Control, Page 34

  —and he had nothing, just his fist, and what he wanted was a gun—

  —the cop had a gun. What a great thing to have and to keep —Billy Boy liked to travel light, souvenirs were shit, but not this one, this one he’d keep and remember and he moved out to the sidewalk and it wasn’t till he took a step into the street that he realized that the dead were coming after him, his nightmare was rising in the darkness …

  Eric wasn’t sure which was harder, pushing himself up with his left hand or raising his gun with his right. Both. Both. Nothing was easy.

  And there was no time. He could feel his left hand start to give so he slipped back to his elbow, letting that support him.

  Now his gun was becoming too much of a burden. No time. No time. Everything going so fast, but no time. He commanded his index finger to obey him and he hoped his aim was near to true.

  Then he tried his very best to blow Billy Boy’s eyes out…

  The Fruits didn’t know what the hell to do. There were sirens all around them and it was always hard to tell, but they sure sounded like they were coming closer. Across, in the street, they could see the cop breathing, or it looked like he was breathing.

  The giant was not.

  He lay sprawled and blind and he wasn’t about to do any living anymore. “What now?” the first Fruit said.

  “Don’t know.”

  “That working?” He indicated the walkie-talkie.

  “I think.”

  “Give it another whack.”

  They knelt by the dead one, the siren sound building, trying to get the walkie-talkie going. It seemed to be fine. But if it was, where the hell was Trude… ?

  Trude had been in a hurry when he left the hospital. He was angry at the slowness of the elevator that brought him down, angry at the wildness of the night. He stepped onto the sidewalk, slipped, and that didn’t make him any happier.

  Then, of all things, a bag lady blocked him. She stood small and old on the sidewalk, staring at his face. He brushed by her, was several steps past when the most amazing thing happened: she said his name.

  “Doctor Trude?”

  He stopped, turned, went back. Yes, he was, within limited circles, famous, but not this famous. In the scientific community, he was not unknown, but a bag lady! Could he have misheard? No. She said it again.

  “Doctor Trude?”

  He peered at her closely. “Yes?”

  “My name is Sally Levinson, I was a friend of Edith Mazursky.”

  “I have no time—” Trude said sharply, and began to turn.

  Sally stood there, more than anything else, bewildered—she had no idea, really, if her father’s pistol would actually work but when she tried it now it must have, considering the way Trude crumpled to the snow. Sally stood over him a moment till she was sure, then she hailed a cab to take her to the police station for her sins—the cab was off duty but fifty from Sally and he had a change of heart and she was about to say “the police” to his “Where to, lady?”—

  —except she felt simply too wonderful to consider such a destination, so she told him first the East River where she got out and deposited her father’s years-old weapon into the waters, and after that she headed for the Four Seasons wondering whether she should have the Taittinger or the Dom Perignon for this most glorious of glorious celebrations …

  Eric could hear the sirens. They were loud so they were close. He could tell that much.

  He could see The Fruits lingering by the giant. Obviously Billy Boy was dead, you could see it in their eyes. Eric could tell that much too.

  What he could not tell was how much longer he could hold out. Now there were flashing lights starting to become visible at the corner, maybe an ambulance, maybe police, maybe lire, none of them bad news. Not if they hurried. The street was ice but his wounds were burning and it was not a pleasant place, waiting between those two extremes. But waiting was all he was capable of doing…

  A woman with reddish hair and just the kindest face approached him from the direction of Bloomingdale’s and said, “You’re the young man who was talking with my husband about The Blues,’ would you like to see them?”

  “Oh I would,” Eric told her. “I would, very much.”

  “They’re just over here, come along now,” and she took him to where the seven portraits hung. “The two old people are my parents, the young ones are my children, Phillip and Sally I think you know, do you like them?”

  Eric began to cry. “I do,” he managed. “They’re so sad.”

  She smiled then a marvelous smile. Eric would never forget it. In the days and months ahead, after his wounds had healed, after his endless hours of rehabilitation had made him Eric again, he saw that smile and heard her voice. “I’m so glad you feel that way,” she said, “it’s what I think sometimes everything’s all about. People you love and sadness.”

  “Of course,” Eric nodded. “People you love and sadness.” He put his tears away, tried a smile. “What else is there…?”