Marc Zicree - Magic Time

Softly, silently, the cats padded up to her through the gloom. Clinton levitated in a weightless spring to her shoulder; Mortimer butted the side of her knee gently with his flat furry skull; Isabella coaxingly dropped a mostly dead bug on her foot and touched her with a gentle paw. Wilma scratched scruffs, stroked backs, rubbed chins, drawing from them the comfort of company, the uncomplicated love that never disappointed her, never made demands that she wasn’t prepared to fulfill.

It seemed to her years since the morning whistle had sounded in the mine, since she’d taken her shower and opened cans. She guessed now what the others didn’t, that the lights might not be coming back on.

Good thing I have a manual can opener .

Except, of course , she thought, when we run out of cans . She looked across at the darkness of the Wishart house, at the eerie purplish phosphorescence flickering in its window, and whatever was there looked back at her.

Voices in the street. Shannon Grant and Marcia duPone-friends and neighbors, reminding her that whatever else had changed, there were things that hadn’t.

Wilma closed the back door and returned to the dark of her house, to gather up water, food, blankets for those who would need them. And she felt whatever was in the Wishart house aware of her as she stepped out the front door to join her friends.

NEW YORK

Big Eddie was cooking, and that was that.

Didn’t make no never mind if it was World War III or the biggest fuckup Municipal or the Man Upstairs had ever pulled. Nothing he could do about it. He’d just left that fucking Metro bus of his on Forty-second and Sixth where it had up and died, come home and hauled the barbecue right out onto the street. Now he stood like some black Moses in a chef’s hat and apron, keeping the coals red hot and dishing out the good stuff.

He’d started the ball rolling by grilling whatever was thawing in his own freezer. Pretty soon folks from next door and down the block and around the corner were popping up with armfuls of burgers and dogs and chicken from their own kitchens. Better to cook it up than let it just rot. And some cats had gotten out their conga drums and saxophones and acoustic guitars, and it was sounding fine. Folks were scared shitless, hell yes, but it was also a damn good party. And not just the folks from the neighborhood: anyone could play; this was New York City. Big Eddie saw Asian dudes in pinstripe suits, a couple of them Orthodox guys, some Italian chicks still clutching their shopping bags from Bloomie’s and Bergdorf ’s. All mixing with the local talent, the brothers and sisters, Puerto Ricans and Vietnamese and just plain white guys. Everybody keeping it cool, right here, right now.

“That smells damn good.” The voice behind him was a gutter rasp that made Wolfman Jack sound like a soprano. Big Eddie turned to see a long, lean figure hugging the shadows between two buildings.

“Tastes better than it smells,” Big Eddie said. “So whyn’t you just come on up and get yourself some?”

Unsteadily, the figure emerged from the shadows into the mellow light cast by the paper lanterns donated by the corner sushi bar. Eddie could see the guy was even taller than he, better than six and a half feet, a white guy with a dark complexion and really bad skin, wild black hair, and Ray-bans hiding his eyes. His black suit-looked like it had been expensive once-was torn to shit.

“Man, what happened to you?”

“Dunno,” Stern said vaguely. “I’m all turned round.”

Even through the smoke curling up redolent of meat and juices, Big Eddie’s nostrils caught the tang of the dude’s odor, some funky dinosaur smell or weird shit.

“Well, lemme get you set up here.” Big Eddie heaped chicken wings and a burger, some potatoes and corn on a paper plate, held it out to him. The dude’s hands had been jammed in his pockets, but now he had to pull one out to reach for the plate. Light fell across it, caught the glint of a white-gold wristwatch. Eddie saw long, rough-ridged nails and a hand all blotchy and bubbly, like it was erupting from within.

Big Eddie yanked back his hand, dropping the plate. “Geez, man, you’re sick! What the hell you got?”

“I don’t know,” Stern said with absent neutrality. Man, the dude was trippin’.

“Well, keep your distance. You go over there, I’ll slide something to you.”

Stern tilted his head, regarding Big Eddie, and an insolence bloomed on his face that made him at once seem more together and formidable. “I don’t take orders.”

“You wanna eat, you better start.” Big Eddie kept his eyes on the other man, not backing down, as he assembled another plate.

“Friend,” Stern said, and there was no friendship in it, “you can kiss your tip good-bye.” With a sweep of one big arm, he sent the barbecue tumbling, meat and spuds and cobs all flying, red-hot coals spilling out. Big Eddie yelped and fell back, swatting the burning stuff away.

“Motherfucker!” Now others were coming on the run, yelling at the crazy sick asshole. “What the fuck is your problem?” More and more of them, surging together, tattoos and silk ties and brow studs and Versace, moving fast. “Mess him up, mess that fucker up!” Stern lurched away, broke into a run, sunglasses flying off his face.

And they were after him.

Sam Lungo heard the mob coming from behind his lace curtains and heavy oak door, screaming their trash talk, their obscenities.

It had been a frightful evening, jumping at every creak of the old house, every distant crash and yell. The anguish and fury of the night had shrieked outside like a storm, shuddering windows and doors. Huddled in the dark, he had witnessed Patel’s being smashed and torn apart, seen the wild ones descend on that mounted policeman in all their hunger and fear.

He had felt the briefest stirrings of sympathy, a fretful impulse toward action, but then Patel’s had always gouged, their prices twenty, thirty cents higher than any supermarket. And as for that policeman, well, the police never did a thing when you called them, never did their job.

Then Cal Griffin and that dykey girl from down the street had appeared, driven the mob off. Sam had watched, silent and still, as they had helped the bulky old cop to his feet, murmuring like his own caring children, obviously solicitous, though Sam couldn’t hear the words.

Sam’s heart had pounded so fiercely then that he feared it would burst his chest, be launched through the glass to land wetly at their feet, longing, longing. .

To have someone care about him, to have a protector, to be seen and heard and known, not an outsider or pariah, excluded from all confidences and joys.

The shouts and footfalls were louder now. Sam pressed his nose to the glass, squinting at the darkness. They were still around the corner but coming closer, and fast. The first one appeared, a huge, bony man in a tattered suit, gasping, stumbling, clearly frightened. Why, he was being chased .

The first of his pursuers emerged behind him, rounding the corner, a big fat man with a baseball bat. The one in the suit turned on him just as Fat Boy swung the bat at his head. Incredibly, Torn Suit caught the bat in his hands, snapped it in two- crack -and cast the pieces aside.

Now it was Fat Boy’s turn to be scared. He backed as Torn Suit advanced on him. Torn Suit grabbed him by the front of his T-shirt, then threw him. Fat Boy flew a good twenty feet, bounced off a wall and sprawled in the gutter.

The other voices were loud now; any moment they’d be here. Torn Suit spun about, looking for escape, a way out.

Sam threw open his door. “This way! Quick!” Torn Suit didn’t hesitate. Several bounding steps took him across the street and into Sam’s house. Sam quickly shut the door, careful not to slam it. He motioned the other deeper into the room, away from the windows, then hunkered by the glass, careful not to be seen from outside.