no more, before it moved on. To linger longer in the same area would be pressing its
luck, and the figure eight was simply a reminder, a note to itself, that soon it would be
time for Punkin Head and Poison to head out in the van, maybe up to the DC area.
In an article this morning, the reporter named Brazil had quoted an FBI profiler as saying
that the Black Widow was a failure in interpersonal relationships, had never married or
held a job long, was inadequate sexually and in every other way, and suffered from a
sexual identity crisis, according to Special Agent Bird. Punkin Head, who of course was
not referred to by name, but simply as ‘the killer,” had read and viewed considerable
violent pornography throughout its life, had come from a dysfunctional home, and had
never finished college, if it had ever gone at all. It owned a vehicle, probably old and
American, and still lived with its father, which it hated, or had for much of its adult life.
Punkin Head was slovenly, possibly fat, and a substance abuser.
SA Bird, the article went on to say, predicted that Punkin Head would soon begin to
decompensate. Punkin Head would make mistakes, overstep itself, become disorganized
and lose control. All psychopaths eventually did. Punkin Head threw the newspaper into
the back of the van in disgust. Someone was snitching, leaking personal details about Punkin Head to the press, and it glared out at Blondie pausing at the Cadillac Grill, where
the shim’s sandwiches had been carefully prepared. Blondie decided to go inside.
The clientele at the Cadillac Grill wasn’t happy to see Blondie walk in. They knew he was a reporter and wanted nothing to do with him or his questions. What did he think? They
were crazy? They’re suppose to risk getting Punkin Head pissed off, turn it meaner than
usual and end up with Silvertips in their heads? That shim was the nastiest, most hateful
of all time, and the truth was that the business community of Five Points wanted it to
move on or get whacked. But as was often true in fascist regimes, no one had the guts or
the time to rise up against Punkin Head. Energy and lucid thought were low among
soldiers who stayed up late drinking Night Train, smoking dope, and shooting pool.
The head cook at the Cadillac was Remus Wheelon, a heavyset Irishman with tattoos. He
had heard all about Blondie and didn’t want the snitch in his establishment. Remus was
well aware that he had just fixed Punkin Head three deluxe Rise and Shine sandwiches,
and the cold-blooded killing piece of shit was probably sitting out there in its van,
watching, and waiting for Remus to so much as serve Blondie a cup of coffee. Remus
waited on the counter. He took his time scraping the grill. He made more coffee, fried
another batch of baloney, and read the Observer.
W Brazil had helped himself to a booth and picked up a greasy plastic-laminated menu,
handwritten, prices reasonable. He was aware of people staring at him in a manner that
was about as unfriendly as he had ever seen. He smiled back, as if this were Aunt Sarah’s
Pancake House, giving them an eat me attitude that made all think twice.
Brazil refused to be deterred from his mission. His pager went off for all to hear, and he
grabbed it as if it had
bitten him. He recognized the number, and was surprised. Brazil looked around, deciding that the venue probably wasn’t the best for whipping out his reporter’s portable
phone and calling the mayor’s office.
He was getting up to leave, and changed his mind when the door opened, the bell over it
ringing. The young hooker walked in, and Brazil’s pulse picked up. He wasn’t sure why
he was so fascinated, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her, and felt compassion that was
equaled by fear. She wore jeans cut off high, sandals with tire tread soles, and a Grateful
Dead T-shirt with sleeves torn off. Her naked breasts moved in rhythm as she walked.
She took the next booth over, facing him, eyes bold on his as she flipped dirty blond hair