Tom Piccirilli - Clown in the Moonlight

I take money. I let big shots go. I don't rock the lifeboat. I bully informants. I shack with whores. I keep the streets clean. I work my beat in Manhattan and rise through the ranks. The mayor personally pins medals on my chest. The headlines hail a hero. I do what's expected of me, mostly. On occasion, when the world grows too wide beyond the windshield of my patrol car, and there's a sheen on the glass as if it's stained by spit-up blood, I drive around the worst neighborhoods in the five boroughs, and find where the mutilated bodies are laid out in the open.

In the woods, the alleys, and abandoned apartment buildings in the meat packing district, the corpses rest. I talk and they listen. I watch over them before the kids come around, leading their friends in packs. The teens always come ready to party, and we share a beer or a J or a girl, and play out the continuous rituals of the ages. Sometimes they try and outplay me. They're packed and I'm packed. Every so often it leads to a shootout or a knife fight or a bloodletting. So far I haven't been taken down, but there's always the chance, and I keep hoping.

Ricky's shadow is often nearby, gesturing, sniggering. I spot it from time to time, falling across the faces of friends and strangers. He knew if his legend was going to transcend itself, the meaning of it all had to remain a mystery. A riddle that would continue to fuel and reflect the times, his name spoken in whispers, carved alongside the name of Satan. He had to die in a grand gesture, by his own hand. He urges me to do the same.

Three more years have gone by and Linda and Gwen live together in an apartment in Brooklyn Heights. Linda's still in a wheelchair. They go to mass twice a week. They usually arrive at church in time for Vespers. I sit in the back pew and watch. I stare at Christ. Christ stares at me.

Teens whittle down the posts and benches of the gazebo in Cow Harbor Park, carving SAY YOU LOVE SATAN and SAY YOU LOVE RICKY and RICKY LIVES FOREVER and RICKY BURNS IN HELL.

The last time I visited her in her apartment, hiding in shadow, her eyes shot open and she sat straight up in bed. She aimed her gaze at the corner where I hid and said, "The Acid King, he's behind you." She smiled and let out a sharp bark of laughter before easing her head back down to the pillow. She watched me closely for thirty seconds, then shut her eyes again. Gwen rushed in and said, "I know you're here."

I make more busts. I lose a partner. I'm under investigation for bribes. I beat the rap.

At dawn, the crows tap at my window and get me moving early. I run through Central Park as the sun fires the horizon. The wind's got my name on it, and I keep turning, looking, knowing it's going to happen again.

Maybe I can stop it. Maybe I don't want to.

As I come around a bend in the trail I see a group of kids hunched over her, a woman dressed in a yellow running suit, now covered in blood. I can see how it'll go down for the world, the headlines, the cultural icon she's about to become, as famous as Ricky. The Central Park Jogger, that has the right ring. I sprint towards them, shouting for them to halt, halt, and then, finally, as I am meant to do, calling Ricky's name. They rise from her, buckling their belts, wiping their mouths. They wag their chins at me and gesture like we're old friends. One of them has taken her eye. It stares. It finds me. It recognizes me. He smiles before he runs off, holding her eye above his head like a trophy, and as he tosses it and catches it, flings it and snatches it, grinning, the trees bend over and bow down to him.