The Clarity of Cold Steel

THE DROP POINT’S a fountain decorating the front of a whorehouse in the slums of Malabar. Just outside the Razors. The fountain’s a bronze sculpture of Kali, the black mother, standing atop the corpse of some horse-headed demon she’s slain. A necklace of bone and skull decorates her neck. Her four arms stand erect in some pose of explicit victory coupled with feral animosity.

I step into the empty fountain and take a seat on Kali’s left foot, use the demon’s head for the same thing the Black Mother is: a foot rest. The fountain’s bone dry and has been for years. Trash and litter fill it now, twittering softly in the wind. I don’t know if Brooklyn or Nikunj are coming. I don’t know if I want them to come. Might be a lot lighter on my conscience knowing the kid’s life doesn’t hang on the balance of my judgment or aim.

Every time someone strolls past, I fight to keep my head from snapping. Nikunj? Brooklyn? No. And no.

So I wait, pulling out a newspaper and using it to cover the contraband map of the Vatican that Johnny Shakespeare got me. I try to memorize the streets and buildings and general layout. Might be helpful to have some idea in the unlikely event that the plan works and I do make it topside.

A bent old man pulls a wheeled kiosk by rickshaw style. As it trundles past, Ganesha, painted in blue on its shuttered side, stares at me with all the wisdom of the lost ancients. It doesn’t take. I go back to my map. Each wheel city’s roughly the size of any one of the mid-size boroughs in town, which means there’s no way in hell I’ll memorize it all in time. But I can get a feel for the major streets. The major landmarks, which will be important, as the wheel, as wheels do, spins.

Staring southwest, I can see the Vatican from here, rising high beyond the Razors and plague wall, can see the toothed circle of churches built along its edge. Sweet Sally’s already up there. I try to judge which buildings I’m seeing. Maybe I’m staring right at her but it’s impossible to tell from this far.

I have until nightfall, and it’s getting dark.

Best get moving.

I rise from my demonic perch and just as I’m stepping over the parapet, I see a familiar face peek out of an alleyway. “Hey kid,” I say.

“My man.”

“Your chief make it out?” I hazard.

“Alive,” he answers, “but lost two wives.”

“Well, he’s got me beat.”