Forever People (pt 3)

Dixie is still in the booth, surrounded by a fortress of empties. Was the operation a success, doctor? he says to True, who by now is floating an inch off the ground.

Tell him, True says to Jackie, nudging her with his elbow. Tell him that story.

Only it if it’s dirty, Dixie says, wagging a finger at them, so make it good.
It’s just that cop I was telling you about, Jackie says, rolling her eyes and folding her hands primly on the filthy table. The one who likes me to put stuff up his ass. He –

She pooped on him! True shouts, and Dixie roars with laughter, slapping the table until the bottles fall over and roll off the edge, making the kid with the scar hurry over to pick them all up. Jackie scolds True for ruining her story while the kid happily laughs right along. That’s gross, Dixie finally manages to say. How’d you even do that?

A lady never tells, Jackie says, winking at them both and flipping them off. They watch her get up and slide through the people as easily as if she were only two dimensions, hands on men’s shoulders and suggestions mentioned in their ears. Dixie’s face starts to go hard again; True pulls out the keys from his pocket and sets them on the table.

We took them out of a car down the street, he says. Dixie picks them up, flipping through each one of them before closing them in a fist. There are a couple of grocery stores he unloads trucks for about once a week and the walk is long.

No, you guys ain’t coming with me, he says. The kid is picking at his nails, tearing off the bits of skin until they bleed – Dixie presses his massive hand over both of True’s, making him stop; he doesn’t bother saying no again because you can’t say no to True, not with those eyes.

Later the three of them are walking down the midnight street arm-in-arm, and Dixie starts to throw punches in the air trying to get True to play-fight. Put up your dukes, keemosabe, he says, and True crosses his arms and says to leave him alone and Jackie says to quit picking on him. They find the station wagon and get in, looking out for the owner, leaving State Street for Ridge Road and following along the river with the steel mill rumbling on the other side with smokestacks that smell like rotten eggs.

Jude’s going back to jail, Dixie says, driving with his hand draped over the wheel.

When? The kid’s voice is sharp. Jackie glares at Dixie; he does it to be mean.

I heard Mom talking about him surrendering by this weekend, Dixie says. Sorry doc, looks like the pharmacy’s closing up.

You’re not sorry, True snaps. You like watching me get sick.

Dixie’s face falls, genuinely hurt, and then there is something in the headlights and the wagon bump-bumps and Dixie is standing on the brakes, the Ford fishtailing until they burn to a stop. The air is blue with smoke.

Jackie is holding her nose; she hit it on the dash. What was it? What was it?
Dixie’s breathing very fast. I hit somebody.

True looks over his shoulder. No way.

Go look, Dixie orders in a low voice. When True doesn’t move fast enough he grabs him by the collar and hauls him out of the wagon, shoving him towards the tailgate, telling Jackie to shut the fuck up before he knocks her head in. The road behind them is red from the taillights, and it’s marked with two skids etched into the blacktop. A few feet away, just at the edge of the dark, a little kid’s bike is on its side, the front wheel ticking in circles.

There’s a girl underneath it with a hole in her head and blood everywhere.

True, Dixie thunders. Let’s GO.

The kid backs away from the little girl, waiting for her to move but she’s not kidding. It’s not my fault, he whispers. It’s not my fault.

Dixie makes Jackie drive; he puts his arm around True and holds him so tightly that he can’t breathe but he doesn’t make him stop. In the mirrors the dark eats up the dead little girl and her bike, and rotten eggs burn their nose as they run away.

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