
picked up the gypsy. He might be a regular there,
they might be able to tell us where to find him."

"Waste of time." He tasted the coffee.

"Maybe not. I really think he was our man. And if

78 THE GYPSY

not, I suspect he's a lead. I'd like another look at that
knife."

Stepovich's cup rattled as he set it back in the sau-
cer. He centered the cup carefully, mopped up the
few spilled drops and motioned the waitress for more.
the cold little beast in his belly was sharpening his
claws now. He didn't dare ask, couldn't stop himself.
"What knife?"

"Gypsy had a knife when we shook him down.
You don't remember it?"

"Whoa, that's plenty. Thanks," and he motioned
the waitress off. Added another packet of sugar, hop-
ing that keeping his hands busy would cover the
slight trembling. "No," he lied carefully, and lifted
his cup. It tapped against his teeth twice before he
had it steady and could sip at it. Hot.

"Sure you do. Knife in a leather sheath, we took it
off him by the cemetery ..."

Stepovich borrowed the Gypsy's eyes to look at
Durand. Empty eyes. No expression in them, no
clues, no betrayal. "I don't even remember him hav-
ing a wallet." That much of the truth for Durand.

"No. No, he didn't that I remember, either. But I
woulda sworn that when we shook him down, he
had a knife."

"We didn't turn one in when we booked him."
Another little bit of the truth,

"No. Hey, that's right, we sure as hell didn't. Crap.
I wonder if we just went off and left it laying there
on the sidewalk."

"I doubt it. I really think we would have noticed a
knife lying on the sidewalk." Funny. The lies and
half truths weren't getting any easier. Sure, this was
Dumbshit, and Stepovich didn't owe Dumbshit any-
thing. But he was also his partner. And the one thing
any cop owed his partner was the truth. Not bits of
it, but the whole truth. Especially when what he was
lying about was something that could get his partner

The Wolf and the Badger           79

written up, too. The one thing that had to be true
between cops was that your partner would put it on
the line for you. If you didn't believe that, it didn't
work.

And it doesn't work, Stepovich realized as he took
another long sip of bitter coffee. Not because I don't
think Durand wouldn't put it on the line for me. But
because I'm not sure if I'd do it for him. I'd face down
a gun barrel for Ed, kid. But maybe not for you. Not
cause you're such a Dumbshit either. But just because
I don't want to give a damn about you.

That was a dirty little thought, one that made him
feel slimy and selfish.

Durand had been chewing on the cuticle beside his
thumbnail all this time. Evidently this had helped him
reach some sort of decision, because he now an-
nounced, "You're probably right. Probably there
wasn't a knife. Maybe I got him mixed up with that
other guy. Hey. 1 told Dispatch we were only taking
ten or so. Gotta be getting back to the car. Step."

"Sure." He paid for their coffees and left the tip.
Feeling guilty as hell, he walked put behind Durand.
There were already too many people that he cared
about, and he wasn't doing any of them any damn
good. Why add Durand to the list?

He had a sense of crossing another line. The first
had been not turning the knife in. The second had
been giving it back to the Gypsy. And now he was
holding out on his partner. Last month he'd have
punched anyone who'd insinuated he could do such
things. But now he was doing them, getting farther
and farther out, and he couldn't really see how to get
back to where he should be. It was like when Jennie
had divorced him, when he'd had to go out and nnd
his own place and start taking care of only himself.
Come home to an empty place, just the sound of the
toilet running because there'd been no one there all
day to rattle the handle. "This is all wrong" he'd

80 THE GYPSY

thought to himself every evening, eating alone/ going
to bed between cold sheets. This is wrong, this isn't
what I signed up for. But he'd kept going/ just the
same way he kept going if he got off on the wrong
freeway exit. Keep going and don't even slow down,
because if you do the jerk behind you is going to
smash into you and you're going to crash and bum.
So just keep going. Look out the window and watch
yourself get father and farther away from where
you're supposed to be.

"My turn to drive," he told Durand as they walked
around the car. Driving was a hell of a lot easier than
thinking.

FIVE

How the Raven Looked for the Dove

MONDAY AFTERNOON

We left the fires behind us

We followed a carriage track,
And I'll never see my brothers,

But perhaps they made it back.

"RAVEN, OWL, AND I"

When Daniel had first started working around Uni-
versity and Dale in St. Paul, many years ago/ chil-
dren had thought he was an ice-cream man because
of the bell on his truck. They were disappointed when
they found out he only sharpened knives, but he won
them over. He told them jokes and made coins vanish
and by now he was part of the neighborhood. They
waved as he came by and he waved back, ringing his
bell.

Dumpy Mrs. Holgrim came out of her lower du-
plex, wearing a dirty white apron like a uniform and
holding out today's worthless pieces of cutlery along
with one good French chef's knife that she'd been
given as a present and didn't know the value of. He
pulled the little truck up to the curb and put the park-
ing brake on. He didn't turn off the engine because it
had trouble warm-starting. By the time she had
reached him, he had picked out the appropriate grade
of stone and put some oil on it. She smiled her yellow

82 THE QYPSY

teeth at him and handed up the knives. He put the
first one, a cheap little vegetable knife, on the stone
and began to work before he'd even greeted her. Then
he said, "How are you toady, Mrs. Hoigrim?"

"I'm nne, Daniel. Robert's home with a cold, and
I'm sure he'll give it to the girls, but there you are."

"Indeed, Mrs. Hoigrim."

"How are you, Daniel?"

"Oh, I'm always fine." Mrs. Hoigrim nodded, be-
lieving it because that was how she thought he al-
ways must be. Daniel said, "A poultice of garlic on
his feet will cure the cold, Mrs. Hoigrim."

"Really?" She looked skeptical. Daniel didn't press
the issue. He returned the vegetable knife and started
on an equally worthless paring knife. They made
small talk for a while, then, as he began to work the
steel of the chef's knife, her one good cutting utensil,
he said, "You know, Mrs. Hoigrim, if I may say so,
if you were to learn to use a butcher's steel, you could
keep this in hue shape without having it sharpened
nearly so often."

Mrs. Holgrim's blue eyes, which were still very
pretty, opened wide. "Really, Daniel?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Why haven't you told me this before?"

He returned the knife to her and accepted two dol-
lars per knife plus a one-dollar tip. He wiped his
hands on his shirt, the oil blending into the moss
green. "Because, Mrs. Hoigrim/ then you wouldn't
have needed me to sharpen your knives for you."

Her mouth dropped open, closed again. She
seemed to think about getting angry, but finally said,
"Then why are you telling me now?"

"Because I won't be here."

"Won't—where are you going?"

"I'm not sure. I won't know until the driver comes,
but I think it's somewhere in the midwest. Ohio, I
believe. Or Indiana."

How the Raven Looked for the Dove      83

"You don't know?"

"No, I only know that it is time to pick up my nd-
die and fand my brothers. Good afternoon, Mrs. Hoi-
grim."

Daniel continued down the street, ringing his bell.

AUTUMN EVENING, FULL MOON

Scarf wound tight around my head

To keep hair from my eyes;

My knife would cut deeper

Then I could realize.

"RAVEN, OWL, AND 1"

"... And the captain told me, 'My whole crew's a
bunch of yo-yos.' Well, I didn't give it another
thought until we were halfway back to the States and
we hit an iceberg. The ship sank." Pause. "Sixty-five
times." There was some scattered laughter as the
large comedian shook his head sadly, and crossed the
stage.

He stopped in front of a small, attractive woman at
a front table. He puckered his lips obscenely for a
moment, then said, "Hey, cutie, wanna go halfsies
on a baby?" This got more laughs than the ship joke
had.

The gypsy, who had forgotten his name, sat in
back, wondering how he'd gotten there. He found
little humor in the comic, J. J. McNair, yet he appre-
ciated the skill of the storyteller. He admired the co-
median's timing and ability to read the audience'.
How? Why did he know these things when he
couldn't remember his own name? He remembered
being called "Little One," but that wasn't right. And
how had he gotten here? The last thing he could re-

84

THE GYPSY

member clearly was performing a ritual over his knife,
to purify it. He knew it had worked, but why had it
been necessary?

The comic was saying, "I'm a great lover, honey. I
am. Really. I taught myself." A bit more laughter. "I
bought a complete sex manual and I've been follow-
ing it. I'm up to page eighty-three. It says, 'Get a
partner.' " He raised his eyebrows lewdly while the
audience laughed, more at the woman's obvious em-
barrassment than at the jokes.

McNair wasn't bad. It was not a sort of storytelling
the observer was used to, yet it made him unaccount-
ably homesick. Homesick for—

For—

A voice, that's all it was. A melodious, half-drunken
voice that told stories with an ironic bite to them, for
all their seriousness. Tales of fairies and heroes, and
he, the "Little One," had listened eagerly and be-
lieved them. He remembered the champing of horses,
the ringing of the bridle loops like the tinkling of the
zils of the tambourine. He remembered the black
horses, and a black coach.

Yes.

And he had learned from that voice. He had learned
that if you make a promise, you must always carry it
out, or else you might have to behead the cow with
one horn who had always given you food when you
were starving. Yes, you must always keep your prom-
ise.

What promise had he given, then? And who was
he? Gypsy, that's what they called him. The name
came back with a certain sense of relief. That wasn't
his name, but it was one of them. There were other
gypsies, he knew that, but he was the Gypsy. Yes.
Now, if he could only remember the promise, and to
whom it was made, and if he could only find his
brothers. He needed them for—

For—

How the Raven Looked for the Dove      85

The comedian was now in front of a group of
middle-aged women off to the side of the tiny stage.
"I understand one of you ladies is going to have a
baby." When they looked confused, McNair added,
"I haven't decided which one yet." More laughter.
More, decided the Gypsy, than it deserved/ but that
was because he had the crowd now. All of them, he
thought, except me. And that isn't his fault, it's be-
cause I don't fit in. I don't belong here. I'm not one
of them. I'm—

I'm-

He stood up and made his way to the door. The
comedian said, "Hey, buddy, I didn't leave when you
showed up." The Gypsy didn't begrudge him the
laughter.

The street did not look familiar. It was crowded,
and it was evening, and there were lights everywhere
racing up and down the buildings, and it came to him
as a revelation that these lights were to attract his
notice, that they were intended to draw attention to
themselves and away from the other lights. As he
stood there, a black-and-white police car crossed by
in the traffic opposite, and he pulled himself into the
shadow of the building from which he'd issued. Mem-
ories returned of entering it for just that reason. He had
gone this way, aimless, after the purification, because it
was empty and deserted. And then, as the sun fell, peo-
ple emerged from everywhere, as if they sprouted from
the sidewalk, and he'd felt the trapped animal fear, and
then he'd seen the police car and ducked into this place.
What was it called? "Tiny's," that was it. But what rea-
son had he to fear policemen?

Yet, he did have a reason. He knew that and be-^
Heved it. He felt for his knife, hilt tucked into his
waistband beneath his shirt, and the cold feel of the
grip brought a freshness/ and a certain clarity. Here,
take this, little one. I don't need it. That voice! The same

86 THE GYPSY

as from the stories. Tears welled up in his eyes,
though he could not say why.

The police car was gone, now, and he began walk-
ing. A few people stared at him, but only for a mo-
ment. He tried to ignore them. He aimed toward
places where there were few people, through alleys
and side streets. After half an hour/ in a more de-
serted area, he stopped, staring at a street sign. Why?
What was it? Something about that street. He stood
there until he was afraid he would attract attention to
himself/ then began walking along it.

The night grew older, and he realized he could see
his breath. Was it cold, then? That thought, those ac-
tions triggered a vague sense of familiarity. As he
walked he noted that the lights were gone now, leav-
ing small brick buildings with plate-glass windows.
An hour or so later, these gave way to old houses,
most with open porches and heavy doors, collapsing
steps and two or three mailboxes.

It came to him that he had stopped; that he hadn't
moved for some time. He stared at the house and
kept blinking. It had once, perhaps, been yellow or
green; it was difficult to be certain in this light. A big
porch, two mailboxes, two doors. One door led up-
stairs. He tried it and it was open. The stairway was
very narrow and curved for the last three steps at the
top. The hallway here was narrow, too.

He hesitated for what felt like a long time, then, he
knocked. He heard a chair shuffling, and heavy, slow
footsteps. From the other side: "Yeah, what is it?"

He took a deep breath and said, "Please, let me in.
Karen sent me."

The door flew open as if it were being ripped off its
hinges, and the Gypsy stared into a pair of cold blue
eyes, wide with shock and anger. Around them was
a round/ clean-shaven face more suited to grins than
rage. The hair was well-groomed, and he wore a
checked sports shirt unbuttoned over a white tee

How the Raven Looked for the Dove      87

shirt. He said, "What the fuck do you mean, Karen
sent you?"

"Are you Brian MacWurthier?"

"Yeah."

The Gypsy read confusion behind the anger.
"Karen sent me. She told me that you had cared well
for her, and that I was to see that you were all right,
and—"

"When did she say all this?"

"1 ... I'm not certain. Several days ago, I think."

MacWurthier blinked. "Karen is dead." He choked
a little as he said it.

"Yes, I know."

"But—"

"I see that you are well, so that is all I was to do.
Goodbye."

"Wait a minute!"

The Gypsy turned back, waited. "Yes?"

"I don't get—who are you, anyway?"

"Gypsy."

MacWurthier glanced at his clothing and nodded.
"You look it." He blinked. '^You must be freezing
out there. It can't be much above zero. What's your

name?"

"Gypsy," he said. "I think that is my name."
"You don't know your name? You got amnesia or
something?"

"Yes. That must be it. But it doesn't matter."
"Well, why did you say I'm all right?"
The Gypsy considered this, then said slowly, "You
have been keeping yourself shaved and cleaned, and
there is no liquor on your breath. The redness in your
eyes is nearly gone. You have passed the worst of
your grief, and it won't destroy you."           ' '

MacWurthier stared at him. "Man," he said. "This
is weird. Well, can you come in for a minute?"

The Gypsy hesitated, then nodded. MacWurthier
stepped aside and the Gypsy entered a short hall,

88 THE GYPSY

with a small kitchen to his left and a small living room
on his right. Karen, the ghost, stared at him from a
picture on the far wall of the living room, above a
matte black stereo system- The place was small and
neat, save for a few magazines scattered here and
there. The Gypsy read the titles: Time, Computer
World, Datamation.

"Sit down/' said MacWurthier. The Gypsy did so,
sitting stiffly at one end of a brown Naugahyde sofa.
"Can I get you a beer? Coffee? Coke? Tea?"

"Tea would be nice."

"Sugar?"

"No, thank you."

"All right. Just a sec."

He went into the kitchen. The Gypsy felt Karen's
presence in the room, and felt hints and traces, as of
a remembered fragrance, of what the two of them had
been for each other. There had been anger as well as
love here, but the anger had never been violent, and
the love had still been strong when Karen had died.

MacWurthier returned with two cups of tea. The
Gypsy tasted it. It was black and bitter, but of a good
kind. He felt a warmth as it went down his throat
that made him wonder if he had, in fact, been cold.

"So, did you meet Karen while she was ill?"

No, I met her while she was dead. "Yes."

"She asked you to look after me?"

"She said you cared for her very much, and she
was worried."

He swallowed, and there was pain on his face. He
would have new lines in a year; he would become
older. It was sad. It was inevitable. "Well, thanks."

The Gypsy nodded.

"It was leukemia," MacWurthier continued. "Hell
of a thing."
"Yes."

"I think I'll move out of here."
"Perhaps that would be best." As he spoke, his

How the Raven Looked for the Dove      89

vision began to blur, which meant that soon his head-
ache would return.

MacWurthier continued, "It's hard, you know? All
the things we used to do together. Every time I go by
the park, I see those horse-drawn cabs we used to
ride in, and I almost cry. There was this one guy we
used to get on Sundays who'd take us off the main
paths- Once we went all the way around Circle Lake."

He was staring off into the distance, but the Gypsy
almost dropped his teacup. The vision came to him
of the Coachman, thin and dark, cynical and drunken.
He must find him. He must. He dimly heard Mac-
Wurthier ask if he had a place to stay the night, but
his concentration was elsewhere. He must nnd the
Coachman, and his brothers. Soon.

If only he could remember why.

14 NOV 08:47

They say the weapon vanished, they say the suspect split.
Point your ffnger somewhere else; I couldn't give a shit.

"STEPDOWN"

"Please," said Stepovich. He felt the word grate up
his throat.

Marilyn swung back to look at him reproachfully.
"Stepovich/ you bastard, that isn't fair!"

"1 know," he said. "But it's the only thing I have
left, so I'm saying it. Please."

She said nothing as a secretary tip-tapped past them
in high heels, but as soon as she was safely out of
hearing range, she leaned closer to Stepovich and
hissed, "Listen, I know I owe you. And I've said any
number of times that I'd make it up to you in any
way I could. But I didn't mean something like this!

90

THE GYPSY

This is bending a lot of rules, Mike. And people like
us don't do that. It's one of the reasons we get along
so well. So don't ask me."

He clenched his teeth a moment, standing with his
head lowered. He knew it wasn't fair. He knew this
wasn't the kind of thing she'd meant when she'd
promised to pay the favor back. She'd meant dinner
at her house, or an evening out at her expense or
something else that might have led to places he wasn't
ready to go. Not a favor that could lead to her losing
her job. So she was upset, not just because he'd asked
for this, but because he'd never asked her for the
other. She put her hand on the door of the ladies'
room again. He'd deliberately caught Marilyn out in
the hall, away from her computer and coworkers. She
probably had to go to the John pretty bad, and she'd
already told him "no" twice. But he needed help.
And he'd been the one to go in and find her nephew
in that rat-ridden flophouse, and drag him out and
help Marilyn drive him across to Pennsylvania and
check him into a drug rehab center. Marilyn wasn't
even the kid's legal guardian. They'd bent a rule or
two then, and she knew it. He'd sweated day and
night for six weeks that the kid was going to have his
parents press some kind of kidnapping charges. But
Stepovich had done it, because even if it was against
the rules, it was still right. And maybe what he was
asking of Marilyn was the right thing to do also.
Maybe.
"Please."

She spun on him, a transcription clerk with doggie
brown eyes, suddenly transformed into a hellcat. She
took a step toward him and he involuntarily stepped
back, expecting to feel the rake of her nails. But she
snatched at his sleeve and pulled him closer.

"Listen!" she hissed, sharp as broken glass. "Give
me that damn description, and I'll do a search. Na-
tionwide, if that's what you want, and to hell with

How the Raven Looked for the Dove      91

my job if someone wonders why I'm using unautho-
rized link time. But listen, pal, you gotta do some-
thing for me, too. And then we're going to call it
square and no more favors between us, right?"

Stepovich hated the way this was going. Marilyn
wasn't his friend, exactly, but they'd been good at
working together, more than acquaintances. She'd
thought that he would never ask her to put it on the
line for him, not on something like this, anyway. But,
damnit, it was the only thing he could think of to do.
Bend a few more rules to get himself back on the right
track. Bend them so he could clean up the mess he'd
made of things with the Gypsy thing. He didn't hes-
itate to grant her favor, but only asked, "What is it?"

"You put a muzzle on that homy little shit you call
a partner, that's what! He's hitting on Tiffany Marie
two and three times a week. You tell him she's no
whore, not anymore, and he'd damn well better quit
treating her like one."

"Okay, okay," Stepovich muttered. He felt like
he'd just stepped in dog manure, Durand and Tiffany
Marie? Next Dumbshit would &e going after the jump-
rope and jacks set. Marilyn snatched the carefully
wrought description from his hand, and spun away
to the rest room. "I'll call you tonight, okay?" he said
after her. She gave no sign of hearing him, but he
was sure she had. She pushed the door open so hard
it bounced off the stopper. He turned away. The day
had turned rancid, all its good intentions gone to
slickness and deceit.

He knew he'd lost whatever it was they'd shared,
mutual respect/ whatever it was. She'd never trust
him after this, and he'd miss that. But she was the
only one he knew who could take his carefully re-
membered description of the Gypsy and turn it into
possible names and criminal histories, without his
having to nil out a bunch of forms and official re-
quests.

92 THE GYPSY

He stuck his head into the coffee room. The walls
were lined with vending machines, and folding tables
with singularly uncomfortable attached stools nlled
the center of the room, Durand was there. He'd
solved the stool problem by sitting on the table. He
had a cup of coffee steaming next to him and was
trying to coax a Twinkle out of its wrapper. "Durand!
Let's go!" was all Stepovich said, and then continued
down the hall. He heard his partner's protesting cry
of/ "Hey/ just a second . . . /' but he didn't pause.
He picked up their shotgun and radio and went out-
side into a sulking grey morning and down the back
steps.

He found their assigned car for the day and did
his standard walkaround, looking for unreported
scratches and dents that the previous shift might have
left on the car. It was okay. The bright blue shield on
the door said, LAKOTA POLICE DEPARTMENT, and under
it. To PROTECT AND To SERVE. He grimaced. Once/ he
and Ed had painted over the shield on Richart's unit
the motto/ OVER 4 MILLION BUSTED. It didn't seem so
funny anymore.

He unlocked the back door and jerked out the seat,
checking under it for any little goodies the last pas-
sengers might have left behind. Once he'd found half
a gram of coke under the seat, and another time
there'd been a zip gun. Stepovich didn't believe in
leaving anything to chance. Never assume the night
shift had checked under the seats.

He'd finished his inspection and put the back seat
in and was behind the wheel before Durand came
outside. Durand got in, shaking hot coffee from his
fingers. Stepovich glanced at him briefly before turn-
ing the key. "Wipe the Twinkie cum off your chin,"
he told him in disgust as he slammed the car into
gear.

Durand scrubbed guiltily at a smear of white frost-

Mow the Raven Looked for the Dove      93

ing before demanding, "What the hell's eating you?"
He slurped coffee from a paper cup.

Stepovich gunned the engine to see if he could
make Dumbshit spill coffee on himself. No luck.
"Nothing. You got to talk all the time? Can't we ever
just shut up in here?"

"Sure, boss," said Durand ironically. "You want
quiet, you got quiet."

The quiet lasted perhaps forty-five seconds before
the first calls sparked out of the radio. The Exxon
Basher had struck again late last night and Little Philly
precinct got stuck with the follow-up, and there was
a cold burglary, which Durand jumped on. Stepovich
hated them. There were too damn many of them, and
he couldn't feel anything about them anymore. East
Lee, this time, in an apartment building that was try-
ing to pretend it wasn't in Little Philly. Someone had
just painted the lobby, but the gramti was already
bleeding through the white paint. Second floor,
apartment E- The girl who let them in looked like
she'd been crying. She couldn't have been more than
twenty.                    •-

"I was just gone overnight," she said- She was try-
ing to keep her voice from quivering. "And when I
got back this morning. ..."

Stepovich let Durand do it. It was all just routine
these days. They were supposed to remember that no
matter how many burglaries they saw every day, for
each victim this was the one that mattered. He knew
she felt violated, outraged, and scared. He knew she
was wondering, if they got in here while I was gone,
will they come back when I'm here, when I'm asleep
and alone? But there'd just been too many of them
lately.

Durand took down all the routine stuff. When did
she leave, when did she come back, how'd they get
in, what was missing, who knew she was gone, had
she suspicions about anyone, and all the rest of it. By

94 THE GYPSY

the time he was finished, it sounded like the ex-
boyfriend, and that too was becoming routine. Durand
took his name and number and address and description,
more to make me girl feel better than to act on it. Chances
were they'd never get enough evidence to bust him. Du-
rand went through the spiel—suggesting dowels in the
tracks of the sliding windows and a new dead bolt on
the door. Stepovich only listened with half an ear. He
knew, even if the girl didn't, that it wasn't that bad.
Whoever had done it had known what he was after and
had simply taken those items. The place hadn't been
tossed or trashed. He knew from what she'd said,
though, that this was the very first place she'd lived all
on her own, and that what had happened had taken
some of the shiny off it. He looked around/ at the stuffed
yarn cat doorstop and the doilies on the end table and
the half-finished afghan in the basket by the coffee table.
It reminded him of a little girl's playhouse/ each thing
just so, as if die idea of living there was more important
than the reality of it. Her canisters in the kitchenette
were labeled/ and he'd bet there really was tea in the
one that said tea, and that the spices on her spice rack
were alphabetical. The towels in the bathroom all
matched, and the three potted plants on the windowsill
were in color-coordinated pots. Barbie's first apartment,
the doll set might say/ and he knew with a sudden ache
that someday Laurie would want a place like this/ with
a ceramic spoon-rest on the little range top and copper
pots hung in order by size.

The girl looked at him with sudden surprise when
he said, "It's a shame that someone can steal your
peace of mind from you, not to mention your radio.
Listen. Durand's right about putting dowels in your
window frames. I know it won't bring back what
you've lost, but it might keep it from happening
again. Don't you give up. You got a right to feel safe
in your own place."

"Okay," she said, and her eyes suddenly misted

How the Raven Looked for the Dove      95

up and her chin shook just like Laurie's had when
the neighbor's dog had torn off Raggedy Ann's leg,
but he'd assured her that Jennie could fix her good as
new. It must have been his tone more than his words
that catapulted her into his arms, and she was crying
on his shirt front, and Durand, damn him, was smirk-
ing like a puckered asshole. Stepovich patted her
awkwardly/ remembering briefly how fragile women
felt to him, as hollow-boned as birds, how he'd al-
ways been afraid that if he really hugged Jennie her
ribs would crumple beneath the strength of his love.
Then she was pushing away from him, muttering
apologies/ her long hair sticking to her tear-wet face,
and he was saying it was all right, she'd had a tough
morning/ but things had to get better.

"They couldn't get worse," the girl agreed with a
sniff and a smile so carefully fragile that Stepovich
had to turn aside from it- Damnit/ he had to find time
to phone Laurie tonight/ and he had to make time to
do something with Jef&e this weekend, he had to. Then
they were leaving, and Durand called in that they were
available again/ and almost immediately they got their
next call/ this one for a vandalized car.

And so the morning went. In between calls/ they
drove/ Durand not talking at all; but that little tension
stretched between them because they weren't getting
along. The only talk was the stupid business of asking
the routine questions at their stops. Nothing hot or
interesting this morning, three cold burglaries and
two stolen bicycles and one drunk and disorderly and
one patron leaving without paying his tab. The clos-
est they got to a heartbeat was a domestic abuse in
progress that turned out to be a cat in heat shut in
the bathroom. Stepovich had to admit the cat's pas-
sionate yowling did sound like a tortured baby. Du-
rand assured the woman who called it in that they'd
rather be called out for nothing than not called when
they were needed/ while Stepovich persuaded the

96 THE GYPSY

cat's owner that her "goddamn nosy neighbor" had
meant well. Then they left.

In the car Stepovich thought about asking for a new
partner. They'd give him one. All he'd have to do is
go in and say/ hey, this isn't working out. Guys did
it all the time. But the guys who changed more than
once or twice were the ones the brass watched. Man
couldn't get along with his partner, there had to be a
reason. Better watch him. And the last thing Stepo-
vich needed right now was to be watched. By anyone.

SIX

How the Devil Found the Gypsy
and the Wolf Found the Spider

SOMETIME

Through doors that lead to a fire blazing red,
Where she makes no distinction 'tween
The living and the dead

"THE FAIR LADY"

The Fair Lady sits with Her feet in the fire, watching Her
toes heat up. She wriggles them with pleasure. They are
very long, and the nails gleam like mother-of-pearl. There
is a scampering from outside, then scratching of goose-feet
at the black iron door. She frowns and causes it to open and
the liderc enters. One leg is that of a goose, one arm that
of a horse, and where he walks he leaves little puddles of
fire, but the fire has no smoke. He bows many times to the
Fair Lady.

"Speak, " She says, in Her voice that is like steel bound
in silk.

"Fair Lady," says the liderc. "The Wolf is still on our
track."

She frowns at this, for She knows that, while wolves
have served Her before, in the end they serve only them-
selves. "We shall have Little Timmy slay the Wolf," She
says.

But the liderc shakes its head. "I don't think he will,
Fair Lady. He is more afraid of wolves than of you.''

98 THE GYPSY

She almost cuffs him for this. but then reconsiders. Per-
haps he is right, for to Timmy She is only a dream, but he
has lived among the wolves all his life, and they are real to
him.

"I am not unprepared/' She says. "One of his cubs will
come to me when I will it, and he will follow his cub.''

"You are ever wise, mistress. Will you call her to you
now?"

She shrugs. "Soon. If Little Timmy can slay the Dove,
there will be no need to do more. We will see if he succeeds
first. If he fails, we can perhaps throw him to the Wolf,
thus distracting the Wolf and punishing Little Timmy at
the same time. And perhaps we will even allow Little
Timmy to see us. Yes, that might be best. But for now, we
will wait. Go and do my bidding. "

"Yes, Fair Lady." The liderc scampers away. The door
behind him closes with the clang of iron. The Fair Lady
sees that Her feet are about to turn black from the fire, and
regretfully removes them from the flames.

AUTUMN MORNING

He came into town on a hot summer's night,
The flies was giving us fits.
Drove an old Ford that had about lost the fight,
His eyes was as black as the pits.

"THE QYPSY"

He awoke in the chair, and there was a blanket
around him. MacWurthier was reading a newspaper
and drinking coffee; he looked up when the Gypsy
stirred.

"You must have been tired," he said. "You've slept
more than twelve hours."

"I ... thank you."

How the Devil Found the Gypsy        99

"You're welcome. Would you like some tea? Maybe
some breakfast."

"No, thank you. I must leave now. You need not
forget her, but you will please her most by trying to
be happy."

MacWurthier stared at him. "I know that," he said,
as if to himself. "I've been trying. But it's not easy."
He seemed lost in reflection. The Gypsy rose and let
himself out, not saying anything more, because noth-
ing more was necessary. He returned to the street
and made his way toward the park.

15 NOV 12:00

/'// lower me another beer, have another dream;

Everything is all confused, nothing's what it seems.

"STEPDOWN"

Stepovich glanced away from the traffic at Durand.
He was sulking in his corner of the patrol car like a
spoiled brat. Something childish in Stepovich didn't
want to break the silence, but need overturned it.
"Lunch?" he said.

"Yeah." Durand kept his eyes focused on the
street. "Norm's."

"Okay," Stepovich agreed sullenly. That was
where Tiffany Marie worked. "But to go."

"Bullshit! I'm not eating in this stinking car."

"I waima take it over to the park. Guy there I got
to talk to."

"Well, do it later. It's too drizzly for picnics in the
park. And there's someone at Norm's I want to talk
to."

"Tiffany Marie."

"So what's it to you?"

100 THE GYPSY

Stepovich glanced at him. The kid's cheeks were
pink. Durand plainly knew he was in the wrong, so
Stepovich let him have it.

"I busted her twice for whoring before she was nf-
teen," Stepovich spoke deliberately, slowly, coldly.
"She was a runaway, working the streets, too stub-
born to work for a pimp. So she was taking it from
both sides, getting the real dirt-bag tricks, and the
pimps' girls threatening her all the time. Both times
Ed and I busted her, the court sent her home. Both
times her dad beat the living shit out of her. Not for
spreading her legs, but because she was doing it for
money instead of for dear old dad. Which was why
she kept running away. Third time we picked her up
it was because her John had left her unconscious in
the motel room, and the manager of the motel wanted
an extra two hours' rent from her when she didn't
leave on time. She didn't have it, or any money. The
John had taken that, too. What she did have was
cracked ribs, a broken collarbone and the clap. Crabs,
too, from what I hear."

Durand's hands were fists on his knees. Stepovich
loosened his grip on the steering wheel. If that damn
kid came across the seat at him, he was going to nail
the fucker good. He pulled up in front of Norm's and
coolly called in their lunch break. He half turned to-
ward Durand when he was done. Right in the mouth
was where he was going to hit him if the kid came at
him. Smash his big mouth, and to hell with the
bloody knuckles.

"You think you're telling me something I don't
know?" Durand's voice was thick with an emotion
Stepovich couldn't identify.

"No. I think that's all you know. I think you don't
know that the last time, Ed and I dumped her on
Marilyn's doorstep at two in the morning after they
let her out of Emergency. I don't think you know that
Marilyn took her in. Tiffany Marie is no whore, Du-

How the Devil Found the Gypsy       101

rand. Not anymore. She's going to school at night
and she's paying Marilyn a bit of rent and she's going
to make something out of herself. All she needed was
a chance. What she don't need is you hitting on her
and treating her like a whore."

Durand made a move that might have been some-
thing that started out to be a punch and ended up a
slap on the dashboard instead. "I don't treat her like
a whore." Durand's words were as individual as sin-
gle shots. "Not that it's any of your business."

"You saying you aren't banging her?" Stepovich
deliberately baited him.

"I'm saying it's none of your rucking business,"
Durand roared, and in the roar was an edge that let
Stepovich know one thing and suspect another.

He poked at the idea. "So you ain't screwing her.
I suppose you're m love with her skinny ass."

"Fuck you," Durand replied with controlled fury.
And he got out of the squad car and walked away,
into Norm's. Stepovich slowly followed him in. Long
habit made his eyes scan the ^mei before coming to
rest on Durand. He was bellied up.to the counter, and
Tiffany Marie was already taking his order. Stepovich
looked at her, remembering how he and Ed had shook
their heads over her name. Tiffany Marie, a diamonds
and velvet name for a cracker-butt kid with carroty
hair and pink lipstick on a pouty little mouth and eyes
made up like a Technicolor raccoon. Tiffany Marie/
with hickeys up the side of her neck and chipped fin-
gernail polish and runs in her sexy black mesh ny-
lons.

Shit.

He added up the years. Yeah/ she probably was
eighteen now, maybe even nineteen. The soft swells
under the clean white blouse were probably all hers,
and when she turned to pass Durand's order to the
cook, her hips weren't exactly the skinny little ass he
remembered wrapping a blanket around when he car-

102 THE QYPSY

ried her out of that cheap motel. The carroty hair was
more like burnished copper now, and was probably
long, but he couldn't tell with the way she had it
pinned up. Had it been that long since he'd really
looked at her? He took the stool next to Durand's,
and Tiffany Marie turned to him with a smile. Her
lips needed no lipstick and for the first time he real-
ized how blue her eyes were. "Hey/ Mike, having the
usual?" she asked, and her voice was so casual and
warm that he knew Durand hadn't said a word to her
about what he'd said in the car.

Stepovich felt slimy.

He glanced at Durand, but the kid wouldn't look
at him. The kid. Hell, yes/ just a big kid, what was
he, twenty-two, twenty-four? Not exactly cradle-
snatching for him to be looking at Tiffany Marie. And
she was looking back. As she set silverware and nap-
kins before them, it was her hand that brushed against
Durand's. He studied Durand in small glances be-
tween spoonfuls of chili. What was the kid, six-two,
six-three? A little puppy fat on him, maybe, not much.
Dark hair, grey eyes. He had a job, he made money
regular. He was clean, mostly. He was a dumbshit,
but at least he wasn't a drunk or a junkie or a sponge.
Probably didn't hit his women. Maybe Tiffany Marie
didn't think he was an dumbshit.

Maybe he wasn't a dumbshit around her. Would
she keep a dumbshit's coffee mug filled all the time
like she was doing? Would she keep turning around
and smiling at a dumbshit?

Stepovich crumbled crackers into his chili, mashed
them in. Boy, Marilyn was going to be pissed; she
had called this one wrong.

And there had been more than one dumbshit in the
car this morning.

He was thinking about that so hard that he was
more than halfway through his Chili and Cheese-
burger Special before he realized they hadn't ordered

How the Devil Found the Gypsy       103

to go like he'd meant to. Damn. He'd wanted to go
to the park, and talk to the driver of the horse hack
that Ed had tracked down for him. Ed hadn't known
the guy's real name/ only the handle of Spider, and
that his horses were mismatched, one grey and one
brown. Stepovich had been counting on catching him
near the espresso stands where a lot of the yuppies
went to eat lunch and be picturesque. Horse-drawn
cabs picked up fares there, the same yuppies being
dashing and romantic before going back to their of-
fices after lunch.

And now Durand had screwed him up.

After a moment's reflection, he decided to call it
square. He'd acted like a jerk in the car, grilling Du-
rand about Tiffany Marie. So let Durand get away
with this- Besides, it was just as well. Durand would
have wanted to know what he was talking about to
the cabby, and that wouldn't have done at all. It had
been hard enough to get the rest of the tip from Ed
without him getting suspicious. Well, actually Ed
probably was suspicious.

He let Durand pick up the ta6 and leave a tip, and
even followed him out to the car. He was still trying
to think of some way to let Durand know he knew
he'd been out of line. He called in on the radio to let
it be known he and Durand were back on the streets.
He'd about decided he'd have to apologize, and was
thinking of the right words when the dispatcher saved
him. She acknowledged their call, then added in an
almost human voice, ' 'Three messages for Stepovich
to phone Jennie Edwards at his earliest conve-
nience."

Edwards. Jennie Edwards. Somehow it had really
hurt him that she'd gone back to using her maiden
name. And made a big point of notifying all their
friends. Like she didn't want to keep the least little
scrap of their life together. "Be a second or two," he
grunted at Durand as he got back out of the car.

104 THE GYPSY

There was a pay phone at the rear of the diner,
outside the restroom doors. He dialed her work num-
ber/ dumped in a quarter when she answered. "You
wanted me to call you/" he told her without pream-
ble. No hello, how are you/ what's up/ just get right
to the message. This was how they did it now.

"Yeah. It's about Laurie . . ."

"She okay?" He cut in, visualizing hospitals, kid-
nappers/ car wrecks, rapists.

"She's fane." Impatience at his fear in Jennie's
voice. "And that's just the trouble/ really. Since
school started this year/ she's been running with the
wrong crowd. Faster kids, kids older than her. Some
of them are driving, for Christ's sake. She's come in
past midnight the last two nights, and I'm sure I smelt
liquor on her breath. And the domes she's wearing. . ."

"Hold on. Wait a sec." Something wasn't adding
here. His Laurie was what, thirteen/ no/ fifteen? And
into frilly blouses for square-dancing for the PTA, for
God's sake/ not staying out until midnight with older
kids with cars. "What the hell are you letting her run
around like that for, Jennie? And how is she dressing
weird? Where the hell is she getting the money for all
this?"

"From you, and don't think I don't know about it!
Sneaking around, sending her extra checks behind my
back! How do you think it makes Jeffie feel, when he
finds out daddy sends big sister thirty extra bucks to
blow and nothing for him? Not to mention what it
does for my authority when she goes out and buys
spandex leopard-spot pants without even asking me."

Spandex. What the hell was spandex? Whatever it
was, it didn't sound like something Laurie should be
wearing. "Jennie. Wait a minute. She phoned me up
and told me she needed money for a blouse for a
square-dancing program. . . ."

"And you believe that? Without even checking with
me? And you just sit down and write the check, be-

How the Devil Found the Gypsy       105

cause mean old mommy won't buy her a blouse? Mi-
chael, get real!"

The phone was getting slippery in his grip. Durand
had come in and was leaning on the counter, talking
to Tiffany Marie. They were both watching him, he
knew it, taking quick little glances like he was a pimp
under surveillance or something. He turned his back
on them so they couldn't see his face, and turned
back into Jennie's ranting.

". . . maybe shoplifting. She was wearing these
earrings/ very pretty and very expensive-looking/ and
when I asked her about it, she said she just found
them. And she gets this look on her face, I swear, it
just makes me want to slap it off there. And that
cheap little snot Chrissy that she's always running
around with, she smirks and says, 'Just consider it a
gift from the Lady, Ms. Edwards.' "

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Stepo-
vich demanded.

"You tell me! Unless she's some drug pusher or
into child pornography or something. Chrissy drops
that name all the time, like it's'some secret club or
something and—"

"Look," Mike cut in. "It's obvious we have to talk.
All of us. I'll come over tonight as soon as I'm off
shift, and—"

"Oh/ no. No way. I talked to her counselor at
school, and Ms. Simmons said the worst possible
thing would be for a male authority figure to sud-
denly descend and try to take control of Laurie's life.
This "Lady" thing may be a sort of reaching toward
womanhood—"

"For Christ's sake," Stepovich butted in, annoyed
at her parroting the counselorese at him, but Jennie'
talked right over him/ her voice just getting more
insistent.

"—that the girls are doing/ a redefining of them-
selves as women rather than children. And Ms. Sim-

106 THE GYPSY

mons says that while it does need to be talked about/
it needs to be talked about in a nonthreatening at-
mosphere."

"Well, if Ms. Simmons has all the fucking answers,
what the fuck are you calling me for?" He was mind-
ful of where he was and that Durand might overhear
him. So each furious word came out in a stiff separate
whisper, though they wanted to burst from his chest
in a scream. Every six months or so, Jennie seemed
to find a new way to do this to him. He was Laurie's
father, damnit, he had a right to know, he had a right
to help, to be there for her. And now she was telling
him that he'd hurt Laurie if he "interfered" by talk-
ing to her. His throat squeezed shut and he couldn't
get anymore words out.

"I should have known you'd react that way. Lis-
ten, Michael, I don't buy everything this counselor
says either. And we both know, real well, that you
have big problems with believing that any woman can
know more about something than you do. But I'm
willing to listen to Ms. Simmons if it will help Laurie.
So anyway, I'll tell you why I called you. Because Ms.
Simmons knows of a women and girls encounter
therapy group that she feels could help Laurie. But
ifs expensive, and my health plan doesn't cover it.
All I want to know is if yours will. If the police insur-
ance doesn't have some clause for family counseling,
it should, all the families that your police work breaks
up and destroys."

"I don't know." Little lead words. "Call Bewie at
the services number. You've got my policy number.
Ask her. Even though she's a woman, she knows
more about the cop insurance stuff than I do."

"And that's all? Call Bewie. Don't you give a damn
at all about your daughter?"

"You've already told me you don't want me to
come over and talk to her. So what the hell can I do?"
He couldn't contain his voice.

How the Devil Found the Gypsy       107

"Oh, forget it! I'm sorry I asked. I'll check with
Bewie. I'm sorry you called at all."

"Yeah. Me, too." He slammed the receiver down
on its hook. He looked over his shoulder and both
Durand and Tiffany Marie looked hastily away. Du-
rand said something to her, and she shook her head
slightly, not a denial but a commiseration. Stepovich
took a deep breath and turned and strode out past
them. "Durand. Let's go," he said, and ignored Tif-
fany's timorous, "You take care now, Mike."

The afternoon passed. That was all he could say for
it. Passed the same way time passes for a ball in a
pinball machine. Hit the bumpers, light the lights,
make the buzzers, but at the end of the play it falls
through the flapper gates, and not a damn thing is
really changed, not the ball nor the buzzers or lights.
It's just time for a different ball to set them off. Nei-
ther he nor Durand spoke much, but the tension was
different now, it was Durand keeping quiet because
he didn't want to set Stepovich off, not keeping quiet
to spite him. In an odd way Stepovich was grateful
for that.

So when he had finished typing Ihe nineteenth re-
port up, he looked up at Durand and said, "I was out
of line, earlier today."

"Yeah. You were. Well, let's forget it," said Du-
rand, and in that moment they were as close to being
real partners as they'd ever come.

Stepovich thought about that, driving home. Du-
rand was doing better, no doubt about that. Some-
times, anyway. But a real partner would have noticed
that Stepovich hadn't changed out of his uniform af-
ter shift, and wondered why. And a real partner
would have told the kid that he was going to do a
little after-hours rousting, and invited him along. Shut
up, he told himself, and agreed with himself.

108
LATE 1980S

THE GYPSY

Raven had his fiddle.

And Owl a tambourine,
And I'd love to hear them play again

And tell them all I've seen.

"RAVEN, OWL, AND I"

"I think I know you, my friend."

"Know me? Well, yes and no, Daniel. We've met
in another time and place, but your youngest brother
knows me better."

"Yes, You're the Coachman, aren't you?"

"I am. Do you know where your older brother is?"

"No, where?"

"Hmm. I don't know either. I was hoping you did.
Well, never mind. You must come with me."

"I know. I've been expecting you since yesterday."

"Of course."

"Where are we going?"

"Lakota, Ohio. Does it matter? Your youngest
brother needs your help."

"I am ready to help him. I've been trying to find
him since—"

"I know. We've all been waiting. The time of wait-
ing is ended. You have your fiddle?"

"I have it."

"Then come. The coach awaits. It's a Greyhound."

SEVEN

The Wolf and the Spider,
the Owl and the Chipmunks

Little Jimmy feeling blue
Doesn't know what he should do.
Little Timmy feeling bad
Doesn't know what makes him mad.
Little Timmy pushed around.
Doesn't know who makes the sound.
Uttle Timmy hears the voice
Knows he doesn't have a choice.
Uttle Timmy on the run
Goes to buy a little gun.
Little Timmy waits for dark
Goes to sneak around the park.
Little Timmy feeling mean       '"
Goes to where he can't be seen.
Little Timmy off his head
Gonna shoot somebody dead.

AUTUMN, DUSK

/ was dressed in yellow,

My brothers in green and red.
I don't know what we heard,

I only know we fled.

"RAVEN, OWL, AND I"

There was an itch in the back of the Gypsy's neck
when he got to the park. He didn't know why, but

110 THE GYPSY

he wanted his knife in his hand. He did not take it
out; there was still some daylight left, and he knew
the knife would make him conspicuous. For reasons
he didn't understand, he kept to the edge of the park,
then moved over to the fountain, keeping it between
himself and the grove of oaks.

There were a pair of coaches on the street across from
him, but something kept him from moving toward
them. In the growing darkness and the snow, he
couldn't see what either of the coachmen looked like.
He strained his eyes, and the scene shifted and blurred,
and there was suddenly a Wolf loping toward the
coaches. He took a step backward as one of the coaches
drove off, while the Wolf approached the other.

The Gypsy shuddered and hurried away.

14 NOV 19:25

This ain't the job I thought I signed up for,
But show me a way back out the door.

"STEPDOWN"

It was already getting dark in the park when he
climbed out of the car. Chances were that the horse-
drawn carriages were all turned in for the night. The
evening was turning cool and grey and snow was fall-
ing, not at all the atmosphere for a carriage ride
through the park. But no, there were two of them
drawn up side by side beneath a street lamp that blos-
somed into light even as he looked at it. It had the
eerie feel of a stage set, coming to life for his benefit.
The horses were blanketed against the chill, and their
drivers wore greatcoats buttoned to their chins and
scarves swathed around their necks and faces. It could
have been an engraving, a scene from a hundred years

The Wolf and the Spider          111

ago. Stepovich's stride faltered. If he climbed aboard
one of those carriages and the driver whipped up the
horses, would he be carried back to an older, simpler
time? Then one of the drivers took out a pack of cig-
arettes and tamped one out and lit it with a disposa-
ble lighter. The illusion burned in that brief flaming,
and Stepovich lifted his voice and called out/ "Spider."

One of the men lifted an uncertain hand in greeting.
Even gloved, the hand was thin and long-nngered, and
the arm that stuck out of the coat sleeve was skinny.
Like a spider he was/ sitting in a dark blob up on the
seat of his carriage, his long legs and arms dangling.
Stepovich walked up to him slowly, giving him full time
to assess his uniform- The other cabby tipped his hat,
lifted his reins and clucked his team into motion. Good.
The spoked wheels of his carriage grated on the pave-
ment as his team drew him away, leaving Stepovich
alone with Spider.

"Whatsamatter?" Spider demanded suspiciously as
Stepovich drew near.

"Nothing. Nothing yet, anyway. I just want to ask
you a few questions about the-man who drove you
last Sunday."

"Oh, shit," Spider breathed fervently. "Not again,
man. I tole you guys, none of it was my fault. Man's
good with horses, I wanted to take a day off, have a
little free time with my old lady. So I let the guy drive
sometimes, we split the fares. How was I to know
he'd get weird?"

"We just want to get clear what happened." Ste-
povich drew out his notebook and pen, tried to look
as if he already knew it all. "So, one more time, if
you don't mind. When did it start?"

Spider looked pissed. "How do I know? I wasn't
here, remember, I took a day off. Ask the guy whose
car got kicked. Ask the joggers who say he almost ran
them over. Ask those guys that was riding in the car-
riage when it happened. Hell, it was half their fault,

112 THE GYPSY

anyway/ offering him extra money to go off the car-
riage trails, and then daring him to make the team
gallop. They were all drunk; they probably gave
Coachman the booze/'

"Okay. I see your point. Maybe the thing for me to
do is to talk to the relief driver himself. Give me his
name and number again."

"Hunh? 1 tole you I don't know it. This some kind
of cop trick, or what? Coachman don't have no name.
Coachman don't have no address. All he's got is
booze. How come you're—?"

"I just-"

"What is this/ anyway? Who are you?"

Stepovich thought quickly. "Sorry. No, the idiots
at precinct screwed up again and 1 got the wrong
info." He stopped and gave Spider a sizing-up. "AH
right, I'll be straight with you. Can you keep some-
thing under your hat?"

"Hunh? Yeah, sure. What is it?"

"There may be more involved in this."

"Like what?"

Stepovich shook his head. "Did you ever see
Coachman with a knife?"

Spider stared at him, and Stepovich recognized the
look of the witness who wants to be part of some-
thing interesting. "A knife? Well, he had a hoof pick.
That's how we met. Bunny was throwing her leg a
little funny, not limping, really, and this guy walks
right in front of the team and reaches up and grabs
their heads and stops them. Before I can say more
than Shit, he picks up her foot and pops a nasty little
piece of gravel out of the frog."

"Frog?"

"Her foot. That was what was making her walk
funny. So, a hoof pick, yeah."

"No, I mean a sheath knife with a bone handle."

Spider looked disappointed. "Naw. Once, maybe,
I saw him cutting his nails with an old clasp knife that

The Wolf and the Spider           113

might've had a bone handle. I don't know. Maybe.
Hell, maybe it was someone else. You want me to,
uh, keep my eye out or anything?"

"The department would appreciate it," said Step-
ovich. "And if you should happen to find his ad-
dress, let us know."

"Hey, you bet. What did he do?"

"Nothing directly. It's part of something else.
When everything's settled, I'll see if I can let you
know."

"Hey, thanks."

"The least I can do," said Stepovich/ and returned
to his car.

Well, that had turned out for shit. Except that there
might be more information on this Coachman on one
of the witnesses' statements, if he cared to try and
dig through them. If only he'd turned in the knife as
evidence in the first place, put the extra charge of
concealed weapon, none of this would have hap-
pened.

As he was getting into his car/ a Chevy very much
like Durand's heap drove past. Stegovich stared after
the blue car until it faded into the fog. He was sure
he was mistaken. Damn, he was getting paranoid.

AUTUMN, NIOHT

He found the table where Timmy D. sat
And settled in like he wanted to stay,
Put his money out on the board
And said, "Hey, boy, teach me to play."

"THE GYPSY"

And around it went, like the steps of the csardas,
always back to the same place, only different, with a

114 THE GYPSY

new tension. He was in front of Tiny's, almost exactly
twenty-four hours later. What had he done? He tried
to remember, and a headache came on. Where were
his pills? A walk to an apartment, a conversation, a
debt fulfilled, sleep, a meal, a walk in the park, a wolf,
and now back here. What had he gained? What had
he lost?

Two girls came came out of a bar down the street
and walked past him, complaining about the "prick"
who had thrown them out. Too young, he thought.

They stopped and turned back. "What was that?"
He hadn't realized he'd spoken aloud. The one who
queried him had blonde hair with dark roots and wore
a very short leather skirt and stockings. The other,
dark of hair and taller, with a fuller body though a
younger face, was dressed in tight-fitting jeans with
grey splotches on them. They both wore very short
jackets that didn't look like they would keep snow or
cold out.

"I said, too young/' repeated the Gypsy.

"Who asked you?" said the blonde.

"There is a time to be in the adult world/ and a
time to be in the child's world, and you will cheat
yourself if you leave the one too soon."

They looked at each other and giggled. "What a
weirdo," said the dark one. As she spoke, the Gypsy
shivered. Something about her voice resonated within
him, seemed familiar.

He shrugged and said, "The road will be there,
whenever you set foot on it. But you won't be the
same after. You can't go back."

"Ooooo," said the blonde. "Heavy stuff, huh?"
She looked at her friend and giggled again. Then she
said, "Wanna get lucky, big guy?" and laughed some
more.

The dark one said, "Chrissy!" in a tone that mixed
shock and amusement.

The Wolf and the Spicier           115

"Oh, he won't do anything. If he does, we'll
scream. Right, big guy?"

The Gypsy looked away, and said, "If you give all
you have to the Fair Lady, what will be left when
She's finished?" When he turned back, they were
staring at him, wide-eyed.

"How do you know about the Fair Lady?" whis-
pered the one called Chrissy. Groups of people
walked by, ignoring them. The police could go by any
minute, but he couldn't leave these two unwarned.

"There are three worlds," he said. "Each held in
place by a tree, each with its sun and moon, each
with its own sky full of stars. The top branches of
the tree of our world reach to the roots of the next,
the roots of our tree reach to the branches of the
world below. The Fair Lady comes from the world
below, which She has covered in darkness, for She
wishes to be the only brightness in the world. She
has climbed the tree of Her world and come to ours,
and now wishes to cover ours in darkness. To some,
She brings gifts, hoping they will serve Her. Others
She directs by fear, or by casting their minds in
darkness so She is all they see clearly, I am the one
sworn to return light to Her world, but first She
must be cast out of ours. She is Luci, the seductress,
who brings the diseases that waste. Do not listen to
Her. She will draw the light from your youth and
cast you into the darkness that will ravage your
soul."

He stopped at last. They stared at him, then, with-
out a word or a look between them, turned and ran
up the street and were soon lost in the crowds. The
Gypsy stood alone, his own words coming back to
him.

"So," he said to himself, very slowly and quietly,
not noticing those who took wide detours around the
^ oddly dressed man who stood talking to himself.'' So,

116 THE GYPSY

now I know what I am to do. But I cannot do it
alone."

14 NOV 20:18

/ can see the ravens gather

From the places where they feast on last night's news
I am guessing they'd really rather
Find out exactly who they should accuse
They can't get me 'til I've collected

what I'm owed.
So I'll keep searching further up this road.

"UP THE ROAD"

He drove carefully through the snowy streets, his
windshield wipers on the low setting to keep the wet
flakes cleared from the glass. He hoped it wouldn't
stick. Least bit of snow on the streets, traffic got all
screwed up. He didn't want to spend all day tomor-
row calling for wreckers and investigating people
sliding into guardrails. Shit.

Home, he shucked off his uniform and got into his
sweats. He added his uniform shirt and pants to the
rest of his laundry to make a load and took it down
the hall to the laundry room. Set it sloshing.

Back to the apartment. Part of a package of fish
sticks, part of a bag of frozen French fries. Dump them
on a cookie tray, stick them in the oven. Get out the
ketchup. Frost had formed inside the packages from
being open in the freezer compartment. The French
fries came out wet and hot and steamy. Flavorless.
He ate them anyway. Go down the hallway, take the
wet stuff out of the washer and stuff it in the dryer.
Go back to the apartment and open a beer.

Stepovich began the nightly ritual of flicking

The Wolf and the Spider          117

through the channels. Apartment came with cable.
Cable TV and roaches, free with the rent. At least
having the cable gave him plenty of channels to flip
through. He watched about three hours of television
a night, and as Ed had once observed, that was a lot,
at only three minutes per channel.

The steamy romances potboiler on four put him in
mind of Durand and Tiffany Marie, and he watched
the couple on the tube make fish mouths at each other
while he thought about what a jerk he'd been today,
climbing on Durand about Tiffany Marie. When he
got to feeling too abashed he switched to seventeen.
Quiz show time, stupid questions and dumber an-
swers, because the contestants were movie stars and
they were more concerned with being witty than with
getting the answer right. That was him in the park
with the horse-hack, and he'd learned about as much
from him as he was learning from the show. Click the
channels some more, to a rock video of young girls
writhing and moaning. He could call Laurie. Hell, he
should call Laurie, except that Jennie probably
wouldn't put him through. She'd as much as told
him to butt out. Not that she would really make him
butt out, but she could make it uncomfortable. But he
could call and promise he wouldn't say anything to
her about what her mom had talked about today. But,
hell, that wouldn't fool anybody. Laurie would know
why he was calling. She was one smart kid, Laurie
was. Growing up so fast. Too fast, and he was miss-
ing it. Click the channel selector.

Thirteen had on a horror flick, with unavenged
ghosts and a battered old gypsy woman telling the
hero to beware, but also telling him that he was the
one destined to free them all. Find out who killed me,
that sort of line. Click.

A cop show. Two partners had gone bad, were dis-
pensing vigilante justice, and the good cop was hunting
them down.

118 THE GYPSY

Click.

Rocky and Bullwinkle. He watched Boris and Na-
tasha once more temporarily vanquished, watched the
little fairy sweep up the fractured fairy tale, and was
just getting into Shermie and Mr. Peabody when the
phone rang.

Eleven o'clock. No one but Ed ever called him this
time of night. He picked up the phone and said,
"Yeah?"

"I thought you said you'd call me," Marilyn
snapped. He sat up straight on the couch, zapped the
TV set into oblivion.

"Jeez, I'm sorry," he said, "I meant to, but. . . ."

"\ thought this was so all-be-damned important to
you, and so I go ahead and ..."

"It is, it is," Stepovich assured her hastily. Where
was his notebook? End of the coffee table. He reached
for it, knocked the ketchup bottle rolling onto the
floor, but let it go. It was a squeeze bottle, it wouldn't
leak much anyway. Grab the pen, and "Go ahead,
what did you find for me?"

"Too damn much, that's what, and not much at
all. You want stuff done by gypsies, I got a ton of it.
You want stuff done by John Does, possible first name
Chuck, I got a ton of that, too. I mean, good lord,
Stepovich, half the gypsies in the world have facial
scars. Doesn't this man have a tattoo, or a lisp, or a
birthmark or anything?"

"Not that I know of. There was no overlap, no
gypsy of that description, possible first name Chuck?"

Marilyn sounded miffed when she replied. "I knew
you'd ask that. I knew it. So I dug, and I dug like
hell. How about a vagrancy, possible involvement in
an arson, six years ago? In Kansas City?"

"That's not really what I was looking for," Stepo-
vich muttered, not sure if he felt frustrated or relieved.
No serial killings in some obscure part of the U- S. at

The Wolf and the Spider          119

least. No string of crimes attached to that description
and name. "Is that all there was?"

"I swear to God, I been working with you too long.
If you aren't too fussy about the gypsy description, I
can give you about thirty-two shoplifting cases. Three
grand theft auto, two of those from auto dealers in
Sacramento, looks like a regular scam. A porno ring
in Fort Lauderdale, but the ones they caught weren't
really gypsies. Still, there was a Chuck involved. Air-
plane hijacking. In Oklahoma. Almost funny, that
one's so stupid. Cropduster hijacked from one field
to another."

"That's not what 1 meant," Stepovich cut in frus-
tratedly. "I was looking for a felony, or a string of
felonies, something serious. The arson and vagrancy
were the only ones where there was a good overlap
between the name Chuck and the description of the
Gypsy?"

Marilyn sighed. "Almost, I had a feeling you were
going to be stubborn on this. I pulled up stuff I didn't
even know I could access. Stuff I would have sworn
was too dead or too cold. How's .this. New Orleans,
A stabbing. In a bar. Victim Timothy DeCruz, also
known as Timmy Dee, sometimes Tim del Monico.
Not much on the killer, but the victim had a file of
past convictions as long as your arm. Mostly little
seams, but the kind that hint he was involved in big-
ger, nastier stuff but didn't get caught. Cause of the
fight was possibly cheating at cards, it was never
dearly established. Ugly crime. The medical report
comments on the strength required to drive a knife
that size through a leather vest and completely into a
man's body. The hilt left a bruise, it impacted so hard.
Talk about your crime of passion. The guy was either
horribly strong, or totally enraged. Witnesses de-
scribed the killer, and it fits your guy to a tee. But for
all that, they didn't seem too hot to help the investi-
gation. The perp was never found."

120 THE GYPSY

A little prickle of certainty ran up Stepovich's spine,
that little trickle of instinct that never betrayed him.
"It's him. When was it, and who handled it?"

Nasty satisfaction as she said/ "August 12, 1935.
But the description does match your man."

"Shit, Marilyn/ my guy probably wasn't even born
then."

"Maybe it was his father then. Maybe it's a gypsy
crime family, and you're tracking the youngest mem-
ber/'

He was beginning to get an inkling of just how bad
he'd pissed her off. "Jeez. I'm sorry. I guess I wasted
a lot of your time today." Cautiously. "You sure
that's all there was?"

He heard her breathe out through her nose in dis-
gust. "You talk to Durand today?" she demanded,
ignoring his question.

"Yeah. Marilyn, I don't think it's quite how you're
seeing it. I think he really likes her."

"That's why he stood her up tonight, right? She
turns down a date with a nice college boy to wait for
a sleazy-ass cop who doesn't even show."

"I don't know nothing about that," Stepovich ob-
jected.

"No. Of course you don't. You didn't drag him off
on this wild goose chase of yours, did you?"

"Swear to God, I didn't, Marilyn/" Stepovich said
fervently. "And Jesus Christ," he said, becoming an-
noyed in turn, "I lit into my partner like I was going
to tear his throat out, just on your say-so, and it turns
out the damn fool's in love with her. How do you
suppose that makes me feel?"

"What makes you think—?"

"I see them together. You don't. All right?"

"Hmmph. I'd have seen them together if he'd
shown up tonight."

"Marilyn, he's my partner, not my goddamn kid. I

The Wolf and the Spider          121

did what you told me to, and you were wrong about
him."

"Well," she said, relenting a little. "Well. May-
be I was. Sorry. But you have to talk with him any-
way. He's not right for Tiffany Marie, he isn't going
to bring any good to her life. You reason with
him."

"Sure," Stepovich said. "Sure, I'll do that. And
you talk to her. Okay?"

"Okay."

The click as she hung up was a relief. For a moment
he stared at the blank television screen. Then he
heaved himself up with a sigh to go get his laundry
out of the dryer. It was all stuck together with static,
and as he sat on the couch and peeled it apart, he
remembered the shiver up his back, and wondered
how a patrol cop was going to get hold of the notes
on a 1935 murder in New Orleans.

NOVEMBER FIFTEENTH. MORNING

Raven, the hunter,

Was content to stay and poach,
Owl wished to go bach home,

And I, to find the coach.

"RAVEN, OWL, AND t"

Raymond had seen three airplanes this morning, and
nineteen birds. It was now four thousand, six hun-
dred and twelve days since he had seen his brother,
the Raven, and as for his older brother, he had lost
count some time ago, much to his regret. Another
bird went by overhead. Twenty. He unwrapped his
tambourine from the old towels that protected it from
the elements, and idly tapped it a few times.

122 THE GYPSY

Raymond looked nothing like an Indian. His face
was swarthy, but not in the same way. His cheek-
bones were high, but his forehead was all wrong. His
eyes had just a hint of slant. But still, tourists thought
he was an Indian, and so paid him well to guide them
through the Rockies, near Boulder. It was just as well.
He knew the land. He spent most nights huddled in
the ruins of the old "castle" on Mount Falcon, over-
looking Red Rocks. He could find the best hiking, rock
climbing, and sight seeing. The authorities for the
most part ignored him.

It was full dark, and the stars were out in all their
glory, the Pleiades as dear as spring water, looking
like he could touch them. Four chipmunks gathered
near his small fire. He held out nine pieces of bread
for them to nibble from his hand. He couldn't always
tell them apart, but two of these he recognized. One
was a small, old female he called Brandy, and the
other a very dark, large male whom he had named
FIeetwood, after a Cadillac he had owned many years
before. FIeetwood took the bread and said, "The
Raven is flying. It is time for the Owl to do the same."

Raymond studied the chipmunk, surprised at how
calm he felt to be addressed by the animal; it was
almost as if he'd been waiting for something like this,
and perhaps he had been. He said, "It is years since
I've seen the Raven, or the Dove for that matter."

"It is time to see them both," said FIeetwood.

"Where?" said Raymond.

"That I cannot tell you."

Brandy spoke in a high, dear tenor. "The road will
tell you. It is only for you to set foot upon it."

Raymond nodded. "If it is time for me to find my
brothers, then find them I will. But what is our task
to be?"

"I cannot tell you that, either."

"Will there be a way home again?"

The Wolf and the Spider          123

"That will depend," said FIeetwood, "on whether
the Coachman is loyal."

"You mean sober."

"Well, yes."

"And on whether your brothers are loyal, as well,"
said Brandy.

"That's clear enough," said Raymond. "I'll set out
in the morning."

The chipmunks nodded, and accepted more bread,
and spoke no more to the gypsy guide who looked
nothing like an Indian.

WEDNESDAY, AFTER SCHOOL

She can find your secret madness,
She knows your secret name.
What demons do you hide, my friend?
What creatures lurk inside, my friend?
To her, you know, it's really all the same.

"THE FAIR LADY"

"I stole it," Laurie said boastfully. Or tried to. The
words didn't come out quite right, and she wondered
if Chrissy could hear they weren't quite true. Laurie
had gone to the stupid rummage sale at the youth
center yesterday evening after Chrissy had stood her
up to go downtown with that Sue and her friends.
Now she wanted to make Chrissy feel as if she'd re-
ally missed out on something; not just Laurie rinding
the black sort-of-tapestry cloth that now covered her
bed, but the adventure of Laurie stealing it.

And Laurie really had intended to steal it. She'd
wrapped it up in the two dollar silky bathrobe she
was going to pay for and stuffed it in her shopping
bag with the old books Jeffrey wanted and the sweater

124 THE GYPSY

she thought her Mom would like. The tapestry with
the weird old square-footed animals on it was marked
twelve dollars, and she wanted it but couldn't afford
it. So she decided to steal it. All the way up to the
cashier she'd justified it, thinking this rummage sale
was supposed to raise money for the youth center,
and all the stuff was donated anyway, so it wasn't
like they were really losing money when she took it.
But then the lady at the counter had just said, "It's
all three dollars a bag after five o'clock," and had
taken her money. Six months ago, she would have
told Chrissy the whole story, and they'd have laughed
about it. Now she just wanted Chrissy to believe that
she had stolen it.

But Chrissy only stared at it for a minute. She didn't
even seem to notice that all Laurie's dolls and stuffed
animals had been packed away, or that there were
candles and incense set out on her dresser or the way
she'd hung towels over her curtains to make the room
dimmer. Chrissy's eyes got that apprehensive look
they sometimes got lately as she stared at the tapestry
spread. "Looks like something of Hers," Chrissy said
in a whispery voice, and then giggled in a funny way.
Like she'd meant to whimper and giggled instead.

"What?" Laurie demanded, feeling stupid. Again.
Lately she always felt stupid, or left out when she
was around Chrissy. It was the same way she and
Chrissy had felt when they were in the bathroom at
school and some of the popular girls came in and
started talking about boys and makeup. Only this was
worse, because it was Chrissy making her feel like
there was something big and important going on, and
she was too much of a kid to understand it. If Chrissy
grew up and left her behind, then she'd really be
alone.

"Those things, there. Like lions only sort of square.
She's got a thing like that. Except it talks. And it looks
even weirder than those things do." Chrissy's voice

The Wolf and the Spider          125

trailed off and she continued to stare at the bed-
spread.

"Who has an animal like that?"

For a long time, Chrissy didn't answer. And when
she did, it was in an odd, breathy voice, and she
didn't close her mouth between the sentences. "The
Fair Lady. Sue finally took me to see Her. She lives,
well, in a place like an elevator stuck between floors,
only it's a whole world. So the floor is blue, like a sky
under your feet, only cold and hard. But sometimes
it seems like you're standing in it, instead of on it.
And the ceiling is like rocks and dirt and roots hang-
ing down. Only not natural, not uneven like in a cave,
but all polished, like someone made it that way. It's
like columns in some old temple or something. And
the walls are like—I don't know, banks of stone, with
these fossils in them, only the walls aren't always
in the same places. There was this window, only Sue
said maybe it was only a painting, because it looked
out but only into the sky, and all you could see from
it was half a sun and half a moon. Sue said it was
only a painting, but when Sue wasn't watching, I saw
Her throw the skinned kitten out of it. It looked so
much littler without fur." Her eyes grew even more
unfocused. "It was like that man said, that gypsy guy:

There wasn't much left when She was through with
it." Chrissy's face went a shade paler, and she talked
faster. "It's always warm there, even hot, but She
has all these fireplaces, and some of the fireplaces
have chimneys that go down instead of up. And She
has these . . . things. Like people made of animal
parts ... or something."

"Chrissy," Laurie objected tentatively. This wasn't
like her. She'd never been into imaginary games or
stories of any kind. "Are you—are you doing drugs
with Sue?"

She gave that giggle again. For a moment she didn't
answer. Then she looked directly at Laurie and

126

THE GYPSY

blinked her eyes a few times. "Drugs? Naw. No one
needs drugs around the Fair Lady. She can make you
feel so good. Sooo good/' Chrissy stood vacant-eyed,
idly rubbing her wrists together. It was an odd move-
ment. "No one can make you feel so good as She
can/" Chrissy said softly. "Or so bad," she added in
a tearful whisper. "But what's going to be left when
She's through?" She cowered suddenly, like a small
animal swept by the silent shadow of an owl's wings.

Laurie reached to put an arm around her, like they
had used to do when they were best friends and one
of them was crying. But at her touch, Chrissy gave a
sudden start and backed out from under Laurie's em-
brace with a contemptuous hoot. "Hands off, Laurie!
You turning into a lezzy on me?"

It was like a punch in the stomach. Laurie turned
aside, fixed her eyes on the tapestry animals as if sud-
denly fascinated by them. Get it under control, she
told herself, wishing her eyes could suck back the
tears that welled in them. She and Chrissy had never
said things like that to each other, not even jokingly.
She stared steadily at the tapestry animals but they
wavered before her. She didn't lift a hand to wipe at
her eyes; that would have given her away. Instead,
she said, "I got a bitch of an algebra test tomorrow.
I'd better start studying now if I'm going to pass it."

Still without looking at Chrissy, she crossed to
where she'd dumped her bookbag on the floor when
they came in and began digging into it. With her head
bent forward, her hair came forward too, hanging like
curtains on either side of her face. She blinked
quickly, hoping it would disperse the hanging tears.

"Like/ you want to go with us some time? Sue and
me, I mean?" The voice was almost like Chrissy's old
voice, almost apologetic. But the old Chrissy would
have been over beside her, saying she was sorry for
saying such a rotten thing. Still.

"My mom would never let me go," she said. Lau-

The Wolf and the Spider

127

rie found the algebra book, dragged it out of the bag.
She opened it and pretended to be looking for a cer-
tain page.

"Well?" Chrissy demanded suddenly. "So what?
Do you want to go with us to the Fair Lady's place,
or not?"

"I'm not supposed to go to houses of people she
doesn't know unless she has a phone number and
has talked to them first." The words came up out of
her throat like rough-edged rocks, but she forced
them out. It was the rule and she was stuck with it.
She couldn't break it without hard consequences; not
like Chrissy's mom, who hardly noticed anything she
did anymore.

"Well," Chrissy paused. "So Mommy won't let
you. Well, the Fair Lady probably wouldn't let me
bring you anyway. You're not at all what She's look-
ing for."

"I guess not," Laurie said in a disinterested voice.

"See, the Fair Lady, She's going to change the
world. But She has to have faithful followers to help
Her do it. People who can do what She says, right
now, without asking questions. Later, they'll be re-
warded."

"Sounds like a comic book," Laurie said in a low
voice. She was dragging out her binder, scuffling in
the bottom of the book bag for a pencil. She'd show
Chrissy. She'd actually go ahead and start doing her
algebra homework right in front of her. Chrissy was
only in pre-algebra.

"Go ahead, make fun of it. But don't blame me
when you miss out later because you were afraid to
take a few chances." Chrissy paused, to allow Laurie
a chance to plead for more information. Instead, Lau-
rie picked up her binder and book and took them over
to her desk.

"See, it's like a war, right now," Chrissy suddenly
resumed. "And, we're like Her spies and stuff. And

128 THE GYPSY

some of us do even harder stuff, like being ninjas for
Her, or something. See, there are people out there
who know about Her and would do anything to keep
Her from carrying out her plans. Because once She
comes to power, well, everything's going to change.
People who used to push us around are going to be
real sorry, because we'll belong to Her and they'll
have to do what we tell them. She's going to make
them crawl for us."

There was great satisfaction in Chrissy's voice. Lau-
rie glanced sideways at her through the curtain of her
hanging hair. She was staring off through the wall, a
look of petulant gloating on her face. Just the way she
used to look when she'd talked about running away,
and how her Mom and Dad would be really sorry
they'd been so mean to her once she was gone. Only
then she did run away and hid out at the shelter for
two days, and her parents never even called the po-
lice. She glanced at Chrissy again. It suddenly struck
her how dumb she looked, with her bangs starched
up stiff over her forehead/ almost like a rooster's
comb, and one shaved spot over her ear. It was a
tough punk hairdo/ but she still had that fat, round
little face she'd always had. Laurie's dad had always
said Chrissy looked like a Cabbage Patch Kid with too
much stuffing in her. She still did. Cabbage Punk,
Laurie thought to herself, and giggled.

"So what's funny?" Chrissy demanded/ instantly
suspicious.

"Nothing," Laurie muttered. "I was thinking about
something else."

"Listen, Laurie. You want in on this or not? Be-
cause if you do, you're gonna have to take some
chances, and not worry so much about what Mommy
and Daddy say." Chrissy thrust one hip out and put
her fists at her waist. Like that one rock poster. Laurie
wondered if she'd been practicing in front of the mir-
ror.

The Wolf and the Spicier           129

"I don't know," she muttered. She didn't. The way
she was acting, she didn't even know if she wanted
to be friends with Chrissy anymore. Except, if she
wasn't best friends with Chrissy, then she wasn't best
friends with anyone. Heck, she was hardly any kind
of friend with anyone. "I gotta think about it, okay?"
she amended. She finally let her eyes meet Chrissy's.
But there was no understanding there. Chrissy only
shrugged.

"Well, don't take too long," she said fiatly.
"There's stuff going on. Big stuff. You wait too long,
you won't be in on it. You'll be one of them."

Laurie just stared at her. Waiting for her to say
something else, to add something that wouldn't make
it sound so flat, so final. But she didn't. Finally, she
turned away from Chrissy's unsmiling face.

"I got an algebra test tomorrow. You know?"

"Yeah. I know. Hope you get a hundred percent
and Mommy sticks a gold star on your forehead."

Laurie didn't look up again until after the door
slammed. Then she stared at tl^e space where Chrissy
had stood, trying not to let the tears loose, and
vaguely wondered where Chrissy had gone. And how
long it would be before she gave in and followed her.

NOV. FIFTEENTH, AFTER WORK

Watch the trail, now, it's coming to an end;

The river speaks the terms of my fate.

I can hear the laughter of the falcon and the wren;

I fear my repentance comes too late.

"LAMNAN SIDHE"

Not even the stupid waitress uniform could make her
look bad. She still had her hair pinned up out of the

130 THE GYPSY

way, but that couldn't stop the streetlamps from
snapping copper highlights off it. Durand looked at
her, and felt angry at Step all over again. How the
hell could that idiot look at a woman like Tiffany and
still remember some stupid mess she'd gotten into as
a kid?

She spotted him and came over to the car, opened
the door and slid in, just as if she'd been expecting
him. She leaned over and hugged him and gave him
a quick hard kiss before she said, without malice,
"You stood me up last night, you asshole."

"Couldn't be helped," he told her. "Cop stuff
doesn't stop at nve o'clock."

She sat looking at him with those huge eyes of hers.
If any other woman had called him an asshole, he'd
have told her to take off, find someone else to abuse.
But coming from Tiffany, it didn't even bother him.
Sometimes, when he wasn't around her, he won-
dered why. He knew all the stuff Step had told him
was true, and always before he'd had a rule against
dating women who had any kind of trouble in their
past, divorce or illegitimate kids or smoking pot, or
anything. Sometimes he tried to tell himself she'd
been a whore and he shouldn't like her so much. But
when he was with her it didn't matter. So he'd bro-
ken his own rule, to date her, and she kept right on
breaking all his rules of how he thought a woman
should be. Like now.

After two seconds of thought, she shrugged and
forgave him. "Next time, try to call," she said, and
settled in beside him.

"Buckle your seat belt," he told her, as he always
had to.

Reluctantly, she slid back to her side of the car. As
she dragged down the shoulder harness, she ob-
served, "You ought to install a seat belt in the mid-
dle, so I could sit next to you instead of dear over
here."

The Wolf and the Spider          131

"In my spare time," he promised her, in the joke
they shared about him never having any spare time-
"What would you like to do? Dinner and a movie?"

"Okay. But I got to go home and change first. You
mind?"

"Nope." He pulled away from the curb, the old
Chevy's clutch slipping. That was another thing he
was going to have to nx in his spare time.

Durand was content to drive in silence, just smell-
ing the faint trace of perfume that Tiffany brought
with her, feeling her left hand rest on his shoulder as
he drove. But Tiffany asked, "Aren't you even going
to tell me about it?"

"About what?"

"About what kept you last night?"

"Oh. Cop stuff." He always hated to talk to her
about anything to do with Step. He was the one thing
they could never agree on. It was ironic, because if it
hadn't been for Step, they never would have met. He
was the one who had introduced them, on Durand's
first day on the job. Of course, it had been Tiffany
who'd followed up on the introduction, and called
him at work to say she'd like to see more of him. No
woman had ever done that before.

"It's Mike again, isn't it? What did he do to you
this time?"

He drove two more blocks before answering, and
she let him have his silence Then he said, "I'm start-
ing to think he's mixed up in something dirty."

"Oh," she said. That was all. Waiting to hear the
rest before she said anything more. Probably only he
knew her well enough to hear the tiny chill in her
voice.

Durand sighed. "It's like this. You know, I told
you about that gypsy guy we busted, and how he got
turned loose somehow. And the murder at the hotel
and everything. Well, Step's been talking to me like
it's over, homicide gets to handle it now, forget it.

132 THE GYPSY

But yesterday I noticed he didn't change out of his
uniform after work. So I kind of followed him, and
saw him go to the park and talk to this guy with a
carriage. And after he'd left, I go talk to the guy, and
it turns out Step's been asking him all kinds of ques-
tions about a gypsy and a knife."

"I don't see how that means Mike is doing some-
thing wrong. I mean, don't cops do that all the time,
follow up on cases?"

"Yeah," Durand admitted uneasily. "Only usually
they let their partners in on it. And this bit about the
knife; I think I remember that the gypsy had a knife
when we busted him, but I don't ever remember Step
turning it in. And the hotel murder was done with a
knife. See?"

"Not really." Her tone flatly denied that Mike could
be mixed up in anything he shouldn't be.

"Look," Durand amended. "I'm not saying he's
done anything wrong. But I think he's bending the
rules, a lot. And no cop can afford to do that, even a
little. My dad taught me that, when I was real small.
A cop always has to play by the rules, whether he
likes it or not. A cop without rules is nothing."

"Rules without common sense are stupid," Tiffany
said flatly.

Durand was silent for three blocks. This was as
close to a fight as they'd ever come, and he didn't
want to get any doser.

"So," he finally said as the Chevy idled roughly at
a stoplight. "What would you do? Ignore it?"

"Of course not! For crying out loud, you're part-
ners! Come right out and ask him about it."

"And of course Step will tell me the whole story,"
Durand observed with heavy sarcasm.

"He will, if you ask him right," she said quietly,
He glanced over at her. She was staring straight
ahead, and he knew that, in some odd way, he'd hurt
her. It bothered him a lot more than he'd have

The Wolf and the Spider          133

thought it would. Especially since her left hand had
never left his shoulder. He tried to find words to apol-
ogize, but it didn't seem like apologizing was the
thing to do either.

The Chevy crept out into the intersection, clutch
complaining all the way. "Okay," Durand said qui-
etly. "I'll do my best to ask him right."

"Thank you," Tiffany said, just as quietly. Durand
was left reflecting on why it was that the times when
he understood her least were also the times when he
loved her most.

FALL, 1989

If there's more to making choices
Than luck and happenstance,
I hope I do it right

Next time I get the chance.

:.

"NO PASSENGER"

The bus hissed like a tired snake as the door opened.
The Coachman was the first man off. He leapt to the
ground and pirouetted, smiling. "Welcome to La-
kota," he said.

Daniel climbed out, buttoning his heavy green coat.
He followed the Coachman out to the street, and
looked up at the glass skyscrapers. "A city," he said.
"Is a city."

"Not so," said the Coachman. "Each has its own
rhythms. You'll see."

Daniel snorted. "If you like. In any case, we're
here. What now?"

"Now? Well, it is Wednesday. Tomorrow, we will
begin looking around. If we haven't found anything,

134 THE GYPSY

I'll try to borrow a coach on Friday. I'm sure to get it
on Sunday/ if we haven't had any luck before then."

"What will we do with a coach?"

"Ride around the city. If your older brother has
arrived/ and your younger brother hasn't let himself
be killed, I will find them, and pick them up, and
then we will see what happens. Or maybe not. I don't
know as much about this as you may think I do."

"Well/1 know even less. As I said, what now?"

"Have you any money?"

"Some."

"Good. Let us find a place to sleep. It would be
good to stay out of sight, if we can."

"Whose sight are we staying out of. Coachman?"

"The Wolf's, of course," said the Coachman,
smirking, and hailed a taxi.

EIGHT

The Wolf, the Badger,
and the Old Woman

15 NOV 22:00

Old woman, I hate too much. I must give it vent.
Old woman you are hiding here inside your tent.
Old woman, how much more will I have to repent?
Old woman will I have left a mark
When my days are spent?

"BLACKENED PAGE"

"Mike!"

At the shout, Stepovich jerked awake. Reflexes
rolled him off the couch and onto his feet as he scrab-
bled for a gun that wasn't there; shoelaces tied to-
gether brought him down just as swiftly. He caught
himself painfully on one elbow, managed to avoid
hitting the coffee table more than a glancing blow.

"You son of a bitch," he said with great feeling.

Ed laughed. "Works every time," he observed cheer-
fully, even though it was at least four years since he had
pulled the same stunt. He turned his back on Stepovich
and headed for the apartment's tiny kitchen.' 'You want
coffee?" he called back over his shoulder.

"That dead bolt cost me fifteen dollars. If you've
screwed it up, I'm gonna feed it to you."

"Me?" Ed stuck his head back around the corner.
"Thing wasn't even shot, Stepovich. Door wasn't
locked. I just waltzed right in."

"Uar," Stepovich muttered, working at his knot"

136 THE GYPSY

ted laces. He'd never been able to figure out how Ed
did it. The man was overweight and clumsy as an ox/
but there wasn't a lock he couldn't slip, and Stepovich
couldn't count how many times in the years of their
partnership that Ed had taken him unawares. When he
was a rookie, Ed had almost convinced him that he/
Stepovich, just wasn't alert enough to be a good cop. It
had taken him a long time to realize that the big man
could walk softer than a cat, and could take damn near
anyone by surprise. Grabbing cat burglars from behind
had been one of his favorite tricks, once upon a time.

Stepovich retted his shoes and got up to make his
way into the kitchen. Ed had half the stuff out of his
cupboard stacked on the floor. "Where in hell are the
coffee beans?" he demanded as Stepovich came
around the comer. Sneaky bastard didn't even bother
to turn and look at him. Just knew he was there.

"Don't have any." Stepovich reached up to the
shelf over the stove, took down a jar of instant. "Cof-
fee's right here."

"That shit?" Ed stepped casually away from the
mess he'd made. "Let's skip it, then. We can grab
some on the way." He glanced back once at the pack-
ages and cans he'd rummaged through. "Pretty sorry
haul, Mike. Nothing there I'd feed the neighbor's cat.
When's the last time you went shopping, anyway?"

"Don't go shopping, I just pick up what I need for
the day on my way home from work. Where we go-
ing? And what the hell time is it?"

"Just about midnight. Witching hour. Best time for
witches, vampires and gypsy fortune tellers. But, hey,
Mike, this is no way to live. Coffee is not something
to take casually. You've seen how I do it, little hand
grinder, drip pot, and keep those beans in the frig
until you're ready."

"Where we going?" Stepovich repeated wearily.
Midnight. Shit. He had to work tomorrow. Maybe Ed
had been retired long enough that he'd forgotten

The Wolf, the Badger, and the Old Woman  137

what it was like to drag his ass out of bed at six in
the morning. Look at him. Eyes bright, hair combed,
black bomber jacket that could no way meet over his
gut anymore. Looked like a teenager going out cruis-
ing. Same stupid shitty grin when he finally met Step-
ovich's eyes and answered.

"Where we going? We're going to get fortunes told,
sweet baby mine. Madam Moria sees all, and I've got
her primed to tell all. Let's go."

He tossed Stepovich's jacket at him and the flying
sleeve stung his face. Ed was humming "Captain of
the Pinafore" as Stepovich followed him out the door.
Despite himself, Stepovich felt a small quickening of
pulse. Gilbert and Sullivan had always been Ed's hunt-
ing tunes. Quick, Watson, the game's afoot and all that.

They were into the Cadillac before Stepovich re-
membered to say, "But Ed, I told you the thing with
the Gypsy was all done and it turned out to be noth-
ing after all."

"Bullshit," Ed said kindly, and slammed his door
so hard that Stepovich's ears popped. The engine
started with a roar, then Ed eased it back to a pun-
like a big cat's. It slipped into gear with a barely per-
' ceptible whump! and prowled off down the street.

Stepovich heaved a sigh, and then sniffed curi-
ously. Sniffed again. "Smells like a delicatessen in
here. You got a pizza in back or something?"

"Naw." Ed cleared his throat. "It's the cheese." A
little further down the street he added, "In the
mousetraps, you know. I mean, I hate to kill the little
... buggers that way, but I tried everything else. I even

stole my neighbor's tomcat and locked him up in the
' garage with the car one night. I left the trunk and all
the doors open. Even the hood. I figured he'd get
hungry and nail that mouse for me."
?:'   "Didn't work, huh?" Stepovich asked idly.
^    "No. Bastard got in the trunk all right. Sprayed all
H over the place!" Ed sounded righteously outraged.

138 THE GYPSY

"Ah." Stepovich tried to sound commiserating and
couldn't. He couldn't hold back his snickering either.
"That's what I'm smelling then. Cheese and cat cum.
Thought it might be some wow new aftershave you
were using. Well/ guess the cat knew a pimpmobile
when he saw one."

"Shithead," Ed growled- "Work my ass off for you,
and you make fun of my car. Nice guy,"

"What are friends for? Now, truthfully/ what's with
the Gypsy thing? I mean/ for real, that's all done and
closed. I should be at home, resting up for another
day of protecting and serving the public."

They drove in silence. Traffic was down this time
of night/ and the store fronts were dark. North of
Roosevelt. He hadn't patrolled in this area at night in
years; it looked the same as it did then. He tried to
avoid Little Philly when he wasn't working; he got
enough of it during his shifts.

Traces of snow in the less trafficked areas. Only the
garish lights of neon tavern signs and stoplights flick-
ered over them in bars and splashes amidst the pale
wash of the street lamps. West on Carradine, now.
The streets were black with a layer of white from the
earlier snowfall.

"You think I'm getting old," Ed said suddenly, softly.

Stepovich was startled. "What? No/ man, nothing
like that, it's just that this thing is done, and . . ."

"You're a sorry liar, Mike- Always have been, al-
ways will be. Your voice gets too sincere; it's a dead
giveaway." A quick stab from Ed's dark eyes sank
into Stepovich/ gave him a tight pain somewhere in
his sternum.

"Yeah." He admitted two stoplights later. "I'm ly-
ing. I'm still digging at it. But I wanted you clear, not
because you're old, but because this could get real
messy." He looked over at Ed, demanding he meet
his eyes. "Messy enough to screw up your pension."

"Oh, yeah?" Ed turned a corner, slowed as he

The Wolf, the Badger, and the Old Woman  139

chose a parking spot for the Cadillac. He cut the en-
gine, turned to Mike an indecipherable smile. "Well,
fuck 'em if they can't take a joke." He stretched in
his seat, rolled his big shoulders to crackle them loose.
"Now," he said, his voice changing entirely, becom-
ing businesslike and instructive. "Here's the setup,
and it's taken me two days and seventy-eight dollars,
so keep that in mind and don't blow it. I'll go up with
you, but you gotta act like you been in on this all
along. Here's how it goes. I got Madam Moria's name
from my little friend."

"Little friend," Stepovich snorted to himself.
"Your little friend must be getting old by now." He'd
never been able to discover the identity of that partic-
ular snitch.

"Never mind that. He turned me on to his fortune-
teller. Honest to god gypsy from what my little friend
says, and one with a lot of ties to the community, or
whatever you want to call the gypsies that pass
through here. Anyway. Madam Moria's got an up-
stairs apartment over that sleazy music store we kept
busting for selling hot instruments. Apartment C. I
went there to get my fortune told. Gave her ten bucks,
and she sat me down in a little back room. Candles,
scarves, incense, crystal ball, the whole bit. She gave
me a standard spiel, and then started feeling me out
for more. So I gave her another ten for a more com-
plete reading, and told her confidentially that I was
considering investing my savings in a friend's busi-
ness, but didn't know it if was a good move. Said
that several of my little ventures lately hadn't gone as
well as I'd hoped."

Stepovich groaned. He knew what came next.
"Turned out your money was cursed, right?"

Ed grinned white- "Righto! How ever did you
guess? So she told me to bring her all my life savings,
and she'd lift the curse."

Stepovich knew the old con. It was familiar enough

140 THE GYPSY

to any bunko squad. The crone would take his money,
wrap it in a scarf and do some mumbo jumbo, and
give him back the scarf packet/ warning him to put it
in a safe place and not disturb it for two weeks, nine-
teen days/ two months or whatever. Had to give the
curse-lifting magic time to work. And by the time the
gull opened his little package, and found the neatly
cut strips of newspapers. Madam Moria would be
three states away. He'd even heard of one sap who
opened the packet early/ and went back to confront
the gypsy. That fortune teller must have been one
smooth talker, because she convinced her gull that it
was still the curse at work, and now he would have
to bring her more money to add to the packet before
the curse-lifting charm could work. Damn fool had,
too. Bunko squad had a laugh riot over that one.

"Then what happened?"

"Then at her suggestion/ I gave her all the cash I
had on me right then/ and she wrapped it and told
me she'd hold it for me."

"And?"

"I went back earlier tonight/ and let her give me
her whole spiel again. Then I ripped open my shirt
and showed her a wire taped to my chest and told
her she was busted. Then I told her that maybe I could
see my way to go easy on her if she could give us a
little help with something else/ something gypsy re-
lated. I left her alone to think for awhile."

Stepovich glanced up at the dark windows. "And
you really think she's still there?"

"She'll be there."

"What makes you think so?"

"Her face when I dropped the name Cynthia Kac-
marcik. I'd say she has a personal stake in mis one/ Mike.
Even more personal than getting herself off me hook."

The slams of the Cadillac doors were very loud on
the quiet street. This was a poorer section of town/
one that was the edge of the encroaching industrial

The Wotf, the Badger, and the Old Woman  141

district. Many of the storefront windows were blind
and empty/ soaped shut to the night. The surviving
businesses had an air of desperation to them/ the
signs in the windows curling/ their merchandise
dusty. Litter whispered in the snowy gutters.

Ed pushed open the glass door that opened onto a
narrow stairway. Stepovich followed him in past three
dilapidated mailboxes dangling on the pockmarked
wall. A single yellow bulb lit the stairway. The car-
peting was worn through to the wood in places, and
someone had left an empty pint bottle on one of the
steps. Ed moved stealthy as an old ginger cat and
Stepovich followed, trying not to let the stairs creak
under his lesser weight. Ed scanned the narrow hall
at the top of the stairs/ then nodded to himself as
much as to Stepovich. He knocked at the third door/
and it opened almost immediately.

The young woman inside had chestnut hair and
piercing grey eyes. She wore something Jenny would
have referred to as a power suit. Like it hadn't been
chosen because she liked it or because it suited her/
but because it made her look like-an executive. She
was just a little too young to pull it off; it made her
look a bit like Al Capone's little sister. Ed looked at
her for a few seconds before shutting his mouth.

"Come right in/' she said briskly, bitterly. "Do come
right in. Ignore the fact that Ms. Sarinsky is an old
woman and her health is poor and this isn't exactly
business hours. Just come right in. And talk to me. I'm
Ms. Peabody, from the Neighborhood Legal Coalition.
And just for starters, I'd like to see your credentials."

Stepovich could feel his guts sliding down his legs.
Ed didn't look like he was doing much better. He
bobbed his head several times, and Stepovich had
the feeling he would have whipped off his hat if he'd
been wearing one. Ed crabbed into the room past her,
and Stepovich followed him reluctantly, feeling as if
he were walking into a lion's den.

142 THE GYPSY

Blankets and tapestries and woven stuff draped the
ceilings and walls/ giving the small room the feeling
of a tent. Every color in the world seemed repre-
sented, with reds taking dominance. The stuffed
chairs had feet carved like paws, and overflowed with
cushions just as the several small tables in the room
looked as if they were tottering under their burdens
of bric-a-brac- Patterned carpets of various shapes and
piles were layered underfoot/ contributing to Stepo-
vich's feeling of uncertain footing. Of Madam Moria
there was no sign at all.

"Now, Mizz Peabody, I can see you're upset, and
I think that really if we just talk, you'll find there's
no basis for it." Ed began placatingly. Too placat-
ingly. Stepovich watched Ms. Peabody's hackles rise.

"I believe I asked for your credentials," she ob-
served icily. She looked from Ed to Stepovich sternly.
Ed made a show of reaching inside his jacket. In for
a dime/ in for a dollar, Stepovich told himself, and
flashed out his badge.

"Officer Stepovich, ma'am. I'm in charge of this
investigation. Ed here is just my man. If you've got
any quibbles with the way it's been conducted, I'm
the one you need to talk to." He flipped the case shut,
hoping she hadn't had time to get his badge number.

"Quibbles!" She puffed up like a blow&sh. "Quib-
bles are not what I have. Officer Steppopick. What I
have are grievances. Have you ever heard of entrap-
ment? Of harrassment?" She paused. "But those are
just small potatoes compared to the fact that I called (he
police department today, and they had no record of any
ongoing investigation, or any officer in charge."

Stepovich was suddenly sure that Ac mild indiges-
tion he'd been experiencing was now a full-fledged
ulcer. He made the tiny hand motion he'd always
made when he wanted Ed to go first around a corner
or check out an entryway. But this time he made it
toward the door. Let Ed get the hell out, they'd have

The Wolf, the Badger, and the Old Woman  143

nothing to connect a retired cop to this. Ed took a
step, but not toward the door. Closer to Stepovich.
Leaning toward him, shaking his big stupid face like
a mournful jackass and saying softly, "No way,
buddy."

"Yes way, buddy."

Stepovich looked at Ms. Peabody, who was glaring
triumphantly, like a vulture who'd found a dying
mule in the desert. "Wait a minute," he said. "We
have to talk."

"You can talk to me," she snapped. "I'm going
to-"

"Wait," he repeated, putting as much force into it
as he could. Before she had the chance to speak, he
grabbed Ed's arm and walked him into a corner by a
hanging tapestry of a green owl and a red raven
standing over a wounded knight. "Listen, idiot," he
said. "You got a pension to think about. I can—"

"You can get your ass fired, buddy. I'm not going
to let you play lone wolf and pay for my screw up."

"Wolf?" The voice was ,high and querulous, a
granny wakened from her nap ty noisy children. For
a moment, it seemed sourceless. Then the tapestry
twitched, pushed aside by the tip of a questing metal
rod. Both he and Ed instinctively stepped away, go-
ing into defensive postures, before recognizing it as
the end of a cane. A woman slowly shouldered her
way past the heavy hanging, revealing a doorway be-
hind it. She was old, but vitally alive, her alertness
independent of her failing senses or stiff body. Her
dual canes, one black and twisted wood banded with
iron, the other burnished aluminum, thumped her
slowly into the center of the room.

"Ms. Sarinsky, as your volunteer advocate, I have
to insist you let me handle this," Ms. Peabody ad-
vised her sternly. "Actually, it's better if you say
nothing at all to these persons," she added in a con-
descending undertone.

144 THE GYPSY

"Madam Sarinsky/' the old woman shrilled impe-
riously. "\ am Madam Moria Sarinsky, seer of the
unknown. And I know what is best here. I."

Stepovich thought Ms. Peabody looked as ruffled
as a church soloist who'd lit into the wrong selection.
"For the sake of preserving your legal rights, I ad-
vise—" she began again/ but Madam Moria Sarinsky
lilted her black cane and made a shooing motion as if
the legal advocate were an annoying chicken.

"It's different now/' she said/ not explaining, but
dismissing- "I did not see the Wolf before. I thought
it was only this old grey Badger, trying to dig me out.
Go on, go on, girl, you can do nothing here. You.
Young man." She waved a cane at Ed. "Clear a chair
for me. No, not that one, stupid. Any fool could see
it has a wobbly leg. That one. Hurry up."

Stepovich was torn between watching the van-
quished Ms. Peabody gather her briefcase and leave,
and watching Ed meekly obeying the old crone.

". . . she obviously doesn't understand what you're
doing. Which means she hasn't been properly Mir-
andized, and nothing she says can be legally used.
And when the time comes, I'll be a witness to that.
So if you think—"

"Yes, yes, yes," Madam Moria intoned testily. She
pointed the twisted black cane at Stepovich. "You.
Shut the door."

And he did, giving Ms. Peabody just time enough
to get through it. He turned back to find Madam
Moria settling in the chair with various small hisses
and groans. She thumped a cane on the floor until Ed
got the message and placed one cushion where her
slippered feet could reach it. Then she breathed nois-
ily through her nose for several more moments while
she settled the folds of her gown around her. Dress-
ing gown was too poor a description for that bro-
caded and embroidered marvel. Her slippers matched
it, for god's sake. When it was arranged to her satis-

The Wolf, the Badger, and the Old Woman  145

faction, the old woman lifted her head and fixed her
gaze on Stepovich. "So, Wolf. What have you come
to ask?"

Maybe next year's power suits would be lavish bro-
cade bathrobes. Stepovich started to pull up a chair,
but she pointed imperiously to a cushion near her
blue-veined feet. He sat. Better to go with it than to
lose it.

He looked up into her eyes. They were dark and
old, the browns sort of leaking into the whites and
staining them. And if she wasn't at least half blind,
he'd eat his badge. Blind. But seeing him, too/ in a
way that put the creeps up his back. He cleared his
throat and heard himself say, "I want to know who
killed Cynthia Kacmarcik."

He heard Ed shift his weight in a chair at this novel
mode of interrogation. So did Madam Moria, for she
lifted her aluminum cane and pointed it at Ed com-
mandingly, "You. Go to the kitchen. Make tea. You
keep an old woman up late, you have to care for her
throat. Go."

Ed stood reluctantly. "How doJ know where the
tea is?" he demanded.

"Dig for it. Badger. Dig. Hurry up. And mind you
steal nothing, or I shall know!" she called after him
as he blundered off through the tapestry she'd
emerged from. Ed dismissed, she leaned closer to
Stepovich. Her blind eyes swam over his face. She
reached out a bony hand, and startled him by grip-
ping his hair. It was all he could do to keep from
jerking free.

"Someone has her," she whispered. "Just like this.
She'd like to be dead, poor Cynthia would, but some-
one won't let her go. Am I right, hum?"

Stepovich's throat went dry. Her pale old tongue
emerged, wet her withered lips, and the fingertips of
her free hand. She rubbed the spittle together on her
angers as if listening to it. "A little boy is in it. A

146 THE QYPSY

nasty little boy, who hides behind Her skirts after he's
done his dirtiness. But it would be a mistake to go
after just him. He's only a puppet, you know. But
he's a puppet with a knife/ so don't turn your back
until you've cut his strings. Hum?"

He could hear Ed clattering cups, heard water run into
a kettle, but the sounds seemed distant: Not muffled by
the hangings and the apartment walls, but distant, miles
away, like dogs barking outside a village or the creak of
cart wheels over a bridge. She wasn't seeing him with
those rheumy eyes, but she was seeing something and
he couldn't break away from her gaze-
She flicked a handkerchief in his face, and he never
even flinched. "Here's a scent for you. Wolf," she told
him, and there was a scent to it, like cheap macho co-
logne, all musk and sharp with no sweetness. He
breathed it in and it seemed to vanish from the air around
him even as a part of him vowed not to forget it. The
handkerchief, too, vanished, as if it had never been.

"You could hunt with the Raven on your shoulder.
But this Wolf always wants to hunt alone, doesn't he?
The Owl could give you eyes in the night, but you
think you've eyes enough, don't you? And the little
one, the Dove who could coo secrets to you? Him
you'd close your jaws on with one great snap. Stu-
pids. Four great stupids, the lot of you. The world
cries out for heroes, and what are we given? Three
scatterbrained birds and a mangy dog."

She released his hair with a final shake and leaned
back in her chair, breathing heavily. She half-lidded
her eyes- Stepovich felt as if a great pressure had lifted
from him. Someone made a peculiar scratching sound
right outside the door, but before he could react to it,
Madam Moria lifted her head. "I don't care!" she
cried out defiantly, and he wasn't sure if she ad-
dressed him or not. "I'm too old to fear you, you
patchwork demon! Run and carry tales! You're not
the only one who can tattle little secrets!" Her voice

The Wolf, the Badger, and the Old Woman  147

seemed to catch on the final words, and she leaned
back suddenly in her chair with a wheezing sigh. Her
shriveled lips sank in on themselves, her eyes faded
deeper into blindness.

"Madam Moria?" he ventured.

She took in a deeper breath, blinked several times.
She reached for her black cane, thumped it weakly on
the layered rugs. "Where is that tea?" she de-
manded, but her demanding now seemed more pit-
eous than imperious.

"I'll check on it," Stepovich told her, and started
to stand up, but Ed was pushing the tapestry aside
with his back and ushering in a small tray. It was
silver, the etched pattern old and lovely under the
patina of years. A fat ceramic pot sat on it, and beside
it an elegant cup of fluted bone china. None of the
items matched, yet they obviously belonged together
just as old friends do.

"Pull up ... that table. Any table." She seemed
suddenly a very old woman in a way she had not
before. Stepovich didn't even smile as Ed carefully
poured her tea and offered her the cup. She took it,
and though her hand trembled, not a drop escaped
as she raised it to her mouth and noisily sucked at it.

"She tell you anything?" Ed asked in an undertone.

Stepovich shrugged. "Not really," he answered, and
wondered why it felt like a lie.

Ed went into a heavy crouch beside her chair.
"How about it. Madam Moria? Can you tell us any-
thing about Cynthia Kacmarcik?"

"I can tell you she made better tea than this! Who
taught you to put water only warm on the leaves?
Better the steam stands out a foot above the kettle
before you pour it! Tea like this, Cynthia would pour
on the floor!"

"But can you tell us . . ."

"Young man, I am tired. You think an old woman
like me, she can stay up all night and talk and not be

148 THE GYPSY

tired? Stupid. You want to know more, you come back
another time."

"Maybe you could just—" Ed began, but Stepovich
shook his head at him silently. Ed got the message
and rose.

As they turned to the door. Madam Moria thumped
a cane on the floor. "Fifty dollars!" she said, when
Stepovich turned back. "You think I do a seeing for
free? No! Fifty dollars. Wolf."

Ignoring Ed's incredulous look, Stepovich gave her
the twenty-three he had in his wallet. She took it dis-
dainfully. "Next time you come/ you bring the rest.
Or I will tell you nothing at all. Nothing at all."

They were in the Cadillac and headed back to Ste-
povich's before Ed spoke, "Not healthy/' he ob-
served, shaking his head.

"Well/ she's pretty old," he conceded.

"Not her." Ed snorted in disgust. "She's a healthy
as a horse, behind the phony wheeze of hers. Hell/ that
cast-iron teakettle of hers must weigh twenty pounds.
If she's hefting that every day/ it's probably as good as
a Jane Fonda workout. Her hair hasn't even gone grey.
No, I wasn't talking about her. I mean you."

"Me? I'm not sick. A little indigestion now and
then/ but you show me a cop who doesn't get an acid
stomach/ and I'll show you a cop who's too dumb to
be scared."

"Naw, Mike." Ed gave a sigh. "It's the way you're
living. It's starting to bug the shit out of me. At first/
I thought, well, it's just going to take him a while to
get used to things. But it's been more than a while,
and you just aren't adapting."

"What the hell do you mean?" The sudden anger
he felt was unreasonable in its intensity.

"I mean like that kitchen of yours. It doesn't look
like you live there. I mean/ it's more like you're camp-
ing out for the weekend, and expect to go back to
Jennie and the kids next Tuesday or something."

The Wolf. the Badger, and the Old Woman  149

"I don't like clutter."

"The hell you say. I'm not talking about clutter.
I'm talking about having something besides ketchup
in the cupboard/ or more than three forks in the
drawer. When's the last time you bought a carton of
ice cream, or ate some meat that didn't come out of a
can? You don't even have a real salt shaker, only
those cardboard things from the store. And I'm talk-
ing about having books. You used to read all the time,
in the break room. And I'm talking about the way you
fall asleep on the couch most nights rather than go to
bed and admit you're sleeping alone. And why you're
sleeping alone, I don't know. And—"

"Ed. Give it a rest, okay?"

"I've given it a rest too damn long. You can't just
put your life on hold. You got to—"

"Look." Stepovich was having trouble keeping his
voice level. "You've made your point. Let it go. I
know you're my partner, and—"

"No, Mike. I'm not your partner. And that's an-
other thing. Who's your partner is that big green kid
who isn't learning a damn thing b.ecause you aren't
bothering to teach him. 'Cause you think maybe he
isn't permanent. Well, you ignore him long enough,
he damn sure won't be permanent, because he'll be
dead."

"Let me off here," Stepovich's words were cold
and hard.

"Oh, tuck you/" Ed replied unhappily, and drove
the rest of the way to his apartment in silence.

NINE

The Old Woman and the Devil

AUTUMN, LATE MORNING

It seems like I been on this road
Ever since I was a kid;

I could tell if I was sony
If I remembered what I did.

"RED LIGHTS AND NEON"

The Gypsy spent the night below the freeway bridge,
waking up to morning fog and a promise of more
snow. He stared straight up/ unmoving, and tested
his memory. Yes/ he was the Gypsy/ a name that
would do for now. And/ yes/ he had sworn, long ago,
to bring light to the world below—Her world/ if you
will/ because all worlds that don't have the warmth
of the sun/ the promise of the moon/ or the beauty of
the stars are Her domain. He had sworn to bring the
light to a dark place/ in spite of Luci; that much he
remembered.

But what had She done that made the memories
come and go? And what had happened so that She
was now in his world? Had he ever known? Would it
come back/ the way his recent past was beginning to?
Most of it was there: The capture by the cemetery,
the knife/ the Wolf Who Waited Before Striking. All
that was missing were his brothers.

He pulled himself up, and breathed city air/ faintly

The Old Woman and the Devil       151

doying with traces of exhaust and humanity. Cars and
trucks roared by overhead, and he marveled that man
could build bridges that would stand up to such traffic.
Harsh fog from the sewers swirled before him. He called
to it/ "Stay/ brother mist. Stay and speak to me- You who
travel beneath our feet through the length and breath of
the city, you who hear all we say, stay and tell me where
to find the old woman." On a sudden impulse, for no
reason he knew/ he threw a piece of garlic and the cord
from his trousers into the mist/ and was not surprised
when he failed to hear them strike the ground.

The warm air swirled before him.

It was no voice that spoke out of the mists, but the
Gypsy heard words saying/ "You must do this no more."

"Do what?"

"Use the skills of another world in this one. This
time/ I can protect you/ but—"

"Protect me from what?"

"Those skills have no place in this world/ and your
memories of this world have no place in the other.
You cannot have both."     „

"I think I understand, but—" .

"Do not forget again."

"But-"

"And you must neither eat, nor drink, nor must
you sleep."

"Not eat or drink? Not sleep? That is impossible."

"Not for you."

"Why?"

"Fool! Do what I say!"

"Who are you, and how can I help you?"

"Who am I? You know who I am, you have asked
the Wolf to set me free. And to help me, here/ you
must make a spinning wheel from the mist, and send
it to me. It will keep the fair Lady from tormenting
me while I do what I must."

The Gypsy began to make his hands spin, and soon
the mist was spinning with them. As he did so/ he

152 THE GYPSY

said, "Is there anything you can tell me, that will help
me drive the Fair Lady back to Her own realm?"

"You must find the Coachman."

"But where?"

"Where? You'll find him driving a coach, fool." The
voice was very faint now. "And you must find your
brothers. And you can do nothing if the Wolf eats you/
and eat you he will unless you place yourself within his
jaws. But only at the right time. Too early and he will
devour you, too late and he won't protect you."

"How will I know the right time?" he asked.

But there was no answer- A soft breeze blew the
mist away, and he was staring at a foggy street and
the beginnings of the morning trafnc.

SOMETIME

/ don't know why
You don't cry
For freedom.

"IF I HAD THE VOICE'

The fair Lady puts down Her knitting and frowns. The
midwife glances up and says, "What is it, mistress?"

"I don't know," says the fair Lady. "Something is
wrong."

The midwife, who has also been knitting, sticks her
tongue out and wags it around. Perhaps she tastes the
thickness of the air, perhaps the flavor of the woodsmoke.
"Perhaps it is the prisoner, mistress. I will check on her."

But before she can move, the nora comes scampering into
the room on his hands and feet. "Mistress, mistress," he cries.

"Well, what is it?"

"The woman has gotten a piece of garlic from some-
where, and she rubs it on her breast so I can't go near her!''

The Old Woman and the Devil       153

The Fair Lady smiles and pats the nora's head. "Is thai
all? Well, that must be what I noticed. Come, I will attend
to that nasty young woman."

But when she gets there. She finds that She cannot enter,
for the room in which the prisoner sits has been tied shut
with a piece of trouser cord.

"What do you think you're doing in there?" She cries,
but there is no answer. She calls to the midwife, who sings
a gentle song to the trouser cord, and at last it unties itself.
When the Fair Lady enters the room. Her prisoner is still
there, but she is smiling now, and with her hands she works
a spinning wheel, and she is spinning, though nothing ap-
pears upon the wheel.

"Now, though I am a prisoner, you can't touch me,"
says the old woman.

The Fair Lady gnashes Her teeth with anger, and stamps
Her feet until the nora is afraid She will stomp them right
through to Hell, but at last She is calm again. "I know
who did this," She says. "And he will pay for it. And
though I can't touch you, here you will remain until you
fall asleep at your work, and then ?ou will be mine again."
And the Fair Lady slams the door.

After a while, She goes back to her knitting.

AUTUMN,1989

The Coachman smiled down at me

When he saw I was behind him.
He said, "Your brother Raven lives,

But I think you'll never find him..

"RAVEN, OWL, AND I"

"Is that what I think it is?" said Daniel.
The Coachman looked up at the green-clad gypsy/

154 THE GYPSY

who had just come back from walking around the city,
and smiled.

The brothers looked somewhat alike/ the Coach-
man decided, and some would say he looked similar/
although he knew of no gypsy blood in himself. Dan-
iel was thinner and his mustaches longer and his hair
shorter, yet they could have been brothers. The
Coachman strained his memory to when he had last
seen the three brothers together. They had been
young, then, but still the one now called Daniel had
been thinner, frailer. The youngest brother was as
pale as his yellow shirt, and the other brother, who
wore red, was the largest. They had all the same
pointed chin, though, and the same deep, dark eyes,
and brows that met over the nose. The same hooked
nose, for that matter, even as young men.

The Coachman nodded. "It is, indeed. Help your-
self. I'm not drinking just at the moment." He passed
the brandy over and Daniel took a healthy swallow,

grimaced.

"You didn't pay too much for it, I hope."

The Coachman shrugged. "Didn't have much to
pay. Is that a fiddle case?"

"Yes."

"Ah. The same fiddle as when we nrst met?"

Daniel nodded. "I've had work done on it. A new
bridge, mechanical pegs, and I had a chin rest added.
But it was good work. Sandi would have approved."

"Sandi?"

"He taught me to play. Back before—" Daniel's
voice caught, then he turned away.

"Play something for me," said the Coachman.

Daniel hesitated. "The neighbors—"

"Can go hang." He looked around at the cheap
plaster walls, the single, narrow bed, and the ply-
wood chest of drawers. "In a place like this, one
doesn't have neighbors."

The Old Woman and the Devil        155

Daniel shrugged, took the nddle from its wooden
case and set it to his chin. He drew forth a low, ten-
tative, hollow sound, with just a hint of vibrato, then
began one of the simplest dance tunes- The Coach-
man smiled and wished for a tambourine player.
These gypsies, whatever else one thought of them,
could play.

Daniel began another pass through the melody, this
time more boldly, with surprising grace notes, and
sometimes holding back the melody for a beat longer
than expected. The Coachman sat back and nodded,
and Daniel played through it once more, this time
accenting the high, piercing notes, sometimes nearly
leaving the melody behind altogether, in the impro-
visations of gypsy dance steps, of gypsy life, of trav-
els through lands foreign and mundane, meeting
people dangerous and friendly, harmless and cold.
The Coachman wasn't aware of when the original
melody had been entirely left behind, save for faint
hints and echoes of phrasing; by this time he was
seeing colors swirl before his eyes: Hard blue in the
rumbling low notes, yellows and greens in the slow,
mournful passages, vibrant reds and violets in stac-
cato high notes.

Then it was no longer colors, but scenes and faces
he saw: The roads in the Old Country he had traveled
a thousand times before he had met the three gypsy
boys, the passage from There to Here, the old man in
the gutter asking for coins, the walls and ceiling of
the hotels he had stayed in, drunk, night after night.

Then he saw that which he knew had not hap-
pened, yet might happen soon, and he sat transfixed,
watching it unfold with horror and fascination, until
he became aware at last that Daniel had returned,
somehow, to the original, simple dance melody; the
music trailed off into silence.

"Did you show me that on purpose?" he asked.

156

THE GYPSY

Daniel seemed startled. "I showed you something?
No/ I wasn't aware of it. Perhaps it was your—"
The Coachman stood. "I must go."

"Huh?"

"That you have no notion of what you said makes
it no less true/ my friend. If I don't return—" He
shrugged. "Learn to drive a coach."

He

Daniel started to speak/ but the Coachman was al-
ready gone/ his feet fairly flying down the stairs. He
took the stairs three at a time, then out the door/ into
the street/ and through the early morning mist.

THURSDAY MORMINQ

"- . . And Owf still watches all around

And listens more than speaks.
But he'll never understand

That it isn't you he seeks."

"RAVEN, OWL, AND I"

A lonely/ middle-aged salesman had driven Raymond
all the way through Ohio, and had left him off in
Ashtabula County, just an hour after sunrise, less
than fifty miles from his destination. They had gone
through twenty-eight small towns along the lake on
I-90/ and seen three Highway Patrol cars.

He hadn't expected to get this far this quickly. He
set down his pack/ and his tambourine wrapped in
an old towel, and waited for another ride. After half
an hour, sixty-one trucks, and more cars than he felt
like counting, a big, new Peterbilt stopped and give
him a lift into Lakota.

He studied the city disinterestedly as the truck driver,
an old wiry man with a few strands of grey hair sticking
out from beneath his baseball cap, made conversation.

The Old Woman and the Devil       157

Raymond rather liked the ships he saw as they
passed near the docks. The driver turned south on
1-79 toward Youngstown. Raymond was pleased with
the number of parks (nine), though he wished there
were more trees in them.

As they passed one, near what the truck driver said
was downtown, Raymond noticed a horse-drawn car-
riage making its way around it. He asked the driver
to let him off there, and they exchanged polite good-
byes.

He walked over to one of the concrete benches and
sat- In spite of his first impression, he found he wasn't
comfortable in the park. It was exactly two city blocks
square, with concrete walks and trees arranged just
so, and it seemed as if the soil under the grass was
hardly a foot deep, carefully built up for the lawn. He
dosed his eyes and thought of the mountain above
Boulder, hard and rocky, yet thick with pines. He lis-
tened to conversations of the few birds (six) that re-
mained this late in the season. It was growing cold.
He pulled his heavy wool coat of red and black
squares closer around him and wondered what to do
next.

16 NOV 07:18

Mr. DeCruz won't you shake my hand?

Do I look too much better than what you had planned?

I been back since late last fall,

Now who you gonna call?

"BACK IN TOWN"

Nothing was going right today. He hadn't been able
to fall asleep, and when he finally had, he tossed

158 THE GYPSY

through fragmented dreams like clips from cheap
horror movies. Giant chickens were scratching on his
door. There was a dead dove on his coffee table and
he was trying to resuscitate it. Cynthia Kacmarcik
dropped in for tea/ and his kettle wasn't big enough.
When he finally sank deeper into a dreamless sleep,
he'd overslept and still awakened with a headache
worse than a hangover. Traffic had been awful/ and
he'd gotten to work before he remembered that he'd
given Madam Moria all his cash the night before, so
he didn't have a dime on him and no time to go to
the bank. And now he was hurrying down the hall,
trying to catch the last ten minutes of the morning's
roll call, when someone behind him called out, "Oh,
Step!"

He turned, feeling at once weary and impatient,
Seemed like the whole precinct was calling him Step
now. Fuck you very much/ Durand. He tried to sum-
mon up a smile for the woman pushing a brown en-
velope into his hands. He couldn't even remember
her name. He took the envelope numbly.

"What's this?"

"Oh/ just that old case nie from New Orleans- I
promised Durand I'd have it by this morning, and
then I missed him/ but he said it was really for you
anyway, so I guess I caught the right man after all,
right?"

"Huh?" She'd lost him after her first few words/
her voice dissolving into a chirpy cheerfulness. New
Orleans. Durand. "Sure. Uh, thanks. Thanks."

"No problem/ always glad to help a friend. Tell Du-
rand I said hi. He's such a good kid, isn't he?"

"What? Uh, sure."

"Well/ you're welcome. I hope it's what you're
hoping for. And Step, no offense, but next time you
need something, why don't you come yourself? Dur-
and's a good kid, but he wasn't sure of the date, and

The Old Woman and tne Devil       159

he could hardly read your handwriting. Said it looked
like you wrote it in the middle of the night. It would
be easier for me if I got it straight from you. Speeds
things up for all of us, right?"

"Aah, right. Yeah. Thanks again. Thanks." He
went off down the hallway, muttering to himself. For-
get the briefing, he was late anyway and he was sick
of hearing about what new indignities the Basher had
perpetrated on Exxon stations. He was trying to re-
member where he had left the scribbled notes from
his conversation with Marilyn. Probably folded it up
and stuffed it under the clay pencil pot Laurie had
made for him when she was in kindergarten. That
had always been his private, hands-off spot when he
and Ed were partners. But somehow Durand had got-
ten the notes and gone asking for the hies.

Another thing occurred to him: Ed had dropped
Cynthia Kacmarcik's name last night, before he had
mentioned it, and he was sure he hadn't told Ed the
name of the murdered woman. Or had he?

He sat down at his desk an^ dropped the brown
envelope in front of him. Then he slowly reached over
and lifted the pencil pot. Nothing there. But maybe
he hadn't left it there. Maybe he'd left it right out in
the middle of the blotter, and the puppy had decided
to be industrious- But forget that for now.

There wasn't much in the envelope. Fresh clean pa-
per with long-dead facts on them. Teletype print, only
it wasn't a Teletype anymore, was it? He scanned it
hungrily. An August night, a card game that might
have been rigged, and a dead man named Timothy
DeCruz. And a great description of the killer, and two
eye-witnesses, and they'd never managed to catch
him. The knife even sounded familiar. There was a
coroner's note about the unusual wound it left. But
the killer himself had just vanished. Stepovich shuf-
fled through redundant reports, found the eyewitness
descriptions and read them slowly. The witnesses

160 THE QYPSY

hadn't missed much. A knife scar that ran from under
the left eye to just in front of the left ear. Discolored
patch at left jaw hinge. Broken nose. Slight squint in
left eye.

"It's him, isn't it/' Durand asked from behind.
Stepovich spun to glare at him. Durand ignored it,
reached past him to anger the description clear of the
other papers. He picked it up. "It's our gypsy. Step.
And the bastard hasn't aged a day since 1935."

"He's not a bastard," Stepovich corrected auto-
matically. "He's a Dove."

AUTUMN MORNING

A wanted man in fiew Orleans
Matches my description
Wster druggist please be kind enough
To reffll my prescription.

"RED LIGHTS AND NEOM"

The Gypsy sat, for a time, in the eye of the storm. He
could feel the tension around him—the Wolf begin-
ning another day's hunt, a murderer who trembled
with fear and tried not to touch the weapon with
which he had killed before, another who rushed, des-
perate to save a life that had been unknown to him
moments before, another who wrestled with tempta-
tion without understanding the stakes, another who
tried to bring growth out of the pain of loss.

All of these, he knew, were connected to him. And
he knew that he could help some of them, if he could
only find them, but to find them might mean forget-
ting why he had sought them. He clung to his mem-
ories as a miser to a gold coin, and sat in the eye of
the storm, waiting.

The Old Woman and the Devil       161

Two and a half miles away, a bartender woke up
much earlier than he had to, since he wasn't on until
the afternoon. He glowered at the clock and lay back
thinking for a while. After a time, he decided that
he'd procrastinated long enough; he had to either
write the letter or not. A few minutes later he got up,
showered, dressed, then sat down and wrote a short
note to his daughter in which he said nothing about
her revelation, but that he hoped to see her over
Christmas break, and they could talk then. He put his
coat on and walked out to the mailbox with it, before
he changed his mind.

The Gypsy sat in the eye of the storm and smiled,
though he didn't know why.

NOVEMBER, 1989

This city seems so cold,
And it isn't just the wind.
It would be easy to say
I'm here because I sinned;

Wefl I'm here because someday
Someone will need a ride,
And I'll throw away my drink and say
"The coach awaits outside."

"NO PASSENGER"

The Coachman paused at the threshold, and listened.
The old woman's voice was high-pitched and sharp
as needles, and, as near as he could tell from just
outside the door, held no trace of fear. He was in
time, then. He waited for her to finish bilking this
customer. It would be soon enough afterward, to go
in and warn her that—

162 THE GYPSY

"So/ it's you," she was saying. "I must say I'm
surprised. I had expected some other of Her slaves."

There was another voice, but he couldn't make out
the words. The old woman's voice came again. "Slave
I said, and slave I meant. Or would worm be better?
Madam Moria isn't afraid of worms. Now that I see
you, I'm less afraid. How does She control you,
worm? Does She promise you riches? Does She come
to you in your dreams? In Voices out of the night? As
a fire—oh. Voices, is it? Well, that shouldn't surprise
me," More muttering that he couldn't make out,
then, "Oh, and you have a nice shiny toy to play
with? Well, get on with it. Madam Moria has friends
on the other side she hasn't seen in years, and she'll
have a good laugh with them about this. But don't
think your mistress will be able to hold me like She's
holding Cynthia. No. I've been ready for you since
yesterday, and it's too late for that. Well, what are
you waiting for? Shoot if you're going to."

The Coachman stepped into the room, as the
skinny, short-haired man turned, holding a gun that
looked as if it were too large for him. They stared at
each other for a moment, then the man with the gun
stepped back so he could watch both of them.

"Who are you?" snapped the old gypsy woman.

The gun began to tremble. The Coachman ignored
the gunman. "Your servant, madam. Is this fellow
troubling you?"

Something like amusement came into the old eyes,
and she said, "Yes. See him out, will you?"

The gun trembled more. "I'll kill you both/' stam-
mered the gunman. "I have a gun."

"So I see," said the Coachman. He reached into
his back pocket, slowly, smoothly, as if it was the
most natural action in the world. "I have a knife."

He opened the Nevaja with a harsh, ratcheting
sound. "I have learned something from all these gyp-
sies, you know," he said. The blade was seven inches

The Old Woman and the Devil        163

long, the handle of glittering steel with parts of the
antler of the red deer worked into the grip. Blade and
handle curved into a thin and wicked shape. The
Coachman held it to the side, blade in and slightly
up, and he waited. The gunman pressed his lips to-
gether and raised his pistol.

TEN

How the Wolf Took to Traveling

16 NOV 08:52

Did It cross your mind to wonder

Who put in the call?

Did you take the time to ask

What I'm doing here at all

I don't know why

I even try

To talk to you

"IF I HAD THE VOICE"

"What?" Durand asked distractedly.

"I said/' Stepovich began, and then recalled his
own words and couldn't make sense of them. Dove?
The word had come to him as a picture in his mind,
and he'd vocalized it. The tattered Gypsy reminded
him of a small snowy dove. He pushed the image out
of his thoughts. "I said some bastard's been pawing
through my private papers," he extemporized. He
pointed accusingly at the day pencil pot. "If it's un-
der there, it's private," he instructed Durand.

The puppy seemed unmoved. "Didn't know a
murder file could be private," he said coolly. "Unless
you're personally involved in it somehow."

There was a little moment of silence in which all
the implications of that statement settled.

"Are you asking if I'm dirty?" All sorts of minor
variables were flipping through his mind. Whether to

how the Wolf Took to Traveling       165

stand up first, or to take him right from the chair.
Where to hit him first. Brain just humming along like
a computer, while he watched Durand know what he
was thinking and not back off. One of two things;

Durand was either braver than Stepovich had
thought, or stupider. Maybe both. He just stood
there, blinking those big eyes like a calf. Tiffany Marie
probably thought he was cute when he did that.
Somehow the thought ballooned the anger inside
him. Who the hell did this kid think he was, to imply
Stepovich was dirty? He'd been copping since
Dumbshit was in grade school.

"Are you telling me there wasn't a knife?" Durand
asked softly, and Stepovich felt his anger turn cold
and leak away. Durand had known it all along. Step-
ovich felt old, and sick, and weary. I want to go home,
a little voice inside him wailed, and he suddenly felt
the truth of that cry, and the despair of not knowing
where home was anymore, or how to get there. He
turned his chair away from Durand and tired to slide
the papers back into the envelope that was suddenly
too small for them. He felt again 'the sick weight of
that knife in his pocket. Are you asking me if I'm
dirty, he demanded of himself, and all of the answers
were hedging and hesitant.

"You want to talk about this in the car. Step? Or
here and now?"

Stepovich didn't want to talk about it at all, but
Durand was taking the papers and envelope from him
and sliding the ones into the other as if it were easy.
Taking charge. In another minute he'd be taking Step-
ovich by tile elbow in a firm grip and walking him
out the door. That thought was enough to get Step-
ovich to his feet. He walked ahead of Durand down
the hallway. Part of him suggested that if he'd both-
ered to get to know Durand, if he'd bothered to really
make him his partner, that now he'd have some idea

166 THE GYPSY

of what the kid would do. But he hadn't/ and he
didn't.

His mouth was dry, the grey day seemed too bright,
everything was too sharp. The pavement of the park-
ing lot gritted under his feet; he saw brown crumbs
of broken beer bottle/ cigarette butts, noticed the let-
tering on the tires of the patrol car. The weatherman
had lied—the heavy fog of the day was not dispers-
ing/ he felt it damp on his face, and the door handle
was cold with it. Frayed spot on the upholstery of the
seat. A dead leaf was caught under the windshield
wiper. He smelled Jade East cologne from whoever
had driven the car last shift, and Camel cigarettes.
Once, in his third year on the force, he'd been shot.
A kid had done it, with a stolen twenty-two, in a
panic when they'd caught him up on the roof of a
school with a bag of petty cash. The bullet had gone
through his shoulder, clipping one bone, tearing
muscle and meat on its way through. At the time the
pain had been numbing and he'd thought he was dy-
ing and every little thing had suddenly been like this,
sharp and concise and realer than real life. He won-
dered if he thought he was dying now. Maybe. Maybe
the last piece of his life that he had any control over
was about to be snatched out of his grip. Maybe that
was the same as dying.

Durand started the car. "Step," he said firmly, and
Durand couldn't meet his eyes. It made him sick to
know the power Durand had over him right now. "I
want to know what's going on. All of it," he said,
and Stepovich found himself nodding shakily, al-
ready editing Ed out of it, already shaving the comers
off the truth, he who used to take such pride in telling
the whole truth and nothing but. From the moment
that damn knife came into his hands, it had cut his
life to ribbons.

Sidewalks and parking meters were sliding past the
window. Somehow they'd gotten out of the parking

How the Wolf Took to Traveling       167

lot and onto Cushman without Stepovich noticing.
He took a deep breath. "When we first saw the
Gypsy, I knew it wasn't him. I mean, I know he
matched the description and all, but I knew he wasn't
the guy who did the liquor store clerk. Just the way
you know stuff sometimes, you know what I mean."
Durand wouldn't, couldn't know what he meant, the
kid just hadn't been a cop that long. Sure enough, at
the next red light, Durand turned onto Eucalyptus
and gave him another shot of calf eyes.

Stepovich shut his eyes for a second, tried to find
some logic to hang his reasoning on. "Number one,"
he said, trying to sound orderly, except his voice was
too shaky. "There's the weapon of choice thing. Perp
uses a gun in one holdup, generally that's what he'll
use in all of them. The liquor store killer used a gun.
But when we stop the Gypsy, all he has is a knife."

"So now you remember the knife?" Durand asked
softly.

Stepovich was suddenly too tired to even flinch.
"Expired plates," he said, pointing at a battered red
Chevette. Durand put on the lights, hit the sirens
for one pulse. The Chevette pulled over obediently.
Stepovich sat in the car, feeling heavy, while Durand
went forward to talk to the driver. It was an effort to
pick up the mike and call in the plate and driver's
license number. But there was nothing outstanding.
Stepovich would have let him off with a warning to
get it taken care of, but Durand ticketed him. That
was like Durand. By the book, no matter what- No
matter who.

Durand got back into the car. They watched the
Chevette pull back into traffic, followed it a few mo-
ments later. "So," Durand said after a few blocks.
"There was a knife when we busted the gypsy."

"The liquor store was done with a gun," Stepovich
pointed out stubbornly.

"And he used the knife later."

168 THE GYPSY

Stepovich took a breath to try a different beginning
when the radio spit at them. "Shots nred, thirty-four
sixteen Oak Street upper, all available units in the
area please respond."

Durand looked at him/ eyes wide. Asking, does she
mean us?

"Left on St. Thomas," he barked at Durand, and
was suddenly in control again as Durand hit the si-
rens and lights and whipped around the startled driv-
ers in front of them. Stepovich picked up the mike,
said, "Four dash eight responding," replaced it/ and
gripped the seat at exactly where the upholstery was
frayed, and he wondered briefly how many other cops
had grabbed this car here. "Two more lights/ then go
right and we should be there, or pretty damn close."
Durand's jaw was jutting out like he'd been chiseled
out of rock, and Stepovich realized this was the first
time he'd been on a "shots fired" call. The kid's eyes
were darting and bright, Stepovich's own guts were
clenching already/ hot damn, this was it/ real-time/
but it was a better, cleaner kind of fear than what
he'd been feeling earlier. Guess he'd rather face a
wacko with a gun than answer Durand's questions.

The merciless daylight exposed the street's dreari-
ness. Trash mixed with snow in the gutters/ and fog
lurked sulkily between the buildings with the sodden
winos. It took Stepovich a moment to connect where
he was to where he'd been last night. When he did/
he felt cornered. This gypsy thing was going to have
him, there was no avoiding it, and he didn't need to
see Madam Moria stepping up into a park carriage
drawn by a mismatched team of horses to know just
how bad it had gotten.

Durand drove right past the team and carriage as
Stepovich snapped, "Stop here." The man helping
Madam Moria into the carriage was dark; no gypsy,
but there was something odd about him anyway. He
wore contemporary clothes, but they no more nt him

How the Wolf Took to Traveling       169

than Groucho glasses and a plastic nose would have.
It was in the way he tucked the carriage robe around
the old woman, covering her against the damp mists
and the lake wind, the way he handed up her canes
to her/ in the forgotten courtesy of a time long past.

Had to be the Coachman. Stepovich's eyes took in
details with practiced speed. The Coachman wore a
flat leather cap pulled down hard over black hair that
curled at the turned-up collar of his worn jacket. His
eyes were dark and black mustaches framed lips full
and soft as a whore's/ but even sadder. His skin was
' olive, and wind-leathered and lined with good nature
despite his mouth. His jacket just grazed the top of
his narrow hips, and his jeans were tucked into boots
that never came from a store. He looked at the blue-
and-white as if it were a pack of wolves. He lifted an
arm in a strangely defensive motion, and for an in-
stant Stepovich thought he was reaching for a
weapon. But the Coachman only clutched the front
of his own shirt, and then clambered up onto the
driver's seat of the carriage. '-

The Coachman was picking up the reins as Durand
crammed on the brakes and nosed the patrol car in
right in front the carriage. He and Stepovich were out
of the car in an instant, Durand already pulling his
gun out. Stepovich tried to calm him. "I'll take those
two and fasten them down. You . . ."

"I'll check upstairs," Durand cut in/ and he was
off/ either ignoring or not hearing Stepovich's,
"Damnit/ not alone, wait a second . . ."

And there he was, torn, his partner going off in the
one direction he shouldn't go alone, and the carriage
driver picking up the reins and the wheels were start-
ing to turn, grating against the asphalt. "Damnit, Du-
rand/ get your ass back here," he yelled, and then
spun to the carriage/ shouting, "Hold it!"

He had his hand on his gun, letting them know
how serious he was. Madam Moria looked at him with

170 THE GYPSY

disapproval, as if she were a dowager looking down
at him from the back seat of her limousine, and he
were a street urchin waving a dead rat at her. She
was unimpressed. The driver, in contrast, was sitting
very still and straight. Stepovich moved up on them
quickly. The Coachman sat so stiffly, Stepovich won-
dered what was wrong with him. Hiding something?
The fingers that held the reins were strong and some-
how elegant, a magician's hands. The horses, grey
and brown, were stolid, waiting. The Coachman
looked straight ahead, between his two horses/ as if
he were totally uninvolved in what was happening
here.

"All right. Get down from there, both of you. Move
slowly," He intended to shake them down quick, get
them into the back of the patrol car and then go after
Durand before he got his stupid ass blown off.

They weren't moving slowly; they weren't moving
at all. "Did you hear me?" he demanded, wanting to
grab the driver and shake him right out of his coat.
The Coachman swayed slightly as if getting ready
to move, then was still again. Sweat was making
Stepovich's uniform stick to him, and his ears were
straining against hearing that single gunshot that
might come at any moment. There were more sirens
approaching, thank god.

"Get in." Madam Moria spoke softly, but testily, a
grandma directing an ill-mannered child. "And be
quick. The thread grows brittle in my nngers. If we
are to follow it back and see where it leads, we must
go now, before She sees it and cuts it short."

She pushed her canes to one side and gripped the
edge of the carriage and leaned back as if to make
room for him to climb in past her, and that was when
he saw the brightness on her fingers, shining red, wet
and fresh and vital. He caught movement from the
corner of his eye, the driver turning and lifting some-
thing, something black, and Stepovich dove for the

How the Wolf Took to Traveling       171

man, launched himself across the side of the carriage
and over the seat. He hit the point of his pelvic bone
going over, and landed sprawled awkwardly in the
carriage, gripping the driver's wrist and shaking the
handle and curled lash of a whip out of it.

The driver released it easily, and did not struggle
at all. Stepovich dragged his feet up under him and
knelt on the seat, gripping the man by one wrist and
the front of his jacket. Christ, his hip hurt, and he tasted
blood in his mouth where he'd bitten his own lip, but
this guy was sitting there as straight as he could with
Stepovich hanging off him, and his face impassive, only
his mouth pinched tight and hard. Stepovich stared into
black eyes deeper than the pits of hell.

Stepovich tightened his grip. "Now, asshole, we
are going to get down quietly and slowly, you hear
me?" The man nodded slowly, and Stepovich thought
he saw a glint in his eyes, but it might only have been
the reflection of Madam Moria's wooden cane as she
brought it down smartly on the back of Stepovich's
skull.

AUTUMN DAY, AROUND NOON

Most of his money was gone before ten
When he smiled, and took out his knife.
"All right," he said, "we'll just try once again.
But this time, we'll play for your life."

"THE GYPSY"

The fog still rested on the city like a coachman's blanket,
and the Gypsy decided that there was something at work
beyond the capricious ways of the weather. Yet he
smelled nothing of evil in it, nor of good for that matter.
So then. What could lead him to the Wolf, and at

172 THE GYPSY

the right time? What could lead him to his brothers?
His hands twitched, and he thought he could remem-
ber a time when he would have been able to leam
such a thing easily, and perhaps another time when
he would simply have known. He felt a slight desire
to escape, to run away, to walk by paths that only he
knew. The desire wasn't strong, but it was familiar. He
knew, then, that he had not only felt it before, but had
acted upon it. He had turned away and run, and—

His head hurt. He took out the piece of paper,
which he understood at last, and crumpled it up and
threw it away. To dear his head, he breathed deeply
of the fog. Even as he did so, he heard the siren—the
siren that had followed him for all this time, and
seemed to warn of danger impending rather than to
call him toward it.

He turned in the opposite direction and began
walking. The fog swirled before him, making patterns
that amused him although he knew—Jbzew they were
meaningless. What an odd thing to know, he thought.
Are there patterns in the fog that do have meaning?

Then he nodded to himself. Yes. This is the magic of
the day, and this is a day of magic. He reached out bis
hands, to take hold of the power that floated in the
air around him, and—"Yow must do this no more . . .
use the skills of another world in this one."

Very well, then. But this world must have its own
power and skills. He could find and use them, and
he would, because he was—

He was—-
No.'

He gathered his memories as a child gathers spilled
marbles. No distractions, not now, when he had, per-
haps, the chance to do something.

He was here, in the city, in the forest of walls, the
ocean of lights, the wilderness of sounds, meadows
of currents and tides of forces beyond the imaginings
of the old gods. Light? Moving, twin beams stabbing

How the Wolf Took to Traveling       173

through the streets, eyes to peer and a voice to warn,
Walls? Endless, one leading to another, all of them
high and eternal and shimmering. Sound? The siren
was gone now, but something rumbled under his feet,
and music came from nowhere and everywhere, and
it was the voice of the Beast. And the streets which
linked them, forming a mosaic as intricate as the veins
on an oak leaf, each different, each the same.

Pick one.

Light, then, to guide him through the eternal day.

This one, the glow of a storefront office that adver-
tised daily employment, led to that one, the eyes of
a panel truck, which pointed to that one, the neon of
a barbecue lunch counter.

And on and on, and faster and faster, as beautiful
and terrible as the Fair Lady's kiss, which he had
known once, as well.

SOMETIME

All your hungers there to sate
All your thirsts to slake
Look what you've been given,
You can't see what she'll take.

"THE FAIR LADY"

The sound of the spinning wheel in the next room is constant,
and has been for a timeless time when the Fair Lady puts down
Her knitting and removes Her feet from the fire. The liderc,
which has been chewing on its goose leg, looks up. The midwife
stops her song, which she sings to her own newbom babe that
she killed, and she also looks up. The nora, which has been been
playing with its genitals in the corner, hobbles over as well.

"The Wolf is on the scent, " She announces. "And the
Dove is taking to the air."

174 THE OYPSY

"What shall we do. Mistress?" says the liderc/ in a
voice that sounds like the hiss and pop of the fire in which
the Fair Lady has been roasting Her feet.

"Well, you must get onto the track of the Wolf and sour
the trail. You may let him follow you back here if you wish,
but don't let him catch you or you'll be eaten."

"Yes, Mistress," and it leaves through the door.

"You," She continues to the nora/ "must see to it that the
Wolf is kept busy with other things. Go fetch me its cub.''

"Yes, Mistress," and the nora leaves through the window.

"What about me. Mistress?" says the midwife.

"You must sing a song to catch a Dove by the wing."
|  "Yes, Mistress. Of what shall I sing?"

"Sing of cages that look like feather beds, and blood that
smells like apple blossoms.

"Yes, Mistress. How loud shall I sing?"

"Sing so loud the nests shake in their trees, but not so
loud the wolves howl in the hills."

"Yes, Mistress. How long shall I sing?"

"Sing until the snow falls up from the ground, but stop
before the first note reaches your ear."

"Yes, Mistress," says the midwife, and she puts her
face near the fireplace flue and begins to smg.

16 NOV 12:09

Keep them hounds off my trail,
And them jailers off my back.
Get these bracelets off of me,
A little rain to hide my track.

"HIDE MY TRACK"

He was very comfortable/ except that something was
jabbing him in the back of the head. He was warm,
cuddled up in a blanket tucked all the way up to his

How the Wolf Took to Traveling       175

chin, but a cool breeze was blowing against his face-
He shifted, trying to move his head away from 'what-
ever was poking him, and remembered that he'd been
hit; then he sat up, struggling to get his gun out of
the holster he was half sitting on.

"Sit still!" hissed Madam Moria. "Do you think
this is easy?"

Stepovich ignored her, twisting to stare wildly
around him. He shook his head, trying to clear it of
fogs, but the mist swirling and eddying around the
coach and in through the open windows was real. So
was the good calfskin upholstery under him, and the
bright brass catches and handles and trims of the
coach, and the brocaded lining of the coach's ceiling.
A heavy red coach blanket was tucked around him,
with a large M embroidered in one corner. Nothing
remained of the small park carriage he had jumped
into. Nothing.

There was a small window facing forward, with a
leather cover flap undone, and through it he could
get a glimpse of the Coachman'^ip on his box. Step-
ovich swayed with a sudden woozihess that was only
part pain. He gripped the sill of the open window
beside him, thrust his head out. Forward, he could
see the dim shapes of dark horses, four perhaps,
shrouded in fog. Around the coach, nothing. He
could see no buildings, no lampposts, no parking
meters, nothing. Stepovich had a sensation of move-
ment, but it was a nasty/ queasy sort of movement,
as if the coach wobbled forward on wheels of Jell-0.
There was no sound of hooves hitting pavement, no
sound of wheels on asphalt. No normal sound at all,
only the wind and Madam Moria's muttering, and
other voices, giggling and gibbering at the very limits
of Stepovich's hearing. "Stop the coach!" Stepovich
roared, but the fog gulped his voice down whole, re-
ducing his command to a pitiful plea.

176 THE GYPSY

"We're nearly there," Madam Moria said comfort-
ingly.

"Nearly where?" Stepovich demanded. She ig-
nored him, and went on with her muttering as she
fingered something he could not see, for all the world
like an old woman telling her rosary beads. He
reached up to feel the lump on the back of his head.
Wet/ sticky lump. It made him feel sick. Serve her
right if he puked all over both of them. He knew he
should be taking control of the situation; a good cop
would have this situation completely under control.
He unsnapped the stpp on his holster, but Madam
Moria shot him a fierce glare.

"Cold iron and steel, oh, yes, fool, that would be
a great help to us! Do you want to fall through com-
pletely? No? Then sit still!" The wind had fingered
some of her hair free of her shawl and the black
strands whipped across her face, veiling her brown
eyes and high cheeks. Stepovich stared at the snap of
command in her voice. He had heard it before. It was
the obey-me-or-die voice of a commander in a life or
death situation. Something in him bowed to it instinc-
tively.

"Where are we going?" he whispered.

"I don't know. Back. Following the threads, back
to before. She was hiding him."

"Who?" he asked helplessly.

"The worm. Hush. If She hears us. She'll cut the
thread/ and there'll be no following it forward nor
back. There'll only be the mist and the Coachman."

"Trust me," said the Coachman/ the first words
he'd spoken, and folktales and violins shimmered in
his voice, and Stepovich did. But Madam Moria
laughed/ the laugh of a skeptical old woman. "Trust
you? Trust you right down the neck of a bottle!" Step-
ovich glanced at her blind but focused eyes and then
away/ clenching his fists. Good Christ/ what the hell
was happening to him?

How the Wolf Took to Traveling       177

He leaned forward to the window again. Mist and
fog and clammy air, no more than that. Or was that
glimpsed bit of facade, bared by the mist for only an
instant, the decorated cornice of the old Masonic tem-
ple? If so, he knew where he was; but just as sud-
denly as it had come, his brief sense of orientation
was swept away. They'd torn down the old Masonic
temple six years back. The gooseneck street lamps that
he could glimpse now had been gone since he was
twenty-three. He remembered coming home from one
of his attempts at a college education to find them
gone.

Understanding broke over him like a cold wave and
he refused it, dinging instead to his own reality- "Al-
most there, mistress," said the Coachman, and he
leaned stiffly down and peered in to speak to them.
He wore a top hat now, and a black wool greatcoat,
but his face had not changed, not one line or hair of
difference, except that now he smiled at Stepovich
and his teeth were very white. Somehow that was the
worst of all, and Stepovich feh his reasoning throw
back its head and howl at the moon. Instead he turned
back to his window and gripped the edge of it like a
drowning man clutches at flotsam.

The mist was thinning around them, tattering away
like cobwebs. Warmth suddenly filled the air and the
sun broke through like a woman's smile; trees lined
tile suburban street of tum-of-the-century Victorian-
style houses, children played and laughed, but Step-
ovich felt as if he saw it all through a dirty plate-
glass window. There was an echo of distance to the
bark of the terrier chasing the ball a small boy threw,
and neither child nor dog turned their heads to watch
the horse-drawn coach pass. Big elms lined the street.
The city hadn't seen elms that size since the Dutch
elm epidemic of '63 had left the suburbs near treeless.
The Coachman wasn't bothering with the street,
either, hell, he wasn't even on the sidewalk; he was

178 THE GYPSY

taking it across the lawns, through sprinklers that
didn't wet them/ down to an empty lot, overgrown
with deep grass, littered with pop cans that weren't
aluminum, and presided over by a live oak.

A ramshackle treehouse perched in its branches, a
genuine kid's treehouse, all impossible angles and
salvaged scrap, and a lively battle was going on for
possession of it. Two boys in jeans and plain white
tee shirts were in the upper level, energetically^shak-
ing a knotted rope that a smaller boy clung to. The
smaller boy was dressed in clean pale blue corduroys
and a button-up-the-front short-sleeved cotton shirt
that matched the color of his pants exactly. His belt
was white and his sneakers were black and low, like
girl's sneakers, and new looking, not like the battered
black hi-tops that Stepovich could glimpse on the
other two boys. Everything about him screamed Ma-
ma's Little Precious, and Stepovich wasn't surprised
to hear one of the older boys tease, "Go home to
Mommy, little Timmy. She's calling you. She wants
to wipe your nosey."

Timmy? Timothy Decruz? No, they hadn't gone tJwt
far back.

"Naw, Josh, she wants to wipe his little baby butt!"
jeered the other, and together they gave the rope one
final shake that ripped it out of Timmy's hands. He
fell awkwardly, not like a kid, but like a frightened
old man, and landed badly, on his back in the dirt.
The other boys snaked the ladder up quickly while
little Timmy lay on his back, trying to wheeze back
the air that had been knocked out of him.

"Lookit, little baby Timmy's gonna cry now!" one
boy sneered, the same one who had made the remark
about his butt. Stepovich thought the other boy
looked mildly worried. He himself, powerless to in-
tervene, stared at Timmy, feeling a sick sort of sym-
pathy for him, one that was tempered with an innate
understanding of how the older boys felt. Spray a

How the Wolf Took to Traveling       179

sparrow with paint, and the other sparrows will peck
him to death.

Timmy got up, his narrow shoulders still shaking
with tears. No. Not tears. An unchildlike rage con-
vulsed his round little face. "I'll get you sonsa-
bitches," he vowed, his voice breaking on the words.

"Oh, he's gonna get us, oh. Josh, hold my hand,
I'm so scared," mocked one of the treehouse boys,
and he was laughing wildly, mouth open, when the
rock hit him.

It was well aimed and flung with fury and it struck
right between the boy's eyes. Stepovich saw his eyes
roll up a fraction of a second before he fell from the
treehouse. The boy landed with a force that made him
bounce, his arms and legs flopping like a straw man.
"You killed him!" wailed Josh, and came snaking
down the ladder to kneel by his friend. For an instant
Stepovich feared it might be true, but then the boy
on the ground stirred, and then began crying, the ter-
rible sound of a child who thinks he is too old to cry
but is hurt too badly not to. Little Timmy seemed to
devour the sound, staring with his pale eyes round,
his hateful little mouth drawn up in a bow of plea-
sure. "I gotcha, I gotcha!" he screeched gleefully, but
the two older boys were too deep in shock to heed
him. Josh tottered his friend off toward home, and
the instant they were clear of the treehouse, Timmy
was at the rope, doggedly and clumsily shinnying his
way up the knotted length. Once up in the tree house,
he pulled up the rope. He leaned out of it, his small
face bright with hate and triumph. "I gotcha, and the
treehouse is all mine now!" he shrieked after them.

Stepovich was willing to bet he was right. There
was something in that boy's face that no sane kid
would cross twice.

There was a thing then, a creature of flames and
animal parts—goose leg, horse arm—coming at them,
burning over the ground like a range nre. The Coach-

180 THE GYPSY

man cracked his whip at it/ but it made Stepovich
suddenly realize that none of this was real—that
something very bad had been done to his head and
he was probably even now in an ambulance/ if Du-
rand had it together at all. He wondered if the bullet
was in his skull this time/ and if the dream would
stop when the doctors pulled it out. Madam Moria
was shaking her nst at the creature and yelling \^hat
were probably curses/ but the Coachman was shaking
the reins and leaning forward, and suddenly he split
the whole world/ wide and black/ with a piercing
whistle.

ELEVEN

How the Owl and the Raven Sang

THURSDAY AFTERNOON

He said, "You can go bach home

And never face the dangers,
Or continue toward a life

You will live among strangers...."

"RAVEN, OWL, AND I"

Daniel waited for the Coachman until he couldn't wait
any longer—almost ten minutes. The Coachman's
words about each city having its own rhythms had
stayed with him, and now he wanted to taste this
city's. He took his fiddle and went out to meet the
fog in the air and the snow on the ground. He hardly
noticed the cold; he'd been living in a place where
winter was colder and lasted longer.

He wished the Coachman would find his little brother;

both of his brothers, in fact. His big brother could sit and
do nothing for hours on end and not seem to mind; he'd
just smile with his little supercilious smile and nod from
time to time. And his little brother/ well, he never had to
wait, because wherever he was, things was exciting. But
he, Daniel, always seemed drawn to the excitement, but
he never quite knew what to do when he got there.

But no, that wasn't right; he'd never really been
tested. All of these years of wandering and waiting,
and, except for the first mistake of leaving his little

182 THE GYPSY

brother, a mistake he shared with Owl, he'd never
had the chance to learn what he was made of; never
the test, never the hard choice, never the need to put
everything into one, horrible/ wonderful moment. He
knew it, and he missed it, and he waited for it.

He sat down on a wrought-iron bench and waited
for something flashy to catch his eye, but nothing
came; there were few passersby. There was one tall
young man who seemed very dangerous, and wore
animal skins that had been dyed black. There was a
woman who hurried by who had painted her face so
heavily it was impossible to guess at the texture of
her skin, except that her hands showed signs of age.

Daniel took out his fiddle, stood, and played wait-
ing music. As he played, he thought of his little
brother, and worried about him. "If my fiddle were
a shield," he thought, "I'd play music to protect you,
wherever you are." So he played to ward off the evil
eye, and to baffle Luci's creatures, and he smiled from
the pleasure the music gave him. After a while he drifted
off to other airs, then, with an odd feeling of having
accomplished something, he sighed and went back to
the hotel. He finished what little brandy was in the bot-
tle and tried to wait patiently for the Coachman.

NOVEMBER SIXTEENTH, AFTERNOON

... His eyes softened for a time,

I could barely hear his voice:

"It isn't easy to decide,

But few get the choice."

"RAVEN, OWL, AND I"

Raymond sat in the fog, a bit troubled by the chill,
but not too much; where he came from winters were

How the Owl and the Raven Sang      183

colder and lasted longer. He studied the vague shapes
that passed in the fog, twenty-eight of them, noticing
the way this one huddled into his coat, or that one
clutched her purse tightly as she walked. And, more,
he listened to the way they walked, and to the odd
rhythms created by the tap-tap of high heels or the
slap of shoe leather against the endless murmur of
the city: A door slams, and another, closer; hisses; a
small car with a standard transmission shifts from first
to second; a larger car dopplers away, leaving a faint
buzz which blends into the sound of a train that is so
far away it is only a low moan.

He became aware of the Dove's presence; not near
him, but that his brother had been in this city long
enough to have an effect. There were lives the Dove
had changed, somewhere, flowing and breathing. A
tremendous longing to find both of his brothers filled
him, but there was nothing he could do. He knew
that, had he the powers of his youngest brother, he
would be able to bring them together; he did not be-
grudge him those powers; wtth powers come bur-
dens, and Raymond could not lighten them. His other
brother—what had he been calling himself? Daniel,
that was it, Daniel would have wanted to redraw the
paths to suit himself, but Daniel was a doer, not a
watcher; he could lighten the Dove's burden. Daniel,
too, might be nearby; Raymond couldn't tell. They
had each their paths, and perhaps their paths would
cross.

He sat up straight, suddenly. Something has just hap-
pened, he thought. He frowned. It was like the trem-
bling of a web, when the spider, far away on the other
side, jiggles a strand. Raymond had a guess who the
spider was, and wondered what strands She was jig-
gling. For a moment, he felt the frustration that
Daniel must live with all the time—wanting to act, but
being unable—but then old habits came back, and he
relaxed, watching, listening, waiting.

184 THE GYPSY

At last, just to have something to do, he took out
his tambourine, wrapped carefully in old towels. He
tapped the head and winced at how lifeless it sounded
in the damp weather; It must be proximity to the lake;

cold weather was usually very kind to the calfskin.
Nevertheless, he sat in the park and tapped at it,
playing with rhythms of the city, and finding coun-
terpoints to a strange singing he almost fancied he
heard, coming from the wind around him.

He sat for hours/ playing his tambourine, neither
noticing nor caring whether some passerby stopped (
for a while to listen before continuing on his way.
Two girls, one dark and one fair, watched him for
some time with that oddly bemused expression peo-
ple get when they realize for the first time that the
tambourine is a musical instrument. He felt a certain
pride in getting this reaction, and then he noticed that
they seemed frightened somehow. They spoke to each
other of only the most inconsequential things; shoes
that were too tight, hair that wouldn't behave, yet
underneath it all they shared a common terror, which
neither would admit to. He thought he saw an animal
scurry past, but when he looked he saw nothing.
Presently they went on their way after giggling and
putting a dollar in the pocket of his coat. They seemed
not as frightened as they'd been a few minutes be-
fore.

He played until dark and the chill began to pene-
trate his fingers, then he put his instrument away, got
up, and began to walk around the city, looking for
nothing in particular.

How the Owl and the Raven Sang     185
16 NOV 13:15

You got your pen and paper.
You got your book of rules,
You got your little list,
Of kings and crooks and fools....

"IF I HAD THE VOICE"

Stepovich fell. His stomach told him so. Fell fast and
hard and boneless, just like that boy coming out of
the tree. He wondered if it would hurt when he
landed, and then he wondered if this blackness had
a bottom. Maybe the blackness was the surgeons tak-
ing the bullet out of his head. Or maybe the blackness
was what came when they couldn't get it out. He
could feel someone gripping his hand; maybe Jennie
had come to be by his deathbed, maybe this blackness
was the dying part. He'd heard there was supposed
to be a light when you died, and that you'd want to
go toward it. He strained his eyes, looking for it, but
all he could see was blackness. He could feel the hand
in his and smell cheap brandy and garlic mixed with
horse sweat.

The carriage landed with a tremendous sproing, like
a body thrown against a chain-link fence. He opened
his eyes, half expecting to see Marilyn by his death-
bed, but he saw fog and buildings and his blue-and-
white by the curb. Someone gripped the front of his
uniform. The damn Coachman couldn't have been
that strong, but maybe he was that scared. He lifted
Stepovich half up and gave him a push that sent him
sprawling. Stepovich skinned his palms as he landed
mostly on his hands and arms in the street. Madam
Moria evidently wasn't pleased about this, because she
was still screaming in gypsy, but he Coachman
seemed to have some plan of his own. Stepovich fell
the rest of the way out of the carriage as the black

186 THE GYPSY

whip cracked. The hooves of the mismatched team
skidded and slipped on the damp pavement as the
carriage careened off down the street and into an
alley. Madam Moria was looking back and shaking
her aluminum cane at him as if it were all his fault.

He got his knees under him, was almost up when
Durand trotted up to stand over him. "You okay,
Step?" he asked anxiously. It was the only thing that
could possibly have made it worse: The puppy help-
ing him up like he was some dazed citizen, gripping
the front of his shirt to steady him. "You hurt?"   )

"No!" Stepovich pushed him roughly away, then
had to lean against the building. Shit, his head hurt.
He reached up to touch it. Lump. No bullet hole.
What the hell.

"Well, if you're not hurt, how did they get away?"

"In a carriage," Stepovich said viciously. He took
his nngers away from the back of his head, looked at
the blood.

"Wanta chase them?"

"Fuck, no!" Stepovich took a shuddering breath,
realized that Durand was only trying to get the senior
officer to take charge of the situation. "What did you
find upstairs?" He tried to sound hard and profes-
sional. Sounded dazed to himself.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"No one in the apartment. No weapon. No sign of
a struggle. But I did smell powder. Someone let off a
gun in there."

"Blood?"

Durand looked nonplused. "Well ... I didn't re-
ally notice ... I mean, every rug up there is red, and
I didn't think to . . ."

"Right," Stepovich said. He walked ponderously to
me squad car, leaned in to reach the mike. He told the
dispatcher it was aB under control, no sign of any gun or
quarrel, cancel Ac call. The dispatcher came back, her an-

How the Owl and the Raven Sang      187

noyance sounding clearly through the static. "Heard you
the first time, Stepovich. Canceled it ten minutes ago."

He turned to Durand. "Did you cancel the call?"

"Huh? No." Durand looked puzzled too, which
made Stepovich feel better.

There was a feather on the seat of the car, and the
interior stank like a barnyard, or a kernel.

His head was buzzing as he straightened up. He
scanned the street, not certain what he was looking
for, then he stopped and frowned. "What do you
make of that?" he said.

Durand looked back. "What?"

"On the door of the building."

Durand walked over and stared at the smear on the
glass. "Blood," he said.

"That's what I thought."

Durand said, "What do we do about it?"

Stepovich sighed and shook his head. "Nothing."

Durand came back to him, and stood a little too
close; his voice was a little too demanding as he be-
gan, "Enough shit. Step, I wast to know—"

"It's Stepovich, God damn you!" he roared, and
swung with the weight of the world in his fast.

SOMETIME

Look into a deep dark pool. tell me what you see,
Stars overhead.

Echo of a midnight sky. branches of a dream
Turnings of a maze.

"STARS OVERHEAD"

The Fair Lady nods to the liderc, who has suddenly ap-
peared before Her. His face is bleeding, and he holds a hand
over one eye. "What is it?" She says, not unkindly.

188 THE GYPSY

"It's the crawling one," he says. "He is hurt and asking
for you."

"Hurt?" The sound of the spinning wheel is constant
now, and neither of them notice it.

"He says he's been cut up," says the liderc. "I think it
was the Coachman who did it."

"Indeed? How could that be, when he was with an old
woman following spools of thread down lanes of curses ?''

"I don't know. Mistress. Perhaps before they left?"

"Perhaps. And did you cut the thread, little one?"

"No, Mistress. Not in time. The Coachman saw me anft
he struck out my eye with a calk on the end of his whip,
and then he took them back."

"I see. V/ell, here is another eye for you." She draws a
cinder from the fire and places it in his head. Then She
thinks for a moment, and finally nods. "Very well, then
we will cut a different thread. Let the Worm bleed. And,
for that matter, let the Wolf have him. for now, prepare
another guest room. V/e shall need it soon, I think."

"Yes, Mistress."

"And as for the Coachman, we will send him a bottle of
brandy, so that when he drinks it he will be crushed by a
horse with five legs and gored by a bull with three horns."

"Yes, Mistress," and the liderc runs off to do Her bid-
ding.

At that moment, there is a scampering of feet and hands
across the floor as the nora enters the room. It grovels at
the fair Lady's feet. Its bald, leathery head seems to absorb
the firelight.

"Well?" She says, beginning to become impatient.
"Have you failed, as well?"

"Yes, Mistress," it says. "She was protected."

"Protected? How?"

The nora wiggles its rat-ears back and forth, agitated.
"There was a sound like the chiming of bells and the thun-
dering of cannon, so I could not come near."

"So? It's his damnable brother. Well, we shall see what

How the Owl and the Raven Sang      189

we can do about that. Send him a good meal, so that when
he eats it, the ground will open and swallow him up."
"Very well. Mistress, "and it rushes off to prepare the meal.
Near the fire, the midwife continues to sing.
"Are you having any luck?" asks the Fair Lady.
"None, Mistress," says the midwife.
"How is that?" cries the Fair Lady, gnashing Her teeth
with rage.

"There were screams. Mistress, like the screams of im-
paled men, so he can't hear me sing."

"That will be his other brother. Well, we will fix that.
We will send him the wench, so that when he kisses her,
he will fall down dead on the spot."

"Very well. Mistress," and the midwife goes to find
the wench.

16NOV 16:27

If I had the voice, I'd shout it front the rooftops,
If I had the strength, I would bend it in my hand;

All I've got's a notion, alf I need's a plan.
To bring It bach to where It all began.

"IF I HAD THE VOICE"

The rest of the shift was horrible. Durand wasn't talk-
ing, either because he didn't want to, or because his
face hurt too bad. He'd stepped into the punch, tak-
ing it on the side of the head instead of the jaw. Step-
ovich glanced over at him guiltily. Purple. And swollen
as hell. Probably hurt almost as bad as the back of
Stepovich's head.

Lunch had been Seven-Eleven burritos and coffee
inside the car. They hadn't gone to Norm's for lunch.
Neither one had had to suggest that change of plans.
Nobody wanted to explain any of this to Tiffany Ma-

190 THE GYPSY

rie. Stepovich didn't want to explain plugging her
sweetie, and Durand probably didn't want to admit
that an old man like Stepovich could drop him with
one punch. Stepovich rubbed his bruised knuckles
unobtrusively on the side of his thigh. Ten more min-
utes of driving around. Then reports to write. Then
go home, eat something out of a can, and lay around
and stare at the boob tube or the ceiling. Wonder what
the hell had ever happened to his life. He sighed.

"S'matter?" From Durand, grudgingly.

"I feel like shit. I feel rucking stupid." And too
damn tired to be anything but honest.

"Y'should."

Poor kid couldn't even get his jaw open. Stepovich
was willing to bet the inside of his mouth was cut to
ribbons on his own teeth. "I know."

Silence felt a little easier. Streetlamp light ebbed and
swelled through the car. Getting dark earlier all the
time. And colder. "You put a hot washcloth on it
when you get home. Hot as you can stand. And drink
something cold, milk shake or something like that."

Stepovich paused, remembering. Ed had loosened
two of his teeth. For what? So long ago. It came to him.
For the stupid habit of taking his gun out in the car and
checking to see if it was loaded. About six times a day.
Until the day Ed slammed on the brakes/ punched him
one, and screamed, "Play with your dick instead, ass-
hole! At least you can't blow me away with that!"

"S'not funny." Durand sounded hurt.

Stepovich realized he was grinning. He wiped the
smile off his face. "I was thinking about something else.
That blood, on the door. Whose do you think it was?"

"That's funny?"

"No. That isn't what I was thinking about either,
but I am now. Whose do you think it was?"

Durand shrugged carefully. "Don't know. You?"

"No. The Coachman guy and Madam Moria
seemed pretty chummy. I don't think they were

How the Owl and the Raven Sang      191

shooting at each other. If there was someone else, he
was gone when we got there." Stepovich took a
breath, sniffed, forced himself to open up. "1 did see
some blood in the carriage. On her fingers. But I'm
not sure if it was hers. She didn't act hurt."

"Driver?"

"He didn't act hurt either." Stepovich frowned to
himself. "Or maybe he did. Acted kind of stiff, like
maybe he was holding himself careful. Didn't seem to
bother him when he threw me out of the carnage,
though." Stepovich glanced at Durand and the kid jerked
his hand down from cradling his jaw. He remembered
something else from the day Ed had busted his chops.

"Kid. After work, you wanna go for a beer?"

Durand looked at him long through the dimness of
the car. He nodded slowly.

"Good," said Stepovich with a heartiness he didn't
feel. What the hell had he done that for? The last
thing he wanted was company tonight.

Maybe it was the first thing he wanted, too.

THURSDAY, AFTERNOON RUSH HOUR

Ripples on the surface, currents underneath.
Ripples on the surface,
Stars overhead.

"STARS OVERHEAD"

Brian MacWurthier drove slowly home from work
through the fog during the last hour of the day. On
impulse, he stopped at a liquor store to pick up a
small bottle of creme de menthe. He had two reasons
for doing so. In the first place, he was beginning to want
to live again, and that meant treating himself to fancy
desserts once in a while, like he'd made for Karen. And,

192 THE GYPSY

two/ she had never liked creme de menthe/ and he knew
that if he made something she had liked/ he'd just get
melancholy again. It was time to let go-
While he was there/ he picked up a paper and glanced
at the headlines. "Damn shame," he muttered.

The man behind the counter handed him a bill and
some change and said/ "What?"

Brian indicated the headline. "The accident. Six
dead. Bet they all had families."

"Don't I know it," said the clerk.

Brian studied him. Late thirties, maybe. Big, witip a
small mustache. Maybe wore a stupid hat and laughed
too loud/ but he was probably kind to his dog. What the
hell. Brian nodded. "You lose someone recently?"

"No." Then he said, "Well, not really."

Brian waited, holding the little paper bag with the
creme de menthe in it.

The clerk looked at him and shrugged. "A friend
of mine."

"A good friend?"

"Naw."

Brian kept waiting, he wasn't sure why. The clerk said,
"It was just nasty 'cause I was here when it happened."

"Oh."

"We weren't real close/ though," After another
pause he continued. "But it was violent. I still don't
sleep too good." Then he said, "What about you?"

Brian hesitated. "My girlfriend. She died of leuke-
mia not long ago." There were still tears inside, but
he could say it without choking now.

"Yeah, that's a shame, buddy,"

Brian nodded. "I'm getting over it. I finally talked
about it, and that helped."

"Yeah. I know. Some shit, you can't keep inside,
you know?"

Brian nodded. "This gypsy said—"

"Who?" His voice was surprisingly sharp.

"Her friend. The guy I talked to."

How the Owl and the Raven Sang      193

The clerk scowled.

"What?" said Brian.

"Don't talk to me about gypsies. It was a gypsy who
blew my friend away. Right here. I was in back/ too
fucking scared to move, and this gyp—now that's odd,"

"What?"

The clerk stared off into space for a while. "Why
did I say he was a gypsy?"

Brian shrugged. "Did the police mention it?"

The clerk shook his head. "No. That's weird. He
looks different now."

"Huh?"

The clerk bunked a few times. "I dunno. Man, this
is strange. It's like my memory's changing. The de-
scription I gave the cops/ it's all wrong. But I could
have sworn—I hope I'm not flipping out or—"

"You all right?"

"Yeah, I think so. But I better call the cops back
right away. This is too fucking strange."

Brian waited while the clerk made the phone call,
then waited some more Just to make sure the man
was going to be all right. When the blue-and-white
pulled up, he shrugged and headed out the door, still
vaguely curious.

A WEEKDAY EVEMING

Mr. DeCruz, hope you're feeling well.
Mind if I sit here just for a spell?
Sorry I couldn't be gone for good
Uke you thought I would.

"BACK IN TOWN"

Timothy lay on his bed, bleeding from cuts in his side
and on his upper chest just below the collar bone, for

194 THE GYPSY

most of an hour before it occurred to him that some-
thing was wrong. He spent most of the next hour
denying it/ until he couldn't anymore. I could die, he
thought, and the other side of that thought conjured
up childhood memories; he feared hell for the first
time in twenty years.

The next hour lasted forever. The words/ "She has
forsaken me" never quite took shape in his mind, but
they lay beneath the surface, like walking through a
swamp knowing there is a snake in there, some-
where. He opened his eyes and tried to sit up, failed.
It came to him that now there were bloodstains on his
nice, clean, white sheets, and he'd never, ever, ever
get them out. He wanted to yowl, but had no
strength. The thought that he could die kept return-
ing, until in an agony of fear he peeled off his shirt,
and pressed his pillow tightly against his side, re-
signed to getting that soiled/ too.

Damn them, damn them, damn them all to Hell forever.
Why won't She help me? I did everything She said. I tried
to kill the old lady, but the man with the knife. . . . The
man with the knife. Why hadn't he gone down when
he'd been shot? Right in the middle, just like the liquor-
store man. This guy jumped, once, then struck with the
knife, and Timothy had run from the room, not even
realizing he'd been cut until he was halfway down the
stairs and saw blood soaking through his shirt.

I won't die, he thought. I won't die. I'll live, and I'll
show Her that I'm worth something. I still have the gun.
I'll go back, and find that man, and shoot him in the head
this time, and the old lady, too. No, better. The Gypsy
man. That's who She really wants. I'll get him for Her,
and She'll come back to me.

I need Her. I need Her. I need Her.

He lay there awake for hours, pressing the pillow
against him. Finally, as it grew dark outside, he fell
asleep, thinking thoughts of vengeance, still holding the

How the Owl and the Raven Sang      195

pillow pressed against his side. As he slept, with no
magic other than his body's own, the bleeding stopped.

AUTUMN LATEAFTERNOOM, BEFORE MOOMRISE

If I had it to do over.

This ain't the life I'd choose,

But the road still runs and so do I

And at least I made the news.

"RED LIGHTS AND NEON"

It was mere moments before sunset, and the end of
the day's magic, although the fog held the day's light
as leaves hold the dew. It didn't yet look like sunset,
but the Gypsy knew. And as twilight sank, through
the layers of fog, consciousness of it sank through
minds, and more and more lights came on. It became
harder and harder to find the light that was his next
signpost, amid all those that were on by chance,

He frowned. Why should it be so hard to tell? He
followed his feet, his instincts, and if they were true,
they should lead him well. So it was, so it had always
been. He had been confused for a while, not under-
standing the ways of the city, but now he did, and
the rules should be the same. If not, he was helpless.

He stood, pondering. He closed his eyes, and
thought he heard faint singing, as far away as the sea
and as soft as the wind across the plains. He shud-
dered, and his hand went to the knife beneath his
shirt, though he didn't know why.

He stood on a street corner. Four paths, the cross-
roads. But here there were so many crossroads, so
many. If a shirt were left at each to bribe the csuma,
there would be no shirts left to wear. Not to mention
that any shirt left on the crossroads in the city would

196 THE GYPSY

be taken by whoever first saw it whether he needed a
shirt or not, for such were the ways of this place. The
crossroads ought to be a place of power for him, but
he felt none. It ought to be a place of danger too/ but
he felt the danger everywhere.

He stood for a moment more/ looking around, hop-
ing for a sign that he was to take one direction, or
avoid another. Even as he looked, however, the fog
began to clear, the night fell, and the day of miracles
had ended. He sighed, defeated.

And as the fog cleared, he saw, directly before l^im, a
drde with a dot in the middle. It was on a narrow door
with a sign above it. The sign, in baroque lettering, read,

MADAM MORIA, PSYCHIC AND SEER, APARTMENT C.

Almost, the Gypsy smiled. There was no hesitation
in his steps as he opened the door, which led up a
long flight of stairs. He climbed with easy confidence
and knocked at the door with an upside-down c
hanging by a single nail. He opened it at the same
time the high, thin voice called, inviting him in.

She sat behind a narrow table, and a deck of tarot
cards, bright roses on the back, sat in front of her.
There was a small stool opposite her.

"You took long enough getting here," she
snapped. "Sit down and cut the cards."

TWELVE

How the Devil Set Her Traps

MID-NOVEMBER, 1989

/ got to wonder who it was
Gave the key to you;

I got to wonder what they pay
For the things you do....

"IF I HAD THE VOICE"

The Coachman walked slowly. At the best of times,
he hadn't liked walking. On thfe ground he felt short-
ened, vulnerable; give him the hfgh box of a coach
any time, with sixteen legs before him and four
wheels under him. Two legs are not the same, espe-
cially not when a Worm has eaten a quick hot hole
right through the middle of you.

He thought briefly of Madam Moria's upstairs
apartment. He had gone back there, once the Wolf
had gone away. He went up to her door, thinking she
would take him in, would at least let him sit and
breathe if not bandage his wound. But she hadn't.
She was been angry and hard as only old women can
be. "Away," she told him, waving at both him and
a grey cat sitting on her door mat. "Be gone. I had
my Wolf and you threw him away. Do you think I
will let you chase away the guest who comes to me
tonight? Go on, go read your future in the bottom of
^ a bottle."

198 THE GYPSY

And then she shut the door on him and the cat.
The cat looked up at him with cold yellow eyes/ ob-
viously sharing Madam Moria's opinion of him. "You
don't understand," he explained. "The Wolf was
hungry. It wouldn't have gone away unfed." The cat
was unimpressed. Useless to argue with yellow-eyed
cats or old women, he told himself. And made his
way gingerly down the stairs.

And Spider had been very angry as well, when the
Coachman returned the carriage and team with no
fares at all to show for the day. "You won't drive for
my anymore, you drunk son of a bitch!" he yelled.
"You're nothing but trouble, bringing cops and every
other damn thing down on me. Get the hell out of
here!" And he shook his whip at the Coachman, as
if he knew how to use it. The Coachman thought
about cutting him up with his own, to show him. But
he'd done enough cutting for one day, and he was
cold and tired and in pain, and one drink too sober
to stand up to any of it. He started the long walk
home, wondering if anyone would be there when he
arrived.

His feet had taken him down an alley, behind the
warehouses, past the loading docks where the street-
lights were yellowing the night and two cursing men
were trying to get a crate up on a forklift. He stopped
to watch, one hand pressing gently against the warm
wet bandanna inside his shirt. She could at least have
bandaged me properly. The workmen stopped briefly.
One wiped his forehead, sweating despite the cold,
while another brought out a pint bottle and un-
screwed its cap. They passed it between them and the
sweet note of brandy rang clear in the air. The Coach-
man snuffed after it longingly. That hot kiss, that
comforting warmth could ease his pain now.

They went on with their work, and he leaned
against the end of the loading dock, shivering and
watching them. A semi was backed up to the dock,

How the Devil Set Her Traps         199

its open van gaping black. There were six large crates
labeled LAKOTA MUSEUM OF SCIENCE AND INDUSTRY
waiting on the dock. The men were cursing someone
who hadn't shown up to help with the work, and the
way they moved told the Coachman they weren't ex-
perienced at what they were doing. One mounted an
idling forklift on the dock, and maneuvered it awk-
wardly up to one of the crates. But the crate edged
away from the machine, and the man throttled the
engine, making it snort white plumes of exhaust like
an angry bull. "Put it in reverse," yelled the other,
and the forklift driver yelled something back/ but the
machine surged forward instead, and the huge crate
buckled before its roaring advance.

"Reverse, damnit!" shouted the other man again,
and the driver pulled a lever and backed the hufhng
machine away. A piece of crate tore away with it,
pine planks ripping yellow, and the Coachman felt a
cold shiver run down his spine as flashing silver eyes
and a tossing white mane were revealed. Blue roses
were braided in the mane, and" the stallion champed
a silver bit in his white teeth. Veins stood out in his
proud muzzle and in the forelegs lifted high to paw
at the sky. Whoever had carved the carousel horse
had known what a horse was about. The Coachman
would almost swear that it was held motionless only
by the vertical pole through its body, that but for the
pole the stallion would leap forth from the remnants
of the shipping crate. In spite of himself, he stepped
closer.

There was a great deal of swearing and yelling from
the two men, with the one throwing his hat down in
disgust. They changed positions, with the other man
climbing up on the snorting forklift while the former
driver pushed vainly at the crated horse, trying to get
the crate into a position for the forklift tines to go
under it. It was too heavy.

200 THE GYPSY

The Coachman moved a step closer. "Your par-
don/' he said.

They noticed him for the first time. The driver looked
impatient and annoyed, the other annoyed and curi-
ous. "For some of your brandy, I'll help."

The crate man stopped his useless shoving. He
wiped his forehead on his sleeve, looked at the
Coachman, nodded, and dragged the flask from his
pocket, handed it over. The Coachman took it, feeling
the liquid weight welcome in his hand. He tipped it
back once, and it kissed his mouth deep, promising
to take the chill away. A second time, and it l^irled
itself warm around the pain in his gut, quieting it like
sleep quiets a colicky child.

"That's enough," said the crate man, snatching it
back. "You can have the rest when we're done." He
set the bottle down on the dock behind them, and
gestured toward the crate.

The Coachman nodded. He took his place, and to-
gether they tipped the crate up and toward them. The
forklift came doser, its tines lowered, snorting and
reaching for the crate.

It came too fast, and the crate man yelled and
jumped aside. For one moment the Coachman had
the full weight of the crate, taking it, standing eye to
eye with the rearing white stallion, and he thought he
could hold it. But then his heel bumped the brandy
bottle, and even through the snorting of the forklift
and the driver shouting, "Where's reverse?" he heard
the bottle break. His boots grated on broken glass
and then he was slipping, falling backwards off the
dock. The white stallion came after him, hooves paw-
ing the sky, and then he felt the hot breath of the
forklift sear him as it careened off the loading dock as
well. A gleaming metal tine tore his hip, letting his
blood out in a rush of warmth and red. He was tan-
gled with the stallion, the front legs straddling him
and the angry silver eyes staring down into his.

How the Devil Set Her Traps         201

Somewhere nearby the workmen were yelling, and a
woman was laughing, a throaty sweet laugh as the
horses of the Coachman's mind broke their traces and
ran away into the engulfing blackness.

THURSDAY NIGHT

Let the moonlight show the path
To a standing cypress tree.
I'll tell you tales along the way
Of what you've done to me.

"QYPSY DANCE"

When the Coachman didn't come back, Daniel put on
his green overcoat and went out again. The grimy walls
of the room had become oppressive. The cold night air
was preferable to the moldy exhalations of the ratty
little hotel room. His nddle wept with him, as natu-
rally as his feet and hands and heart. The street be-
fore the hotel was lit with red and blue neon, flashing
names of beers and GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS. On one comer,
three girls tiredly smiled. They weren't as young as
they wished they were, and the sequins on their
dresses dangled loose from too many casual caresses,
the seams strained from having too often been hiked
up in the back seats of cars. They reminded Daniel of
dancing bears, ruffs on their necks and rings in their
noses, fur gone patchy with bad food. He moved a
little down the street from them, opened his case on
the sidewalk, and played them a tune of innocence
and dreams. He saw them listening and becoming un-
easy, so he changed it to an old ballad with laughter
beneath the tears, with sorrow amid the joy. Their
lives were the words and they knew the song well.
They stood quietly in the wash of the music, watch-

202 THE GYPSY

ing the cars stop and go again at the light, waiting
more passively than they had before.

He wondered where the Coachman was. He
thought of his brothers/ but it made the music grow
unbearably sad, so he played for the whores once
more.

A fourth one came out of a nearby bar, riding a
wake of crude laughter. "No hair on her pussy yet!"
someone shouted after her/ and she hurried away
from the bar and toward him. Her heel caught in a
crack on the pavement and she teetered briefly before
getting her balance again. As she hurried past Daniel,
he caught a reek of animal musk in a cloying per-
fume. Her eyelids were painted purple and silver/ and
her cheekbones had been rouged so heavily they
looked bruised. She hesitated, then edged toward the
other whores on the comer.

They turned on her swiftly, mercilessly. "This ain't
amateur night, sweetie!" one snarled at her, while
another advised her, "Get home to your mama, girl."

"I'm . . . I'm looking for my friend," she said/ and
her voice trembled like a fiddle string.

"You ain't got no friend here, jail bait. Get your
skinny ass outta here 'fore it gets kicked."

She moved away quickly, wobbling on her high
heels, and the way she glanced up and down and
across the street convinced Daniel that she was telling
the truth, she was looking for her friend. She fled
past him once more, the perfume again assailing him.
Five or six steps, then she paused, then backed closer
to the building to let two men pass. They glanced at
her, one shaking his head and the other making a
laughing comment before they entered the bar. She
did not move away from the wall after they had
passed, but pressed against it/ like an animal trying
to conceal itself. Daniel played on, the songs that
seemed comfortable in a city/ and after a moment he

How the Devil Set Her Traps        203

sensed her venturing closer. He looked at her from
the comers of his eyes.

"Hello?" she said tentatively.

He went on playing. So young, this one. She
should be home with her mother. Perhaps the old
ways were better, when a girl like this would have a
man chosen for her, would know that she had a fu-
ture planned. She was old enough, this one, that m
some kumpanias she would already have a babe at her
breast, and perhaps another on the way. But those
were the old ways, the very old ways. Now these
people liked to torment their young, to keep them
between, neither children nor women, but creatures
of both worlds, and vulnerable to the hurts of both.

"Remember me?" she asked softly, venturing a lit-
tle closer. He wished she were downwind of him; the
reek of her perfume overpowered even the dirty air
of the city. He shook his head slowly and he contin-
ued to play.

"Don't you remember me?" and the plea in her
voice was very real. "We saw you earlier today.
Chrissy and I stopped to listen to you play and I put
dollar in your coat and then Chrissy and I went to her
house and changed because she said we were going
to a party. Only when we got to the bar, her friends
weren't there. So she told me to go nx up my face,
because I forgot I was wearing makeup and rubbed
my eyes, but when I came out, she was gone, and
they chased me out of the bar. Please, have you seen
her? Remember her? She has curly blonde hair, she's
real pretty, she had on silver Spandex and a black
Guns'n'Roses tee shirt and red high heels."

Her voice was running down and his fiddle fol-
lowed it, going softer as she spoke, so that when she
paused, his fiddle was a whisper in the night- He
shook his head again slowly, studying her. He looked
at her. The shiny blue pants bagged at the knee, the
high heels were a size too big for her; her feet kept

204 THE GYPSY

sliding down in them. Chrissy's clothes/ he thought
to himself, like the low-cut shirt that exposed the tops
of her breasts. "Your perfume is awful," he mut-
tered/ the first words he'd spoken to her.

"Chrissy said it was really expensive/ and she got
it from a woman with really good taste/" she said/
and then her face crumpled slightly. "I know. It's
awful. It's giving me a headache, I tried to wash it off
in the bathroom/ but it wouldn't go away. Please/
didn't you see my friend?"

He shook his head slowly/ his fiddle moving with
it.

How could he know where her friend was? Perhaps
her friend was playing a child's trick, and thus leav-
ing her stranded with an adult's problem. Or maybe
she had just left; children playing at being adults were
never patient.

"I don't know what to do," she said softly/ fear
snaking through her voice.

It isn't my problem/ he thought, and then won-
dered what his brothers would say to that. But where
do you draw the line? Where do you decide when to
step in and when to stay back? The Dove simply
knew/ while the Owl could point to a hundred little
signs that would have told him all he needed. But he/
Daniel, was forever stumbling through such decisions
and then torturing himself afterwards. He cursed si-
lently/ and the curse translated itself into a wail the
leapt from the fiddle into the night.

The girl took a step back/ and somehow that hurt.
To mend the hurt/ he said quickly/ "Stay here with
me."

"Here?" she said, puzzled.

What did I say that for? he wondered. Because I
wanted to/ came the answer. "Maybe your friend will
come back. Maybe she's looking for you." He knew
it would be useless to tell her to go home.

How the Devil Set Her Traps        205

"I don't have any more money for you/" she said
in a small voice.

He shook his head. "That was not me you saw."

She seemed offended. "Yes/ it was. You were on
the other side of the park, wearing a red coat and
playing your tambourine. I put the dollar right in your
pocket."

"No/1 don't have a—" he stopped, then her words
suddenly made sense to him. A tambourine? Ray-
mond! A sudden joy lilted from his nddle, and she
stepped back/ startled by its strength. Then it made
her smile, and she was pretty, he could see her pret-
tiness through the cracks in her thick makeup.

She moved closer, standing almost in his shadow,
the smell of her perfume thick in the night. He took
his fiddle through a sweet little waltz and saw her
comforted by it.

"Tell me of this tambourine player," he said.

She frowned, as if wondering if he were teasing
her.

Then she said, "You were playing a tambourine,
sitting on a bench, a bus-stop bench. Near Pine/ I
think."

"It wasn't me," he repeated. "But perhaps it was
my brother. Please tell me about him."

She blinked. "Well, he played for us, and I gave
him a dollar. He was just," she struggled for words.
"Really nice." She paused, looking up and down the
decayed street. "Like you're nice," she said sud-
denly, honestly. But the next words came after too
long a pause, and he knew they were not new with
her. Probably, like the clothes/ something borrowed
from Chrissy. "I've always liked men older than me.
They seem so much more sure of themselves."

He looked at her, letting all his years ride in his
eyes. He expected her to falter, but she edged closer,
as if drawn to him. She wrapped her arms around
herself and huddled deeper into her thin shirt- He

206 THE GYPSY

turned away and tried to ignore her standing at his
back, found that he couldn't. He could feel her shel-
tering behind him. He glanced back and she looked
directly into his eyes. All her fears looked out at him
for an instant, and then she looked aside, a modest
casting down of eyes that he had not seen in many
years. Daniel sighed. Despite all her silly pretenses
and false boldness, she was afraid. He'd have to help
her.

He felt her edge closer. This time he turned slightly
as he kept on playing, so he could watch herand still
see the street. She'd got her courage up again, for
this time she met his gaze squarely. Deliberately, she
dropped her arms/ set her hands on her hips. Thrust
one hip out a little, and cocked her head. It reminded
him of the pose of a store mannequin; nothing natu-
ral about it, no reason to stand that way except to
display clothes or body. Especially not on a chill night
like this. He deliberately dropped his eyes to her
body, then met her gaze again. She almost stepped
back, but when he made no other advance, her face
grew puzzled. He suspected none of this was going
the way her friend had told her it would. She was
supposed to taunt, he was supposed to react, then
she got to repulse him. A dangerous sort of game for
young girls to play.

It was cold tonight. He could feel her shiver. Not
just from the cold, but from this game of dares she
played against herself. She challenged herself, to see
if she dared face the danger after she'd created it. He
didn't see any way she could win.

"My name's Lorelei," she told him coquettishly,
and he heard part of the truth in the name. When he
made no response, she twitched her young hips kit-
tenishly and moved closer, so close that he nearly
brushed against her each time he drew the bow across
the strings.

"I'm Daniel," he told her, putting no more into the

How the Devil Set Her Traps        207

words than a polite exchange of names. A man in a
passing car called to the whores on the corner. Lorelei
flinched, clutched at his elbow for a second, and then
snatched her nngers back.

Her cheeks, already reddened with cold, darkened
further with embarrassment. She had lost face before
him; he sensed a sudden hardening of her determi-
nation. She'd show him. He tried not to sigh. She
took a deep breath, steeling herself, and chose a new
line. "I really like your hair," she said. "The black-
ness, the way it curls. And I like your mustache. I
wish more men grew them. I like men that are really,
you know, masculine."

He knew what really masculine was. He was will-
ing to bet she didn't.

She giggled, nervous and high, pushed herself
deeper into her game. "I always wonder, though/
how you kiss through a mustache like that. Know
what I mean?" Teasing invitation.

Again, he did and she didn't. He glanced at her.
She was so close now that when his arm moved with
the bow, it brushed her upper arm. He breathed out
heavily, trying to clear her perfume from his head. So
young, this one. He watched her body moving grace-
fully, unconsciously, to his music. She reminded him
of something, of someone so long ago it seemed like
another life. Maybe it had been. Had he ever really
been that young boy, sneaking away from the 6re to
follow the girl to the edge of the woods and then into
them, or were they just the memories of the music?
So long ago. The sweet stirring in his loins was like
an old ache, and the music went warm with longing,
not for this painted little girl, but for a young girl and
boy who had kissed and touched, how may lifetimes
ago?

The music touched her and the night fdled up her
eyes, edging her one step closer to womanhood, re-
minding her of something that as yet she had no

208 THE GYPSY

memories of. The next man who passed sensed it.
Daniel had paid him no heed when he'd slowed down
and looked at the whores on the corner, but then he
noticed the girl. The man watched her for a moment,
a smile quirking the corners of his mouth, then he
walked over, threw a twenty dollar bill down into the
nddle case and jerked his head at her. Daniel heard
her breath catch as she edged behind him.

"Your mistake, friend/' Daniel said mildly, and
nodded at the money, hoping the man would just
pick it up and leave.

Instead his smile changed to a scowl. He stared at
the girl, started to walk on, then stopped and stared
again. Daniel wished she wouldn't look at the man
so. It was the fear in her eyes that was drawing him,
that made him lick his mouth wet and ask, "How
much, then, damnit?"

Daniel looked at him: husky, but not too husky;

short, reddish hair beneath his cap; wearing a brown
vest of some synthetic material that must be warmer
than it looked. Daniel shook his head slowly. He
didn't want this. His fiddle might get hurt. He
stopped playing and lowered it slowly, hoping he'd
be able to set it down gently if he had to. "It's a
mistake, friend. She isn't for sale, this one. They are/'
he said, and gestured toward the whores on the cor-
ner, feeling diminished but not knowing what else to
do.

The man didn't move. His eyes went colder. Daniel
could almost feel the man's toes curling in his cowboy
boots as he tried to dedde whether this gypsy was
pushing him around, and whether this girl was worth
fighting for. The girl moved, gripping the back of
Daniel's coat. He felt both her fear and the man's lust
growing. Carefully he set the nddle down in its case,
put the bow in its holder, and closed the case. He
held out the twenty toward the man, but he slapped

How the Devil Set Her Traps         209

it aside. "Damnit, don't fuck with me. Give you fifty
for her."

Daniel tucked the money into the man's shirt
pocket. "We are leaving now," he said softly, and
stooped to pick up his nddle case. The man swung at
him as he did, and Daniel rose, his knee coming up
into the man's crotch as he pushed him backwards.
He hit a parking meter and stumbled into the street.
A passing car blared its horn and splashed oily water
over him.

"You sumbitch, I'll kill you, I swear I'll kill you,"
the man yelled, but Daniel had his nddle under one
arm and the girl on the other and was walking swiftly
away.

The girl was trembling and clutching his arm; he
could feel the soft warmth of her through his sleeve.
He put his aim around her and walked faster. Three
blocks later her trembling was getting worse. She kept
tripping on her shoes. Poor little thing. He stopped
at the mouth of an alley, set down his fiddle and re-
moved his coat. He wrapped it around her, turning
the collar up around her bare neck. But as he did so
in all innocence, she stepped into his arms, turned
her face up to his and kissed him.

Despite himself, his arms closed around her. She
was so young, so much innocence, so much wonder,
everything was new to her, a child, a woman, and for
an instant he believed he could just take her and go
somewhere, start again, a life that was not filled with
omens and destinies, a life of babies and meadow
grass and traveling the land, always as young as she
was. A life that belonged to him alone, that was not
owed to his brother. Her mouth was very soft in its
inexperience, and the cloying perfume seemed sud-
denly, dizzying sweet. The kiss she had started be-
came something he taught her. And, when that
should have been all, she began to respond—to hold
him closer than she should have, to feel desires he

210 THE GYPSY

had no business bringing out in her, or she in him/
and yet he knew her passion was as real as his, which
should have frightened him more than it did. And
it should have frightened her much more than it
seemed to.

Her hand went to her mouth when he stepped back
from her, touching her lips as if still feeling the brush
of his mustache.

"So. Now you see. That's how you do it," he told
her, and heard the pleased silliness in his own voice.
She looked up at him, asking for more, her eyes very
bright and shining; shining for him. He felt intoxi-
cated with the girl, the night, and even the perfume.
His thoughts reeled through her scent. She nt under
his arm as snugly as his nddle nt under his chin.
Something suspiciously like romance swelled his soul.
He laughed aloud, and when he did, her arm came
around his waist. They walked together, he didn't
care where, and then they were outside a cafe.

"I didn't get any dinner," she said, so tentatively
that his heart broke over her hunger.

"I'll feed you," he promised, and opened the door,
not caring that he hadn't a cent in his pockets. This
was not a night to worry about practical things, it was
time to be young again.

They sat down in a booth together, side by side,
Lorelei near the window, and he thought he had
never seen anything as lovely as this girl wrapped in
his weathered green coat. He took a napkin from the
dispenser, and gently wiped some of the paint from
her face. Her skin beneath it was beautiful, and she
sat still beneath his touch.

Someone set glasses of water on the table. "Ready
to order?" asked a redheaded waitress, and he sud-
denly realized she had been standing there for some
time. He looked at his Lorelei, smiling encourage-
ment.

How the Devil Set Her Traps        211

"Burger, fries, and a Coke," she said without hes-
itation.

"Coffee," he added, and didn't care about the
waitress's grim disapproval as she turned away.

"Are you warmer now, little sparrow?" he asked
her. She nodded shyly, and looked down at the table
top. He had to put his ringers under her chin and lift
her face so he could see those eyes again, and when
he did, he had to brush his lips across her forehead,
because he couldn't stand not to.

NOVEMBER SIXTEENTH, EVENING

The city lights, they hurt my eyes
And the noises make me wince.
The Coachman left me here
Which I've regretted ever since.

"RAVEN, OWL, AND I"

There was a raw edge in the wind, threatening as a
knife, Raymond walked a little faster, reached up with
his hand and held his collar a little closer around his
neck. Another twenty steps, and he couldn't deny it
anymore. The coldness and the wind weren't all he
was feeling. The chill was in his soul, as if a strong
wall were falling away, leaving him exposed.

He put his hand to his chest, felt his wrapped tam-
bourine snug there. He thumped it lightly, felt rather
than heard the muted jingle of the zils. As if in coun-
terpoint, his stomach growled. Food and shelter,
that's what he needed this night. Something was
keeping him from the Coachman and his brothers.
But what? He shrugged. Perhaps the best way to fight
it was to ignore it. Some food and a night's sleep

212 THE GYPSY

would leave him better prepared. He had not eaten
in sixteen hours, nor slept in twenty-nine.

On Mount Falcon/ when the sun went down, and
Denver was no more than a greasy glow on the ho-
rizon, the darkness of the night had been a clean and
comforting thing. Even when it was blackest and the
stars pressed down on the hillside, he had not felt
threatened by the night. He could lie in his bedroll
and listen to the life in the scrubby brushlands around
him, scale on gravelly soil as a snake went by, the
wicket, wicket, wicket of owl wings, the tiny patter-
ing as the hunted mouse sought shelter.

Here it was never night, and the colored lights were
like bulbous tumors on the outsides of the buildings.
Raymond felt blinded as any owl would be, felt bat-
tered by their insistent flickerings, EAT EAT EAT one
nagged him, and he felt his mouth stretch in a hard
smile. That was exactly what he hoped to do. Soon.
This icy blowing wind was cutting through him.
Warmth, and a little food would be good; he couldn't
be oblivious to such things, as his youngest brother
was. He wondered, and not for the first time, what it
would be like to trade places, to have the power, and
the burden that went with it. No matter. His younger
brother had it, and it was up to Raymond to nnd him.
If his brothers were anywhere in this city, they'd for-
gotten everything they'd ever known about leaving
signs; he'd found no symbols scratched in the dirt
near a crossroads, no broken twigs or bits of string to
guide him.

Well, not precisely true, he supposed. There were
other kinds of signs. Sometimes he thought he could
feel his brothers, that he would step around the next
comer and there they'd be, waiting for him, laughing
to see him. But at times like this there was just emp-
tiness around him, as he walked through the not-
light, not-dark of the city.

Hungry. Time to eat.

How the Devil Set Her Traps         213

He was turning toward a bar door, wondering if it
were the sort of bar that kept dishes of nuts and
crackers on the tables when a car pulled up to the
curb behind him.

"Hey you!" called a girl's excited voice. "Hey,
gypsy-man!" Then louder/ "Hey, gypsy-man' Wanta
party with me?"

He stepped closer to the big car with a grill like
silver teeth. He tried to make out the girl's face in the
night's deceptive grey wash. Yes, he knew her. Ear-
lier, she and her friend had stopped to hear him play.
But she had been younger then; the night lights had
aged her. Her breasts swung free under a black tee
shirt with a garish picture on it as she leaned out the
window to him. Earlier today, the wind had blown
her curly hair into appealing disarray. Now it stood
up stiffly around her face, reminding him of the way
a horse's coat looked after lather had dried on it.
Makeup enlarged all her features, distorting her face
into mouth and eyes and lashes, everything wide and
wet. He took another step/ trying to see where she
had gone behind the paint. Which was real and which
the lie? His brother, the Raven, would have known
at once; he could always tell semblance from actual-
ity. He, too, might have known, he thought, if it were
real night: prey or not prey. But he didn't, so it was
far better to be safe. And yet, he remembered what
the Dove had always said about chance meetings- He
would be careful, but he wouldn't: walk away just yet.

She opened the door of the car, slid over and pat-
ted the seat invitingly. "C'mon, gypsy-man, come
Join the party."

There were two in back and three in front. There
was a young man with a tattoo of a cross on his cheek
in the back seat with her. His head was thrown back,
lolling on the neckrest. His eyes were closed, his
mouth loose, but Raymond did not think he slept.
Two more boys were in the front seat, with another

214 THE GYPSY

girl wedged between them. The driver had a cigarette
dangling low from his mouth, and the good leather
of his coat was draped with chain. The other boy was
occupied by the girl between them. Her shirt was
open, and as the boy nuzzled her breasts she stared
out the window over his oddly cut hair. There was
no expression at all on her face.

"Come on, man," the girl in the back seat urged
him. "Remember me? We gave you a dollar earlier
today. My name's Chrissy. We been looking all over
town for you. We got something for you from a
friend."

Could this be a Sign? Yes. Or a Trap. The Raven or
the Dove would have known at once. "Who?" Ray-
mond asked.

Chrissy smiled. "Get in, and I'll tell you, gypsy"
man. But here's a hint. They told me to watch for an
Owl."

A moment more he hesitated. His brothers were
not the only ones who knew him by that name. But
the night was cold and the car was warm, and what-
ever he learned, whether of his brothers or of Her,
must be useful. And that, after all, was what he did:

watch, wait, and learn. He edged into the car as the
girl giggled delightedly. She pushed the boy further
into the corner, as if he were just so much bedding.
She reached past Raymond and pulled the door shut,
then continued to lean against him. The car pulled
away from the curb.

"What do you have for me?" he asked, pushing
the girl's hands gently away from his chest. But she
only laughed and reached over to tap his tambourine
through his jacket.

"Man's got music in his heart," she told the driver,
and laughed again, in a way that struck Raymond as
witless. The driver was watching Raymond in the
rearview mirror. Raymond met his eyes squarely,

How the Devil Set Her Traps        215

asking no questions and telling him nothing. After a
moment the boy nodded, as if confirming something.

Paper rustled as he passed a bagged bottle over his
shoulder. "Warm up first, man," the boy said. "Then
we'll give you the message."

"No, thank you," said Raymond.

"Suit yourself," he said, and drank from it.

"I am looking for some friends," Raymond told the
driver.

The girl was leaning on him, pawing at his tambou-
rine through his jacket, but he ignored her. She did
not smell as if she'd been drinking, but she did not
act sober either. "Let us be your friends," she of-
fered, shrilly- She reached up to stroke his hair. He
leaned away from her.

"Knock it off, Chrissy," The driver growled. "Man
doesn't wanta be groped, he just wants his message.
So give it to him already."

"Yeah. Sure I will. But, hey, gypsy-man, you hun-
gry? We got some pizza here, somewhere, I think."
She reached to the back window ledge, came up with
a greasy white box. She opened it for him, presenting
him with cheese and sausage melted over bread. He
smelled the peppers and grease, and his stomach
gyowled loudly. "Or you wanna burger? We got a
burger, here, somewhere/ in case you wanted a
burger. Her, Jer, where did we put the burger?"

"Chrissy-" The driver's voice was edged as broken
glass. He glanced at Raymond in the mirror, and tried
to smile. "Now be nice to the man. Give him some
food and the message."

"Oh, yeah. Here." She set the greasy box in his
lap and leaned back against the boy, pillowing herself
on his lax body. "Lemme think, now. How did it go?
It was like a poem, or something."

The pizza was unappetizing, but it was warm and
it was food. Raymond took a wedge and ate it. Who-
ever had seasoned the tomato sauce on it had no re-

216 THE QYPSY

spect for spices. He waited for the girl, who muttered
and giggled to herself, then suddenly sat up straight.
"I got it/' she announced, and then recited,

"Butterfly sandwiches,
Crunchable things
Crisp little bodies
With flower-hued wings."

Then sagged back into the seat, laughing until she
choked. The driver's face went dark with anger. He
took the cigarette from his mouth, and flicked it out
the window. "Damnit, Chrissy," he growled, and his
voice was so ugly Raymond felt the hair on the back
of neck stand up. Chrissy heard the threat, for she
sat up suddenly, her face contrite.

"Eat something while I remember. I'll get it right
this time, I promise. Jer, why don't you pass the bot-
tle back? Give the gypsy-man something to drink with
his pizza. And give me some time to 'member it
right," she added in a confidential aside to Raymond.

"No, thank you," he said.

She took the bottle, drank from it, while street-
lamps and neon crawled past the car's windows. He
forced himself to stomach another piece of pizza, tell-
ing himself that no matter how insipid it was, it was
food, and who knew when he would be offered food
again? The driver watched him and Raymond watched
him back. Chrissy leaned against him suddenly, rub-
bing her forehead against his shoulder. "Shit," she
said miserably. "I'm losing it, I'm coming down. Jer,
you got anymore stuff? No?" Her face crumpled as
the driver shook his head. "Damn. This is so depress-
ing. Lemme have another drink and maybe I can re-
member the poem." As she lifted the bottle again,
she asked him, "Aren't you going to eat some more?"

Raymond shook his head slowly, then asked, "Ear-
lier, there was another girl with you. Where is she?"

How the Devil Set Her Traps         217

"Fuck, I don't know. We were supposed to give
her to the nddler—oh, damn, I wasn't supposed to
say that- But I guess it's okay, now, I mean, he ate
some of it anyway." Now her words were addressed
to the driver, who was shaking his head angrily.

Raymond closed the box slowly. He handed it to
her and she took it back, knowing he knew. A stupid
way to have failed, and for one instant he thought he
saw sympathy in her eyes. The driver pulled the car
into an alley and the brick walls threw back at them
the vibrations of the leashed engine.

"Say the poem, damn you!" the driver snarled.

Chrissy turned to Raymond.

"The Coachman has fallen to hoof and to horn.
The Raven is caught and will die before morn.
The poor Owl is buried beneath dirt and stone
Leaving the Dove, to die all alone."

Raymond didn't let his face change. After a mo-
ment, she wailed, "It's a stupid poem, I told that
thing it was a stupid poem. I like-mine better. Butter-
fly sandwiches, crunchable things, crisp little bodies
with flower-hued wings, butterfly sandwiches, crunch-
able things, crisp little bodies ..."

The driver swore and got out. He left his door open,
and a stream of cold air flowed into the car, stinging
Raymond's cheeks. He was sweating suddenly. There
was no pain, not yet. Maybe there wouldn't be any.
Maybe it was only this, his body ignoring him. The
driver opened his door and dragged him out, leaving
him against a wall between two garbage cans. Chrissy
suddenly leaned from the open door. "Take his tam-
bourine," she begged. "I really want it, it made such
pretty music before," but the driver slammed her
door shut, narrowly missing her.

"Bye-bye, Owl," he said, smirking at Raymond.
"The poem sucks, but I think we can all appreciate

218 THE GYPSY

the sentiment." He paused. "\ understand it don't
really kill you. It just makes you look dead. Course,
you look dead until you really are. What a trip, huh?"
He laughed, then paused to shake out another ciga-
rette and light it. He tossed the match at Raymond.
It landed on his coat sleeve and burned a small hole
before it went out.

"Please, Jer, just take the tambourine," Chrissy was
begging again as she leaned out the window.

"Shut up, bitch." He slapped her casually and she
fell back against the seat, not even crying. Then the
driver got back inside the car and it pulled away, be-
came twin red lights that turned a corner. Raymond
sat. He could still move his eyes, but it was getting
harder. He looked down at his hands, lax in his lap,
the fingers going white in the cold night. Then, with-
out closing his eyes, everything became fuzzy. Then
sight was gone completely and he felt as if he had
fallen deep inside the black earth,

1 6 NOV 1 8:45

Cold mountain water, coming from below
Who are you to ask? Who am I to know?

"STARS OVERHEAD"

The bar was dark, and stuffy after the cold outside
air. The Pig and Whistle was only four blocks from
the station and had been the local cop bar for as long
as Stepovich had been around. He'd heard from Ed
that once the bar had tried to foster a genteel tavern/
inn atmosphere, but that the owner had given it up
when a bunch of the guys got together and had a new
signboard made for him. The antiqued board por-
trayed a pig in a blue uniform tooting on a silver

How the Devil Set Her Traps        219

whistle- The sign was gone now, but so was the at-
tempt at atmosphere. The Pig and Whistle was what
it was: a cop bar,

Tonight's crowd was typical. The clientele varied
from off-duty patrolmen in worn sweatshirts and
jeans to detectives in jackets and ties still. What didn't
vary was the way, even here, no one was ever com-
pletely relaxed. Eyes moved constantly, men shifted
every time the door opened. Most of the women were
cops, or office personnel from the station. There were
a scattering of cop groupies, uniformly scorned by the
female officers. "like we can't get enough of each
other all day," Stepovich muttered. "We got to hang
around each other all night, too." He lifted his mug
and drained it.

"Wha—?" Durand asked.

"Nothing," Stepovich told him.

Durand was holding a plastic sack of ice against his
jaw and drinking cold beer. He still couldn't talk
much. They'd moved to a table in the corner after
the bartender had asked what "happened to his face.
"\ slammed his head in the car door by accident,"
Stepovich had explained. "Radio squawked and he
ducked to grab it just as 1 shut the door." The story
was just weird enough to sound plausible. Something
Ed had taught him a long time ago. "If you're going
to tell a lie, tell a memorable one. Makes it easier to
keep your story straight later." Which was great ad-
vice, coming from someone who almost never lied.
Someone who would never get himself into a fix like
Stepovich was in now.

Stepovich held his empty mug up, nodded back to
Lois when he was sure she'd seen he needed a renll-
"We should get something to eat soon," he told Du-
rand. He could feel the beer warming his empty
stomach, loosening him up.

"Uh-huh," Durand agreed. He lifted the ice pack
away from his face, considered a moment then put it

220 THE GYPSY

back. The damn kid just kept on looking at him/ like
that/ with those eyes. Not pushing/ not demanding.
Just waiting, knowing that Stepovich already knew
all the questions, and knew, too, that he owed Du-
rand some answers.

He took a breath, wondering which was getting to
him faster, the beer or the puppy-eyes. "Kid. Look.
This is what happened. It's all like a chain, one little
thing after another, none of it really bad, but it looks
bad, if you don't know what happened."

"Uh-huh."

Witty conversationalist. Stepovich took a breath.
"You sure you feel okay? You maybe want to get
something to eat, some soup or something? Talk later
on?"

"Huh-uh."

Stepovich shifted, his belt creaking, his off-duty
gun digging him, just a little, under the arm. He
scratched at it, pulling the holster down a bit. "There
was a knife, when we busted that gypsy. But I didn't
turn it in with his other belongings. I ... uh ... it
went down in the lining of my jacket. And ... I had
a feeling, Durand. I still do. I don't think the Gypsy
we busted killed the liquor store clerk. I know you
like him for Cynthia Kacmarcik's killing, but I don't
think that's him either. But I do think he's a link. So
I gotta find him,"

"Why?"

"To talk to him."

"No." Durand shifted his ice pack, spoke with ef-
fort. "Why you think he's a link?"

Stepovich scratched his nose. "I don't know.
Maybe because they're both gypsies. Mostly, I just
got a feeling."

"Where's the knife now?"

Stepovich hesitated. "In a safe place." He prayed
he wasn't lying. "I don't wanna, you know, well, if
I can take care of this thing without it coming out that

How the Devil Set Her Traps         221

I was sloppy about booking the knife in, you know.
I mean, you know how it is. It's just better if you
don't give them a reason to start checking you out,
you know? I do good work, Durand. This was one
little screwup, I don't think I should have to pay a
big price for it, you know?"

Durand lifted his beer, sipped it carefully. He set it
back on the table, sighed, and dropped the sack of
melting ice next to it. "I'd feel better if the lab had a
look at the knife," he said carefully.

Stepovich looked at him steadily. "The liquor-store
guy was shot-.'And I had the knife when Cynthia Kac-
marcik was killed. You know that."

Durand sniffed meditatively. He lifted his big eyes
to meet Stepovich's, then looked past him. "Yeah. I
know that."

SOMETIME

The candle burned down from its place on the sill.
The curtains caught fire but the house remained

Standing there still.

Turning around, saw you looking at me
With tears running down from the place where your

Eyes used to be.

"WALK THROUGH THE DOOR"

The nora touches the Fair lady on Her knee and says, ' 'She
has stopped spinning now."

"Oh, has she? Well, fetch her out then."
The nora goes to the door, but finds it already open, and
the woman comes forth. In her hands is a length of spun
" yam. She goes up to the Fair Lady, who says, "I reached

my hand for one who troubled me, and you chose to put
^: yourself in my way, so I took you, instead. Then you con-

222 THE GYPSY

trived to weave, and thought to keep me away from you
that way, but your spirit is no stronger than your flesh
was. You had to stop at last, Cynthia Kacmarcik, and now
we have you."

"When I was born," she says, "My name was Rozsa.
But I became ill as a babe, and would have died, so they
gave me a new name and the illness could no longer find
me."

The Fair Lady frowns, as if this disturbs Her. But the
old woman says, "There is a tree of the world, and its
leaves brush the moon, where King David plays the fiddle
and the saints dance. You brought me here because I saw
the tree, and knew who stood under it, sheltered from your
hailstones, and because I stopped you when you would have
cut it down. But, see, I have woven yam from its twigs.
The Dove has blinded himself, but I have taken the veils
away, and soon he will see. The Raven will be saved by the
love with which you cursed him, and the Coachman has
his horses. As for the Owl, there is this."

With that she throws the yam into the fire, where it at
once begins to bum, and the smoke, grey as a storm cloud,
goes out the flue and into the world of men, and yet the
yam also stays in the fireplace, always burning, never
burned.

The Fair Lady gnashes Her teeth as the nora and the
liderc pounce on the old woman and drag her away. She
doesn't resist.

THIRTEEN

What the Badger Said to the Raven,
and the Owl Said to the Coachman

AUTUMN AFTERNOON

How can you have lived this long
And not give in to rage?
Don't you understand that
We've both outlived our age?
There is no ffnal curtain;

This is not a stage.

Can you read what's written

On this blackened page?

"BLACKENED PAGE"

The Gypsy smelled herb tea and wondered ironically
if "huh" could be some sort of magic word, because
the old woman said it every time she turned a card
Over. She had shuffled and dealt them herself, ignor-
ing him after he'd cut them as commanded/ and then
she'd laid them out on a bright red silk/ patterned
with designs that stirred up hints of old memories-
old memories that wanted to drag him away, only
now he wouldn't let them. An old woman had died
to give him a chance to complete his task—not to al-
low him to ruminate on his past.

She quickly finished laying the cards out, her hands
steady, the cards placed deliberately in a pattern the
y Gypsy almost recognized. Then she studied them for

224 THE GYPSY

a long time, occasionally glancing up into the Gypsy's
face as if to confirm or deny what the cards told her.

Eventually she gave a "hummph," and made a
move as if to gather the deck up.

"Wait," he said.

She paused. "Yes/ well?"

"Aren't you going to tell me what they mean?"

"Why? Would you believe them?"

"How did you know I was coming?"

She nodded slowly, then pulled one from beneath
a small stack. It showed a man holding a globe in one
hand and a staff in the other. "The Hermit/' she said.
"Reversed. That's you, it seems, though I wouldn't
have thought it."

"Why not?"

She ignored the question. "The key is The Emperor
reversed, which I knew to begin with, and the Ace of
Swords crosses it. The—"

"What does it mean?" he asked, becoming an-
noyed.

"Mean? The Ace of Swords? Look at it."

He shrugged and did so. A single sword pointing
to the sky, a halo of leaves around it, and he sud-
denly thought of the knife that pressed against his
hip. But it certainly couldn't be anything so simple.
He opened his mouth to ask again, but she said, "It's
the Tower that motivates you, that drives you, al-
though whether you work to build it or tear it down
I couldn't say. But I expect you work to destroy it, for
the Wheel of Fortune reversed is what has brought
you to this point."

The Gypsy felt his impatience growing. "And what
is this point, then, old woman?"

She held up the next card, showing an old king
standing on disks with stars, holding another star,
while yet another rested on his crown. "This point is
gathering power, little bird. Building forces, calling
up an army. Or maybe it's getting others to do your

What the Badger Said to the Raven      225

work for you. Like me, little bird, and I don't like it,
though there's nothing I can do about it now."

She said, "The ten of Pentacles tells me you may
get what you think you want. But whether this next
card refers to you or to all of those who try to help
you, I couldn't guess." He looked at the next card,
in which a man lay face down with ten swords stick-
ing out of his back, and looked away again.

"Yes," she said, her words like whips. "That's the

§ame you're playing, that's what you're courting,
uttering in and out, cooing in everyone's ear. Think
about it, since you've asked."

She sighed. "Yet, we have this for the environ-
ment, and it is hope, if nothing else." A beautiful
woman drank from a cup, her eyes fixed on it as if in
contemplation. "And your desire is Temperance,
which gives me hope as well; it is more than I'd have
thought of you.

"And you may wish for the nine of Cups, yet have
the five of Cups to regret. The outcome. Hmmph.
Perhaps you'll escape."      ^

She stopped, waiting.

The Gypsy stared at her. At last he said, "If any of
this has any meaning, old woman, tell me now. I am
older than you, and far more weary. I am living too
many riddles to take any pleasure in hearing yet more
from your lips. 1 don't know why I've been put on
this path, but it isn't to serve your whims."

She stared back at him from behind eyes like velvet
curtains, then she looked away and nodded. "Very
well," she said. "Perhaps it will hinder more than
help, but you have the right to know the little I can
tell you.

"The Hermit reversed is someone on a path, seek-
ing. He's looking for something. Does that make
sense?"

"If I want it to," said the Gypsy.

"Yes," agreed Madam Moria. "Exactly. The Queen

226 THE GYPSY

of Swords reversed is, huh, have you noticed that all
of the women in this reading are reversed? You are
either dealing with evil women, little Dove, or you
have some attitudes—"

"Tell me about the Queen of Swords, old woman."

She glared at him for a moment, then said, "She is
intelligent. She is perceptive. She is cruel. She rea-
sons well. Her influence is all around you. Does that
sound familiar? Have you a guess who it could be?"

"Save your irony, old woman. This card?"

"Yes- The Tower. The flash of truth or inspiration.
The end of all you've believed."

"It looks worse than that,"

"It will feel worse than that when it happens."

"And the card with the wheel?"

"The Wheel of Fortune reversed is just past- You
have been unable to effect the course of events, and
you've been forced to wait. This is the passing."

"And this card, that you said meant the gathering
of forces?"

"Call it the pivot point. How you will affect the
events, obviously. Through the actions of others.
Does that startle you?"

"Goon."

"Temperance. You wish to bring the parts together
that have been sundered. But this, too, I think you
know already. The outcome, though, is split. You
have two choices. One is pestilence, disease, the ten
of Swords. The other are these three cards, the nine
of Cups for wishes coming true, the five of Cups for
sorrow, the Sun for escape and protection."

"So perhaps I will die, or perhaps I will escape, but
I can't win?"

"So I read it. You may read it better if you can."

"The cards you use, they seem to be of many dif-
ferent styles."

"I use the cards that please me, some from one
deck, some from others."

What the Badger Said to the Raven     227

"Yes, I believe this."

Her eyes flashed. "It is not for you to judge me."

He laughed suddenly. "If I don't, young woman,
who will?"

She frowned. "Young woman?"

"Older perhaps than the woman who was killed try-
ing to help me, but younger than my brothers and I."

"You are more than you seem. I think . , ." Her
voice trailed off and she frowned again.

"What do you think, young woman?"

Her lips twitched. "I think you are as much a fool
as the Coachman, who sees the route, but not the
ending. You push us all along a path that—"

He stood up, suddenly lost in a torment of fear,
hope, and anger. "Coachman? What do you know of
a Coachman?"

"I know he is a drunken fool," she snapped. "I
sent him away so we could have some priv—"

"You sent him away?" cried the Gypsy.

For the first time, she seemed uncertain. "He had
played his part in—"         fc

"The Queen of Swords reasons'well, you say, but
what if her facts are wrong? What then for her pow-
ers? What damage will she do? Perhaps you are the
Queen of Swords reversed, woman, and your arro-
gance will destroy us all."

i if   11

"Perhaps the painful revelation is yours, and it is
to happen now."

"I never wanted to be part—"

"Be still- Which of us did want to be part of it? You
dare to accuse me of using people? Is your wit so keen
that you can outguess Luci Herself? Is your Sight so
great that you can see into Her heart? Are your hands
so skilled that you can untangle every thread She
weaves? Is your power so great that you can send Her
away? What have you done, woman?"

228 THE OYPSY

She stared at him/ puzzled and frightened. "Who
are you?" she asked in a whisper.

"I? I am Csucskari the Gypsy. I am a Taltos. I am
the one who has sworn an oath against the Fair Lady
and all Her works. I am the only hope we have against
Her/ poor though it be. You are an arrogant fool/ old
woman. You see the bottom of the stream so clearly/
you forget there is water above it, and you'd let us
drown in your pride, then curse us for being unable
to breathe. Well, if you have such keen sight/ use it
now/ while there may yet be time. Where is the Coach-
man?"

"I don't know," she whispered after a moment.
"My sister would know."

"Then ask her. Now."

She looked up at him, then looked away. She
seemed to shrink into herself/ then she sighed and
stared down/ absently, into her teacup. She stirred
the leaves with one bony finger., and after a time she
spoke.

NOVEMBER SIXTEENTH, 7:20 PM

Wefl, I left there running like a thousand
Devils were on my trail
Woah. lannan sidhe let me be.

"LANMAN SIDME"

Ed reached for the remote control, turned the TV
down three clicks before answering the phone.

"Ed?" demanded a voice before he could even say
hello.

He sat up on the couch, trying to place the voice.
"Yes," he said guardedly.

"It's me. Tiffany Marie," she went on, and when

What the Badger Said to the Raven     229

he didn't answer right away, she added, "Say you
don't know me, and I'll drag a nail down the side of
that Caddy the next time I see it parked in our loading
zone."

"Tiffany Marie, no one could ever forget you, or
that red hair. I'm just wondering why you're calling
me."

"Look, Ed, this is important. Man, I think I know
how important better than anyone else," she added,
almost to herself, "I can't get Stepovich, his phone
Just rings, and maybe it wouldn't be a good idea to
get him anyway. And Randy . . . Durand doesn't an-
swer either, so I figured I'd better call you. It's about
Mike's kid."

"What?" Ed was already sticking his feet back into
his shoes. All the skin on his scalp was tingling, an-
dent hackles standing up as his cop sense sent alarms
screaming.

"His girl, whatshername, Laurie? You know her?"

"I stood godfather to her," Ed answered grimly,
but Tiffany Marie was still talking.

"She's in here. At least, I'm pretty sure it's her, I
only met her those two times. Anyway, she's painted
up like a whore, and she's with this older guy, this
gypsy-looking guy, and he's like, all over her. Christ,
Ed, she can't be more than fourteen, and this guy is
really moving on her, and she's acting like, well, she's
not exactly pushing him away. And the guy isn't
some street kid, I mean, he's a corner musician or
something. Hell, he's not only too old for her, he's
too old for me. Look, Ed, I don't think she's made
any really big mistakes yet, and maybe if someone
like you gets down here—dammit, now there's a fight.
Gotta go—"

"I'm coming," said Ed and hung up the phone as
he reached for his jacket. Shit. Someone was putting
little Laurie out on the streets? Where the hell was
Mike, what was he thinking of to let his little girl run

230 THE GYPSY

loose at this hour of the night? He picked up his
Caddy keys off the coffee table/ thought briefly of call-
ing Jenny. Decided against it. She'd just get shrill and
jump into the middle of it and make it messy. Well,
it wasn't going to be messy. Good thing Tiffany Marie
had called him. He'd make it fast and quiet.

He stopped by the door, then turned and went back
to his bedroom. In a bottom drawer was a gift box
with a sap-glove in it. It had been a long-ago gag from
Stepovich after Ed had done a lot of pussyfooting in
an interrogation one night. "Next time, try this," the
note had said.

He slipped on the black leather. It fit. "Good thing
she called me," he said again to himself. "I won't kill
him, like Mike would. And I won't arrest him and
make a lot of paperwork and noise about it, either.
Just extract the little girl, convince the guy to stay
clear of her, and get her home." He flexed his hand
inside the weighted glove. Sometimes it was easier
not being a cop anymore.

He caught up his keys and went out the door,
whistling "I'm Called Little Buttercup." The sky
above him was grey, like dark smoke.

16 NOV 19:22

Ain't got time to listen,

Ain't got eyes to see.

Woah, lannan sidhe let me be.

"LANNAM SIDHE"

Three rounds of beer had come and gone. By now,
he should be feeling them, should be numbed a little,
should be able to let his shoulders slump against the
chair back. Instead, Stepovich felt as if he were being

What the Badger Said to the Raven     231

drawn tighter and tighter, wound up like some little
mechanical toy- His jaws were clenched, as if he
feared too much truth would jump out of him if he
relaxed. And Durand would never be able to handle
the whole truth. Durand might talk wild and woolly,
but when it came down to cases, he was absolutely
by the book. Letter of the law. Stepovich cleared his
throat, felt Durand's eyes jump back to him.

"Okay." His voice came out rusty, and he cleared his
throat again. "I did some really stupid stuff. But I'm not
dirty, Durand, and I didn't do anything really wrong. I
mean, not wrong like morally wrong. Maybe wrong, like
in ignoring standard procedure, but not wrong like
ethics. You know what I mean?"

Durand nodded slowly. "Yeah, I know what you
mean. I'm just not sure if I agree with it. Maybe you
didn't do anything dirty, but you broke a hell of a lot
of rules. And if you hadn't, your ass wouldn't be in
a crack right now. And neither would mine. But I'm
willing to help you out, as long as it doesn't mean
breaking any more rules. You got to understand, Ste-
uh-Mike, that I'm just starting out. Something like
this could screw my career permanently. See, I'm not
really as stupid as you think I am."

Stepovich was forced to nod, feeling both relieved
that Durand could understand what he meant, and
ashamed that he had always assumed his partner was
too dumb to talk to.

"So. Where does all this leave us?" Durand de-
manded after a few moments had passed. The bag of
ice was a plastic puddle in the middle of the table. He
still nngered his jaw from time to time, but the worst
of the swelling had gone down.

"Well," Stepovich gathered his thoughts. "It
doesn't leave us with a lot. No hard information, any-
way. Just feelings, and maybes, and stuff that doesn't
quite add up- Here's how it looks to me. We've got a
guy killed in the liquor store and the old gypsy

232 THE GYPSY

woman dead in the hotel. You think it's the same
guy, both times, you think it's that gypsy we picked
up—"

"Actually, the liquor store witness—" Durand be-
gan/ but Stepovich held up a hand.

"Just let me finish. Because he matched the clerk's
description, and because he had a knife that might
have been like the one used on the old woman."

"And he matched the description the hotel clerk
gave to homicide when they asked who the room was
rented to," Durand interjected, but Stepovich chose
to ignore him and plow stubbornly on.

"Now I'm with you on thinking the same guy did
both of them. Damned if I can really say why, it's just
a reeling and it's got nothing to do with the descrip-
tion from the liquor store matching the description
from the hotel clerk."

"If you'd listen," Durand began, but Stepovich
slapped the table.

"Dan-unit, let me finish. Hear me out. I don't think
it's our gypsy. Think about this. One killed with a
gun, one killed with a knife. That's weird. Because
killers choose a weapon and stick to it, because it's
the weapon that makes them feel the best, most pow-
erful, most in control. Now I know the Gypsy didn't
have his knife when the old woman was killed. But
it was done with a knife very similar to his, and maybe
in his room. Why? Frame-up? It's not a hell of a lot
to go on, Durand. I admit that. The only thread I can
see hanging loose is our gypsy. Only I got no idea of
how to find him."

"You done?" Durand demanded impatiently.

"Yeah. I guess." Stepovich waited for Durand to
blast his fragile theories to pieces.

"Good. Because here's one more thing that doesn't
fit. The witness from the liquor store has changed his
story. Now he says the killer wasn't a gypsy at all,
but some skinny pale dude. No one wants to believe

What the Badger Said to the Raven     233

him, so the warrant is still out for the Gypsy. They
all figured someone got to the witness and made him
change his story—"

"Or," Stepovich interjected, "he was lying before,
for whatever reason, and now he's telling the truth.
Damn. I got to talk to that gypsy. He's the key."

"That's why Ed turned you on to Madam Moria,
because he thought she might have a line on other
gypsies in town?"

"Yeah." Stepovich took a sip of beer. Half of it
went down before he choked. He coughed, couldn't
form the question, but Durand answered it anyway.
Something suspiciously like a blush rose on his face.

"So," Stepovich asked heavily. "How long you
and Ed been getting together and comparing notes?"

Durand spoke like the words were being dragged
out.

"It's not like that, Stepovich. What's between me
and Ed goes way back; it's not just this gypsy thing.
See, Ed was my Dad's friend, a long time ago. Went
through the academy together, I guess, then kind of
lost touch. Or didn't get along.- Ed's a lot like you,
sort of free and easy with procedure, and my dad
wasn't like that. Anyway. I'd forgotten all about him,
but my mother hadn't. Mom called him when I got
out of the academy, before I was even officially hired,
and begged him to use his pull to get me partnered
with somebody decent. Somebody he thought I'd be
safe with. I guess he chose you." Then, as the anger
washed over Stepovich's face, Durand added, "Look,
I didn't know about it until after it happened. Pissed
me off, that she thought I couldn't make it on my
own. It isn't the kind of thing my dad would have
liked either. My dad wasn't the kind of cop who took
favors, or did them. I could have done okay on my
own. I thought you knew about it and that was why
you were so shitty to me, you thought you were ba-
bysitting or something."

234 THE GYPSY

"This is the first I ever heard about it," Stepovich
began.

"I know," Durand cut in ruefully. "A couple days
ago, Ed called me up, asked how we were getting on,
and I lit into him. And he said you didn't know a
damn thing about it/ that he figured I'd have to earn
your respect on my own. So then I felt like a real jerk
for all the times I'd tried to show you I was so tough
and so smart I didn't need your help."

"Makes two of us," Stepovich muttered.

"So," Durand said at last. "You get anything from
Madam Moria?"

Stepovich swirled the last of his beer in his glass,
then drank it down. Abruptly/ he held his mug up
and waved it, hoping the waitress would notice they
needed refills. He took a deep breath, looked up and
met his partner's eyes. "You ready to hear some re-
ally weird shit?" he asked him.

THURSDAY NIGHT

And at the end will be the place
Whence the owl has flown,
And I'll dance for you the Gypsy Dance
That you have never known.

"GYPSY DANCE"

The fight didn't have a beginning as far as Daniel was
concerned. The first he knew of it, he was on his
hands and knees, trying to get up, feeling bits of glass
embedded in the back of his head, and knowing that
a pointed-toed boot was coming, but also knowing
how to avoid it. His Lorelei shrieked, and the red-
haired waitress rushed in their direction with an up-
raised tray, and all he could think, stupidly, was that

What the Badger Said to the Raven     235

most dogs will run if you shout at them, but some
will slink back later to bite you from behind. Daniel
should never have walked away from him; he should
have crammed his money down his throat and made
him choke on it.

The boot was coming, and as he rolled onto his side
and grabbed it, throwing the man off balance, his
Lorelei came up out of the booth like a wildcat,
throwing salt, pepper, sugar, and herself at his at-
tacker. One of the man's wildly flailing arms caught
her across the face, and sent her sprawling against
another table. The redheaded waitress smacked the
man once across the ear with the tray, driving him to
his knees, and then dove after Lorelei, screaming,
"Laurie! Stay dear of this, you'll only get hurt!"

The sight of her thrown against the tables brought
Daniel staggering to his feet. His knife came into his
hand and he opened it slowly/ savoring the ratcheting
sound and the widening of the other man's eyes. The
vermin was clutching a chair, and as Daniel came to-
ward him, he lifted it, not as a weapon but as a shield-
"You wanted to know what she'd cost?" Daniel asked
him softly, in a language he hadn't spoken in years.
"She would cost both your life and mine, and still I
wouldn't let you touch her."

The man glanced about wildly but there were few
other customers at this hour of the night, and all of
them were hastily retreating out the door. The wait-
ress had gripped Lorelei by the wrist and hair, and
was forcibly holding her back- Daniel saw in his at-
tacker's eyes that he had never expected it to go this
way, that he had thought he would surprise them
and take the girl quickly. He was regretting his im-
pulse, but now it was too late. And Daniel saw, too,
that the man knew nothing of this kind of nght, and
that made him smile.

He came forward smoothly, knife low, the even bal-
ance never leaving his body from step to step. When

236 THE GYPSY

the man threw the chair at him, he sidestepped it as
lightly as a cat. "Hey/ man, I'm unarmed! I don't got
a knife or nothing!'" the man protested as Daniel
and his knife came closer, and it made Daniel's smile
wider to hear this man beg him to follow rules of
honor. Even as he lowered his knife, he knew what
would come next.

He was ready when the man leaped. Suddenly
Daniel wasn't where the man thought he would be/
but the knife's pommel found him as he passed,
sending him crashing into yet another table. And
Daniel followed, his fingers closing like talons on the
man's throat. The man's fists were hammering at
Daniel's body, but there was desperation rather than
strength behind them. If that was the best he could
do, Daniel could stand it for the short time it would
take him to choke the man unconscious. The man's
blows lost strength rapidly, and Daniel knew he was
winning when his enemy's breath began to rattle and
he reached up to claw hopelessly at Daniel's closing
hand. With his other hand, Daniel closed his knife
and slipped it into his back pocket.

"Enough. Break it up!"

The man's tongue was starting to breach his lips.
His eyes were very wide, and a blood vessel had bro-
ken in one.

"I said, break it up!"

Daniel didn't realize the voice had spoken to him
until he was literally lifted off his feet by the back of
his jacket. There were other voices, the waitress ex-
claiming, "Thank God! What took you so long?" And
Lorelei crying out, "Ed, if you hurt him, I'll never
forgive you and I'll tell my dad."

"Let go of him, dammit!" the voice roared right in
his ear, and Daniel did. He watched in a sort of won-
der as the man slumped to the floor. For several long
moments, the unconscious man didn't move, and
then he made a wheezing noise, and then another.

What the Badger Said to the Raven     237

Daniel felt some of the tension go out of the fist grip-
ping him, and he turned in the grasp.

Cop. He didn't need the uniform or the badge to
know it. It was all in the stance and the eyes and the
calm way he told Daniel, "You're coming with me."
He turned and spoke more loudly to the waitress.
"Cancel the ambulance. Tiffany. The one on the floor
looks like he'll be able to walk in a while. And I'd just
as soon not make a big fuss out of this. know what I
mean?" The cop nudged the downed man with his
foot. "You want I should put this one outside?"

The redhead shook her head slowly. "Nah. Leave
him on the floor, Ed. When he recovers, he can get
out on his own. If he's got any complaints, I don't
know about them. I was in back, filling ketchup dis-
pensers all the time."

A very slight smile cracked the big man's face. "I
thought you mighta been. But you sure you want it
that way? He might have a mind to be mean when
he catches his breath."

Tiffany shook her head andT wrinkled her nose in
disgust. "S'okay, Ed. I think all his mean just ran
down his leg. I don't think he'll give me any trou-
ble."

Lorelei, who had stood quietly, suddenly twisted
free of Tiffany's grip. "Let go of him," she said, tak-
ing Daniel's arm.

"He's going with me. And you're going home."
The big man's voice brooked no argument.

Daniel shook his head, but didn't know what to
say. Lorelei drew herself up straight. "You can't do
that! He's hurt. And besides you gotta have, uh,
probable cause. You can't say disturbing the peace,
because he was defending me. That other guy was
trying to buy me!" The sudden outrage in her voice
was genuine.

"Oh, golly-gee! I wonder whatever made him think
you were for sale." The heavy sarcasm in Ed's voice

238 THE GYPSY

reddened Lorelei's cheeks and shame lowered her
eyes. "Look at you/' he went on. "Dressed like a
street slut and talking like a jailhouse lawyer. Oh,
your Daddy's gonna be real proud of his little girl."

Lorelei looked up, but the sudden flash of anger in
her eyes threatened to drown in brimming tears. But
Daniel jerked, stung. "You will not talk to her like
that," he said. He could hear the concern that under-
lay the policeman's words, but he could not bear to
see Lorelei so downcast. "You do not understand
what has gone on this night."

The policeman smiled, all teeth. "You will not talk
to me like that/ gypsy. You and me, we're gonna take
a ride and go talk to the little girl's daddy. You wanta
explain what went on tonight, you can talk to him.
But I warn you, I don't think he's gonna be real rea-
sonable about it. So you might want to think about
anything else you could tell him that would make him
happy. Like maybe anything you know about a dead
woman named Cynthia Kacmardk. Or one of your
old gypsy buddies who's got some real interesting
scars."

There was no mistaking the pattern the man traced
on his face. It had to be Csucskari he referred to- Dan-
iel simultaneously felt exdtement and a heaviness in-
side him, as if his soul had turned to lead. His heart
bid him follow Lorelei, but duty had ruled him too
long. He had to go with this man, endure his ques-
tioning, no matter how he might be treated. A clever
man could learn much from questions; it could not
leave him farther from the Dove. He turned to Lore-
lei.

"It's all right/' he told her. "I have to go with him.
And you must go home, where you will be safe. But
it will be all right. You'll see."

The man on the floor suddenly got up and made a
shambling rush for the door. No one moved to stop
him, nor even commented on his passage. The wait-

What the Badger Said to the Raven     239

ress calmly crossed the room and started to right the
chairs and tables.

"But you're hurt!" Lorelei objected hopelessly The
tears spilled now, tracking lines in the smeared makeup.
"Your head's bleeding! And it's all my fault. If I
hadn't—"

"He'll be okay. I'll take care of him," the big man
said gruffly before Daniel could. "Look, Laurie. Tif-
fany's going to call you a cab, and you're going to go
straight home. You came a gnat's ass away from big
trouble tonight. If I didn't think this creep had kept
you from really getting into it, I'd bust his head right
here. So you just get yourself home and safe, and
stay out of trouble. Okay?"

"Oh, sure," cried Lorelei angrily. She rubbed her
face, completing the ruin of her painted eyes. "Little
Laurie should go home and be a good little girl. I
know what will happen. I'll never see him again!"
The last was a wail that cut Daniel's soul.

"You will," Daniel promised, ignoring the police-
man's dark glance- "I'll have To find you to get my
fiddle back, won't I?" And he nodded to where the
case was still propped in the booth they had shared.

Lorelei's face lifted a little. "You promise?"

"Little sparrow, I'd sooner part with a hand than
my nddle. For one without the other is no use at all.
I'll come for my fiddle." And for you, his eyes added,
and he saw her hear the voice of his heart. She
crossed the room and taking up the case, held it as
lovingly as if it were his child.

"Get moving," the cop told him gruffly and started
him on his way with a push. Daniel didn't resist. This
one couldn't know it, but he was taking him closer to
the Dove and the task that must be finished. And
when it was finished, he would trust his fiddle to call
him back-

"Ed?" It was the waitress, following them to the
door. She was speaking softly. "You don't mind, I'm

240 THE GYPSY

not going to call that cab right away. There's a few
things I'd like to tell that little girl, before she goes
any further. Sort of a payback to Mike, you know
what I mean?"

"I don't know anybody else who could tell her bet-
ter, Tiffany Marie. I'm going to take this fellow to
Mike now, and I'll let him know. Hey, you need some
money for the cab?"

"No. You just worry about what you've got to han-
dle. But, uh, Ed, for what it's worth/ it's true. That
guy had his eyes on Laurie. That gypsy hadn't a stood
up to him, he'd a taken her. For what it's worth."

"Okay. I'll make sure Mike knows it- See ya, kid."
The cop pushed the door open with one black-gloved
hand, and pushed Daniel before him with the other.
There was a big car at the curb, grey in the street
lights. "Get into it," the old policeman told him.
"You've heard of protective custody? Well, I'm going
to put you in protective handcuffs." When Daniel
didn't speak, but merely got into the car, the other
grunted. "Don't touch nothing, and for Christ's sake,
don't bleed on the upholstery."

16 NOV 19:48

Leaping in the darkness, laughing in the wind;

Look down, look down, look down, look down,
See the stars again.

"STARS OVERHEAD"

Durand slowly lifted his eyes to meet Stepovich's.
"You ever do drugs?" he asked curiously.

"No, goddammit! That's not what this was about!"
Stepovich's voice rose enough to turn heads at the
next table.

What the Badger Said to the Raven     241

Durand lifted his hands. "Hey, it was a joke. Guess
it wasn't funny. Look, you'd been hit in the head.
That was all."

"I hadn't been hit in the head when she was talk-
ing to me at her apartment."

"Yeah. Well, maybe that was just weird gypsy shit,
you know? Mystical stuff, give the gull a good show,
and all that."

"Maybe," Stepovich agreed grudgingly.

"Yeah. So, maybe what we oughta do is go back to
Madam Moria's place. If she's there, we talk, only
this time we've got a little more leverage, because
we're there legitimately." Durand stressed the last
word ponderously. "We'd be looking into what went
on this afternoon."

"Makes sense," Stepovich said slowly. "But you
can think what you like. I still think there's some-
thing to what I saw this afternoon. And to what she
told me that night."

Durand shrugged. "Suit yourself. Can't hurt to
keep it in mind."

"You know," said Stepovich, "there was a woman,
a psychic/ who got called in by Ashtabula County a
few times for tough cases. County hired her to look
at the scene of the crime and describe what had hap-
pened, and on a few missing persons cases."

Durand looked skeptical. "Yeah? What came of it?"

"Not a fucking thing," said Stepovich.

Durand laughed. "One for you," he said, and
drained his beer.

Stepovich had just finished his and set the mug
down when he saw Ed loom up behind Durand. It
gave him a perverse pleasure to watch Durand jump
when Ed laid a big hand on his shoulder.

Ed leaned over the table, spoke to them both. "Got
something for you. Outside. In my car."

Neither one asked what it was. Ed's face was
enough. They rose silently, Stepovich leaving money

242 THE GYPSY

on the table. "The car's in back," Ed told them. "I
didn't want to leave him out here under the lights. I
had to cuff him. Hurry up. He looks like the type
who'd do some damage left alone/' Their breath
made plumes in the air.

But the gypsy was sitting quietly in the front seat,
ignoring the handcuffs looped through the steering
wheel. Even in the dim alley light, Stepovich could
see he'd been roughed up. What was Ed mixed up in
now? He grabbed him by the elbow, stepped him
away from the car. "He's not the right one, Ed."

"Yes, he is." Ed glanced over to where Durand
was peering curiously in at the gypsy. The gypsy was
staring straight ahead, ignoring them all- Light
winked briefly on the key he tossed to Durand. "Un-
cuff him from the wheel and stick him in the back
seat- But keep his hands cuffed behind him, okay?"

Durand just looked at him/ eyes wide. Ed sighed.
"Look, Randy, just do it, okay? I'll explain later. You
won't get in trouble, I promise." As Durand moved
grudgingly to obey, Ed turned back to Stepovich.
"Uh, Mike. There's something I got to tell you. I'm
a little afraid that you're going to overreact. So, be-
fore I start, the first thing I want you to know is that
Laurie isn't hurt, and she's probably on her way home
by now."

"What?" Stepovich's guts squeezed tight and cold,
"What?"

"Tiffany called me down to the diner. Said there
was a guy in there with Laurie, and Laurie was all
tarted up. So I went down there, right away and—"

"You didn't call me?"

"There wasn't time. Anyway. When I got there,
there was a nght in progress. Some guy, urn, wanted
Laurie, and the guy in the car there, the gypsy, he
was beating the shit out of him. Woulda killed him,
probably, if I hadn't broke it up."

The gypsy moved dodlely from front seat to back.

What the Badger Said to the Raven     243

Durand put a hand on the gypsy's head to push it
down as he entered the car. He winced and hissed in
pain. But he went in willingly enough. Durand slid
in after him, pushing him into the corner.

"Where's the other guy?" Stepovich felt murder
building, his face reddening, the muscles in his arms
and chest swelling.

"He ran for it. I'm not as young as I used to be,
Mike."

"Bullshit!" Stepovich exploded.

"True." Ed's voice went harder. "I let him go. I
didn't think he deserved to die for hitting on a girl
dressed like a whore, even if the girl was only fifteen.
Now, wait! I'm telling you true. Laurie was dressed
to trick. And from what Tiffany told me, she was with
the gypsy there when the other guy made her an of-
fer. But!" Ed gripped Mike's arm hard, forced him to
meet his eyes. "But the gypsy wasn't selling her, he
beat the other guy to a pulp for even asking, and he
even mouthed off to me when I bawled Laurie out for
acting like a chippie. Listen, da'hmit! He's not a pimp,
and I don't think he's a trick. He's'some kind of street
musician, and for what it's worth," Ed tightened his
grip as Mike tried to shake him off a second time, "he
protected her. And I don't think they did anything.
He even backed me up when I told her to go home.
So, before you talk to him, think where Laurie would
be right now if he hadn't been around."

Both men stood silently. Stepovich could feel Ed's
eyes on him as he, himself, stared at the gypsy. The
gypsy stared back as if he knew every word passing
between them.

"You okay?" Ed asked.

"Yeah," Stepovich said tightly. "Uncuff him. I just
want to talk to him."

"You can talk to him with the cuffs on. At my place.
He got hit in the back of the head with something. I

244 THE QYPSY

figure we'll take him there, let him clean up a little,
and talk to him. Where it's quiet and private."

"Uncuff him. I want to talk to him first. Right
here."

"I don't think so," Ed said slowly. "I think we'll
leave him cuffed and go to my place."

"Ed."

"You're not the type to hit a man when he's cuffed.
And I'm not protecting just him, I'm protecting you.
Two ways. From brutality charges and from beating
insensible someone who might be able to tell you
something about this other gypsy thing."

Stepovich strangled for a moment/ cop warring with
father. He reached inside himself for coldness, got a
tentative grip on it. "Okay." He could wait. He'd
hear it all first. And when he'd heard it all, then . . .
He felt Ed's eyes on his face, forced the muscles to
relax/ his eyes to empty. "Okay- Your place. Let's
go.'

MID-NOVEMBER, 1989

There's no whiskey in the jar
I'm so dry I need a drink
I need a place to lay my head down
I need to find some time to think.

"HIDE MY TRACK"

The horses were resting, now, content. Memories of
them came back to him from a place he didn't know:

Setal, who wouldn't stop moving, even in her stall:

Sztrajktoro, who everyone else thought was bad-
tempered, but who was only frightened; Madar, who
was never really stubborn, just always had her own
ideas of what she wanted to do: Nagyful, who lis-

What the Badger Said to the Raven      245

tened so intently when he spoke. And the rest, down
through the ages.

Now they were resting, as was he. The only thing
left was a nagging feeling of something left undone,
but it was too late now. The coach had stopped at
last, and he must climb down, though he had no pas-
senger for whom to hold the door. He regretted very
little, he decided. The brandy, there at the end, had
been a mistake, but he had hurt so much. Too late
now, though. A feeling like a blanket was creeping
over him; he felt warm, comfortable, as if the pain
was over and wouldn't be back. He could rest now,
and that was what he wanted. He was drifting, ready
to sleep, except that he couldn't, because, off in the
distance, someone was making a noise. It wasn't
loud, but it was there, and it wouldn't stop. He had
not been aware of it at first, but it was growing more
annoying by the instant.

He was suddenly puzzled. He was dead, wasn't
he? Why should there be a racket? Odd. What was it?
A thump and a click-a-click, and a thump and slap.
Like the tambourines the gypsies had played.

As this thought formed, he heard it louder, more
insistent, more annoying. Damn those gypsies any-
way. Ever since he'd met them they'd been nothing
but trouble, and now they wouldn't even let him die.
He tried to yell for it to stop, but his mouth didn't
work. The noise stopped, however, and he saw a fa-
miliar face floating before him.

Can't you leave me in peace? he cried, or tried to.

Leave you in peace? Of course not. The other laughed.
Which one was he? The Owl, yes of course. I am hardly
going to leave you in peace, you have to drive us home
when we're done.

But I can't. They've killed me.

Oh, yes, I know. And they 've wrapped me in a cocoon
of darkness, which I cannot leave. I cannot use my body,

246 THE GYPSY

and yours is damaged, but I can still hear the songs of the
ritmus ordog/ can I not?

I see the horses, he admitted.

Well, there you are. Time to he up and about. I have
something for my brother now, and I'll get it to him if he
can find me before I die of the cold. I have a scarf the color
of fire and smoke, but it may not be enough.

But what can I do?

The one who knows is dead; bring my brothers to the one
who acts.

It was all so damned confusing. He wished he had
a drink. No/ on the other hand, it was probably best
that he didn't. All right. Where are you, then?

Why, I have no idea, said the Owl. Tell them to listen
for the tambourine.

Very well. But what about me?

Live.

The damned gypsy seemed to be laughing now.
The Coachman wondered why. Then, suddenly/ he
hurt too much to wonder about anything. The face
vanished in a haze of bright lights and pain.

AUTUMN NIGHT, HALF MOON RISING

For as long I remember

I've hated those red lights

And hotel rooms with plaster walls

And loud and lonely nights.

"RED LIGHTS AND NEON"

Csucskari the Gypsy hung back and let Madam Moria
go up to see what the flashing lights meant. There
were two police cars and an ambulance in the alley,
and he had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
When Madam Moria returned after an interminable

What the Badger Said to the Raven     247

five minutes, the look on her lined face matched this
feeling.

"Well?"

"He was in an accident. He is alive, and they are
bringing him to a hospital. I don't know—"

She was interrupted by a siren. The ambulance
turned around in the alley and sped away, Csucskari
watched as it went by, spitting gravel, leaving a ring-
ing in his ears. The ringing faded very slowly. Very
slowly. He fancied he could hear, behind it, the ring
of the zils of a tambourine. He listened, and it was
still there. He looked at Madam Moria, and saw from
the look on her face that she heard it, too. He started
to speak but she held a hand up and motioned him
to follow. He did so, the tap-tapping of her canes
blending with the rhythm still faintly thrumming in
his ears.

THURSDAY NIGHT

That old river keeps on rolling
And Old Hannah won't go down.
I can't give back what I ain't taken.
I won't give up if I ain't found.

"HIDE MY TRACK"

Timothy stared into his bathroom mirror, willing Her
to him. He thought of how beautiful She had been
the first time he saw Her, tried to focus his mind on
how Her eyes had warmed him. He tried to see Her
m the mirror, but the glass stayed cold, hard to his
nngers when he pressed his hand flat against it. All
it showed him was on his own face, pale, his hair
disheveled. Timmy hated the way he looked, so
mussed and sickly. "Poor little Timmy," his mom

248 THE GYPSY

would have said, and put him to bed and brought
him a dish of warm milk spooned over soda crackers.
She'd have scolded him, sadly, for getting into such
a fight, and then she'd have called the police and
complained about those neighborhood hooligans in-
timidating her son. But then his dad would have come
home, and told him to get his ass out of bed and stop
being such a sissy, why the hell don't you ever stand
up for yourself, you little pussy.

He slapped the mirror, flat-handed, and the force
of the slap rattled the medicine cabinet and started
the cut on his stomach trickling blood again. He
snatched a handful of Kleenex and dabbed up the
trickle before it could make another mess. He shook
the last six Band-aids from the box and applied them
in a row over the slash, gritting his teeth and whim-
pering softly.

He moved slowly as he walked back to his dresser.
He looked around the room. In spite of everything
that had happened to him, and in spite of all the hu-
man faith around him, his room was clean. The old
brown carpet was bare in places, and unraveling ev-
erywhere, but it was clean. The windows were clean,
the white curtains were clean, his dresser was not
only clean, but the top was clear/ because everything
was in its place. When you let things pile up and get
messy, then you get dirty, and then you're just an
animal, and he was far from being an animal. He was
more than a man, so he had the cleanest room anyone
could have.

He made it to the dresser and opened the second
drawer, the tee shirt drawer/ and looked through the
carefully folded stack to find an older one. He almost
wished he had one of those colored ones, black or
dark blue, that wouldn't show the blood stains so
much. But no, nothing looked as clean and nice as a
fresh white tee shirt. He tried to put one on/ but
couldn't lift his arms.

What the Badger Said to the Raven     249

He buttoned on a blue cotton-polyester shirt, and
then almost cried at how much it hurt to tuck it in
evenly. He went back to the mirror then, to stare, to
comb his hair, to stare again/ calling to Her as She
had taught him. She didn't answer.

He had to show Her. He went to the dresser/
moved the careful stack of tee shirts again, and took
out the gun/ feeling the weight in his hand. He'd have
to show Her, just like he'd showed his dad and mom.
He thought once of the look on his dad's face when
Timothy had said/ "I'll show you who's a pussy,"
and pulled the trigger. But then he remembered his
mom, and how she'd turned on him, how she'd
screamed and run to the telephone, and started say-
ing/ "Hello/ police, hello, police," and kept right on
screaming it, even after he'd shot her twice. She'd
turned her back on him. Just like the Lady.

No. No, She wouldn't, he'd show Her, he'd take
out the old lady, and then he'd go after the Gypsy
man, and She'd see. She'd be so proud. She wouldn't
tease him and call him Little Timmy, She'd put Her
long slender hands against his face and call him Her
big, strong man, yes, and She'd kiss him with those
full red Ups, kiss the knife marks on his stomach,
too... .

He stood still for a moment, thinking about that,
letting it stir him, and then took his jacket from its
hook in the closet. The gun felt nice in the pocket, he
could hold it as he walked, pass people on the street,
knowing that, if he wanted to, he could do for them
but good. He shut off the lights and locked his door
carefully and then walked slowly down the hallway,
gun in his hidden hand as smooth and cold as mirror
glass.

250             THE GYPSY
NOVEMBER SIXTEENTH, 1989

Watch the storm clouds, they're telling me to run
I hear the wind say to hide;

A thousand accusations of all the things I've done,
Are after me demanding I be tried.

"LANNAM SIDHE"

He pried his eyelids open a crack. White. White sheets,
white walls, white noise, all overlaid with soft shadows.
Even the light that came in the small window of the
door was a friendless white. And the smell. As if all the
smells in the world had been killed, and their remains
scrubbed up with alcohol and bleach. A fine place to
die. Then they could scrub him up with alcohol and
bleach. And the damn gypsies could walk home.

The Coachman let his eyes fall shut. He could feel the
bandage tight around his stomach, was aware of every
stitch in his thigh. No. He wasn't going to die. Dying
would have been too easy; nothing had been that easy
since he'd found the gypsies in the first place. Or they'd
found him. Which was it? It hardly mattered. And now
the Owl's words came back to him. Tekata, tekata, tek-
ata, like a fine matched team trotting, like his own heart
beating. He pulled his eyes open again. Whatever they'd
given him for pain dragged at him/ promising the
warmth and softness of sleep. But the insistent rhythm
of a tambourine pulled against it, sat him up in his bed.

The rest of the world was quiet. Someone had for-
gotten a television set in the comer, and its screen
showed nothing as it whispered white. Its bluish light
lit men sleeping or pain-drugged to stillness, shone
on a few flat empty beds. The Coachman shivered as
he pushed the thin blankets aside and swung his legs
stiffly over the edge of the bed. The cold floor bit his
bare feet. Would his clothes be in that drawer?

They weren't, and he remembered then, how they

What the Badger Said to the Raven     251

had cut them off him, the bright scissors snicking along
arid against his flesh. He longed to crawl back into bed,
but he forced himself to step softly down the ward until
he came to a sleeping man about his height and build.
No time to ask, he excused himself, for it wouldn't be
tong before men in ties with clipboards came, to question
him, over and over and over. So far he had told no one
anything, not even a name. He had pretended to be too
drunk, too dazed, too much in shock to talk. Very little
of it had been pretense. But morning would come soon,
and with it questions he had no time to answer.

The checked flannel shirt was missing two buttons,
and the jeans were too big in the waist, but they would
do. He found his pocket knife, calk, hoof pick, and some
change in his nightstand drawer. His boots were beneath
ft. The laborious task of stooping down to get them and
the agony of actually pulling them on unmanned him for
a time. He sat on the edge of that flat white bed, trying
to breathe the pain away in deep slow breaths- He wiped
the sweat from his face with the comer of the sheet. He
wasn't going to get very far under his own power. The
few dollars he had would buy him a short cab ride.
Where? Back to his cheap room, where Daniel, perhaps,
was still waiting? That might be best. Then Daniel could
nnd Raymond. He briefly considered going back to
Madam Moria's. But the thought that she might once
more shut the door in his face decided him.

Getting out of the hospital was easier than he had
expected. Even walking crabbed over, with one hand
pressed against the bandages under his shirt, he drew
Brie attention. The three nurses he saw were all tired
and harassed. He got past them by asking for himself
and being told that visiting hours were over, whereupon
he sighed and went back out; none of them noticed that
he'd come from the wrong direction. The area around
the admissions desk looked like a bus station. A man
held a bloody cloth to the side of his head while his
woman chattered earnestly at the admissions nurse in a

252 THE GYPSY

language the Coachman didn't recognize. A heavy
woman sat rocking a screaming baby while three small
children clustered around her. Two teenage boys sat next
to a girl who stared straight ahead, eyes all pupils. The
Coachman threaded his way out into the dark and cold.

The air on his face helped him push aside the con-
fusion the pain medication made, but the chill tight-
ened his skin. He was aware of the too-large jeans
rasping against the bandage on his thigh with every
step he took. The hospital was on a hill, and the sur-
rounding neighborhood was dark. He walked two
painful blocks past the hospital's parklike "quiet"
zone before he felt the telltale warmth begin on his
stomach. He walked another two blocks, counting
each painful step, before he came to the bus-stop. It
boasted a roofed enclosure, a single yellow bulb of
light encased in a heavy metal cage, and a pay tele-
phone with no handset. The Coachman sat down
heavily on the cold concrete bench. The next bus/ he
promised himself and Raymond, no matter where it
was going. He'd get on the next bus, into light and
warmth, and get off when he was in some section of
town that was still awake. He pressed his fist gently
against his stomach wound and tried not to cough.

17 NOV 01:05

A drop, a rise. a jump, a spin;

Let the music lead you.

Keep the sunlight at your back;

There's someone there who needs you.

"GYPSY DANCE"

"I think there's a piece of glass in here. . . . What the
hell did he hit you with, anyway?"

What the Badger Said to the Raven     253

The gypsy who called himself Daniel didn't an-
swer. Stepovich glanced back into Ed's kitchen,
thinking that the scene looked like something from a
'bad movie. Daniel sat in one of Ed's straight-backed

-kitchen chairs/ his hands still cuffed behind him. His
dark head drooped exhaustedly forward on his chest.
Blood had run down the back of his neck and stained
IJl -his green shirt. Anyone who walked in here, Stepov-

-ich thought, would think we were torturing him. But
Ed's big hands handled the tweezers as if he were
tying fishing flies. Durand's face showed only a mild
queasiness as he held the flashlight. Twice now, Du-
rand had raised questions about the legality of what
they were doing, in frantic whispers that Daniel

-wasn't supposed to hear. Twice Ed had growled and

- shut him up.

"Dammit, kid, get a haircut," Ed muttered, and
Durand tried to grin appreciatively.

The gypsy said nothing.

"For Christ's sake, uncuff him, Ed. I promise I
won't touch him."

"He's been telling you the truth." Ed said it matter-
of-factiy, his big blunt fangers sorting through the
gypsy's hair.

"1 just don't . . ." For an instant, all the dizzying
<shock of the gypsy's tale hit him again- Laurie in that
sleazy bar, a place he wouldn't even go himself. Lau-
rie tarted up like a whore. Stepovich gripped his cof-
fee mug with both hands, raised it, forced himself to
drink from it. None of that was the gypsy's fault. But
when he talked about Laurie, the way he called her
Lorelei, and the quiet warmth he put into her name
made Stepovich want to punch his lights out. Damnit,
she couldn't be that old yet. Couldn't be. And even
if she was, the gypsy wasn't what Stepovich had
i^ planned for his daughter. Some high school jock with
^•a letterman's jacket and a beat-up old car, or some

254 THE GYPSY

nerdy boy with thick glasses and penny loafers, even
some punk with an earring and half his head shaved—
those were the boys Laurie should be looking at, flirting
with in the hallways at school. Not some sorrow-eyed
street nddler who knew the world from the seamy side
out.

But he was the one. She'd chosen Daniel to connde
in, Daniel to shelter behind when she got in over her
head. She'd trusted him. And he'd been worthy of
her trust. Ironically, that was what he couldn't for-
give. That Daniel had been there for her, as Stepovich
hadn't. Damn. Ed was watching him. Stepovich
looked aside, forced the jealousy from his face. "1
mean it, Ed. I'm cool. Uncuff him."

Ed glanced over at him, and gave Durand a barely
perceptible nod. Durand set down the flashlight and
fashed the key out of his pocket.

"Gonna unlock you, kid. But I'm warning you, you
make any kinda funny move, you got all three of us
on top of you. Understand?" Durand was going to
have to work on his style. Then again, maybe if Du-
rand had felt better about what he was doing tonight,
he'd have put more conviction into his words.

"I understand," Daniel answered in the same dear
but exhausted voice he had used to answer all their
questions. Or almost answer, Stepovich thought to
himself as he watched the cuffs come off. Daniel
maintained the same posture, only pulling his hands
forward into his lap and gently massaging his wrists.
No complaints. No threats of police brutality charges,
no demands to know on what grounds he was being
held. None of it added, not the way he had shrugged
off Ed's offer of a trip to the emergency room, nor the
way he had constantly asked them to clarify their
questions. Hell, Daniel had asked more questions
than he'd answered. He and Ed had had a fme time,
questioning each other, dodging and weaving like

What the Badger Said to the Raven     255

boxers in a ring. Did Daniel know the scarred Gypsy?
Well, he wasn't sure. What kind of scars were on his

• face? Oh? And was he a sickly old man? No? In good
health, then? The gypsy he was with, did he have a

•• tambourine? Oh, he was alone then? And on and on-
Stepovich wasn't sure Ed had had the best of it. And
none of it added up. Anybody could look at him and

, see he was related to the scarred Gypsy. It was in the
cheekbones and the eyes, in the hooked nose and
narrow chin. He had to know something about the
man, but whatever it was, he was hiding it behind
shrugs and blank stares, and "I don't understand"s.
But he wasn't hostile, he wasn't defiant. He was wait-
ing for something, content to remain in their hands

-to see what happened next.

-,' What happened next that Ed said, "Got it!" and
flicked a chunk of glass the size of a nickel onto the
kitchen table. In the next instant he was pressing a
dish towel to the back of the gypsy's head, staunch-
ing the flow of blood, so red against the black curling
hair. "Oh," Durand breathed, and Stepovich under-
stood. The sight of it dizzied Stepovich for an instant,
as the sight and smell of blood did sometimes, and
he found himself grinning hard to hold off the weak-
ness.

"Boy's got enough hair," Ed muttered, and Step-
ovich registered that Ed had already classified him as
"the kid" and "boy." Meaning that Ed had already
made his personal judgment that Daniel was okay.
Otherwise he'd have been "the punk" and "dick-

1 head." "Hard to see through all this hair." Ed care-
fully lifted the towel away from the staunched cut as
Durand craned his neck to look at it.
"Black as a raven's wing," Stepovich said softly.
Daniel's head came up slowly, as if someone were

., pulling it on a string. The eyes he turned on Stepo-

^Vich were bird-bright and sharp, then suddenly

^"doaked.

256 THE GYPSY

Flashes: An escape from pursuit, a dream of burnt
stew, an impossible coach ride/ the suspect from a
fifty-year-old crime come to life, an old woman dead
in a hotel room, a knife that couldn't have killed.

Stepovich nxed his eyes on Daniel and cleared his
throat. "Someone told me," he said, his voice still
coming out hoarse, "that if I were wise, I'd let a
Raven sit on my shoulder and hunt with me," Was
there a flicker in those dark eyes/ still fixed on his
face? "And an Owl keep watch in the night for me.
And a Dove tell me secrets."

Durand turned incredulous eyes to Ed. But Ed had
on his "wait and see" look. After a moment, Durand
gave a slow nod of agreement.

Daniel closed his eyes for a moment. He straight-
ened slowly in the chair. Like a burden had been
lifted? No. More like he had just resettled a heavy
pack on his shoulders. His eyes were tired and old,
but the spark of hope that kindled in them was a new,
young thing. "The first thing we hunt for," he said
into the unnatural silence, "is the Coachman."

FOURTEEN

How the Gypsy Found the Owl

THREE HOURS PAST CURFEW

^ / got nothing I can offer,

Lihe a dog without a bone.
"^ If there's someone up there listening.

•„ There's a poor boy out here alone.

X--

^      HIDE MY TRACK

a

.»

'^ The cab was taking its own sweet time coming. Laurie
e- hunched lower in the booth seat;- took another sip of
^ Coke. She was alone for the moment; Tiffany Marie
^ had gone back to the counter to wait on an old woman
^ and an even older man. Thank god. Laurie was al-
f- ready sick of her lectures. Every time she finished

• with a customer, she'd come back to Laurie's booth
^ and say, "And another thing . . ." and launch into a
horror story about her experiences. Laurie knew it
was all bullshit. Tiffany didn't look like she knew the
',-first thing about the street. Laurie watched her smile,
<(. making conversation with the old people as she took
, their order, nodding and listening like what they were
. saying was really important. Laurie wondered what
they were doing out so late at night. They should

•^ have been at home, sleeping or reading newspapers
^ Or watching old movies.

^  All Tiffany Marie could talk about was how great
H Ed and her dad were, and what would have hap-

258 THE GYPSY

pened to her if they hadn't come along. Well, Laurie
didn't think they were so great. For crying out loud,
here she was with a whole bunch of problems/ and
what was her dad doing? Not worrying about her,
that was for sure. Hell, he hadn't even phoned the
diner to ask if she was safe. Some father. He was
probably too busy picking on Daniel.

Daniel. Her heart softened at the thought of him.
Dark man, shadow man, so much more real than the
strutting little jerks she went to school with, with their
designer holes in their designer jeans and pre-scuffed
leather jackets. Daniel. He was what she wanted,
what she had always wanted. He was nothing like
her father, nothing like anyone else in her world. He
was night and music and the mysterious kind of sex
that made the bottom of her stomach drop out when
she tried to imagine it.

"And another thing," Tiffany Marie said, sliding
into the booth opposite her. "That guy you were with
tonight, the one with the mustache. You probably got
all kinda romantic ideas about him, but the truth
is. . . ."

"There's my cab!" Laurie said, and slid out of the
booth, clutching the riddle to her as she went. Tiffany
Marie had already given her a ten dollar bill. As she
hurried out of the diner, across the sidewalk and into
the cab, she toyed with the idea of not going home.
Maybe Chrissy's house. No. If Chrissy still wanted to
be friends after tonight, she was going to have to do
some apologizing. Maybe her dad's? That might be
cool. She had a key to get in, and she could wait up
for him, find out what he'd done to Daniel. Shake
him up a little. Shake up her mom, too, when she
found out Laurie's bed was empty in the morning.

"Twelve-twenty-seven Garneld," she told the
driver. He just grunted, settled his cap, and pulled
away from the curb.

Laurie settled back on the seat- Cabs always stank

How the Gypsy Found the Owl       259

of people and sweat and cigarettes and old perfume.
She sat the fiddle case on her lap, as if it were a child,
and leaned her head against its neck. It smelled like
Daniel to her. She hugged it tighter. Holding it she
could almost ignore the stink of the cab. Almost. It
smelled like, well, not like a cab. More like the animal
cages in the biology lab at school. She glanced out the
window as they turned left on Cushman. After three
blocks, she was sure they were going the wrong way.

"Hey, mister!" she complained, indignant that
he'd try to rip her off like that. "You just went past
Eucalyptus."

He made no response, only ducking his head
deeper between his shoulders. Street lights and beer
signs flickered past the window. He ran the light at
Maple.

"Hey! I'm not some stupid little kid you can drive
around for a while and then charge double. I grew
up in this town, I know where I'm going."

The cabby giggled.

A stillness prickled through^Laurie. For the first
time she noticed how high the cabby's collar was, how
low his hat was pulled, the way his sleeves hung past
his wrists. In the flickering passage of light, she could
see very little of him. What she could see did not
seem very human.

She hugged the fiddle case. "I'd like to get out at
the next light." Despite her best efforts, her voice
quavered.

He glanced back at her. One eye was yellow, the
other gleamed red. "Not the next light, no," he gig-
gled. "Your light will be the light in the Lady's eyes."

260             THE GYPSY
NOVEMBER SEVENTEENTH. EARLY MORNING

Walk through the door like our brother before
A lifetime remains until dawn.
The trees seem to say you'll be passing this way
In the wink of an eye you'll be gone.

"WALK THROUGH THE DOOR"

Two hundred and eight cars had gone by. Sixty-five
pedestrians; two of them had noticed him, as evi-
denced by the pause in their footsteps before they'd
walked on. From the other direction/ the alley, two
drunks had stumbled over him, cursing. One had
started pawing at his clothing, perhaps to see if he
had anything to steal, but then had changed his mind.
Perhaps the scarf was protection in some way. Per-
haps the scarf explained why Raymond didn't feel
cold, why he hadn't died of exposure yet. He wished
he knew how many hours, or perhaps days had gone
by, but he had no way to measure time-
He had hoped, one hundred and seventy-three cars
ago, that the scarf would lend him strength, but it
hadn't; yet the fact that it had come meant that some-
one, somewhere, was looking out for him- It had a
softness and a warmth that did not belong in this
world, and there had been no one around him when
he suddenly felt it, between one breath and the next,
wrapped around his shoulders like a mother's arms.
he didn't understand it, but as long as it kept him
warm, he would not give up.

He had tried, one hundred and forty-eight cars ago,
to reach the Coachman with what little strength he
had, and he thought he'd succeeded. But the Coach-
man was dead or injured, so that might not do any
good.

Two hundred and nine. Two hundred and ten.
Eighteen buses, now. The buses made the big sounds

How the Gypsy Found the Owl       261

like trucks, but didn't have that ratchety sound from
the engine, and they had a more stately way of ap-
proaching traffic.

"Melody," someone had once told him, "is in the
fingers. Rhythm is is in the mind." It had sounded
like nonsense at the time; to tell the truth, it still did.
But in his mind he played the tambourine that rested
beneath his coat. Someone might hear it, and it was
something to do besides counting cars-
He shifted for a while to a complex Indian rhythm
he'd learned from a tabia player he'd met in Cincin-
nati: Triplets within triplets, and fives within nines.
He doubted he'd actually be able to play it on the
tambourine, but in his mind it was a very fine thing
indeed, the zils ringing out clear and precise, his
imaginary fingers rolling like waves from the rim to
the middle of the skin, and all the tones were warm
and full and perfect.
Two hundred and eleven.
It would be a good thing if he could find the Dove-
or the Raven, for that matter .^.Csucskari would know
what to do with the scarf, and-Hollo would know
how to find Csucskari. (Two hundred and twelve, and
one more pedestrian). It must have come to him with
some purpose beyond keeping him alive. After all,
what was his life worth? What was any life worth, for
that matter?

Bah. Morbid thoughts. Silly. "All you think of is
death, Bagoly," Hollo had told him once. "It isn't
healthy. And you know why that is? It's because you
never do anything. Everything that meets you pushes
you. And you always let it happen. Push push push.
This way, that way, like a stick in the river." When
had he said that? It wasn't long ago, as he recalled.
It was while they were searching for Csucskari. He,
Raymond, had noticed the taint of the Fair Lady on
their movements even then, and had tried to warn
his brother, but Hollo couldn't wait. No, it was just

262 THE GYPSY

fly this way/ fly that way, looking for something to
swoop down on, more for the pleasure of the swoop
than because it was worth having.

They shouldn't have quarreled like that. They
should never have split up. But if Daniel hadn't been
so—-
Now he was becoming angry, and that was as silly
as being morbid. Better to play the tambourine in his
mind and let the world drift, until it found a use for
him. And don't forget the scarf, because, if all were
truly over, it wouldn't be here.

The street was not very busy. Two hundred cars on
this street probably meant a long time, and the
weather had been cold, so the scarf must be doing
something. Switch back to a simpler beat so he could
keep thinking. Yes, a kajlamare. Funny how they
flowed into each other, those rhythms from cultures
that had so little in common. But then, in one way or
another (two hundred and thirteen), the Fair Lady
was common to them all. So was the will to resist
Her. Was it day or night? Had it gotten colder?
Warmer? Why could he hear and smell, but not see
or feel anything, save the scarf? Could he taste?

Dynamics, that's what it needed. Music without
dynamics was, well, it wasn't music. He built up a
nice crescendo in his mind, shaking the imaginary
tambourine for all it was worth, then brought it down
to a whisper.

Two hundred and fourteen. Two more pedestrians,
both of them noticing him. Not leaving, either. Well,
what now?

How the Gypsy Found the Owl       263
AUTUMN NIGHT

/'// never hear those songs again
But still I sometimes cry
When I think of how we left our world,
Raven, Owl. and I.

"RAVEN, OWL, AND I"

The old woman said, "I think he's gone."

Csucskari, staring down at his brother, snorted.
"I'd know if he were."

"He's cold," she said.

"Yes, I imagine he would be. I don't doubt that
he's been here for hours. They found a good place to
hide him."

"But how could he—?"

"Hush, old woman."

He bent down and wrestled his brother's form into
a position where he was sitting up, squatted, and
lifted him onto his shoulder. He was as light as air,
light as a bird.

"Where are you bringing him?" she asked.

"To your home, old woman."

"But he needs—"

"A cup of tea will see him well, I think. Do you
know how to make tea? Take his tambourine."

"If he's not dead—"

"Tcha! Don't you know Luci's work when you see
it?"

She sighed and began shuffling back toward her
home. A moment later she suddenly said, "I know
Cynthia's work, though."

"Eh?"

"That scarf, around his throat. Cynthia made it."

"Indeed? I wonder how Raymond came to it."

"I've never seen it before. Except—"

Csucskari looked at her. "Yes?"

264 THE GYPSY

"The pattern. Does it look familiar?"

"No."

"Hmmmph. You are observant. The rug in my liv-
ing room."

"Did Cynthia make that?"

"No, I did. But I didn't make the scarf."

"Perhaps Cynthia only made it recently."

"She's been dead since—" the old woman stopped
in mid-sentence. "Yes/ perhaps she did."

Csucskari matched his pace to what Madam Moria
could keep up with, and said no more as he walked.

SOMETIME

Who can ever hnow your heart, who will ever tell?
No one will believe, my friend,
All that you'll receive, my friend.
Before she locks you in your private Hell.

"THE FAIR LADY"

The Fair Lady wriggles Her toes and frowns. '"Well, " She
says, "I can hardly blame you, 1 suppose." The woman-
child stares with eyes like twin moons at the full. The Fair
Lady thinks of a Wolf howling at the moon, and has to force
Herself not to shudder. "A jackal followed the trail you left
and thought you were his prey, the Raven drove the jackal
off so Badger wouldn 't slay. The Badger brought him to the
Wolf who would not eat him down. So now the Raven leads
them all until the Dove be found."

The woman-child, left arm held tight by the liderc, says
nothing. The Fair Lady thinks she is as frightened as She
has ever seen a mortal. "But at least we have you, now,
and that should be bait for both Wolf and Raven, shouldn't
it?"

The girl clutches something tightly in her right arm. The

How the Gypsy Found the Owl       265

Fair Lady notices it for the first time, and says, "What is
that?" Her voice doesn't tinkle or chime, now, it snaps,
and carries a shock like plunging into ice-cold water. The
girl starts to cry. "What is it?" repeats the Fair Lady, but
the girl is too frightened to answer.

Screams from the little room, and the girl stops crying.
Her eyes get bigger, if that is possible, and she looks that
way. The Fair Lady smiles. "An old woman," She says,
'who thought to thwart me. You won't make that mistake,
will you?"

The girl trembles and shakes her head.

"Good. Now, what is that you're holding?"

It takes a long time for her to speak, and when she does,
her voice is so small it is almost lost in the crackling of the
fire. But she says, "His fiddle."

"His?" The Fair Lady frowns. "The Raven's?" And
then She smiles. "You've brought me his fiddle? You've
pulled his wings and brought them to me. There may be
hope for you, girl."

The girl sobs.

"Give it to me, then, and yottwill not be punished. "

The girl sobs again and shakes her head.

"What?" cries the Fair Lady. "You think to defy me?
Give me the fiddle!'' There is another scream from the next
room.

The girl sobs once more, clutches the fiddle tightly, and,
again, shakes her head.

The Fair Lady's eyes are cold as ice, cold as snow, cold
as the space between Her world and ours, cold as the heart
of the midwife. She speaks to the liderc. "Take her away
and bring her back when she's changed her mind."

They open the door to where the old woman is crying out
from the pain of the hot coals the nora is pressing to the
bottoms of her feet. The girl sees this and stumbles, almost
falls, and her tears flow now in rivers.

"Well," demands the Fair Lady. "Will you give me what
I want?"

But she shakes her head once more. The fair lady scowls

266 THE GYPSY

and nods to the liderc, who pushes the girl into the room
and closes the door.
The Fair Lady stares into the fire, thinking.

17 MOV 01:48

/ can't hear the fiddles when you hum.
I can't see where the raven files,
t can't hear the rhythm for the drum.
And I can't see the forest for your eyes.

"GYPSY DANCE"

Ed set down the receiver. "No luck. Guy at the room-
ing house says your Coachman hasn't come back.
Bitched at me about the rent being overdue, too." He
flung himself down in a saggy overstuffed chair and
looked up at the ceiling.

"Where else does he hang out?" Durand demanded
of Daniel, who was sitting beside him on the couch.
Durand balanced a mug of coffee on his knee. Daniel
held his with both hands, as if to still their shaking.
They looked/ Stepovich, thought, more like college
buddies than a cop questioning a suspect. Stepovich
took a sip of coffee, settled his shoulders against the
door jamb again. "Bars?" Durand suggested. "Does he
have a favorite? Is there a woman, a friend he'd go to?
Where would he go?" Stepovich and Ed exchanged
glances. Durand was pushing Daniel to answer before
he'd had a chance to think.

Daniel shrugged wearily. "I don't know, I told you,
I've only been here a short time. I haven't been living
in his pocket."

"I saw blood in that carriage," Stepovich said sud-
denly. "Madam Moria didn't look hurt. Neither did
the Coachman, but he might be able to take a bullet

How the Gypsy Found the Owl       267

and not let it show for a while. So think about this;

kid: If he was hurt, maybe bad, where would he go?"

"We could try phoning hospitals," Ed suggested.
"It's tedious, but it's paid off before."

"If we have to," Stepovich shrugged. "But let's
have the kid trunk on it, first."

Daniel was trying. The strain showed in his face.
"With this Madam Moria, perhaps?" he suggested.
His shoulders sagged suddenly. "I'm only guess-
ing," he admitted wearily.

Stepovich fought back a yawn. "It's worth check-
ing."

"Let's phone," said Durand,

Ed just looked at him. Stepovich said, "If she says
he's there, we have to go get him. If she says he's
not there, we still have to check. And we don't want
to warn him, anyway."

"In the morning?" Ed suggested.

"Now," Stepovich and Daniel said in unison. Step-
ovich wondered if the gypsy Iqd felt the same strange
urgency he did about this. Restlessness was running
down his back with cold rat feet. He had that prickly
feeling that something was happening, right now—
something he should be in on. He caught his jacket up
from the back of the chair, slung it on impatiently. Ed
went to the door, jingling his keys. Durand came to his
feet, stretching. Daniel rose, swayed slightly, squinting
his eyes against pain or dizziness, but when Durand
reached a hand to steady him, he waved it away.
Tougher than he looked.

Ed drove, with Stepovich up front beside him.
Daniel and Durand were in the back. Stepovich sat
sideways on the seat; he couldn't quite trust his back
to the gypsy. Not yet. He'd been good to Laurie, all
right. But that didn't meant he was a good guy, not
completely. Durand smothered another monstrous
yawn. The kid was tired.

268 THE GYPSY

"Tell me why we got to find this Coachman guy
tonight?" Durand complained rhetorically.

But Daniel took the question seriously. "There were
three of us," he said, in the voice of a tale told many
times. "The Owl, the Dove, and I."

"The Raven," Stepovich said, unaware of speaking
aloud.

"Yes."

Durand was sitting forward, his lantern jaw slightly
ajar, and Stepovich was aware of Ed listening as only
Ed could, with every pore of his body as he let the
big car drift down the road.

"We were brothers, but Csucskari, the youngest,
he was a Taltos. He didn't eat, and he didn't drink,
and he never felt the heat or the cold, and the animals
would speak to him, and trolls feared him, and he
fought dragons/ while we followed him.

"And the Coachman was the one who sent us here,
who brought us from a tale to a place where tales are
told, because that was ever the Coachman's power.
Why did he send us? Why did we go? Because of the
Fair Lady, who had crossed the bounds of Her world;

The Fair Lady, who brings the diseases that waste the
body, who brings the sickness that rots the soul. She
is in this world now, having Her way here.

"Owl said that She had left our world, and I tracked
Her to this one, but it was the Coachman who brought
us here, and the Coachman who can take us back,
when our task is done. We each do our part—every
one who conquers his fear and greed long enough to
repair some of the rot does his part. But the Dove,
Csucskari, is the only one who can drive Her away."

He sighed. "For that, he needs us, the Owl and I.
We didn't know this, at first. Csucskari came to this
world alone, and with every step he took he lost a
part of himself, until at last he was wandering, alone,
not knowing who or what he was or what he had to
do. Years later, my brother and I tried to follow him.

How the Gypsy Found the Owl       269

We found his trail in France before the Great War,
and in New Orleans after it, and here and there since
then, but at last, hopeless, we quarreled and went
our own ways.

"Now the call has come. The Coachman was bring-
ing us together, but the Fair Lady struck hrst- I don't
know what She has done to the others, but to me She
sent a woman whose kiss was to be my death. And
it would have been if—"

He stopped. Stepovich stared at him, waiting.

He shrugged. "But I was lucky enough to be hit on
the head by the wrong man, so the right man changed
his mind."

In the darkness of the car, their eyes met and
locked. A dozen possible comments rattled through
Stepovich's mind. He could snort and say, "Fairy
tale!" He could remind him that Laurie was no
woman, but only a little girl playing dress up. He
could lean back and whisper that the "right" man
hadn't had a chance at him yet.

But any of those would be- pretense. Because he
believed Daniel, fairy tale and all. This gypsy was tell"
ing the truth. Stepovich could feel Ed reading that
conclusion from his own body language, and accept-
ing it as Ed had often accepted Stepovich's other
hunches. And Durand was watching them stare at
each other, with no idea of what was passing between
them. Just like when he'd told Durand, however long
ago it was, that the Gypsy with the scarred face
wasn't the man they wanted, even if he did match
the description.

So to the gypsy he said nothing, and to Durand he
gave only a "wait and see" nod to keep the kid
steady. Durand returned it, a barely perceptible
movement.

"So," Daniel continued, as if he had not paused at
all, "There are three of us, my brothers and I, and
there are three of you. And as the Coachman has

270 THE GYPSY

brought us three here, he will see us all three home. And
as for you . . ." Daniel paused. "\ will tell you how it
was, for the Owl and me. Csucskari was gone. It is hard
for me to describe for you what that means. Without
him," Daniel paused, struggled for a smile. "Try to
weave with no warp or woof, or to paint a picture with-
out canvas to hold the colors, to, to. . . ."

"To shoot with no target," Stepovich filled in
softly.

"Yes. To live with your own purpose hidden from
you. Your actions without form, no pattern or effort
to what you do. We are one with our brother, a part
of his tale. When he was gone, we were lost, though
we traveled still with our kin over paths we knew
well, and stood together upon the road, with the fires
and the laughter of our kumpania at our backs. And
there came a coach, such as we had not seen in many
a year, drawn by horses such as no longer stir the
dust of any road. And high on the box was the Coach-
man, with his fine cloak and coiled whip. And he
halted his horses, and to each of us he said, "I offer
a ride and I offer it but once. Whither away lies the
dream of your soul?" And our bellies dreamed of rich
food and potent wine, and our loins of beautiful
women and the wealth of children they could bear
us, and our ears were full of the music of days we
had thought lost so long ago. But our hearts spoke
first, and loudest, crying out, "Only put us upon the
road our brother has taken and we will be content."
And the Coachman's smile faded, and he said, "For
good or ill, you have chosen," and the door opened
to us and we entered the coach. And this place of
yours is where he brought us, many and many a year
ago."

Darnel paused. The Caddy was idling at a stop light.
The bright headlights of a turning car washed through
the interior, illuminating each of them in turn. "Sup-
pose he comes to you?" Daniel said softly. "Suppose

How the Oypsy Found the Owl       271

he ways, 'I offer a ride, and I offer it but once'^ What
will you answer? Think well on it, while you have
time."

Daniel fell silent. Stepovich watched Ed look at his
hands on the wheel and flex them, perhaps seeing the
small age spots, the way the tendons stood out, an
old man's hands, and here he was still driving the
same streets he'd driven for all his years as a cop.
He'd always told Stepovich that some day he'd see
the rest of the country. But was it the dream of his
soul, or only the consolation of a life that, despite
danger and action, had always seemed limited by his
love for this stupid miserable city he'd grown up in?

He looked at Durand, who twitched and flexed and
felt his untried strength hanging on him like a suit of
clothes too big, perhaps wondering if and when he'd
prove himself, and if he'd die young like his dad.
Perhaps he felt unfinished, untried. Or maybe he
wanted power; maybe he dreamed of becoming a
captain, or a commander, andJaying down the rules
that were so important to him.

But Stepovich thought only of one moment in time,
one brief instant when he could have simply said,
"I'm sorry. I didn't meant to hurt you." And he could
have stayed, and listened to her yell, and then held
her as she cried, and then made love to her to mend
their quarrel, one more time, one more effort at mak-
ing it work, instead of walking out and taking the car
and going to the motel, never knowing that he'd al-
ready had the last night he'd ever spend in a bed
holding her while she slept, never knowing that his
heart's desire would someday be to have that one
moment back to do over.

The Caddy rolled on, full of silence and dreams,
through streets blacker than nightmare. Slowly, one
at a time, Ed rolled his shoulders and shook his head;

and Durand cracked his knuckles and twitched his

272 THE QYPSY

jaw; Stepovich wondered what they had been think-
ing of as each came back to himself,

"The Coachman," Stepovich prodded lightly.
"He likes his liquor," Daniel said quietly, "The
good stuff when he has money, but anything the rest
of the time. There are horses in his life, always, and
those are the tales he tells when he drinks, of nne-
blooded horses full of spirit and strength, as another
man might speak of wealthy highborn women he had
bedded. Look for him where there are horses—liveries,
riding stables, breeding farms, race tracks. And he
likes to drive. He will work as a chauffeur, or even a
taxi driver if he can find nothing better. But if there
is a place where he can sit high and hold the reins in
his own hands, then we should look there first."

Stepovich looked at Ed, who shrugged. The Caddy
rolled on quiet as the wings of an owl through the
night, through the night.

SOMETIME

/ touch your hand. your brow, your lip;

Hidden by the green,
Emerging to a weeping bush
And laughing tambourine.

"GYPSY DAMCE"

Even after the thing tormenting the old women left,
Laurie couldn't stop shaking. Her breath kept making
a gulping, hiccuping noise in her throat. "This isn't
real," she whispered aloud, and then, wailing, "This
isn't real, none of this is real, please. God, tell me
this isn't real."

The woman was very old, and her skin was a ter-
rible color, as if someone had let all the blood out

How the Gypsy Found the Owl       273

from under her once olive skin/ and replaced it with
milk. A skim milk in cold coffee color. She drew her
skinny old legs and ruined feet up under her long
skirts then felt about herself absentmindedly, as if
looking for something. "None of this is real," she
agreed in her cracked old voice. "And that's the worst
part of it, you know. Real things end, somewhere,
sometime."

"It'll end/' Laurie whispered, unable to get enough
air for real words. "It'll end when they kill us."

"I'm sorry, my dear," the old woman said slowly.
"But you're so very wrong. Why, for me. it didn't
even begin until I was dead." The old woman casu-
ally examined her feet. The burns on them were black
places, not red, nor swollen, nor bleeding. Black, as
if the coals had been held to a wooden statue or a
china doll.

"If you're dead, how can they keep hurting you?"
Laurie wailed. Already she was seeing it happen to
her. She clutched the fiddle case as if by holding it
'tightly she could hold herself together as well.

"They can do almost anything to me," said the old
woman. She looked around the room, a sly look
creeping over her face as she did so. "Almost any-
thing they can do to me. But they must keep -me here.
And while they keep me here, there is much I can do
tto them." Once more she looked around carefully.
"Come here, child." she said.

Laurie's legs quaked under her as she crossed the
room. The closer she got, the more she knew the old
woman was dead. There wasn't an odor, but there
was something she smelled with her skin, not her
nose; when Laurie finally crouched down beside her,
she knew that, while the old woman was dead, this
was not her dead body. Rather it was as if the old
• woman was inside a mannequin, cunning as any trap.
A body the Fair Lady had fashioned—one She could
, hurt endlessly. Laurie shivered.

274 THE GYPSY

The old woman looked at her shrewdly. "You've
the Eye to you, then. It seldom comes to much, in
one such as you, but it's a help to us here. It's prob-
ably what She didn't see about you at first, probably
what drew the Raven closer to you than She'd
planned. Yes, hug his fiddle tight, for it's all that
stands between you and Her. Or, maybe not. Open
the case, girl. Let's see what he's left in there for us."

Laurie hesitated, then set the case on her lap and
unlatched each fastener. The case was lined with
some deep green fabric, not felt, not velvet, not like
anything Laurie had ever seen inside an instrument
case. The bow was secured in its holder, and a stor-
age box supported the neck of the fiddle and held it
firmly in place- The old woman tapped the box with
one arthritic finger. "In there," she whispered.
"Where he keeps his odds and sods. Look in there."

Laurie lifted out the fiddle and leaned it against her
shoulder. The storage box had a tiny catch on it. She
worked it and then eased back the lid. Inside was a
worn cube of rosin, showing infinite tracks of bow
strings; white paper packets that held spare strings;

smudged papers, folded up small, with musical notes
on them like bird tracks; a button off a shirt; and a
brush like a makeup brush. "What else, is that all? It
can't be all. Look again/ girl!"

"There's some lint. And a feather."

"Ah!" the old woman exclaimed with satisfaction.
"Pass me that here," She took the small black feather
from Laurie's shaking fingers, whetted it once, twice,
thrice across the amber rosin. She smiled an old smile-
"Now answer me a riddle, if you can. Why is the
fiddler's music like the count's coach?"

Laurie stared at her. She'd stopped shaking. She
was numb with terror now, still in the grasp of hope-
lessness.

The old woman smiled again, a hard smile. "You
don't know, child? Why, they're both drawn forth by

How the Gypsy Found the Owl       275

horses." She ran the edge of the rosined feather down
the horse hair strings of the fiddle's bow. It made a
breath of sound softer than a baby's whisper. "The
right touch," she murmured to Laurie, "can draw
them forth together." She handed the bow to Laurie
and said, "Play now."

Laurie shook her head, bewildered.

The old woman smiled and said, "No, you have
Wolf's blood in you, girl. You weren't made to lie
down and die; not when you have the ghost of a
prayer of hope. Take the fiddle and play."

Hope? Laurie had no idea what the woman was
talking about, but she was holdmg the fiddle, and she
knew that, hope or no hope, Daniel was real, and the
fiddle was his. She tucked the nddle clumsily under
her chin, feeling her tears slide down her cheeks onto
the wood. She hoped it wouldn't be damaged. She
lifted the bow in her right hand and, with no thought
to what she was doing, drew it across the strings.

FIFTEEN

How the Gypsy Called All the Animals

AUTUMN, EARLY MORNING

Old woman, tell me when to hold the sand

And when to let it spill.
Old woman, tell me when the sun's light

Will touch my window sill.
Old woman, tell me if it's me

Or those around me who are ill.
Old woman, promise me

That I will never have to kill,

"BLACKENED PAGE"

Csucskari cradled his brother as gently as if he were
holding a bird, but the solidity of him in his arms was
a comfort. He studied his brother's face as he bore
him through the streets. Years walked lightly on the
brothers, but it had been so long since he had seen
Raymond that the tracks of time were plain to Csucs-
kari. Bagoly had begun to grow a beard/ and the
streetlights found red highlights in it- The depres-
sions in his temples were accented by his hair,
brushed sharply back. His brows were even more full
than Csucskari remembered.

Bagoly. Bagoly, he sang silently. ]ojjon velem, repul
hazafele, 0 Bagoly, come with me, fly home, he said.
Csucskari walked as he sang/ his eyes all but dosed.
Feelings he had thought banished into the cold well
of his past/ never to be found again save for the dis-

How the Gypsy Called AH the Animals    277

tant splash as a sensation brushed him, now rose like
mist. It was a tingling of old power/ as when a limb
that has gone numb stirs back to life, all pins and
needles. It came to him, and flowed from him easily
and naturally into his brother, as easily as he might
put his mouth to the Owl's lips and breathe his own
breath into his brother's lungs. Bagoly, Bagoly, jojjon
velem, he sang silently. From a vast distance, his
brother responded.

People passed them on the street/ stepping off the
sidewalk to avoid his lolling burden. Later, Csucskari
could not recall if they had any other reaction to him;

his only thought was to get to Madam Moria's rooms
and to do whatever he must to bring his brother back.

As he maneuvered Bagoly through the narrow door
of Madam Moria's building. Owl's eyelids suddenly
squeezed tight, making lines in his weathered face.
Slowly they opened to slits, and then sagged shut
again. As he carried Bagoly up the creaking stairs, he
felt a shudder move through his brother's body. And
as Madam Moria unlocked her door he began to
shiver.

She leaned her canes carefully beside a tall wooden
coatrack, and divested herself of her long wool coat.
"I'll brew tea," she announced, as if this would prob-
ably set all the world to rights.

Csucskari looked up from his brother's face to meet
her dim old eyes, "He'll be all right," he told her.
She nodded once, cautiously, and walked stiffly from
the room.

There was a narrow divan in one comer, uphol-
stered in a fading red fabric, draped in a tattered af-
ghan. There he placed his brother and dragged the
afghan down to tuck around him. Owl seemed to be
breathing easier. Csucskari touched the scarf around
his brother's shoulders. He ran it through his nngers,
feeling the fine threads snag against his callused
hands as he stared at her rug. He licked his lips and

278 THE QYPSY

considered. He felt tired. Tea would be nice, but he'd
been told he ought not to eat or drink, and he knew
why, now, too.

Madam Moria pushed through the curtains, pre-
ceded by a heavy tray laden with a teapot and cups.
She poured one for herself, and another for Ray-
mond. Csucskari lifted the delicate cup and held it to
Raymond's mouth. The hot liquid lapped against his
lips, but as yet he could not drink.

"Twenty-four," mumbled Raymond.

"What?" said Csucskari anxiously. "Twenty-four
what?"

"Steps," said Raymond. "Twenty-four steps up
here," and settled back more fully into the couch.

Csucskari set the cup carefully back on the tray,
and turned to where Madam Moria had ensconced
herself in an old bentwood rocker. "The scarf and the
rug," he said without preamble. "Together, they
mean what?"

Startled, she looked up from gazing at the tea in
her cup. "Eh? I've no idea. And no time to consider
it. I must boil more water for tea. There will be com-
pany, soon."

"Who?" He frowned.

"I don't that either," she said irritably. "Be pa-
tient." She creaked up and went back through the
tapestry.

Csucskari scowled after her. When he turned back
to Owl, his eyes were open. "Well," said Csucskari
gently. "You've been a far ways, it seems."

Raymond opened his mouth, then shut it. He shook
his head weakly. Tears gathered in his eyes, while a
smile hovered at the corners of his mouth. At last he
said, "I'm coming back, brother. A few moments, is
all. I'll be fine, now you've come for me."

Csucskari looked for words to say and found none.
Once more he held the cup to Raymond's lips, and
Raymond expended most of his gathered strength in

How the Gypsy Called All the Animals    279

taking one feeble sip. Madam Moria and her teakettle
had just re-emerged from the kitchen when the door
burst open.

NOVEMBER SEVENTEENTH, 1989,
EARLY MORNING

Drink from a deep dark pool, tell me what you taste.
Bitter mountain stream;

Flows like nectar past your lips, lying there in wait,
Falls from you hand.

"STARS OVERHEAD"

The warmth of the seeping blood inside the bandage

?- made the night seem colder. He wished he could pull
his legs up against his body and hoard what warmth
was left to him, but his first effort at that had hurt too

;• much. Better to sit still, leaning against the metal and
glass that sided the bus shelter. Sit in the dark and
dream. The shelter was no bigger than a good-sized
box stall; but a stall at least would have had clean
straw to rest on and the warm smell of horses to keep
him company.

He remembered a master he had once had, so long
ago that he could not remember his name, nor any-
more about him than that the master'd thought he
was saving money and cheating the Coachman by
giving him only a room over the stable. The fool never
knew that most nights he had taken his blankets
down to the stalls, to sleep closer to those who loved
him best.

There had been four, black as night and as soft; hve
if you counted the ill-tempered stud in his iron-barred
stall who had sired them. Storm had been his name,

,, as stupid a name for a stallion as the Coachman had

280 THE GYPSY

ever heard, and it fit him no more than did his rep-
utation for savage behavior. He had wanted a farm
hand, that was all, and a man who did not flinch from
his angry stamping, nor let the stable boys get away
with letting his stall go dirty because they feared him.
He had needed a man who would give him space and
time with the tall grey mares they brought him to be
serviced. Another man had owned him, but only the
Coachman had mastered him. And in return, the stal-
lion had sired the four blacks, the three fillies and the
colt, who learned their lessons on his lunge line and
under his gentle hands. They'd grown well, and earned
the braided harness with leather tassels, and the leather-
covered rope traces and the owner's finest coach, with
its tali box and carved wooden back and sides, and
rounded lanterns.

How they'd stepped out for him, heads always
high, black legs flashing in unison! As Storm was their
father, so the owner called them Wind, Rain, Thun-
der, and Lightning. But the Coachman had had his
own names for them all: Setal, Sztrajktoro, Madar,
and Nagyful, and those were how he called them
when he spoke to them at night. Those were the
names they would come to, no matter what stood be-
tween him and them: Snakes or fires or barking dogs.
Once Csucskari had wagered that they'd come to him
past death itself if he called those names.

He smiled, the foolish smile of a man who is cold
and without hope, bleeding in the night, and he mut-
tered their names like a charm. His head drooped for-
ward onto his chest.

How the Gypsy Called All the Animals    281
17 NOV 02:21

Dive into a deep dark pool, tell me what you feel,
The world you left behind,

Smooth and warm as life, the living and the dead,
Stars overhead.

"STARS OVERHEAD"

"So," Durand observed as the Caddy idled at a stop-
light, ' 'If Luci is the lady you're all going to kill, and
the Gypsy is this tatoesh guy that can do it, how does
the Coachman fit in?"

Ed rolled his eyes at Mike. Stepovich sighed to
himself. Let the guy talk himself out first; he'll tell
you more that way. This was stuff he should have
been teaching Durand all along.

Daniel looked thoughtful. "He is," he groped for
words, but found them only in a language none of
them spoke. He tried again: "like the one who plays
the music that sets the othen-dancing. He is not a
dancer, nor does he even know the steps they must
pace, but nevertheless, he is the one. . . ." He lapsed
once more into helpless silence, unable to explain the
Coachman's role, perhaps scarcely comprehending it
himself. Finally, he said, "It was the Coachman who
brought us here. And when all is done/ it is he who
will take us back. And I feel that the Coachman
should be there, to witness the doing of our task.
Whether we succeed or fail, he will be the one to
know of our doing, and to tell those who should
know."

Ed made the lights at Woodwright and Quince, but
was stopped at Central. He prodded, "Task?"

Daniel took a breath, then spoke, patiently. "To
send the Fair Lady back where She belongs."

The silence that followed seemed to echo Daniel's
quiet words until Durand, as if struggling with an

282 THE GYPSY

idea, asked, "This Choo-, uh, Chuch, uh/ Csucskari,
this scar-faced Gypsy? The Coachman can find him
for us?"

When Daniel gave a tentative nod, Durand leaned
back, satisfied. "Well, as long as this Coachman can
lead us to that sneaky S.O.B., then I'm happy."

The light changed and they passed under 1-79 and
continued on West Drewry, the boundary of the in-
dustrial area and the Fourth Precinct. Daniel gave Du-
rand one puzzled sideways glance, then relaxed. He
leaned his wounded head carefully against the seat
back/ let his hands go lax on his knees. No. Not re-
laxed. Stepovich studied him unobtrusively- Taking
rest while he could. Suddenly, Daniel's long graceful
ftngers tensed, his dark eyes snapped open. He sat
up abruptly, cocking his head like a dog hearing a
distant siren.

"What?" Stepovich demanded.

Daniel's eyes shone brighter than the passing
streetlights could account for. His hands floated up
as if to the signal of an unseen maestro. He began to
mime the playing of a fiddle—mimed it with such un-
canny precision that Stepovich could almost hear the
eerie music drawn forth from the unseen strings.

Neither Durand nor Ed heard anything, judging by
their expressions. Ed eased the Caddy to a stop at a
red light at Pine. "Maybe that hit on the head," he
muttered to Stepovich, sotto voce. Stepovich
shrugged, and turned to stare ahead into the night
street and the sparse cross traffic.

The light was just ready to turn, Ed was already
letting the Caddy creep forward when every hair on
Stepovich's body came to attention. Later it would
seem to him that first his hide prickled, and then the
four black horses drawing the midnight coach came
out of the night and crossed their path. Sixteen
hooves rose and fell in perfect cadence, high spoked
wheels turned soundlessly against black asphalt.

How the Gypsy Called Alf the Animals    283

There was no coachman on the box.

"Follow it," Stepovich whispered.

The Caddy didn't move. Stepovich glanced over at
Ed, transfixed behind the wheel. "Follow it!" he bel-
lowed, and the big car surged suddenly forward and
took a hard left.

"Shit, oh shit," Durand whispered. Stepovich
spared him a glance. The kid's'eyes were as big as
saucers. Daniel was oblivious, playing his invisible in-
strument faster now. He was smiling through the
tears that tracked his face, leaning forward, swaying
raptly to his silent music. When Stepovich turned
back, the solid black of the coach was still there, but
harder to see. It was visible mostly as a shape that
blotted out oncoming traffic, storefronts and street
signs. The coach was pulling away from them. There
was a dim lantern fixed to the back of the coach, and
they followed this more than the coach itself.

"Damnit, no horses are going to outpace me," Ed
declared, and pushed down on the gas. The heavy
car surged forward, and the coach lantern grew. Just
as the black coach began to take on details, it turned
out of sight. Ed cursed, and gave the Caddy more
gas, and took the corner at a speed that pressed Ste-
povich up against the door. But the coach was mov-
ing up the hill at an impossibly smooth fast pace,
turning another comer almost as soon as they sighted
it- Ed spun loose gravel following it, and was barely
in time to see the lantern wink around another corner
as the coach turned uphill once more, on Park, pass-
ing back under 1-79. Other cars went by, but none
slowed down; it was as if only they could see the
damn thing, which, all things considered, wasn't un-
likely.

Ed floored it, sliding the big car through the turn.
Daniel swayed, but never ceased playing. Suddenly,
the lantern was stationary in front of them. Ed hit the
brakes, throwing them all forward, to a chorus of

284 THE GYPSY

"Jeez/ Ed!" from Durand and the steady low, "Watch
it, watch it, watch it!" from Stepovich as he braced
against the dash.

The Caddy's tires screeched as they slid helplessly
forward. All three cops braced for a collision with a
coach that was suddenly not there. In front of them,
the night flapped like a sheet on a laundry line, and
then was still.

"Which way?" Ed demanded angrily of the empty
street. But Daniel abruptly stopped playing his invis-
ible instrument, and flung open the door of the
Caddy, narrowly missing the pole of the bus-stop
sign.

"Help me with him!" he commanded over his
shoulder, and then was down on one knee beside a
slumped figure on the bench inside the bus shelter.

Durand, Ed and Stepovich exchanged uneasy
glances as the Coachman lifted his head slowly and
put one hand on Daniel's shoulder. He didn't try to
rise, but waited. Finally Stepovich said, "Well, noth-
ing to be afraid of," and moved to open his door. But
Durand was already sliding across the back seat and
out. Ed and Stepovich watched him crouch slightly
to allow the Coachman to get a good grip on his
shoulder.

"How many gypsies am I supposed to fit in this
Cadillac?" Ed demanded of the night, and Stepovich
asked, "That an ethnic joke?" as Durand and Daniel
eased the Coachman into the car.

"Nem cigdny vagyok," muttered the Coachman, al-
most too quietly for anyone to hear.

"What's that mean?" demanded El, turning to
watch them.

"He said he's not a gypsy," said Daniel.

"He looks like shit," Ed observed congenially.
"Take him to the hospital?"

"I don't think so," Daniel replied.

"No," said the Coachman, breathing out pain with

How the Gypsy Called All the Animals     285

the word. He drew another ragged breath and gin-
gerly rearranged himself on the seat. "\ just got out
of there."

"What's wrong with him?" Durand demanded as
he got in his side of the car.

The Coachman turned his head to look at Daniel as
he and Durand settled into the car on either side.
Whatever passed between them seemed to reassure
him. He said, "I was bitten by a snake, crushed by a
horse with five legs, and gored by a bull with three
homs. Of course," he added, "You might see it dif-
ferently."

"You been gut shot, haven't you?" said Stepovich.
It was all coming together for him.

"I knew you'd see it differently," agreed the Coach-
man.

"Gut shot?" Durand demanded, and again Stepovich
sighed, wishing he'd just let the man talk. "Earlier to-
day, at Madam Moria's place?"

The Coachman nodded. The soft cushioning of the
seat and the warmth of the Caddy's heater seemed to
be reviving him.

"Who did it?" Durand demanded again.

The Coachman shrugged, an elaborately careful
gesture. "One of the Fair Lady's tools. If he has a
name, I don't know it. After he's been with Her a
little longer, neither will he. Those She takes. She
takes all from."

"Let me guess," said Durand. "This particular tool
was five feet, six inches tall, one hundred and twenty
to one hundred and thirty pounds, had short reddish
hair, a long face/ snub nose with a few freckles, blue
eyes set close together, a high forehead. He seemed
nervous, and he licked his lips a lot."

Now everyone was staring at Durand, who was
staring at the Coachman.

The Coachman said. "Yes. Like that."

Stepovich frowned, "how the hell—?"

286 THE GYPSY

Durand smiled. "That's the revised description of
the killer in the liquor store holdup. I mentioned that
to you."

"I remember."

"I told you I wasn't as stupid as you thought 1
was."

"Timmy," said Stepovich suddenly.

"Huh?" said Durand.

"His name is Timmy. It must be."

The Coachman nodded. "Of course. The little
boy."

"It all fits," said Stepovich. He shifted uneasily in
his seat, caught Ed looking at him, but looked away.
"God, this is weird," he breathed.

"You wanna explain it to me?" Ed offered quietly.

"I don't think I can," Stepovich said. "But our
friend Csucskari seems to be off the hook. On one
count, anyway."

"Sure," Durand agreed. "Now it's only escaping
custody, and the possible murder of the old gypsy
woman."

"You like him for the gypsy?" asked Stepovich,
watching Durand closely.

"Huh? Of course not. But he's still wanted for it.
We can't change that."

Stepovich nodded unhappily. "What next then?"
he asked of no one in particular.

"I think," said Daniel carefully, "that we should
find this Madam Moria, and that we should not waste
time doing it."

The Coachman nodded. "Driver?" He leaned for-
ward slightly and addressed the word to Ed as if it
were a title. "You'd best do as he says. Don't spare
the horses, for whatever will happen, it won't wait
for any of us."

Ed nodded curtly and pulled away from the curb.
The leap of the Caddy as he fed the big car gas
pressed them all back in their seats, and made the

How the Gypsy Called All the Animals    287

Coachman smile. Stepovich marked how he held his
hands in his lap, ringers lightly curled but empty, as
if unseen reins rested in his hands.

SOMETIME

/ think I'll never let you go,
{think I'll never hold you,
I think I'll never loose the stars,
Forget what I have told you.

"GYPSY DANCE"

Laurie stared at the old woman, who smiled back at
her. Then she looked at the hddle and bow in her
hands, but could find no words to describe how it
had felt. It was as if Daniel had been there, had been
taking her hands and fingers through each motion,
and they'd brought forth the music together. The mu-
sic- Together.

The old woman's smile widened and she said,
"You've done fine, girl. Fine. You've opened a path
for a summoning, and I think it happened." She
looked around absently, then said, "It won't be
long-"

The door burst open and an ugly bald manikin scut-
tled into the room, walking on its hands and feet,
hissing and spitting. Laurie screamed and clutched
the fiddle to her. The old gypsy woman stepped in
front of her and swished her skirts at it. "Stop it!
You're just wasting time and you know it."

To Laurie's shock it halted and cowered as if the
old woman's skirts were burning brands. It turned its
head to the side like a malicious spaniel. For the first
time, Laurie noticed its flat nose and large round eyes.
Where had it come from, and what was it?

288 THE GYPSY

The gypsy woman spoke offhandedly. "It's been
done already," she informed it. "The Coachman
called the horses/ and the link forged of yam and
horsehair will lead them here no matter what you or
your mistress do. Why waste time on us? Your mis-
tress knows what must happen now. Go scuttle to
Her call, and stop terrorizing the child."

The manikin stretched its neck up/ then forward.
Its head swayed from side to side as if it were a snake
scenting after a mouse. Its questing tongue was fat
and grey. Laurie shuddered but stood firm. Its face
wrinkled suddenly, becoming even more ugly, and it
beat the floor angrily with its splayed and calloused
hands. As abruptly as it had come, it left, slamming
the door behind it.

A great trembling washed through Laurie, bringing
dizziness. The old woman was speaking to her, but
she couldn't distinguish the words for the buzzing in
her ears. The droning grew until it filled the whole
world, but the gypsy woman kept talking. "Play!"
she told Laurie, and her fierceness forced the word
through her confusion. "You must play. You cannot
stop."

Laurie stirred. She stared up into the woman's huge
dark eyes. She realized she was sitting on the cold
floor/ looking up. She felt stiff, as if she had sat a long
time. "I can't," she wailed. "It's gone, and he's
gone—"

Old hands settled on her shoulders, and with sur-
prising strength, drew her to her feet. ;<! know. It
doesn't matter. Play anyway, as best you can. If you
do, he'll be back."

Laurie stared. "Will he? Really?"

"He will. He must, as must we all." The old
woman sighed- Her eyes went distant and knowing.
"The last dance has begun, child. None, not dancers
nor musicians/ may pause in their pursuits, not until
the last measure has been trod, the last note wrung

How the Gypsy Called All the Animals    289

from the strings. Then we shall see which dancers
fall, who calls the next tune."

"All right," said Laurie, faintly. She lifted the fid-
dle, wanting only to feel herself become part of Dan-
iel and his music again. No- That wasn't quite it.
Wanting more than anything to feel the music coming
once more from her fingers, from her heart. She set
the nddle to her chin and drew the bow across the
strings.

And stopped.

It scraped, it sawed, it was nothing like music, it
was the horrid screech of chalk on a blackboard. It
made her heart ache.

"I know," said the old woman. "Cynthia knows.
But you must keep playing. Play him back to you,
into your arms.

Laurie took a breath, and dragged the bow once
more across the strings.

AUTUMM, EARLY MORMINQ -

/ saw the panic in Timmy Dee's eyes,
His tongue flicked out like the tongue of a beast.
I liked seeing Timmy get cut down to size.
But then someone phoned the police.

"THE QYPSY"

So much happened so quickly. Csucskari felt like a
fairgoer, entranced before the puppeteer's booth. The
wooden door of the apartment was flung open. Light
flashed off the silver of the gun's barrel, there was
the slow turn of Raymond's head. Madam Moria's
gasp of surprise, the thud of the teakettle lid and
splash of the boiling water as it leaped at her startled
jerk. Csucskari saw them all as separate movements

290 THE GYPSY

with a clarity he had not known in a long time. The
thin man moved stiffly, and not fast. Csucskari
thought about his knife, but it would take too long,
and the gun looked very large, its round black mouth
gaping at each of them in turn.

The gunman shut the door behind him and smiled.
His tongue whipped over his lips, nervously- "Well,"
he said in the voice of a frightened man pretending
to be brave. "You didn't expect to see me again, did
you? Thought you'd killed me, didn't you? I bet you
even thought She'd cast me aside, said I'd failed Her,
didn't you? But I'm more special to Her than that.
I'm the most important one of them all to Her/' He
faxed his eyes on Madam Moria as he spoke- Csucs-
kari felt Raymond grip his arm. Only sputters of
sound came from Madam Moria's pale old lips; the
heavy kettle in her hands shook with the force of her
trembling.

"What do you want?" Csucskari asked, and drew
to himself the man's eyes and the gun's mouth.

The man stared at him, and the gun shook in a wa-
vering circle that never left Csucskari's chest. Csucskari
wondered why no fear welled up in him.

"What do I want?" repeated the man, wondering,
as if the question had never occurred to him. "What
do I want?" His voice cracked suddenly. "You!
You're the one, aren't you? All of this is your fault! I
did everything the way She told me to. It all should
have worked, but you ruined it. You ruined it!" His
voice scaled up to a shaky falsetto.

"I suppose I did," Csucskari replied softly. "But
you're hurt, aren't you?"

"No!" he screamed. "It doesn't matter. She'll make
me better."

"She'll make you worse/" said Csucskari.

"No! You're lying." His knees were shaking which
made him more dangerous. "I'm going to kill you,"
the man said in a tone of sudden discovery. "Now

How the Gypsy Called AH the Animals    291

I'm going to kill you, and it's going to work. My way.
Not Hers. I'm going to make you dead, and I'm going
to make Her like me again,"

"No," said Csucskari. "You are not."

"I'm—going—to kill—all of you." He spoke in awe
at his own power.

Csucskari remembered that he wasn't alone. He'd
forgotten it, talking to this man. Only the two them
had been there, locked into some sort of trial, but
now. remembering his brother and the old woman,
Csucskari was shaken, and the gunman's eyes wid-
ened, and the trembling of his hand worsened. His
other hand come up to grip his wrist and steady the
gun. It grew still, pointing at the center of the Gyp-
sy's chest.

"Dirt!" shrieked Madam Moria suddenly. "You,
lower than a snake's belly, fit consort for a dung
beetle!"

The gun swung to her, and Csucskari knew, per-
haps before the gunman did, that he was going to
fire. That peculiar lucidity came over him again; he
pulled his knife free as he sprang,

But it was not a knife, it was only a soft flutter of
yarn in his hand, the scarf dragged up from the couch.
His hand remembered the brief touch of Raymond's
fingers against his; why his brother had passed him
the scarf, he did not know. He must trust there was
a reason. But neither knife nor scarf could be swift
enough to stop the ringer that tightened on the trig-
ger. He saw the hammer fall even as he moved, even
as the door was thrown open once more. The shot,
the scream, and the slam of the door against the wall
all happened at once.

292
17 NOV 05:52

THE GYPSY

Mr. DeCruz, how do you feel?
Why don't you just sit down so we can deal?

BACK IN TOWN

They were too noisy going up the stairs. Stepovich
knew it suddenly, with the sickening drop of gut that
hit him at the worst of times. There was a faint scent
of some sort of perfume in the air, and he wanted
time to remember what it was. Durand was leading
the way, telling Ed about all that had transpired the
last time he'd gone up those stairs. He was talking
back over his shoulder/ talking over Daniel and the
Coachman, who were behind him. Those two were in
a conversation of their own/ the Coachman leaning
heavily on Daniel as he helped him up the stairway. Ed
was behind them/ all but filling the narrow way. And
Stepovich was coming last, the wrong position, for there
was no way to push past them, no place for any of them
to go.

"Durand!" he yelled, even as Daniel said, "Shush!"
and the Coachman said, "Timmy!"

"Get outta the door!" Ed warned as Stepovich
shouted, "One side!"

But Daniel had already pushed the door open. Du-
rand drew his gun and stepped to one side as the
Coachman sagged to the other. They all heard the
shot, the dull wang of lead against cast iron, and the
whine of the ricochet. A bullet burst from the wall in
a whuff of plaster, traveling so slowly that Stepovich
would later tell Ed that he saw it as it spent the last
of its energy burrowing into the biceps of Durand's
right arm. The kid cried out, a man's short hoarse cry,
but he did not drop his gun. He brought it to level,
steadying it with his good hand, and went around the
corner into the room as if he'd been doing it for years.

How the Gypsy Called All the Animals     293

Ed and Stepovich were half a second behind him. past
the Coachman, propelling Daniel into the room with
the force of their rush.

For a brief yellow instant, Stepovich saw it all like
a cheap Polaroid shot: The injured man on the couch
reaching after someone, yes, the scarred old Gypsy,
fluttering scarf in hands that were closing on, yes, it
had to be little Timmy, not so little, but Timmy just
the same, and Madam Moria clutching her castiron
teakettle; the kettle now had a clean star of almost
shorn iron in its side. Like a photograph, it was detail
perfect but still, and he had a sense of falling into it,
carrying Durand and Ed and Daniel with him.

AUTUMN MORNING, BEFORE SUNRISE

Towards dawn I saw the ashes
Of birches long since dead
Woah, lannan sidhe let me be.
I left them clutching shadows:

Left my curse unsaid.
Woah. lannan sidhe come to me.

"LANNAN SIDHE"

The gun exploded in the small room, so loud a sound
that it seemed to be a flash of light as well. Csucskari
was stunned by it; his sight blurred and cleared, and
in the high ringing that sang in his ears was another
voice, familiar in its warmth and accent. The Coach-
man had returned.

"Timmy."

That was the word he had said, the word the gun
tried to swallow. Csucskari struggled to make sense
of it. Who was Timmy? The gunman, of course. This
realization drowned out any other significance in a

294 THE GYPSY

flood of memory so powerful Csucskari was almost
swept away. He stared at the gunman, frozen in time.
Voices and shadows, juxtaposed in truth and in mem-
ory, beat at his consciousness. Then and now merged
and swirled. They call him Timmy Dee, and I don't
know what I can do. All the grocery money's gone.
Dad's gonna kill me. He cheated. I know he did. Well,
all right/ my friend, I will go speak with this Timmy
Dee, and see if things can't be put right. . . Timmy. Lit-
tle Timmy. Timmy Dee.

Csucskari felt jolted as time caught him up again.
A young man—a policeman—weasled into the room.
There was blood on his sleeve/ his two hands gripped
a pistol, his face was calm, tension in his shoulders,
his elbows relaxed. The gun went sniffing, -found
Timmy and held on him, and the young policeman's
fingers began the steady squeeze of the trigger, oh so
purposefully, oh so calmly, oh so righteously, to put
an end to Little Timmy. Timmy would stagger back-
wards from the knife wound, hold his throat as if he
could stop the torrent that laves his fingers, the red
that drenches his clothes so swiftly. He'd fall to the
ground, gurgling in amazement, eyes still going from
Csucskari to the knife to Csucskari, no, no, from the
gun to the policeman, no—

Csucskari flung the scarf like a net, keeping his
grip on one corner, and for an instant, one golden
instant, no one moved and the world held its breath,
waiting.

Voices came, from nowhere, from everywhere,
from the walls of the room and from inside his head.
Raven's voice, saying, "He can lead us back," and
Owl speaking behind him, saying, "Then listen to
your own fiddle, brother," and Raven replying,
"Then play your tambourine, brother." The Coach-
man was there, come back for them all as he had to,
and with him a great shaggy old Wolf and a bright-
eyed Badger. They all looked to him, to Csucskari,

How the Gypsy Called All the Animals     295

like the spokes of a wheel suddenly recognizing the
hub. The burden dragged at him and for a moment
the spell wavered. The young policeman should have
pulled the trigger then indeed, but the music of the
fiddle swept through the room like a wind of sound.
Csucskari laughed aloud to be together with his
brothers, for this moment, and all of them alive. He
flung the scarf into the air once more, like a blessing,
crying, "Well, then, Lud, we'll come to you, and see
how you like it."

The scarf spun and grew larger, warp and woof be-
coming a fine mesh, a painted picture, a target, and
then a net of glowing threads. None of them could
move as the weave grew and enveloped them in a
pattern that filled each mind with the textures of the
fiddle's sliding high notes, and Raymond was playing
the tambourine off in the distance now, shaking it like
a spice box, fingers flying against the brass zils.
Somewhere else, far, far away, the Coachman mut-
tered, "Damn gypsies. I'm getting too old for their
nonsense." Then they all vanished in a swirl of yam
and music.

SIXTEEN

How the Gypsy Fought the Devil

SOMETIME

He said, "My business is dead on the floor.

Though my business ain't often in bars.

f kill beasts when I just can't take 'em anymore;

Between times, I look for the stars."

"THE OYPSY"

The Fair Lady has been plucking a sparrow and throwing
its feathers into the flames. The stench of their burning and
the crying of the bird have made a pleasant harmony, but
now She casts it aside and rises angrily, scowling at the
smoldering yam. Unnoticed, the sparrow hops away into
the darkness. The Fair Lady turns Her head, but the music
gets louder and louder, the ringing and thumping of the
tambourine in the unrelenting rhythm of the csardas with
the fiddle playing like wildfire around its edges. The Fair
Lady summons the midwife and the nora and the liderc.
The nora scampers wildly about on its hands and feet, its
teeth chattering wildly, frantic to please Her, grimace after
grimace washing over its young old face. The liderc sways
from side to side, one arm held high like a club, threatening
nothing and everything. The midwife has brought her
knitting, and the needles rattle against each other, clatter-
ing like steel instruments in a cold tray.

But the music gets louder, sweeping past them like an
angry broom. A piece of thread dangles down into the fire-

How the Gypsy Fought the Devil       297

place from above. Another follows it, and another, and see
how they knit themselves together, even there in the fire?
The cloth that forms is impervious to the licking flames, it
only grows fuller, until it seems to be a scarf with a peculiar
pattern.

"Soon," warns the Fair Lady. She nods, and Her chair
turns to face the door. The nora chitters and approaches
the doorway, jumping and skittering about in front of it
like a gargoyle coffee table come to life. The others face the
doorway as well, even the midwife standing, her knitting
needles poised. The cloth drapes the fire, which smolders.
One pleading tendril of smoke escapes but withers as it flees.
The darkness is almost total. Two doors fly open at once.

SOMETIME

One instant/ Daniel was leaping into a tapestried and
carpeted room, flinging himself to his brother's aid.
Then, in midbreath, he was falling. "Coachman! Lead
us back!" he cried out, pleading. But no one an-
swered.

He fell into darkness, and following the gun's roar
he thought he had been hit, struck blind, and was
falling to the floor. But there was no pain, and there
was no floor, there was nothing, only the darkness
and the falling. I should be frightened, he thought,
but he wasn't. He'd been through too much in the
last twenty-four hours, perhaps all his fear was used
up. He sensed the finality of the confrontation to
come. He had waited for it, lived for it for so long
that the anticipation had eroded his feelings. Nothing
was there but numbness and a small sense of relief in
knowing it had begun; no matter how it ended, it
would now, at least for a time, end.

Besides, there was the music.

For a while, the music had been part of the dark-

298 THE GYPSY

ness, but now it ventured out in separate strands, fine
as horsehair, glowing like frost in the moonlight. All
the music he had ever drawn from his fiddle floated
about him in shining strands and snatches, clinging
as cobwebs, catching at him as he fell, slowing his
descent, cradling him in a silver hammock of sound.

When he fell no longer, when his music had caught
and stilled him, Daniel found he could stand. He
walked through the emptiness on the web of his
notes, clever as a spider, and each strand sounded to
the slide of his feet; each strand sweet and shining in
the darkness. Somewhere, the others followed him.

The music led him as it had all the years of his life.
He had always felt it was not a thing he created or
possessed, but an elusive phouka of sound that he
chased, always a few notes behind the perfect song
in his mind. Now it lured and guided him through
the darkness/ beckoning, taking him around unseen
corners, up flights of tune and through corridors like
familiar refrains. Twice he sensed something chill and
hungry lurking in the darkness, but both times his
music swirled up and concealed him.

And then he came to a place where the music fal-
tered, where the shining web of sound became no
more than a tightrope, and even that was first thick
and awkward and then thin and frail beneath him.
He hesitated- This was not his music, and yet it was-
It puzzled him. He stooped to touch it, then followed
it, smoothing it as he went, weaving it up on his way,
plaiting the notes together into harmonies, and the
harmonies into an old familiar ballad about three
wandering brothers.

There was light growing around him, and he looked
down from a great height, to where a young girl
clasped a fiddle and doggedly drew a bow across its
strings, torturing sound out of it. It was his own rid-
dle, crying out to him. Forgetting the others, he clam-
bered down its plaintive wail, feeling himself grow

How the Gypsy Fought the Devil       299

more substantial with every step. His instrument
seemed to sense his coming, for suddenly the notes
came sweet and true, and he was there, stepping
down into a room of grey stone, where Lorelei drew
a single pure note from the fiddle and an old woman
sat watching and nodding.

"Daniell" she cried out at the sight him, and nearly
dropped the bow, but, "Play, play," said the old
woman. "Play as if your lives depend upon it. All
depends on the music. Play!" The old woman drew
a tortoiseshell comb through her long hair as she
spoke. She shook the strands free of it, glared at
them, and again ran the comb through her hair.

He stepped up behind Lorelei, positioned his arms
around her. The crown of her head came just to the
hollow of his throat. "Almost," he thought, "I could
tuck her under my chin and play her as she plays my
fiddle." Her hair smelled sweet. He set one hand on
the neck of the fiddle, his fingers falling unerringly
upon the strings. The other covered her hand on the
bow. Her fingers relaxed. He4ed her into the music
gently, and as he guided her, he shared with her the
very days of his life and the beats of his heart. He
knew he should be thinking of the Fair Lady and his
brothers; his weapons would be needed. But for now
he wove the music around them, cloaking them from
all but this moment, sheltering them from harm.

17 NOV 05:36

The blackout hit sudden as a knife blade, and just as
threatening. "Ed!" Stepovich yelled in useless warn-
ing as he threw himself down. He expected to hear
the gun go off over his head, and as he fell he was
watching for the muzzle flash that would let him tar-
get Timmy. It seemed to take forever for his out-

300 THE GYPSY

stretched palms to meet the floor. The instant they
did/ a sick dread washed through him.

Stone. Cold dank stone/ almost slimy there in the
crack. No thick cushioning of carpet, no hardwood
floor. Stone. But the air he breathed was warm, al-
most stifling. Wherever he was, it wasn't where he'd
been an instant ago- "Ed!" he shouted again, and
thought he heard a muffled answer. Around him in
the darkness/ there was scrabbling and scuffling of
feet against stone, the rustle of clothing, grunts as
people struggled to their feet. He wasn't alone.

A flashlight beam lit up in the darkness. Durand's.
The kid was thinking fast/ but not fast enough. In-
stead of holding the flashlight out at arm's length, he
was holding it right in front of him, chest-high, as he
scanned the room, like a beacon to lead a bullet to his
chest. He was cradling his injured arm against his
belly. Another light appeared, off to the side, uneven
and flickering. That would be Ed's pipe-lighter, the
butane turned up high. Its ghost light was not enough
to illuminate, only enough to hint at shapes in the
room.

Stepovich was still on his knees, struggling up,
when the flashlight hit Timmy like a spotlight. Timmy
spun toward it, in evident panic, his pistol moving
with him. Lights, action, camera, and Stepovich
watched as Timmy's trigger finger moved.

Stepovich was still on one knee, the other foot flat
on the floor, ready to rise and, in the flicker of Ed's
lighter, or in the reflected beams of the flashlight, or
in Stepovich's imagination, he could see Durand, and
it was the look on Durand's face that did him. The
kid looked down the muzzle of the pistol and gri-
maced. A showing of teeth, somewhere between dar-
ing death to come and get him, and a sheepish grin
at how dumb he'd been. A kid's face. The injured
arm was still seeping blood.

Stepovich drove down hard, pushing himself up

How the Gypsy Fought the Devil       301

and off, shooting toward Timmy like a sprinter off the
blocks. His body was moving fast, but his mind was
light years ahead of him. He could see it all as it would
happen, predict it all. He already knew it was too
late; the idea was to get control of the man before he
fired. And this wasn't that. No.

His right hand fell heavy on Timmy's shoulder, his
left gripped Timmy's wrist and gun hand and forced
it up. It was supposed to go all the way up, so the-
gun would go off over Stepovich's shoulder; he was
already braced for the blast of sound by his ear.

But the muzzle was still pointing at him when it
went off. Flash and stench of powder. Blow like a
rabbit punch, one that didn't stop but went right
through meat and bone and whatever else was in
there. Just that suddenly, there was no strength in
his arms or legs. He dropped. He waited for the pain,
waited, it's coming, gonna getcha, Stepovich, you
dumb old cop, trying to pull a fast kid's trick like that-
Ed's gonna yell at you, listen, he's starting already,
screaming, and is this really how you planned to end
your days, in some nightmare dungeon?

He'd thought the lights were supposed to fade
when you passed out, but it was getting brighter,
sourceless light coming up like stage lights, getting
brighter and brighter. A cold sort of light, though, a
toadstool light that made everyone look dead,

Slipped his trolley, he had, yeah, old Stepovich was
sliding down the night side now. Stuff was coming
out of the corners of his mind, nightmare things, and
they swarmed up Durand and dragged him down.
One was like a bald puppet, while the other was a
hodgepodge out of some zoologist's nightmare. Du-
rand lost his flashlight and it rolled clunkily across the
uneven floor, washing them all in a cone of light. The
creatures clutched Durand and held him down, and
it was obscene, as if the mere touch of those hands
were a rape. The bald things sniggered and poked its

302 THE GYPSY

long pale fingers at Durand's wound. Must hurt like
hell, Stepovich thought/ and wondered why Durand
wasn't yelling. Maybe he's like me; too much pain
and not enough air to yell.

And where the hell was Ed? Trying to get up,
looked like he'd done his knee again. He'd always
called it his old football injury, but Stepovich knew
he'd done it trying to ride a skateboard they'd confis-
cated from a kid on the freeway, with all the oncom-
ing traffic, and the goddamn drivers wouldn't turn
their highbeams down, pull the sonofabitch over, hit
the siren, get out of the car. Out of the car, Stepo"
vitch. Time to get moving, go talk to the Gypsy. Where
was he, anyway?

He caught one glimpse of a gypsy, back in the
shadows, and it wasn't the Gypsy anyway. Never a
Gypsy around when you need one. Ed still had his
lighter going, and he was waving it around like it
would work better than garlic and crosses.

And then the time for worrying about stuff like that
was gone. All the time in the world was gone. Down
to a single now, the now where Timmy was standing
over him, straddling him like the outlaw in a B West-
ern, holding the pistol in both hands as he pointed it
at Stepovich's face. Not in the face, he wanted to tell
him, my kids don't deserve that, not a dosed coffin
service where you always imagine it as much worse
than it could ever be. But he couldn't speak at all,
could only lie there and look up at death like a car-
hit dog on the freeway.

SOMETIME

Damn all gypsies anyway, he thought, as he arrived
in a place he hadn't brought them to, but would have
to return them from if there were any of them left to

How the Gypsy Fought the Devil       303

return. He felt for the calk in his pocket, got it out,
threw it into the air/ and when it came down he
caught the butt of the whip it was fastened to That to
you, Luci, he thought. All I have to do is step outside this
door, onto the road, and I'll be like a Taltos myself.

He heard the sound of a gunshot, and sighed. No
doubt the damned gypsies and their silly friends were
getting themselves killed. Well, that was not his con-
cern, had never been his concern. He drove the coach
when he had one to drive, and now that he didn't—

Well, there was one thing he could do. It wouldn't
save any of these fools from the consequences of their
own actions/ but if it had worked there, it would cer-
tainly work here; if any of them lived, at least they
might not fall into the Nothingness.

Still weak and in pain, he slipped past impossible
shapes doing improbable things to each other. He si-
dled along a wall until he came to the fireplace, and
there, just as he'd thought, was the scarf that had
brought them here. He pulled it out, not surprised
that the fare hadn't damaged it.-He made his way back
to the door from which he'd entered. It stood wide
open as if it expected guests. He leaned against what
felt like cold stone. His breath came in gasps, and
when a cramp hit, he thought it was all up for him,
but then it passed.

He straightened, turned, and looked out the door,
away from the flickering of lights and the antics of
demons, to where there was nothing at all, at all, at
all. And, as he did, there were two shapes there. Hu-
man shapes, of all things. Young girls, looking wild
and frightened. They approached the door, and when
they saw him, the fair one drew back, while the dark
one raised her fingernails like talons.

"She's calling us," said the dark one. "You'd bet-
ter not—"

"Oh, hush," said the Coachman. "There's nothing
for you in there but death, and you know it."

304 THE GYPSY

The fair one turned to her friend and said, "Sue,
I'm scared. Laurie—"

"That wimp's no concern of ours. This is it/ the big
fight. We need to help Her. We—"

"Listen to your fear/ my children/" said the Coach-
man/ his voice rolling like a cimbolom. "Your fear is
wise; trust it. It falls upon you like a wave/ and in the
wave are specks of pain and droplets of oblivion. The
call is the call of those who've been lost at sea/ whose
souls float/ with no anchor. Your fair mistress betrays
you, even as She promised. Do you recall Her words?
Think on them now, before you act."

They stared at him, there at the brink of forever,
and while they did he stepped forward and slammed
the door shut behind him. They cried out, but before
they could touch the door, crack! crack! and he had
put his mark on it with the calk on the end of his-
whip.

"It is sealed now. You cannot enter," he said. "Go
home, or become Nothing." They stared at him with
confusion and fear still etched on their too-young
features/ but/ then the dark one said/ "Come on/
Chrissy. We can get past him. She needs us."

The fair one gave a low moan/ then her eyes wid-
ened and she said/ "Yes! I can hear Her!"

They charged him, scrabbling for the door, but this
was outside, this was between, this was neither here
nor there. It was on the road/ and on the road the
Coachman has the power. It gave him no pleasure to
use it.

SOMETIME

Csucskari knew where he was/ for he had brought
them all there. But where were the others? Beams of
light flashed around him, showing glimpses of faces

How the Gypsy Fought the Devil       305

from his nightmares, but no sign of his friends. The
servants of Luci he knew; they snuffled about in the
darkness. He drew his knife, lest any come near him/
and waited.

Then there came a clap of sound from one side/
^ oddly muffled. He turned to meet it. Folk moved and
muttered around him. He ventured closer, drawn by
a vague glow, seeing only an old man collapsed on
the floor, cupping fire in his hands. The light flickered
unevenly, but he caught a glimpse of Owl, struggling
to stay on his feet, and the gunman, who was point-
ing his gun at the floor. No, he was pointing it at the
policeman, the Wolf, lying helpless before him, his
left shoulder and chest already dark with blood. The
hammer was going back. The gunman was smiling
whitely.

There was no conscious decision. The knife was al-
ready in his hand, and Little Timmy was in front of
him, just like before, and he was there, once more,
with a living man before him and a glittering knife in
his hand. It was like a play, each performing a well-
rehearsed part, even the lights coming up brighter.
Timmy must have heard his step, for he looked up
just as Csucskari reached forward and put the knife
in him. Timmy's eyes met his, said Csucskari felt the
contact of their gaze even as he felt the shock as his
knife buried itself to the hilt past Timmy's collarbone.
They both cried out at once, their screams filling the
room. Csucskari's hand never left the hilt. He felt
Timmy become a weight on his blade. As he fell, the
knife pulled free of the body. He'd done it again.
Blood followed the blade. He stared at the body that
thrashed mindlessly on the floor below him. This was
not what he'd come here to do. He dropped the knife,
covered his face, and sobbed.

Bagoly knelt beside him. He could feel the trem-
bling of his brothers weakness. So drained, both of
them. "Hollo?" he whispered, but there was no re-

306 THE QYPSY

ply/ and the music that should have led them to the
light was elsewhere. In the end, then. She'd won/
separated them and distracted them, used her poor
bent tools as foils to draw them out. Fool of a Gypsy,
ever thinking he could win. He reached toward Owl,
knowing they'd never touch.

SOMETIME

"I'm not hurt that bad. I'm not hurt that bad." Du-
rand could hear himself saying it. He didn't know
how long he'd been repeating it, trying to convince
himself it was so. He stared up at the high ceiling that
was rimmed with silver. Looked like stone roots, and
huge boulders/ like a stylized cave roof. He tried t6
keep staring at it, but the nightmare on his chest dug
its fingers into his upper arm, squeezing yet more
blood from the wound. It was a hallucination/ Du-
rand was sure, and he wasn't going to dignify it by
watching it or trying to push it away. But if he was
seeing things, then maybe he was hurt worse than he
thought. He rolled his head to one side, saw Stepo-
vich on the floor and the gunman standing over him.
There wasn't enough light for the blood to be red/
but the blossoming stain on Mike's shirt was still
spreading. "Officer down/" Durand said inanely.
"Officer needs assistance." He wasn't handling this
very well, he knew it. He should be doing better than
this/ but he wasn't sure exactly what he was sup-
posed to be doing.

Follow the rules/ even if it got him killed? Only he
couldn't think what rules to follow. And these damn
nightmares on his chest were so heavy/ so disgust-
ingly real. Clammy, hard-fingered hands, and really
grotesque odor: Urine and sweat/ and that wasn't
even the bad part.

How the Gypsy Fought the Devil       307

Light grew in the room/ a nacreous rotten light. Ed
had kindled something, part of his shirt, and was
flapping it around like a flimsy weapon. The old man
was grey.

Then there was the Gypsy, doing something to the
gunman, but it was all happening in silence. Durand
saw the knife, even saw it go in/ but then one of the
things began clawing at Durand's face, and chitter-
ing. He pulled away from it. None of this was real.

So he wasn't surprised when she burst from a dark
corner like a dancer leaping onto a stage. Old Madam
Moria, her canes gone, flourishing her iron kettle/
spun in a swirl of splashing tea. She yelled something
in a language Durand didn't recognize. Probably "Be-
gone Demons!" or something like that. Whatever the
threat, she backed it with iron and water and flapping
skirts, and the things on his chest cowered, and the
one drew its arms in close to its bony ribs.

They flinched. That made them real.

"Real/" said Durand, and the revulsion that swept
him gave him strength to roll ffom beneath them. He
rolled over cold iron of his own^ his gun/ dropped
when they'd fallen into this place. His good hand
groped for it/ closed on the grips/ and brought it up
as he came to his knees. Two hands, he reminded
himself, and hissed at the pain it cost him to steady
the pistol.

Ed was advancing on the things that Madam Moria
had spooked off him. As he did so, there came a shrill
laugh, young and old, delightful as a girl's/ evil as
the devil's, and suddenly the things weren't retreat-
ing anymore. Madam Moria was gasping for breath
and staggering/ her curses and strength running
down together like the clockwork in an old toy/ until
she sighed and fell over between the Gypsy and the
fireplace. Ed flapped his smoldering shirt at them, but
none of them seemed impressed. The two creatures
that had clutched and grappled at him now clustered

308 THE QYFSY

around Stepovich's body. There was also a woman
with them/ a thin old thing with stringy hair and deep
lines in her face. She hissed at Ed, and slapped his
smoking shirt aside with the flat of her hand- She
stepped toward Ed/ and in her grey hands with its
filthy broken nails was what seemed to be a thin knife.
She raised it.

Durand stopped them. Stopped them with his
mind. Didn't think about being a hero. Just made
them into silhouettes, paper things, just like on the
range. Lift the gun. Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. Bang,
bang, bang. And they all fell down- Not hard, not
easy. Not a particularly glorious or brave thing to do.
One finger work, just like subtracting numbers on his
checkbook calculator. And they all fell down.

SOMETIME

Raymond felt himself failing; his wings unable to
grasp the air. His strength, returning so slowly, was
now draining away in Luci's presence. She loomed
over him; he looked up.

Like looking up at Heaven and Hell. Face too per-
fect to describe. Eyes too hellish to bear meeting, but
he had no choice. Voice smoother than honey. "Ba-
goly," she said pleasantly, plucking at him with his
own name,

Her eyes gleamed down on him. "No," he said,
gasping. "You cannot have the Dove." Where was
his brother, Daniel, the Raven? He could help. He
had the strength. "Leave us. Leave this world. You
cannot have my brothers."

Empty words. He knew it. She knew it. Worst of
all, Csucskari knew it; Raymond could feel that. Ray-
mond's strength was gone; he couldn't even threaten
her. Her cold fingers fastened to his shoulder, flung

How the Gypsy Fought the Devil       309

him contemptuously aside. He hurtled through the
air, struck a wall and slid down it. In the flickering
light, he saw the big man who held the fire rush to-
ward Luci, but She knocked him effortlessly aside.
Somewhere, sometime, he heard explosions. Now he
smelt the powder, saw where Her servants sprawled
and bled. But it wasn't enough. "Hollo!" he cried,
and the name was black and bitter as the odor of burnt
feathers. Why didn't he answer? Raymond knew that
he would never find out.

He watched Luci set Her hands to Csucskari's
throat. She had long, slender hands; white fingers.
They would be cool as a maiden's touch. He saw them
dose, saw the flesh of his brother's throat bulge up
between them. White against red. "Hollo!" he cried,
and his hand found the strength to lift, to fall against
his heart and the tambourine that rested against it.
He took it into his hand, and it dropped onto his lap,
jarring in a tiny death rattle.

SOMETIME

Madam Moria lay on the floor, unable to rise without
her canes, watching as Luci bent over the Dove,
strangling the life out of him. The hem of Her gown,
white as snow, brushed against Madam Moria. Luci
was as graceful as She was evil, and Her eyes, fas-
tened on her prey, had no thought for the old woman,
or for the Wolf who lay dying on her other side. A
beautiful gown, all of white, the only dark thing, the
thin black belt at her waist.
And from the belt, a lock of grey hair.
Madam Moria smiled. This was not the first time
she had picked a pocket, but it might well be the eas-
iest. When she had it in her hand, she rolled over

310 THE GYPSY

twice, and threw it into the coals of the smoldering
fare.

SOMETIME

Somewhere/ in another room/ a comb snagged sud-
denly, and a long lock of greying hair came free in an
old woman's hand. Like a veil lifted from her eyes,
Cynthia saw how it had blinded her, had made her
a part of Lud's trap. "So!" she shrieked, and "No!"
Leaping up, she lashed at the young couple who nes-
tled like birds in the bower of sweet music they plaited
together. The lock of hair struck the young man across
the face. "You play for yourselves!" she shrieked at
them. "That is not what the music is for. Play for the
world, for life. Not safety and blindness and compla-
cency. Play danger and vision and striving. Play evil
vanquished, and survival. Play life!"

And for Laurie—

Laurie cried out as Daniel's hand tightened sud-
denly on hers. The sweet music stopped, and for an
instant they stood frozen together, like plastic dolls
atop a wedding cake. Laurie twisted her head to stare
up into Daniel's face. A sudden anger was there; not
at her, but at what he must do. She could almost feel
him being torn apart. "There is no way!" he cried
aloud. "No way to keep faith with my brothers and
also with you." For a moment longer, he stood trans-
faxed with agony. Then he shook his head, as if to
clear it. "Forgive me," he said, and she wondered
why. But then suddenly he wrenched fiddle and bow
from her hands, and turned aside from her. He turned
away from her, put his back to her, and bowed his
head over his music.

His bow swept down sudden as a knife slash. Mu-
sic ripped from the fiddle; it ripped the darkness and

How the Gypsy Fought the Devil       311

quiet of the room like a curtain being shredded. Un-
easy light spilled in as the music gushed out, and
suddenly Laurie could see. The chamber walls blew
away like tatters in a wind of song. There was her
father lying on the floor, a spreading red stain on his
chest. There were other people, a motley mix of those
she knew slightly and those she knew not at all nor
would ever wish to. But her father was suddenly the
only one she could see. She leaped to go to him, but
the old gypsy woman caught her and pulled her back.
"No! Stay back! It is not over, but only begun. And
all, all of us lose something here." The woman's hard
fingers closed tight on Laurie's shoulder and held her
fast.

SOMETIME

Stepovich wished the dying would happen faster.
There was so much going on^around him, so much
that agonized him but he could do nothing about. He
wished it were over. If he must be helpless, let him
be dead as well.

The most beautiful woman he had ever seen was
strangling the Gypsy. Her eyes were bright and clear,
and She was laughing with a lover's joy as She
choked the life out of him. The Gypsy, limp as a rag
doll, was shaken in Her grip. The man was dying,
and Stepovich sensed some greater Death waiting in
the wings, waiting to make its entrance when the
Gypsy was gone. For a moment, too, he thought he
saw Laurie beyond the locked figures, thought he saw
her young face horrified, stripped of all innocence.
But a greyness fluttered across his vision, and he
knew it for the illusion it was. He was getting so cold,
but the blood wetting his chest felt so warm.

More shots. The beautiful strangler was startled;

312 THE GYPSY

She turned to find their source. With a major effort,
Stepovich scraped his head on the cold paving stones.
There, at the corner of his vision, was Durand. He
was walking toward them, his pistol held out in both
his hands, wavering like a dowser's stick. He was
firing at Her from point-blank range. The woman
laughed Her wonderful laugh, and the ringing shout
of it smashed against Durand and flung him like a
toy.

A distraction. There was a cop inside Stepovich's
head, yelling at him. She's distracted. Use the time,
Protect your partner. You're going to die anyway, draw
her attention to yourself, give Durand a chance. Die like
a cop, you damn well lived like one, and it ruined ev-
erything you ever thought you wanted.

Stepovich wanted to lay still and die quietly. There
was nothing more he could do here. But someone.
somewhere, was playing music, fiddle music. The
notes plucked at him like fingers at his sleeve, scraped
his nerves raw. He couldn't die. Not while that music
was playing. But another man was dying nearby. One
of the gypsies. The body next to him was Timmy's.
Damn, who got him? Stepovich wondered for an in-
stant. And then remembered. The knife still lay where
it had fallen. It pointed at Stepovich like an accusing
finger.

The knife. The goddamned knife. All this time, the
same fucking knife. Cut my life to ribbons.

She was choking the Gypsy still, but he could al-
most feel the hands squeezing his own windpipe. He
couldn't pay attention to it. All he could think of was
how much he hated that knife.

It was with a curious sense of inevitability that he
felt it under his hand. The touch of it was like a shot
of whiskey, only in his blood instead of his stomach.
Galvanizing. He closed his hand on it, then pushed
down on the hand that clenched the weapon, forcing
himself up from the floor and to his knees. His other

How the Gypsy Fought the Devil       313

arm and hand were a dangling weight that bumped
against him as he moved. There was pain, too, in-
credible pain somewhere, but he wasn't sure it was
his. He didn't have the strength to stand, but he
didn't need to. His vision was going fuzzy and use-
less. He blinked, trying to dear it, imagined he saw
Ed's grinning face behind the Lady, egging him on.
Stepovich scraped forward, a crawling step, and the
rasp of his shoes on the stone floor turned Her eyes
to him, even as he raised the knife. Beautiful eyes.
They burned into his, and froze him to stillness.

He would have fought Her if he could, but he had
no strength of will—not when She looked at him. His
peripheral vision tried to tell him that Ed's hands were
lifting, falling on the Lady's shoulders. Ed clutched
her, whispered, "Gotcha!"

In one startled instant. Her power wavered. She
struck Ed aside as if he were made of straw and news-
paper. Stepovich thought he heard the crack of ribs.
It didn't matter. Ed had known what it would cost
him, to buy Stepovich that instant. It would not be
wasted.

He sheathed the knife in the beautiful woman's
breast.

SOMETIME

A scream; a woman's or a fiddle's, he could not tell.
But he could pull cold air into his hot lungs, and he
could lift his head. The scream again, so sweet it could
only be Lud dying—sent back to where She be-
longed, there to wait for him, ah, not now. There was
Raven, waltzing into the room as he played Her death
on his nddle strings, while Owl on the floor feebly
tapped out the staggering beats of Her failing heart.
Csucskari rolled his head and saw Her on the floor,

314 THE GYPSY

thrashing with a knife, his knife, transfixing Her white
gown to a red growing stain. The Wolf lay discarded,
his eyes open in slits, but he seemed to feel Csucskari
staring at him, because, for an instant, his eyes wid-
ened. Their gazes met, and the nods they exchanged
cost them the world in pain. Then the Wolf's eyes
closed tightly and he turned his head away.

It made no sense. The task had been his, and his
alone. It made no sense at all. Csucskari felt some-
thing sting his eyes.

There was an old woman, and he found he knew
her name- Cynthia. Cynthia Kacmarcik. She had been
gripping the Wolf's cub by the shoulder, but now that
it was all over, she released her. Cynthia turned her
eyes to another old woman. Madam Moria. They
opened their arms to one another, crossed the room
like dancers treading a measure. "\ found it, sister,"
said Madam Moria. "The lock of hair. I destroyed it."

"I know, sister," said the other. "It set me free."

They met without touching. They held each other
in a gaze that would probably last forever. What
passed between them not even the Gypsy could
know, but at last Cynthia Kacmarcik gave a barely
audible sigh and fell apart. She became bits of white
bone china and a bundle of straw, a scrap of burlap
and a tangle of string. For one instant the simulacrum
stood, a mocking scarecrow of the soul it had held
trapped. Then it tumbled to the floor, a scatter of junk.
Moria spurned it with her foot as she turned aside.
"It is over," she said to no one and everyone. "We
must go quickly now."

The riddle spoke a single phrase, sliding down the
scale and into stillness.

As if in reply, cracks of yellow light appeared
soundlessly in the walls like curtains parting. A pale
blue wind whispered through them, and the fresh-
ness of it made him realize how bad the stench of the

How the Gypsy Fought the Devil       315

chambers had been. There was a groan, as of two
worlds parting, deeper than sound.

Daniel lowered his bow. Csucskari lifted his head,
fixed him with a look. Almost, almost he had been
too late. But in the final count, blood had told, and
the Raven had flown with his brothers. Daniel low-
ered the fiddle from his throat, let it ease down to his
side. "Lorelei," he said, but the young woman he
addressed did not turn. Step by slow step, she was
advancing on the Wolf's body. Daniel lifted a hand,
reached after her, but he could not touch her, not in
a room lit by flickering fire and wan daylight, not
where the dead lay grouped with the wounded, the
demons with the men.

Luci still twitched and thrashed on Her back in an
obscene dance, a parody of a woman in passion, the
knife still in Her chest as She gnashed Her teeth.
Blood spurted from the knife wound, then slowed as
Her movements slowed, as the Owl's hesitant fingers
tapped out the last beats of Her heart: Teckadum, teck-
adum, teckadum.

Hollo turned away from the young woman, back to
his brother. Csucskari bled for what was dying in his
eyes, but Hollo knelt down, and lifted his brother by
the shoulders. Csucskari felt his strength returning.
"It's over, brother," Hollo told him.

Csucskari nodded and shuddered. Gently he freed
himself from his brother's grasp, managed to stand
on his own. Managed to walk to Luci's body, to
crouch down beside it. He put his hand to the knife-
"I'll need this," he said-

"Probably," Hollo sighed.

Csucskari drew the knife from the body. He felt the
last of Her life go with it. "Help our brother," he said.

"Owl can help himself," Raymond said gruffly. He
heaved himself to his feet. For a long moment he and
Daniel looked at one another as if they were strangers.

316 THE GYPSY

Then he lifted his shoulders in a long/ slow shrug.
"In the end, you came/' he said.

"Yes," said Daniel. "I did." But his eyes followed
Laurie as she sank to her knees by her father, and
there was a hollowness in his voice. "How many
times, though, my brothers? If there is another time/
another chance to escape all of this, do you think I
will not take it? I don't know."

The ground gave a bare tremble beneath them.

The two policeman, young and old, were support-
ing one another. The young one bled from his arm,
and from the bites of the Fair Lady's minions. The
old one just looked very old as they gathered around
the fallen Wolf.

"Laurie," said the old one gently. But she knelt by
her father, gripping his good hand in both of hers.

"Laurie," he said weakly, almost inaudibly. "You
can't be here. You can't be here."

The young policeman looked a fearful question at
the old one, who shrugged -

The old Badger gently moved the girl, pushing her
into Durand's arms. "All right," he said grimly,
"Let's see what you've done to yourself." He gin-
gerly knelt next to the Wolf and touched two fingers
to the man's neck. "You'll be pleased to know that
you have a pulse," he said. He moved his hand and
deliberately pressed his thumb over the wound. The
Wolf twitched once and his eyes dosed. The girl cried
out and struggled, but the young policeman held her,
and spoke to her quietly.

The Gypsy put his arm around Daniel. Then he
staggered and caught his balance as the whole world
trembled. Cracks widened in the floor, in the walls,
and the winds between the world blew through with
the force of a gale, showing half a moon and half a
sun.

"Gather close together," Csucskari shouted over

How the Gypsy Fought the Devil       317

the noise. "The Fair Lady is gone, and Her domain
cannot stand without Her."

"What happens now?" asked Daniel. "Where do
we go? How do we return?"

The Gypsy shrugged. "I don't know. Our task is
done for this place. Of what comes after, I know
nothing."

There was a sudden crack of sound that licked
through the air like lightning. All, even the girl, lifted
their eyes.

He was in black, but his eyes gleamed blacker- The
cloak at his shoulders fluttered in the wind. His clever
fingers played with the whip as a sardonic smile
curved his lips.

"This way, if you please," he said, as if they had
all the time in the world. "The coach awaits outside."

SEVENTEEN

How They Came Back Home

ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD

/ gave you every chance to choose,
Mr. DeCruz.

"BACK IN TOWN"

He laughs into the wind.

Below him the coach clatters with all the right sounds,
shakes in all the right ways. There are six horses pulling
the coach, in rows of four and two; four of them he has
conjured from the past, uncertain he 'd be able to do so again,
and two are new ones: the dark trace-horse and the fair off-
wheeler. The new ones are uncertain, untrained, but he has
four experienced horses to guide them. Twice, no more, he
has cracked the whip over their heads, and now they run,
knowing the hand upon the reins is sure. The six heads are
stretched forth upon their necks as they charge into the
gloom of the impossible place where all is possible, while
he, the Coachman, guides them along paths of memory,
chance, and choice.

Here, a wheel dips and splashes through a small puddle
of fear, but he doesn't even slow. There, stray rocks of mis-
fortune litter the path, but he guides the horses around
them with the merest touch of the reins. Above, demons of

How They Came Back Home       319

frustration taunt and threaten, but there is a calk on the
end of his whip, and he drives them away.

"So, how fast we going?" Ed knew it was a dumb
question as soon as he asked it. But the wind in his
face made him grin, and the simplicity of it all pleased
him immensely. There were lights above them, glittering
in the darkness, and a wide world stretched out around
them. It was all a dream, and he knew it, just as he did
when he dreamed of flapping his arms and flying
through the sky. But now as then he figured, what the
hell, enjoy it while you can, because he sure wasn't going
to get it this good when he was awake.

"As fast as you wish, or as slow," said the Coach-
man, and they exchanged a knowing grin. Damn, he
liked this guy. Ed vaguely remembered he'd been
feeling sad about something, but now he couldn't re-
member what it was. He only knew that he was trav-
eling, as he'd always wanted to. Moving through
strange lands and peoples. The night wind smelled
exotic, spices and smoke and foreign flowers. The air
was warm on his face.

He leaned forward into it, admiring the Coach-
man's nngers on the reins, the way he talked to the
horses. He suspected he could do that himself, after
watching for a little longer. The Coachman teased the
reins, and it was just like pressing down on the gas,
there was the same smooth surge of speed.

"So, where we going?" he asked the Coachman.

The Coachman glanced at him, lifted one eyebrow
sardonically. "Nowhere," he said. "Everywhere."
For a long time the world rocked past them, smooth
as bourbon. Ed caught a glimpse of lit windows, of a
woman's face peering out into the night- The houses
here were low, the roofs fat and rounded. Fields rus-
tled with some grain crop between the houses. "Ev-
erywhere," the Coachman said again. "Everywhere
but home."

320 THE GYPSY

Home.

And the word hung there silently like a curtain di-
viding them. Ed had a sudden sense that the Coach-
man didn't really know what it meant. Not like he
did. The Coachman might know the whole world,
hell, he might know every world there was, but there
wasn't one that he could call home. Wasn't one where
he knew every single alley, and knew what it looked
like, winter or summer. Wasn't a place where he re-
membered what the empty lots looked like before they
sprouted buildings. He'd never seen a nice neighbor-
hood go slum, and then years later get religion and
go condo and become exclusive. He'd never know the
wide world encapsulated in a city the way Ed did.

"Want to go with me?" the Coachman asked.

For a long moment, Ed looked at the reins. Every-
where but home. Never that sigh at the end of the
day, never the grocery clerk knowing your name, the
paperboy yelling hi to you on the street. Never turn-
ing to a friend and saying, "I know this great little
hole-in-the-wall restaurant." Never a bar where you
could stand up and call over your shoulder as you
walked out, "Put it on my tab." The price tag on all
the worlds was to always be a stranger.

"Naw," Ed told him. "But it's been great to be
along for the ride."

Worlds are spinning away beneath his wheels. A thou-
sand possibilities, a million. Sometimes he thinks he knows
what would be best. He thinks he could let one off here, put
another there, and they would be happy. But it is not for
him to decide. It is only for him to offer. He will not per-
suade, he will not dissuade. He offers, and he listens, as
the horses run on under his hands.

The car interior smelled like furniture polish. The
seats were deep, deeper than their family car, and
Durand was sunk in his so far he could barely see out

How They Came Back Home       321

the window. His mom sat beside him, holding his
hand. He wished she wouldn't. He'd been hugged,
patted and held beyond endurance by well-meaning
people attempting to console him. What he needed
was to be left alone.

Sergeant Cleary was driving slowly. Giles Durand
tried to see his face in the rearview mirror, but the
sergeant's hat was low over his eyes. His hands
looked strange on the wheel, skinny and freckled, not
like his dad's hands had looked. He'd never see his
dad's hands on a steering wheel again. It was another
one of those thoughts; he knew it was true, but he
didn't believe it. He kept looking into the empty pas-
senger seat, knowing that if he saw his father there,
he wouldn't be surprised. Someday, he knew, it
would all become real, but it hadn't yet. He tried to
listen to what his mom was saying.

". . . change your mind. I know it's hard for you
to understand. - - ."

You'll understand when you're elder, son.

"... but you have to keep believing in everything
he taught you, Giles. Daddy died, but he died doing
what was right. That's what we have to hold on to.
That he died for what he believed in, and we have to
keep on believing in it. ..."

In the front seat. Sergeant shifted uneasily. He
glanced back once at Giles, then shifted his eyes back
to the road. His mother was still talking.

"That's what we have to remember. When you
grow up and you're a policeman like Daddy, that's
the code you'll have to live by, too. To do what's
right, no matter what the cost. Your daddy believed
in that, Giles. He lived for that, and he died for that,
and that's what we have to remember about him.
That's what everyone will remember about him, and
the people he helped will always be grateful that he
was that way."

322 THE GYPSY

"Then why weren't they there today, at the fu-
neral?"

"What?"

The suddenness of his mother's confusion made
him realize that she hadn't been talking to him at all;

she'd been holding onto him while she talked aloud
to herself. Maybe even saying it out loud so the ser-
geant would hear her say it, and would go back to
the station and tell all the other cops what she had
said. As soon as the boy thought that, he knew it was
true. But it didn't keep him from asking the question
again.

"All those people he helped by being a cop. Why
weren't any of them there? It was just us and
Grandma/ and Uncle Ted, and all the other cops. How
come all the people he helped weren't there?"

"Well, honey/ it wasn't like they all knew him per-
sonally. It was what he symbolized that was impor-
tant. I guess you're a little too young to understand
what I mean by that ..."

You'll understand when you're older, son. His dad
pushing the girl's face away from his crotch, and
turning away from her and Giles as he zipped his
pants up. The station house locker room had smelled
like dirty socks/ and his dad's face had been very red.
Sergeant Cleary had laughed, then. Now he didn't
even smile.

". . . but it's like, he wasn't a person to them/ he
was a policeman. Most of them probably never even
knew his name.'

"That girl did." Giles glanced up at the sergeant in
the rearview mirror. He'd been there, he would
know; but he didn't meet Giles's eyes. "Remember
her. Sergeant Cleary?"

The Sergeant kept driving, his hands tight on the
wheel, his jaw set.

Giles opened his mouth to speak, and at that mo-
ment it seemed that he could see and hear what was

How They Came Back Home       323

going to happen. She knew his name, he would say.
She called him Ricky, though, not Richard like you
do, but she knew his name. And Dad was helping
her, really helping her to let her do that to him so she
wouldn't have to go to jail, because she was really
too young to have to go to jail. So if he helped her
and she wasn't in jail, why wasn't she there, the fu-
neral today? And then his mother would turn, and
ask him more questions, and Sergeant Cleary would
sink lower in his seat. And in the end, after he'd told
her all about it, she'd turn and coldly ask the ser-
geant, who would say he didn't know what the kid
was talking about. Then his mom would turn and slap
him, slap him so fast and hard that he never even
saw her hand, would only remember hitting his head
on the shiny upholstery so hard it was like a slap on
the other side of his face. And then they wouldn't
talk anymore, and they would never, ever talk about
the ride home from the funeral and what he had said,
and it would almost be like it had never happened.
He wouldn't remember it, but he and his mom would
never be able to forget it when they talked about his
dad. So they wouldn't talk about him very much.
How could he know that?
"What girl?" said his mother sharply.
"Oh, some girl Sergeant deary once told me about.
A girl dad had to arrest, but then he let go," said
Giles.

His mom smiled indulgently. "Richard arrested
someone and then let her go? Giles, I don't think po-
licemen are allowed to do things like that. Once they
arrest someone, that person has to be punished."

In the front seat. Sergeant Clearly stirred. "It de-
pends, ma'am," he said softly- "Sometimes you give
a first offender a break. Sometimes you know they
don't really deserve the blot on their record, so you
let them off the hook."

His mom looked puzzled for a moment, but didn't

324 THE GYPSY

say anything else, and Giles sat back, wondering why
he had the feeling that something horrible had-just
been averted, wondering how he could remember
suddenly that Captain Cleary had sat in the front row
when he graduated from the academy.

The Coachman looks at the young man seated next to
him, and finds the young man staring back at him. "What
changed?" asked the policeman, and the Coachman isn't
certain how to answer.

"You did," he says at last. "You took a different path."

"But I—" he doesn't complete the sentence. After a mo-
ment he says, "A better one?"

"I don't know," says the Coachman. "Better for
whom?" Then, "Did you and your mother talk about your
dad much?"

"Huh? Sure. All the time . . . oh."

The horses never tire. Nor does the Coachman. Beyond,
back a forever behind them, something that wasn't real,
that never should have existed, collapses in on itself. It
doesn't leave a hole, for a thousand other possibilities flow
in to take its place.

The Coachman sighs.

One left to ask. And the choice he must offer is bitter.
This one he dreads. Never has he felt himself such a sly
trickster as he does right now. He knows it is not upon him
to choose what to offer. Each chooses what to offer himself.
But from this, if he could, he would rein aside, would have
the horses find a better path.

If the choice were his.

But it isn't.

Each breath was painful. Stepovich couldn't under-
stand it. The night was cool-warm, full of summer
city peace, the steady slow clop of the hooves was
soothing as a lullaby. Beside him, the Coachman
drove silently. That was fine with him. He'd had
enough noise and action lately- This peace/ this was

How They Came Back Home       325

what he wanted. It had been a long, hard day, full of
stress, all blurring behind him. This quietness now,
this was good.

The coach was keeping pace with a young couple
strolling down the sidewalk. His arm was around her
slender waist, and she leaned a dark head on his
shoulder. He recognized his younger self, and his
wife. No, not his wife, not then. His fiancee. How
elegant it had once felt to say that word, how wealthy.
He savored it.

Something struck him as slightly odd, but he
couldn't quite put his ringer on it. He pushed the un-
easiness out of his mind when he realized he could
hear them talking. He remembered the conversation,
even, from so very long ago. Funny. It hadn't seemed
important, back then. Hadn't seemed like a turning
point.

"Honey," she said, "I wouldn't mind working. In
fact, I'd love it. You could go to school full-time, then,
and be done that much sooner. I think it's the only
way we're ever going to get what we want. Mike, I
love you. I hate to see you work all day, and then try
to study all night. And you know it's making your
grades suffer."

The voice of reason. Patient, encouraging. God,
how he'd wished for a cigarette, but he'd already
given those up for her. No more cigarettes, or pickled
eggs, and he'd quit wearing suspenders.

But he didn't want to quit being a cop.

He'd started taking the night school classes to im-
press her. Gonna be a lawyer, he'd told her. Lied to
her, might as well admit it. He'd taken just enough
law classes to find out how slippery a subject it was.
Justice, that was what he wanted to learn about. And
Ed could teach him more about justice in one righ-
teous bust than any of his night school teachers. He
remembered all this. This was the night when he'd
told her that he was going to lay out of school, for

326 THE GYPSY

just one semester, to catch up with himself, so when
they got married in a month, he'd have time free to
honeymoon with her. Only he'd known then that he
was never going back, that he was telling her a lie.

He watched himself lie to her, watched her accept
it. Knew he could lean down and shout the truth out,
and that his younger self would have to utter it, tell
her that he really wanted to be a cop, that he didn't
think it was a lowlife job that kept him in permanent
contact with lowlife people. He could have made that
younger self explain to her just what it meant to him.

He listened to her reply.

"Well. As long as it's not forever. It just scares me
so, sometimes, knowing you're out there being a tar-
get for every wacko in the city. As long as you're
happy, though/ I suppose it's okay. And you will go
back to school next fall, right?"

Stepovich heard what his younger self had never
heard. The He in her voice. It wasn't okay with her.
Never would be. But she had believed it was only
temporary, she'd believed she was marrying a future
lawyer, not a blue suit and a duty weapon.

"We believed in each other's lies," he told the
Coachman.

The Coachman nodded. "Don't we all."

"I could tell her the truth," Stepovich said slowly.
"I could tell her right now, and it would change ev-
erything. Maybe she wouldn't marry me."

"Maybe you'd go to school full time and become a
lawyer. You had the brains for it."

"But not the stomach," Stepovich said slowly. He
dragged in another painful breath. "This isn't a
dream, is it?"

The Coachman turned, and looked at him for a long
time. "It's your choice," he said quietly at last. "This
could be a dream. Or it could be a place where you
climb back into your skin, and take a different path."

Stepovich could feel a chill seeping through his

How They Came Back Home       327

blood. He lifted a hand to his shoulder, almost re-
membered. Somewhere in the night, a slow anger
tapped a tambourine.
"Am I dying?" he asked.

"Dying? No. Not dying, but . . . you're not dy-
ing."

"And if I were, would I get another chance?"
The Coachman shook his head slowly. "This is it.
You picked this choice place, and I can offer you but
one."

"What do you suggest?"

For a moment, it seemed the Coachman winced,
but all he said was, "I make no suggestions. Decide."

Stepovich watched them kissing, the young cop and
his fiancee. But the man thought he was kissing a
cop's wife, and the woman thought she was kissing
a Future lawyer. They'd both be wrong. He still had
a chance, right now, to step down from the coach and
walk a different path, one that led away from the
pains of quarrels and divorce. Maybe it would lead to
no marriage at all. Maybe he'd leam to like being a
lawyer. But there were no guarantees-
Then it hit like a whip: No guarantees there'd be a
Laurie or a Jeffrey; that's what he was giving up, as
well as everything else. That kiss they were sharing,
that might be their last. He'd be sweeping away the
joys with the pains. Did he want to chance that? Wip-
ing out all those past pains, that was one thing. Giv-
ing up the picnics and family dinner in exchange for
a life that might be worse, okay; but what if it meant
the children never came to be?

A vague notion came to him that there was another
thing he'd be undoing as well. He closed his hand on
a weapon that wasn't there, groped after a deed he
couldn't remember. But it had been important. And
somehow it had kept Laurie safe. Funny, how foggy
it was all getting. Not just his thoughts, but the night
around him. Funny, how the horses plodded on, but

328 THE GYPSY

they never passed the couple kissing under the street-
lamp.

"Drive on," he finally said. "Drive on." He leaned
back into his pain.

One of the gypsies, the big one, is tapping a tambourine.
He says, "So, you are taking all three of them back, then?"

The Coachman nods.

"What about the girl? Doesn't she get a choice?"

"No," says the Coachman. "Notyet, not here, not from
me."

"And the old woman?"

"She made all of her choices long ago."

The big gypsy nods. He looks a bit like an owl, the way
he stares. The Coachman drives on.

Soon he reaches a place where there is a soft glow of
starlight, which is auickly joined by a half moon, waxing,
and he feels sorrow. The journey is nearing its end. Only
for a short time longer will he sit on this box and feel the
horses talk to him through the reins. He has come many
lifetimes tonight, but the journey still seems short. The
thought takes him that he could turn now, and bring them
all to another place—a place where this coach would remain
real. Perhaps they would blink in the sunshine and thank
him. Perhaps they would not. It doesn't matter; he knows
he will not do it.

The sun is rising ahead of him, red and thick behind
layers of clouds, and in the glow, the horses begin to fade
and the feeling of motion to decrease. Now he sees the faint
outline of walls around him, and he pulls on the reins and
the horses slow. When they have stopped, they are gone,
as are we all, and the reins are no more than a twist of a
scarf's fabric tangled in his fingers.

How They Came Back Home
17 NOV 05:57

/ spent a lifetime in Hell last year,
I'm not sure when I got back.
The plaster statues are running in place.
And some are beginning to crack.
One wears a smile, one wears a frown;

They both seem foofs to me.

The game isn't over 'til one of them's lost,

You never know who it will be.

"TELLERS OF TALES"

329

Durand felt like he was opening his eyes, though he
couldn't remember closing them. It was like a play
resuming, a crowded set cluttered with furniture and
people just starting to stir. Madam Moria was already
setting upright an ugly little table that had gotten
tipped over. She set her ruined kettle atop it, and
glared at him when she caught him staring at her.
With a sigh and a wheeze/-she sank back into her
chair as if she'd never left it- Durand belatedly real-
ized that he was leaning against a tapestried wall,
clutching his bleeding arm.

He watched Daniel rise slowly, look around at the
old woman's apartment, and bow to the Coachman,
who sniffed. "Don't bow to me you, you gypsy, you."
Darnel smiled faintly, and turned to his brothers. Ray-
mond was leaning against Csucskari, who still held
the bloody knife.

"A pleasant ride," said Raymond softly. He looked
down suddenly, and, "How did he get here?" he
asked the Coachman, almost accusingly.

The Coachman shrugged. "Perhaps he never left."

Durand followed his glance. Little Timmy. The one
they'd killed. The bloody corpse didn't stir him at all.
Only the pistol in the hand seemed real, and the only
emotion it roused in Durand was anger.

330 THE GYPSY

Csucskari said, "We must see to the Wolf."   /

And the Wolf is Mike/ on the floor with Ed kneeling
beside him. Ed pressed his handkerchief against
Mike's shoulder, while Laurie knelt beside them,
clutching herself as she rocked back and forth. Du-
rand crossed to kneel by his partner. He put his good
arm around Laurie/ stilled her rocking.

Durand blinked stupidly and looked around. His
partner was on the floor/ and his own arm was bleed-
ing- From Ed's color, he was hurting as well, even if
no blood showed. The three gypsies looked as if a
bare breath of wind might blow them all away. The
Coachman leaned up beside the door, whip in hand,
as if none of this concerned him. "What do we do?"
Durand asked them all.

Madam Moria sighed heavily. She folded a scarf
very carefully and set it aside. For a long second she
shut her eyes. Then she opened them, and an-
nounced, "Well, I don't have my cane, so I can't
make tea." When everyone looked at her, she added,
"My good kettle's ruined, too," and glared at Csucs-
kari as if daring him to accept the blame.

Durand stirred suddenly. He walked over to her
phone, a black thing crouching on a small table, and
dialed.

"Officer Durand. My partner is down, and I've
been injured. We need an ambulance at thirty-four-
sixteen Oak Street Upper, northeast corner of Oak
and Carradine. No, no back-up needed; the situation
is stable. Hurry on that ambulance though. Mike's hit
bad. No, I won't stay on the damn line. Use the nine-
one-one trace, for god's sake." He left the receiver off
the hook. Going back to Stepovich, he took Laurie
firmly by the shoulders and pushed her into Ed's
arms. He knelt down, and began laying Stepovich's
shirt open.

"It doesn't look good," Ed muttered, and tried to

How They Came Back Home        331

keep Laurie from looking. Durand refolded the hand-
kerchief and pressed it once more against the wound.

Stepovich stirred and cried out; Laurie echoed
him. She pulled free of Ed, but suddenly Daniel was
there, catching her in his arms despite the fiddle he
still held. He pulled her face into his chest and held
her tightly. She grew still. Durand swayed, then sat
back on the floor beside his partner. He put his fin-
gers on the pulse in Stepovich's throat, kept them
there. Ed got up and sank slowly onto the couch,
one arm wrapped protectively around his ribs. "He'll
live," he said. "But . . ." His voice trailed off.

Madam Moria had found her other cane. She
thumped it impatiently on the carpet, "It's over then,
isn't it?" she demanded.

"Over?" said Csucskari. "No. It's not over. The
Fair Lady has been banished from this world, but we
have tasks yet to do."

"We're together now," said Owl. "That is some-
thing."

Durand turned his head, spoke to Csucskari as he
kept his fingers on Stepovich's pulse. "There's still a
warrant out for you, you know."

"Yes," said Csucskari.

"Perhaps it would be best if you left."

"I don't know where to go."

"This is something new?" Raymond asked, and
laughed.

"The Pennsylvania border is a good start," said
Durand.

Csucskari caught Raymond's eye. "We must leave
together/" he said. They both looked at Daniel.

His grip on Laurie tightened. He stared back at his
brother, over her head. "I could be happy."

"You've chosen already," said Csucskari. "When
it mattered most. Why torture yourself?"

" 'Needs must when the Devil drives/' " Raymond

332 THE GYPSY

began/ but the Gypsy gave a slight shake of his head.
The Coachman snorted.

A tremor shook Daniel. The bow slipped from his
fingers, falling to the carpet. He seemed to age before
their eyes. He let go of her. She didn't seem to notice.

Daniel closed his eyes for an instant. Then he
opened them and set his jaw. He gave himself a little
shake.

Laurie blinked suddenly, and drew herself up. She
looked around the room and Durand saw the confu-
sion grow in her eyes. "Daniel?" she asked/ puzzled.

"Daniel is gone/' said the Raven.

Stepovich groaned.

Laurie spun suddenly, seemed to see anew her fa-
ther on the floor. "Daddy!" she waiied, and launched
herself at him.

Mike had stirred. He made a sound that might have
been her name, and she flung herself to her knees on
the floor beside Durand.

The Raven turned aside again.

"We have to go," the big gypsy reminded them all.

"How?" said Csucskari.

Something shining flashed through the air, struck
the Coachman's chest and fell to the floor. "Get the
hell out of here," Ed growled. "You been nothing but
a pack of trouble anyway." The Coachman crouched
slowly, rose with Ed's Cadillac keys in his hand. He
jingled them in a loose fast.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

A growing wail of ambulance sirens answered him.
A second siren, rising and falling, chimed in. "Get
the hell out of here!" Ed snarled. "The cops are com-
ing. And remember: Super unleaded, or she'll knock
like hell on the hills."

"We'll be gone, then/' said the Coachman. He
opened the door. The big gypsy lifted a hand in a
quick goodbye, then led the way down the stairs. The

How They Came Back Home        333

Gypsy took the Raven's arm as tenderly as if he were
wounded.

"Come/ brother," he said.

"I was what she made me," he said softly. "Not
as my acts betrayed me."

The Gypsy tugged at him gently.

The Raven looked once more at Laurie as she bowed
over her father. It was the only farewell he gave her.
He straightened, squaring his shoulders. Then he
stopped, and picked up his hddle bow from where
he'd dropped it. As the sirens drew nearer, he stood
still, looking at the nddle in his hands.

"Brother," cautioned the Gypsy.

Daniel stepped forward suddenly, thrust riddle and
bow at Ed. "For her/" he said. "Later. When she
wants it."

Moria scowled. "Are you certain?" she asked.

"See she gets a case for it." The Raven turned as
abruptly as a father abandoning a child. "Let's go/"
he told the Coachman, and caught his brother's el-
bow and hurried him down the stairs.

The Coachman gave the room'one elegant sweep-
ing bow/ one last sardonic smile, and followed.

EPILOGUE

The Wolf and the Cub

NOVEMBER TWENTY-FIRST, AFTERNOON

Be/te /'// fasten to your feet.

That you needn't be alone,

And I'll dance with you the Gypsy Dance

That you have always known.

"GYPSY DANCE"

". . . not really surprised . . . No, it's what I'd expect
her to do. . . . Because if she waited for the kid to ask
her, she'd wait forever. So, what did he say? . . .
Yeah, that's about what I'd expect. Well, maybe they
would be smarter to wait until this whole mess got
cleaned up, but smarter isn't always best, Marilyn,
you tell Tiffany that for me." Stepovich listened while
he thumbed through his statement again. He started
to switch the phone from one ear to the other, then
remembered that shoulder no longer worked. "Yeah.
I know, it is quite a mess- They said they could have
saved my arm if the quack who fixed my shoulder the
last time hadn't bungled it. ... Well, thanks, I ap-
preciate that- ... I guess I'll have to, won't I? ...
No, I don't mean to sound bitter, I'm just tired of all
the damn questions about . . . sure I understand, I
didn't mean you, ask whatever you want. . . . What
makes it so bad is that I'm so foggy about what hap-
pened after I got hit. . . . Ed? I don't know. From
what I can gather, he was under a coffee table or be-

the Wolf and the Cub           335

hind a couch or some damned thing while Durand
had all the fun. ... I was being sarcastic, Marilyn.
But as I say, after I got hit, I didn't know much of
anything that happened. . . . Yeah, I knew about Ed's
friend Madam Moria, but - . . yeah, I'd heard that the
guy who shot me was the one who did the liquor
store clerk, but I don't know why he was at Moria's
place, . . . Me? I told you, Ed just wanted to intro-
duce Durand and me to Madam—Huh? Yeah, as far
as I know, the killer just happened to show up while
we were there. These things happen. . . , Holes? Who
are you. Internal Affairs? . . . No, really. . . . No, re-
ally. . . . Okay, well, tell you what, Marilyn, soon as
I'm feeling better, I'll buy you a cup of coffee and tell
you the whole story. . . . that's right, the whole sto-
ry ... Yeah, I guess I do owe you that much, but
don't blame me when you don't believe it. Hell, I was
there, and I don't believe half of it. ... Yeah, I guess
that's a promise. Okay, dinner, not coffee. . . . Okay.
Hey, I've got company right now, though, so I got to
get off the phone. . . . huh?-You bet, Marilyn. A
beautiful woman." As he said this, Stepovich's visi-
tor gave an exaggerated look around the hospital
room and harrumphed. He bravely waggled his eye-
brows at her. "Right. . . much better, hell, you know
cops are made of unbreakable plastic. . . . How
should I know, Marilyn? Maybe. I don't even know
if they'll offer me a desk job after they read my state-
ment. . . - Yeah, they finally got it out. It ended up
lodged between two ribs - . . bounced all over hell
inside me getting there, 1 guess, they say I'm lucky
I'm even . . . Right. I will. No, really, I will, I prom-
ise. You, too. Thanks for calling. , . . Bye."

As soon as Stepovich hung up the phone, she said,
"Cut the cards, three times."

He sighed and obeyed her. It was awkward, one-
handed. They were peculiar cards, even for the kind
of deck it was. Thick edges gone soft with age and

336 THE GYPSY

handling, smelling like some old spicy perfume. Not
even their backs matched. She shifted the piles, mut-^
tering to herself as she did so. He watched her prac-
ticed fingers lay the cards out in a careful pattern on
the white hospital sheet beside him. She bent over
them, her hair falling forward like a curtain. "Of
course/' she muttered. "I can see it."

"See what?" Stepovich asked crabbily.

Her fingernail tapped a card, two people exchang-
ing chalices. "I see Durand asking a woman with red
hair to join her fortune with his. She hesitates, but
not for long."

"Actually, Tiffany Marie asked him," Stepovich
pointed out. She ignored his interruption.

Her hands moved again, jabbing at the ornate
cards. "This one, the Queen of Stars? She receives
gifts soon, gifts due her. A kettle, perhaps, and a new
cane. Perhaps a pound of good tea."

Stepovich harrumphed.

Her fingers wandered on. "An older man dose to
you opens new doors, or nnds a new opportunity."
It was a hand coming out of a cloud holding a flow-
ering stick. Stepovich noticed that it was a single arm,
then threw the thought away.

"You knew Ed got himself a part-time job- Down
at the Classic Caddy. Spends all day arguing about
cars with a bunch of other old farts." He coughed
slightly, winced from the bruises the bullet had made
inside him and the pull of the healing wounds. He
took a quick breath, reached to tap a Moon card-
"What's this?"

She shook her head. "One we don't wish to speak
of. She is gone from here, but not so far as to give
me any comfort. But there is another," she tapped a
card with a guy upside down on a cross. "One who
is not far behind her. This, the six of Swords, nearby?
He does not travel alone." A card with ten circled

The Wolf and the Cub           337

stars overlay a man on a horse carrying yet another
star. Her fingers stroked the two, then lifted away.

"Here," she said. "This is you. The Fool."

"Oh, thank you."

"No. Trust me. It's the right card for you. The be-
ginning of knowledge, the beginning of a spiritual
journey"—Stepovich rolled his eyes—"and someone
who can walk through danger and not be harmed."

"Not be harmed?" He gestured at where his arm
had been. "What do you call this/ a dimple?"

"And this," she continued quickly, "the five of
Cups beside it? That's disappointments, but they're
past now. This is the future." It was a woman in a
garden with a bird on her finger. "She's enjoying the
good things in life. Alone, but getting wiser about
herself."

He suddenly thought of Marilyn, then chided him-
self. If he wasn't careful, he could start taking this
stuff seriously, and then what? Can't go out on patrol
today, the cards say it isn't auspicious. But no, he
wasn't going to be going oat on anymore patrols.
Shit. Aloud, he said skeptically, "You can tell all this
from a deck of cards?"

She fixed him with a steady gaze. "The knowing is
already within me. The cards are like guideposts for
my Seeing." Her gaze went distant. She had aged
since he had last seen her, but not in a way that was
bad. Almost, he could see as she claimed to. A sad-
ness, a regret in your past, he'd say to her, but some-
thing you've learned from.

"I have the gift, you know," she told him, in a
voice gone soft with mystery. Then Laurie grinned
suddenly, spoiling the effect. "Or so Madam Moria
tells me."

"You should stay away from that old witch," Ste-
povich chided her. "Filling your head full of super-
stition."

"Daddy!" Laurie objected heatedly. "She does not.

338 THE GYPSY

And she's going to take me and Jeffrey to the Farm-
er's Market. That's where she buys the spices to put
in her teas."

"That okay with your mom?"
Laurie shrugged. "She said she'd think about it."
"I bet. Don't go telling her it was my idea."
"Don't you want to see me in the layout?" Laurie
changed the subject.

"Where are you?" Stepovich asked grudgingly.
"Here." She tapped a card of a young man with a
fish in his cup. "This is me. Page of Cups. It means
a captivating young person, studious and drawn to
the arts. And you know what this means, here, in my
future?" A man with a crown on his head/ holding a
wand. Green was the color of his jerkin-
"I'm almost afraid to ask."

"It means like beginning an apprenticeship. Learn-
ing something." Laurie gathered up the cards care-
fully.

"Learning what?" Stepovich asked guardedly.
"Music lessons," she said matter of factly. "That
card almost always means music lessons."

And the streetlights never waver.
And the red lights never dim.
And the neon always glitters;

And it was better me than him.

"RED LIGHTS AND NEON"

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

STEVEN KARL ZOLTAN BRUST was born in 1955.
His hobbies include arguing and drumming. He plays
psychedelic rock n' roll for Cats Laughing, twisted
trad and quirky Celtic for Morrigan, and Sufi drum-
ming for Sulliman's Silly Surfing Sufi Circus, as well
as doing the occasional solo act with guitar and banjo.
He supports his music habit by writing, and lives in
Minneapolis, Minnesota.

For information on ordering "Another Way to Travel"
by Cats Laughing (tape or CD) or "Queen of Air and
Darkness" by Morrigan (tape), send a self-addressed,
stamped envelope to:

SteelDragon Press

Box 7253

Minneapolis, MN 55407

MEGAN LINDHOLM lives on a small farm in rural
Roy, Washington with her four children and occa-
sionally her fisherman husband, Fred. Hobbies in-
dude cleaning up after the children and intending to
have a garden. Her tastes in music include psyche-
delic rock n' roll, twisted trad and quirky Celtic, and
Sufi drumming. She highly recommends the sound-
track from the movie that should have been made/
"Another Way to Travel." Said soundtrack can be
ordered from:

SteelDragon Press

Box 7253

Minneapolis/ MN 55407

Oh/ she also writes.