“What you doing there?”
The boy cocks his head, as if listening to something Fontaine cannot hear.
“Get away from my window.”
With a weird and utter lack of grace that strikes Fontaine as amounting to a species of grace in itself, this person gets to his feet. The brown eyes stare at Fontaine but somehow do not see him, or do not recognize him, perhaps, as another being.
Fontaine displays the Smith & Wesson, his finger on the trigger, but he does not quite point it at the boy. He never points a gun at anyone he is not yet entirely willing to shoot, a lesson learned long ago from his father.
This kneeler, this breather on his glass, is not of the bridge. It would be difficult for Fontaine to explain how he knows this, but he does. It is a function of having lived here a long time. He doesn’t know everyone on the bridge, nor would he want to, but he nonetheless distinguishes bridge dwellers from others, and with absolute certainty.
This one, now, has something missing. Something wrong; not a state bespeaking drugs, but some more permanent mode of not-being-there. And while the population of the bridge possesses its share of these, they are somehow worked into the fabric of the place and not inclined to appear thus, so randomly, as to disturb mercantile ritual.
Somewhere high above, the bay wind whips a loose flap of plastic, a frenzied beating, like the idiot wing of some vast wounded bird.
Fontaine, looking into brown eyes in the face that still refuses to come into focus (because, he thinks now, it is incapable), regrets having unlocked his door. Salt air even now gnaws at the bright metal vitals of his stock. He gestures with the barrel of his pistol: go.
The boy extends his hand. A watch.
“What? You want to sell that?” 50 T The brown eyes register no language.
Fontaine, motivated by something he recognizes as compulsion, takes a step forward, his finger tightening on the pistol’s double-action trigger. The chamber beneath the firing pin is empty, for safety’s sake, but a quick, long pull will do the trick.
Looks like stainless. Black dial.
Fontaine takes in the filthy black jeans, the frayed running shoes, the faded red T-shirt hiked above a paunch that betrays the characteristic bloat of malnutrition.
“You want to show that to me?”
The boy looks down at the watch in his hand, then points to the three in the window.
“Sure,” Fontaine says, “we got watches. All kinds. You want to see?” Still pointing, the boy looks at him.
“Come on,” Fontaine says, “come on in. Cold out here.” Still holding the gun, though his finger has relaxed, he steps back into the shop. “You coming?” After a pause, the boy follows, holding the watch with the black dial as though it were a small animal. Be nothing, Fontaine thinks. Army Waltham with the guts rusted out. Bullshit. Bullshit he’s let this freak in here. The boy stands, staring, in the center of the shop’s tiny floor space. Fontaine closes the door, locks it once only, and retreats behind his
counter. All this done without lowering the gun, getting within grabbing distance, or taking his eyes off his visitor.
The boy’s eyes widen as he sees the tray of watches. “First things first,” Fontaine says, whisking the tray out of sight with his free hand.
‘~ “Let’s see.” Pointing at the watch in the boy’s hand. “Here,” Fontaine commands, tapping the faded gilt Rolex logo on a padded round of dark green leatherette.
The boy seems to understand. He places the watch on the pad. ~ Fontaine sees the black beneath the ragged nails as the hand withdraws.
“Shit,” Fontaine says. Eyes acting up. “Back up, there, a minute,” ~r’ he says, gently indicating direction with the barrel of the Smith & ‘~ Wesson. The boy takes a step back. 51 I Still watching the boy, he digs in the left side pocket of the trench coat and comes up with a black loupe, which he screws into his left eye. “Don’t you move now, okay? Don’t want this gun to go off..