Jonathan Lethem - The Wall of the Sky, the Wall of the Eye

Don waved the gun between Kaz and Drey. “You’re dead,” said Kaz again. Drey said: “Shit.”

“Shut up. Paul, take their shit. Clean Drey up, then Kaz. Find the keys on Kaz.”

I stepped up to play my part. Keys on Kaz. I put my hand on Drey, who hissed: “Motherfucker.” It turned out the weird shiny gold coat was on inside out; the gold was the lining of a rabbit-fur fake leopard. Strange. I ran my hands through the fur, searching out Drey’s pockets.

I found a wad, singles on the outside, which I pocketed. Then an Exacto knife, which I tossed on the floor behind me, at Don’s feet. He kicked it to the wall.

When I turned to Kaz he slapped my hands away, a strangely girlish move.

“You a chump, Light,” he said, ignoring me. “Randall shoulda killed your ass already. He gonna now.”

“We’re all Randall’s chumps, Kaz, man. Now I’m taking and you can tell Randall what you want.”

“I ain’t no chump, man, Light. You the chump. Randall tried to treat you right. You fuckin’ smokehead. You could be playing with the cash like me, like Randall says. ’Staid you usin’ .” He hurled the word like it was the only real insult he knew.

It was true. Don had used the drugs he was supposed to deal for Randall.

“Playing with the cash now, Kaz.”

I reached for Kaz’s pockets again, and again he slapped me away. “You dead, brother.”

Don stepped up and clapped Kaz’s temple with the side of the gun.

“Ain’t no cash, Light, man,” Kaz whimpered. He looked down. “Ain’t sold it yet, you stupid fuck.”

“Open the safe.”

“What did you mean ‘You dead, brother ,’?” I asked. “Don told you I’m not his brother. Or are you just using that as an expression?”

Kaz just shook his head and got out the key to the safe. Drey said: “Fuckin’ idiot.”

Inside the safe was all bottles. Crack. Nothing else. Two big plastic bags full of ten- and five-dollar bottles. I’d never seen that much in one place. Don had, of course; specifically, when Kaz and Randall brought him up here to entrust him with a load of bottles to sell.

That time there had also been a large supply of cash, which was what we were here supposedly to steal.

“Fuck you expected?” said Drey.

“You dead,” said Kaz.

Don didn’t hesitate. He took the two bags of bottles and quickly felt behind them, but there was nothing else in the safe. He slammed the door shut and pushed the gun up at Kaz’s face again. “Your roll, Kaz.”

“You a fuckin’ chump.” Kaz got out his money, another fat wad with ones on the outside. Don took it and stuffed it in his pocket. Then he shook the two bags of bottles into the two big side pockets of his parka, tossing the plastic bags aside when they were empty.

“Fuck you gonna do?” said Drey. “Sell the shit? Randall gun you down.”

“Gimme the keys,” said Don to Kaz. “Sit down. Both of you.”

“Shit.”

Don waved the gun some more, and Kaz and Drey sat down on the floor. Don pushed me back out into the hallway ahead of him, then shut the door and locked it from the outside with Kaz’s key.

That was when we saw the Sufferer. It was sitting on the landing of the stairway above us, looking down. On its haunches in the dark it looked just like a giant panther, eyes shining.

I assumed it was waiting for someone else. I’d only seen the aliens twice before, each time trailing after somebody in trouble. That was what they liked to do.

Don didn’t even glance at it. I guess leading his lifestyle, he passed them pretty often. He put the gun in his belt and ran downstairs, and I followed him. The Sufferer padded down after us.

Don hailed a cab on First Avenue. “La Guardia,” he said, leaning in the window.

“Manhattan only,” said the cabbie. Don pulled out Kaz’s money and began peeling off ones. I looked behind us, thinking of Kaz and Drey and the unlocated guns in the apartment. Had Don really locked them in? Even if he had, they could shoot us from the front windows, or off the fire escape, while we haggled with the cabbie.

I saw the Sufferer push out of the door and settle on the sidewalk to watch us.

“Fifteen dollars before the fare,” said Don. “C’mon.”

The driver popped the locks, and Don and I scooted into the back, Don’s coat-load of bottles clinking against the door.

“La Guardia,” said Don again.

“Take the Manhattan Bridge,” I said. “Canal Street.”

“He knows where the Manhattan Bridge is, Paul.”

“He said Manhattan only.”

“You picking somebody up?” said the driver. “Domestic departures,” I said.

“What airline?”

“Uh, Pan Am.”

“There is no more Pan Am,” said the driver.

“Wow. Okay, uh, Delta?”

“Does it matter?” said Don.

“He has to take us somewhere ,” I explained patiently. Sometimes it seemed like Don and I grew up in separate universes. “The airport is big. Delta should have a lot of flights to California. We can start there, anyway.”

The cab went down first to Canal and entered the funnel of traffic leading onto the bridge. I always mention the Manhattan Bridge because a lot of people just reflexively take the Brooklyn, though it isn’t really faster or more convenient. People prefer the Brooklyn Bridge, I guess because it’s prettier, but I like the way you can be driving alongside a subway train on the Manhattan Bridge.

So I looked out the window, and what I saw was the Sufferer, running alongside the cab, keeping time even when the traffic smoothed out and we accelerated across the empty middle of the bridge. It loped along right beside us, almost under my window. Our cabbie was going faster than the other cars, and when we passed one the Sufferer would drop back, trailing us, until the space beside my door was clear again.

Don was in his own world, leafing through the roll he’d stolen and counting the bottles in his pockets by feel. I didn’t draw his attention to the Sufferer. The cabbie hadn’t noticed either.

“You can’t take the gun on the plane,” I said to Don, quietly.

“Big news,” said Don sarcastically.

“It’s okay,” I said, responding to his annoyance as some kind of plea for reassurance, as I always had. “We won’t need it in Cali.”

“Yeah,” he said dreamily.

“We’re really going,” I said. “Things’ll be different there.” I felt it slipping away, the hold my proposal had had on him an hour ago.

“What,” he snorted. “Nobody has guns in California?”

“You’re going to live different, there.” I looked up to see if the cabbie was listening. “So why don’t you leave the gun here in the cab, okay, Don? Just push it under the seat. Because it’s crazy going into the airport with it. Crazy enough just carrying all the drugs.”

“I’ll put it in a locker. Just in case.”

“What? In case of what?”

We pulled off onto the BQE and headed for the airport. I checked the window. There was the Sufferer, rushing along with us, leaping potholes.

“What?” said Don, noticing.

“One of those aliens.”

“The one from Kaz’s?”

I shrugged — a lie, since I knew. “How much money did you get from Kaz?” I said, trying to change the subject.

“Four hundred. Chump change from a chump. Fuck is it doing out there?” He leaned over me to look out the window.

“Hey,” said the cabbie. “You got a Sufferer.”

“Just drive,” said Don.

“I don’t want trouble. Why’s it following you?”

“It’s not following anyone,” I said. “Anyway, they don’t cause trouble. They prevent it. They keep people out of trouble.”