Blaze. Part 7

'George?'

'Are you gutless, Blaze?'

'No! I ain't -'

'You been hanging around this place like a dog with its b.a.l.l.s caught in a henhouse door.'

'No! I ain't! I did lots of stuff. I got a good ladder -'

'Yeah, and some comic-books. You been havin a good time sittin around here, listenin to that s.h.i.+tkickin music and reading about superpower f.a.ggots, Blazer?'

Blaze muttered something.

'What did you say?'

'Nothing.'

'I guess not, if you don't have the guts to say it out loud.'

'All right - I said no one ast you to come back.'

'Why you ungrateful lowlife sonofab.i.t.c.h.'

'Listen, George, I -'

'I took care of you, Blaze. I admit it wasn't charity, you were good when you were used right, but it was me who knew how to do that. Did you forget? We didn't always have three squares a day, but we always had at least one. I saw that you changed your clothes and kept clean. Who told you to brush your f.u.c.kin teeth?'

'You did, George.'

'Which you are now neglecting, by the way, and you're getting that Dead Mouse Mouth again.'

Blaze smiled. He couldn't help it. George had a cute way of saying things.

'When you needed a wh.o.r.e, I got you one of those, too.'

'Yeah, and one of em gave me the clap.' For six weeks, peeing fit to kill him.

'Took you to the doctor, didn't I?'

'You did,' Blaze admitted.

'You owe me this, Blaze.'

'You didn't want me to do it!'

'Yeah, well I changed my mind. It was my plan, and you owe me.'

Blaze considered this. As always, it took him a long and painful time. Then he burst out: 'How can you owe a dead man? If people walked by, they'd hear me talkin to myself and answerin myself back and think I was crazy! I prob'ly am am crazy!' Another idea occurred to him. 'You can't do nothing with your cut! You're dead!' crazy!' Another idea occurred to him. 'You can't do nothing with your cut! You're dead!'

'And you're alive? Sittin here, listenin to the radio playin those numbf.u.c.k cowboy songs? Readin comic-books and beatin your meat?'

Blaze blushed and looked at the floor.

'Forget and rob that same store every third or fourth week till they stake the place out and catch your a.s.s? Sit here lookin at that numbf.u.c.k crib and sweetmother cradle in the sweet f.u.c.kin meanwhile?'

'I'm gonna chop the cradle up for kinnelin.'

'Look at you,' George said, and what was in his voice sounded beyond sadness. It sounded like grief. 'Same pants on every day for two weeks? p.i.s.s-stains in your underwear? You need a shave and you need a f.u.c.kin haircut in the worst waysittin here in this shack in the middle of the mumble-f.u.c.k woods. This ain't the way we roll. Don't you see that?'

'You went away,' Blaze said.

'Because you were actin stupid. But this is stupider. You have to take your chance or you're gonna fall. You'll do five years here, six there, then they'll get you on three-strikes and you'll sit in The Shank for the rest of your life. Just a two-bit dummy who didn't know enough to brush his teeth or change his own socks. Just another crumb on the floor.'

'Then tell me what to do, George.'

'Go ahead with the plot, that's what you do.'

'But if I get caught, it's the long bomb. Life.' It had been preying on his mind more than he wanted to admit.

'That's gonna happen to you anyway, the way you're goin - ain't you been listenin to me? And hey! You'll be doin him a favor. Even if he don't remember it - which he won't - he'll have something he can blow off his bazoo about to his country club friends for the rest of his life. And the people you'll be rippin off, they stole the money themselves, only like Woody Guthrie says, with a fountain pen instead of a gun.'

'What if I get caught?'

'You won't. If you run into trouble with the money - if it's marked - you go on down to Boston and find Billy O'Shea. But the main thing is you just got to wake up.'

'When should I do it, George? When?'

'When you wake up. When you wake up. Wake up. Wake up!' Wake up!'

Blaze woke up. He was in the chair. All the comic-books were on the floor and his shoes were on. Oh George. Oh George.

He got up and looked at the cheap clock on top of the refrigerator. It was quarter past one. There was a soap-spotted mirror on one wall and he bent down so he could see himself. His face looked haunted.

He put on his coat and hat and a pair of mittens and went out to the shed. The ladder was still in the car but the car hadn't been running for three days and it cranked a long time before it started.

He got in behind the wheel. 'Here I go, George. I'm gonna roll.'

There was no answer. Blaze twisted his cap to the good-luck side and backed out of the shed. He made a three-point turn and then drove down to the road. He was on his way.

Chapter 11.

THERE WAS NO PROBLEM parking in Ocoma Heights, even though it was well patrolled by the fuzz. George had worked out this part of the plan months before he died. This part had been the seed. parking in Ocoma Heights, even though it was well patrolled by the fuzz. George had worked out this part of the plan months before he died. This part had been the seed.

There was a big condo tower opposite the Gerard estate and about a quarter of a mile up the road. Oakwood was nine stories high, its apartments inhabited by the working well-to-do - the very very well-to-do - whose business interests lay in Portland, Portsmouth, and Boston. There was a gated visitors' parking lot on one side. When Blaze pulled up to the gate, a man stepped out of the little booth, zipping up a parka. well-to-do - whose business interests lay in Portland, Portsmouth, and Boston. There was a gated visitors' parking lot on one side. When Blaze pulled up to the gate, a man stepped out of the little booth, zipping up a parka.

'Who are you calling on, sir?'

'Mr. Joseph Carlton,' Blaze said.

'Yes, sir,' the attendant said. He seemed unruffled by the fact that it was now nearly two in the morning. 'Will you need a buzz-up?'

Blaze shook his head and showed the parking attendant a red plastic card. It had been George's. If the attendant said he would have to call upstairs - if he even looked suspicious - Blaze would know the card was no longer any good, that they had changed colors or something, and he would haul a.s.s out of there.

The attendant, however, only nodded and went back into his booth. A moment later, the gate-arm swung up and Blaze drove into the lot.

There was no Joseph Carlton, at least Blaze didn't think there was. George said the apartment on the eighth floor was a playpen leased by some guys from Boston, guys he called Irish Smarties. Sometimes the Irish Smarties had meetings there. Sometimes they met girls who 'did variations,' according to George. Mostly they played cutthroat poker. George had been to half a dozen of those games. He got in because he had grown up with one of the Smarties, a prematurely gray mobster named Billy O'Shea with frog eyes and bluish lips. Billy O'Shea called George Raspy, because of his voice, or sometimes just Rasp. Sometimes George and Billy O'Shea talked about the nuns and the fadders.

Blaze had been to two of these high-stakes games with George, and could barely believe the amount of money on the table. At one, George had won five thousand dollars. At another he had lost two. It was Oakwood being near to the Gerard estate that had gotten George thinking seriously about the Gerard money and the small Gerard heir.

The visitors' parking lot was black and deserted. Plowed snow glittered under the single arc sodium light. The snow was heaped high against the Cyclone fence that divided the parking lot from the four acres of deserted parkland on the other side.

Blaze got out of the Ford, went around to the back door, and pulled out his ladder. He was in action, and that was better. When he was moving, his doubts were forgotten.

He threw the ladder over the Cyclone fence. It landed silently, in a snowy dreampuff. He scrambled after, caught his pants on a jutting wire strand, and went tumbling headfirst into snow that was three feet deep. It was stunning, exhilarating. He thrashed for a moment, and made an inadvertent snow-angel getting up.

He hooked an arm into his ladder and began to trudge toward the main road. He wanted to come out opposite the Gerard place, and he was concentrating on that. He wasn't thinking about the tracks he was leaving - the distinctive waffle tread of his Army boots. George might have thought of it, but George wasn't there.

He paused at the road and looked both ways. Nothing was coming. On the other side, a snow-hooded hedge stood between him and the darkened house.

He ran across the road, hunched over as if that would hide him, and heaved the ladder over the hedge. He was about to wade through himself, just bulling a path, when some light - the nearest streetlamp or perhaps only starglow - traced a silvery gleam running through the denuded branches. He peered closer and felt his heart b.u.mp.

It was a wire strung on slim metal stakes. Three-quarters of the way up each stake, the wire ran through a porcelain conductor. An electrified wire, then, just like in the Bowies' cow pasture. It would probably buzz anyone who came in contact with it hard enough to make them pee in their pants and set off an alarm at the same time. The chauffeur or the butler or whoever would call the cops, and that would be that. Over-done-with-gone.

'George?' he whispered.

Somewhere - up the road? - a voice whispered: 'Jump the f.u.c.ker.'

He backed off - still nothing coming on the road in either direction - and ran at the hedge. A second before he got there his legs bunched and thrust him upward in an awkward, rolling broad-jump. He sc.r.a.ped through the top of the hedge and landed sprawling in the snow beside his ladder. His leg, lightly scratched coming over the Oakwood Cyclone fence, left droplets of type AB-negative blood on both the snow and several branches of the hedge.

Blaze picked himself up and took stock. The house was a hundred yards away. Behind it was a smaller building. Maybe a garage or a guest house. Maybe even servants' quarters. In between was a wide snowfield. He would be easily observed there, if anyone was awake. Blaze shrugged. If they were, they were. There was nothing he could do about it.

He grabbed the ladder and trotted toward the protecting shadows of the house. When he got there he crouched down, getting his breath back and looking for any signs of alarm. He saw none. The house slumbered.

There were dozens of windows upstairs. Which one? If he and George had figured this out - if he had known - he had forgotten. Blaze laid his hand against the brick as if expecting it to breathe. He peered into the nearest window and saw a large, gleaming kitchen. It looked like the control room of the Stars.h.i.+p Enterprise Enterprise. A nightlight over the stove cast a soft glow across Formica and tile. Blaze wiped his palm across his mouth. Indecision was trying to crowd in, and he went back to get the ladder to forestall it. Any action, even the most trivial. He was trembling.

This is life! a voice inside him screamed. a voice inside him screamed. For this they give you the long bomb! There's still time, you can still For this they give you the long bomb! There's still time, you can still - - 'Blaze.'

He almost cried out.

'Any window. If you don't remember, you'll have to creep the joint.'

'I can't, George. I'll knock something overthey'll hear and come and shoot meor'

'Blaze, you got to. It's the only thing.'

'I'm scared, George. I want to go home.'

No answer. But in a way, that was was the answer. the answer.

Breathing in harsh, m.u.f.fled grunts that sent out clouds of vapor, he unhooked the latches that held the ladder's extension and pulled it to its greatest length. His fingers, clumsy in the mittens, had to fumble twice to secure the latches again. He had threshed about a great deal in the snow now, and he was white from head to toe - a snowman, a Yeti. There was even a little snowdrift on the bill of his cap, still twisted to the good-luck side. Yet except for the click-clunk click-clunk of the latches and the soft plosives of his breathing, it was quiet. The snow m.u.f.fled everything. of the latches and the soft plosives of his breathing, it was quiet. The snow m.u.f.fled everything.

The ladder was aluminum, and light. He raised it easily. The top rung reached to just below the window over the kitchen. He would be able to reach the catch on that window from two or three rungs farther down.

He began to climb, shaking off snow as he went. The ladder settled once, making him freeze and hold his breath, but then it was solid. He started up again. He watched the bricks go down in front of him, then the windowsill. Then he was looking in a bedroom window.

There was a double bed. Two people slept in it. Their faces were nothing but white circles. Just blurs, really.

Blaze stared in at them, amazed. His fear was forgotten. For no reason he could understand - he wasn't feeling s.e.xy, or at least he didn't think he was - he started getting a hardon. He had no doubt that he was looking at Joseph Gerard III and his wife. He was staring at them but they didn't know it. He was looking right into their world. He could see their bureaus, their nightstands, their big double bed. He could see a big full-length mirror with himself in it, looking in from out here where it was cold. He was looking in at them and they didn't know it. His body shook with excitement.

He tore his eyes away and looked at the window's inside catch. It was a simple little slip-lock, easy enough to open with the right tool, what George would have called a gimme. Of course Blaze didn't have the right tool, but he wouldn't need one. The lock wasn't engaged.

They're fat, Blaze thought. They're fat, stupid Republicans. I may be dumb, but they're stupid.

Blaze placed his feet as far apart on the ladder as they would go, to increase his leverage, then began to apply pressure to the window, increasing it gradually. The man in the bed s.h.i.+fted from one side to the other in his sleep and Blaze paused until Gerard had settled back into the rut of his dreams. Then he put the pressure back on.

He was beginning to think that maybe the window had been sealed shut somehow - that that was why the lock wasn't engaged - when it came open the tiniest crack. The wood groaned softly. Blaze let up immediately.

He considered.

It would have to be fast: open the window, climb through, close the window again. Otherwise the inrush of cold January air would wake them for sure. But if the sliding window really squalled against the frame, that would wake them up, too.

'Go on,' George said from the base of the ladder. 'Take your best shot.'

Blaze wriggled his fingers into the crack between the bottom of the window and the jamb, then lifted. The window rose without a sound. He swung a leg inside, followed it with his body, turned, and closed the window. It did did groan coming back down, and groan coming back down, and thumped thumped into place. He froze in a crouch, afraid to turn and look at the bed, ears attuned to catch the slightest sound. into place. He froze in a crouch, afraid to turn and look at the bed, ears attuned to catch the slightest sound.

Nothing.

But oh yes there was. Yes, there were plenty. Breathing, for instance. Two people breathing nearly together, as if they were riding a bicycle built for two. Tiny mattress creaks. The tick of a clock. The low whoosh of air - that would be the furnace. And the house itself, exhaling. Running down as it had been for fifty or seventy-five years. h.e.l.l, maybe a hundred. Settling on its bones of brick and wood.

Blaze turned around and looked at them. The woman was uncovered to the waist. The top of her nightgown had pulled to the side and one breast was exposed. Blaze looked at it, fascinated by the rise and fall, by the way the nipple had peaked in the brief draft - 'Move, Blaze! Christ!'

He high-stepped across the room like a caricature lover who has hidden under the bed, his breath held and his chest puffed out like a cartoon colonel's.

Gold gleamed.

There was a small triptych on one of the bureaus, three photos bound in gold and shaped like a pyramid. On the bottom were Joe Gerard III and his olive-skinned Narmenian wife. Above them was IV, a hairless infant with a baby blanket pulled to his chin. His dark eyes were popped open to look at the world he had so lately entered.

Blaze reached the door, turned the k.n.o.b, and paused to look back. She had flung one arm across her bared breast, hiding it. Her husband was sleeping on his back with his mouth open, and for a moment, before he snorted thickly and wrinkled his nose, he looked dead. This made Blaze think of Randy, and how Randy had lain on the frozen ground with the fleas and ticks leaving his body.