Jack Strong: A Story of Life After Life
Author: Walter Mosley
Date: 2014-01-02 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; Urban Fantasy; Science Fiction; Fantasy; Mystery; Short Stories; Science Fiction Fantasy
Description: In a Las Vegas hotel room, a man awakes to confront his destiny. Dreaming, Jack hears voices: a frightened child in a hospital, a woman cheating on her husband, a death row inmate. When he wakes, the voices recede, but they do not vanish. He is in a luxurious hotel room on the Vegas strip, and his body is covered in scars. Jack Strong is a patchwork man, his flesh melded together from dozens of men and women, and his mind is the same way. Countless lifetimes are contained within him: people whose lives were cut short, and who see their place in Jack as a chance to make things right. On behalf
Publisher: Open Road Media

PRAISE FOR THE WRITING OF WALTER MOSLEY

Blue Light

New York Times Book Review Notable Book of the Year
and Los Angeles Times Bestseller

“A writer whose work transcends category and qualifies as serious literature.”

—Time

“More evidence that Mosley is the Gogol of the African-American working class—the chronicler par excellence of the tragic and the absurd.”

—Vibe

“Blue Light takes him on a mind-bending trip into the brave new world of science fiction, and Mosley proves that good writing is good writing, regardless of genre.”

—USA Today

“A quirky mix of action, up-to-date speculative tropes and New Age spiritualism poured into a quasi-mystery mold, Blue Light offers plenty of thrills, both visceral and ideational.”

—San Francisco Chronicle

“[Mosley] makes words sing on the page … a read that’s shiny-new but a surprisingly comfortable fit.”

—The Austin Chronicle

“Both classic sci-fi and classic Mosley … Mosley once again uses his flawless literary technique to examine the question of racial identity and what it means to humanity.”

—The Source

“Blue Light is a new venture into ‘science fiction’ … In Blue Light, Mosley details meticulously the grainy, disoriented insanity of being high on something-or-other in San Francisco during the Vietnam War years. He describes with mesmerizing clarity the hallucinatory twilight world of nightmares and euphoria inhabited by losers and drifters who move from one fix to another.”

—The Times (London)

“Mosley has created an enthralling sci-fi story while managing once again a close observation of Americans of another era interacting among racial and class lines.”

—Mosaic

“[Mosley] strives mightily for mythic resonance here, and he achieves it often enough to give the novel undeniable power.”

—Locus

“Mosley himself is not only a skilled writer, but an uncommonly intelligent and thoughtful one … [Blue Light] is compellingly written … a story that transcends novelty.”

—Space.com

“Blue Light provides the social history, character studies, humanity, and vivid violence for which Mosley is justly praised … Well-drawn characters as well … ordinary people made extraordinary, and Mosley knows how to make them believable and sympathetic … A success.”

—Denver Rocky Mountain News

“A beautifully written, deeply spiritual novel. Recommended.”

—Library Journal

Futureland

“Beneath the high-tech gadgetry and noir atmosphere, the stories here are thoughtful explorations of race and identity … Futureland is populated by assassins and revolutionaries, and it is filled with suffering. Yet Mosley also peoples his stories with working stiffs and scrappy fighters. Against a bleak landscape, their resilient spirits feel like rays of hope.”

—The New York Times Book Review

“A truly formidable stylist and thinker … The more I think of it, the more I admire Futureland.”

—The San Diego U-T

“If you think the next century’s going to be all phaser guns and pointy-eared babes, then Futureland is the harsh dose of alternate reality you need … this is sci-fi without the sugarcoating, a suggestion that the years to come will be less ‘Live long and prosper,’ more ‘Live fast, die young.’”

—Maxim

“A vivid, exciting and, on the whole, well-executed take on cyberpunk that measures up to the work done 15 years ago by the Gibson and Bruce Sterling.”

—Kirkus Reviews

Jack Strong

A Story of Life after Life

Walter Mosley

Jack Strong

Nigger tried to tell me he wasn’t into something back there behind Willie’s house on a Wednesday, noon. Me and Tyler and Beckwith Smith kicked holy shit outta that coon. Left him so beat that he’ll never walk inta no white man’s yard ever again—that is if he can walk at all.
…

I never meant to do it. Never meant to betray our vows. But then Winston came over to me across the living room. He pressed his body up against mine and I felt his, felt his manhood, and it was like everything went red. All the things I refused Ralph came up and out of me. I was another woman … another woman.
And God help me … I felt free.
…

Mama, am I gonna die? Mama? Mama? That boy who was in the next bed last night, they took him away this morning. His arms and legs were all stiff, and he only had one eye open. I heard them talking about me when my eyes were closed and they thought I was sleep. No, I wasn’t foolin’; I was just restin’ my eyes like Papa does. But they said that I was gettin’ worse. One nurse said that they’d have to cut off my leg if it didn’t look any better by today. Am I gonna die, Mama? Can they put a leg back on?
…

Bobo? Bobo, you there? Don’t you worry, man. It’s wrong what they doin’. It’s wrong for the state to kill a man no matter what that man done done. It’s wrong, and if they kill you, you ain’t no more a murderer but a victim, and God will take that into account when they bring you up to Judgment. God will lay you down and wash away the poison they slaughtered you with. He will sang to you and raise you up. He will forgive your sins just like he did for Mackie, and Jojo, and even that crazy white boy kilt all them women. Just like he will forgive me for killin’ that young couple for no reason. He will see that the people who kilt us is also the people who drove us crazy and even though they strap you to that gurney and inject poison into your veins it’s not you, Bobo. It’s not you at all.
…

Those voices and a myriad of others cried out in the darkness of my sleep. I wanted to wake up, but it seemed like every soul needed to say something, to apologize or explain, to regret or exult in their actions.

Pieces of personalities combined with the unbearable intimacies of men, women, and children. Some of them spoke in other languages, but I understood every word and nuance. All different races and religions, sexes and sexual persuasions … and perversions. And the things they knew: the terrible secrets and hopeless tragedies, the facts and figures, skills and abilities. Knowledge swirled through the dream like a jewel-skinned snake moving through high grass in moonlight, catching glimpses of visions and recollections—a jewel-skinned viper hungry to devour every memory.

It wasn’t me dreaming, not exactly—it was more like the dream dreaming me, making something out of all those disparate exultations, fears, and complaints.

A lower caste genius from Goa plotting a reign of terror against the Brahmin caste.

An eighty-six-year-old white woman shut-in dreaming of children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren—but never of the adults they’d become.

Every one of them as real as I, lost in sleep and struggling for consciousness, as real as I but not like me. I was … becoming something, something necessary and different. I was eroding and resurrecting the characters and memories, the knowledge, the hopes and hopelessness of those speakers in the darkness of the dream becoming me.

After what seemed like a month of fitful slumber, I opened my eyes.

The room I found myself in was large and antiseptic, a hotel room rendered in washed-out blues and bland tans, furnished with a bed and bureau, a blue door (leading to the hallway, I supposed) and a glass door that opened onto a small terrace looking down four floors onto a concrete plaza with a fountain spraying recycled water on marble statues of frolicking, naked nymphs.

In the distance was the twilit Strip of Las Vegas.

My memories of the Strip were varied. I saw a man’s reflection in a glass. He was me and had a razor-thin mustache, the pit boss of a major casino floor. I was what they called a leggy blonde dancing naked in front of leering men, sweat running down my spine and thighs. I was an old man sitting at a bus stop at dawn waiting for someone, I forget who, to pick me up after night guard duty. I was a fat woman with powerful black hands feeding nickels into a slot machine, happily losing, confidently expecting that one day I’d hit the million-dollar nickel pot—it was inevitable.

The physical me, the man who had just awakened in the hotel room, had hands that were masculine and Caucasian except for the Negroid ring finger on the left hand and a tapered, feminine baby finger on the right. There were micro-thin lines zigzagging across my forearms, legs, and chest. These might have been stitches from surgery except they were too fine for any suture made by needle and thread.

The full-length mirror in the bathroom revealed a patchwork of pink, pale, and tan flesh and a face that was maybe not quite forty. I had a square jaw, one blue eye and the other brown. My hair was a wiry auburn, closer to chestnut than red. I had black hair on the upper portion of my chest. One nipple was rugged and reddish where the other one was smooth and ocher in hue.

I was tall but not like a basketball player. And I was strong—very, very strong.

The penis amazed and surprised me. I lifted it gently, remembering being another sex. It came to me that it wasn’t so different being man or woman. We all slept and woke up, felt heat and cold, got hungry and aged over time. Our senses approximated each other’s, and memory offered up images that had more meaning than anything real, today. But the penis and vagina—they tilted in different directions, blindly headed for summits of very different emotional climes.

I was a man in a man’s body and a woman, too.

Upon the bench at the foot of the king-size hotel bed lay my shirt and pants, jacket, and Stetson hat. My driver’s license said that I was Jack Strong, born in 1976, in June, and my eye color was multi. I had $986 in various denominations.

Handling the money, I thought about my face and greater amounts of cash. There was a place … The Steadman. The Steadman Casino. It was off the Strip but not far off. I remembered the Steadman. It was a place I’d spent a good deal of time. I was a … a manager there … something like that.

My memory was fuddled, staggery like a man who had drunk too much trying to remember where he’d parked the car.

I put on the clothes and found shoes and socks in a suitcase in the closet.

My mind sparked with fragmented memories at everything I saw and touched. The wall was a chance to hang a recently acquired Monet; it also represented a prison and a sounding board that broadcast secrets from the other side. The dying light from the window was the night before an execution, the time to go out and stalk another victim, an invitation to open another bottle and forget the day before.

Dressing in the sanitized room, I felt like a frail immortal, a god in a world of his creation, a world that remembered but no longer believed in him.

“Mr. Strong,” a man hailed as I strode toward the glass doors of the hotel lobby.

It was the desk clerk, a young black man with long processed hair that was combed back artlessly. Seeing his coif, I felt the burning of chemical straighteners on my neck and ears.

“Yes?”

“You want me to call Albert to bring your car?”

“Sure.” Changing direction, I walked up to the desk. I had a slight limp but felt no pain in my joints. It was almost as if I were an infant learning the balance of perambulation. “What’s your name again?”

“Tony,” the desk clerk said. “You look a lot better.”

“Oh?” I said. I wanted to grab him and shake the secrets of my history out.

“Yeah. When your nurse and Mr. Grog brought you in, you was just sittin’ in that wheelchair and mumbling.”

“Where are they?”

“What?”

“Mr. Grog and … and … and the nurse.”

“They left this morning. He told me that you’d be down later today. Said that you were fine after the operation … something like that.”

“How much do I owe you?”

“For what?”

“The room.”

“Paid up to the end of the month,” he said.

I wanted to ask what month it was and how close to the end we were but decided to hold off on that. All I had to do was look at a newspaper or tune in a radio program.

I had once been a disc jockey for a country station in Wyoming … no … no … Colorado. But I had lived in Wyoming. I used to ride horses for days at a time.

A chubby, young Latino man brought my car, a bright red, restored 1967 Mustang, to the front of the hotel. I gave him two dollars, which he accepted without scowl or smile.

Fifteen minutes later, I was pulling up in front of the Steadman Casino. I knew the direction without thinking about it; I knew many things.

A valet in a blue uniform ran out to take my keys. I handed them to him expecting to receive a ticket, but instead he was transfixed, staring at me. I looked past his head at a black van with tinted windows that was pulling up to the curb across the street. In my time, I had spied on people from vehicles like that, been spied upon, too.

“You,” the valet said. “What the fuck are you doin’ here, Lance?”

“You got me wrong, man. My name is Jack, Jack Strong.”

The valet’s face carried a lot of extra skin and was the color of an uncooked piecrust.

“Your hair is different and your voice sounds funny,” the valet, who was a head shorter than I, said. “But it’s you. I can tell by the scar under your lip. I remember when Arnie Vane give you that.”

“Keep the car where I can get it quickly,” I said. “I might not be here long.”

I turned my back on the thuggish doorman and walked into the plush Steadman Casino.

A wide scarlet ramp led down to the floor of slot machines, roulette, and blackjack tables. The Steadman was classy. The girls offering drinks were all beautiful and well looked after. Even the clientele was a cut above the run-of-the-mill tourists and gambling addicts.

After a few steps, my mind settled on the personality that had inhabited this casino. His name was Lance Richards, and he didn’t have a very compelling moral compass. He looked for opportunities and took advantage whenever he could. He was the kind of guy who would have stolen insulin from a type 2 diabetic, but I didn’t mind. It felt good to be ruthless, maybe even amoral. I could move through the world without all the guilt and neuroses that worried my waking and sleeping mind.

Here and there at the edges of the gambling aisles men with intent eyes were watching me. Tall and short, obese and gaunt they were dogging me, but I didn’t mind. I had been away, obviously sick, and now I had returned—of course, they were suspicious.

I came to a set of emerald double doors. The guardian of this portal was a broad, and quite powerful looking, Samoan. His name, I remembered, was Sammy. I wondered, not for the first time, if that was his real name.

“Sammy.”

“Mr. Richards.”

“I think I’d like to go on in and play a few hands of blackjack,” I said easily.

“You crazy, man?”

“That ain’t even the half of it, brother,” someone from deep inside me intoned.

The six-foot Samoan shrugged his bowling-ball shoulders and stepped to the side. The doors were opened by unseen hands, and I walked through ecstatic that I was, for the most part, just one man instead of the many.

The doorwomen were naked, one white and the other black, very beautiful, and somewhat worried to see me. I kept walking down a green hall toward a large room maybe a hundred feet away.

With each step, I experienced a growing trepidation. There was a reason that I shouldn’t have been there. There had been a break between the Steadman and Lance Richards.

I kept on walking, but never made it to the end of that green hall.

When I’d gotten halfway to my destination, invisible doors on either side slid open and two brutal-looking men lurched out.

Seeing their awkward movements, I realized that I had been walking just fine once I’d donned the identity of Lance Richards. This thought was cut short when a pair of powerful arms embraced me from behind. That was Sammy; I was sure.

The other two men were white and ugly. Their faces had enlarged over the years to contain all the evil they exuded. One had ruddy skin and a big nose that had been broken quite a few times. The other was pale with tiny ears that stood out like clamshells.

“Hello, Trapas,” I said to the man with the tiny ears.

Trapas jerked his head to the right, and I allowed Sammy to muscle me through one of the secret doors. The other two followed.

It was a small room with dirty yellow walls and no furniture. There were a few rolls of green wallpaper piled in a corner.

Kraut, the reddish white man with the broken nose, produced a jagged-looking knife.

“Mr. P says you got one chance,” the ex-boxer proclaimed. “Either you tell us where the cash is, or you die right here in this room.”

What happened next was not normal. A gray patch appeared inside of my mind. It was like a psychic workspace designed for clarity, integration, and survival. I was not a man but an agglomeration of potentials on one side and personalities on the other. From outside this space came a presence that was single-minded and confident in the task at hand. Reluctantly, Lance Richards submitted to this presence and the gray space abruptly ceased.

I was still standing there, Jack Strong, the frame of the many, but the person in control was Sergeant William Tamashanter Mortman. He/I jerked our shoulders to the left, and Sammy the Samoan tumbled to the floor. He grunted in surprise, but Tamashanter didn’t stop to gloat. He grabbed Kraut’s knife hand at the wrist, breaking the bone while crushing the ex-boxer’s throat with his other hand. Executing a perfect Shotokan sidekick, he broke Trapas’s neck at the side. Then, with balletic grace, he swooped down, picked up the knife that Kraut had dropped, made a fast and deadly arc that ended with the blade sunk deep in Sammy’s left eye socket as he was rising up from the floor.

We froze there for a moment—Tamashanter, Lance, and I—struggling over not only what to do but also who to be.

Finally, Lance took ascendance because he knew the place and we did not.

I struck a depression in the wall with my black-fingered hand, the sliding door came open again. I stopped, took a .38 automatic from a holster at the back of dead Trapas’s belt, and strode out into the green hall.

The doorwomen were gone. There was no guard outside the emerald doors.

The men who had been stalking me were still there, but they seemed confused. I wasn’t supposed to be coming out that way.

I wasn’t supposed to be coming out at all.

There was a red-and-white Checker cab in front of the hotel. The thuggish valet was standing maybe fifteen feet away, but I didn’t trust him to get my car so I dove into the backseat of the cab and said, “Take me to the Bellagio.”

Looking out the back window, I saw the black van pull away from the curb.

I got out at the main entrance of the hotel and went directly to a side exit, where I knew taxis waited to be called up for clients. I got into an aqua-colored cab driven by a man named Manuel Lupa, at least that’s what his limousine identity plate said. I gave Lupa the address of my extended-stay hotel and sat back wondering what I had done to make my friends at the Steadman so angry.

The killings didn’t seem to bother me or, at least, they didn’t affect Lance, who was in the driver’s seat—so to speak.

Manuel let me out in front of the glass doors to my hotel.

The black van was already there, parked across the street. They hadn’t tried to kill me yet so I ignored them as I went in and up to my fourth-floor room.

Lying down on the hard mattress on top of the rough blue-and-tan bedspread, I gave in to the voices.

It was a juridical gathering, a meeting of the many after the trauma of such violence. Under the roof of my awareness, they argued for a very long time.

Some had never killed before. Others were ecstatic at the bloodshed and battle. There were calls for suicide and for going to the police. One powerful voice, that of a Spanish priest, said, “God will not forgive an unrepentant sinner.”

“God?” I said from the rafters of my mind. “How can you talk about God when you are where you are?”

“All deeds are divine,” Father Clemente replied in the same mental idiom. “He has placed me here to succor those lost and sundered souls.”

For a moment, I saw and felt what that Catholic minion believed. His sense of the Deity was so intense that I could not help but defer. I felt myself fading inside my own mind. Other voices gained ascendance calling out for confession and absolution. These voices were of all religions, and some were simply devout believers. They wanted to be freed from the prison they found themselves in. The husk of my mind was for them, at that moment, an unbearable limbo.

“No!” It was a man’s voice that cut through the moaning and wailing of religious piety and confusion.

This pronouncement was so loud that I was forced to sit up and then get to my feet. I went to the terrace and breathed in the chill night desert air. It was late in the evening. We had been at it for hours.

“They were going to kill us,” the new voice said above the waning din of pious complaints. “There was no choice, no crime. And we need more information before we can go to either God or the law.”

What should we do? I thought.

“Let’s make a call,” the as-yet-unidentified voice said.

On the walk from my bed to the terrace, I wondered if I was schizophrenic with side orders of multiple personalities and delusions. Had I been to a place called the Steadman and killed those men? Maybe I had stayed in this room the whole time imagining deeds, actions, and crimes.

A phone number worked its way into my thoughts.

After pressing a nine and a one, I entered the number on a tan phone that sat on the blue desk.

Six rings and she answered, “Yes?”

“Anna?” the man who stopped the religious convocation said.

“Yes?”

“This is Ron.”

“Ron?”

“Tremont.”

There was silence for a moment … two.

“Anna.”

“Who is this?”

“I don’t have time to explain, A. But I can tell you that on June 24, 1999, you did something to a man named Charles Willis that I cannot repeat on any phone line.”

“Ron?”

“You always called me Tremolo.”

“Ron Tremont is dead.”

“I thought that might be the case. But here I am … sorta.”

“Where are you?”

“Vegas. I’m … I’m not quite myself and I need help. You can get in touch with a guy named Jack Strong at the Motorcoach Extended-Stay Motel.”

“Your voice … it doesn’t sound like you.”

“On Tuesdays I always brought lemon-filled doughnuts to work wherever we were, and on Fridays you bought chocolate éclairs.”

Anna—Wolf was her last name, I knew—went quiet again.

“Anna.”

“How can you expect me to believe this?”

“Your husband came out to you four years before the divorce, but you remained faithful to him and never told his secret to anyone but me.”

“I was with you when you died,” she said.

I suddenly remembered driving down a two-lane highway outside Cincinnati. One moment I was fine, and the next my heart felt like an expanding balloon causing a pain I’d never experienced before. I pulled to the shoulder and threw open the car door. I heaved up and out of the driver’s seat while Anna was shouting my name. Three steps into my attempted escape from the heart attack, I fell to the ground. Anna rolled me over with some difficulty because I was a fat man. The last thing I remember seeing was her face. Her coloring was dark ocher. Her race was what is called African American.

“I was a coward at the end,” I/Ron said into the phone. “I begged you not to let me die.”

“Ron,” she said with a kind of semi-certainty.

“I gotta go soon, A. You still with the bureau?”

“Y-yes.”

“I’m in big trouble and I don’t understand it. Can you come out to Vegas?”

“I’ll be there by tomorrow afternoon.”

When I hung up, Ron Tremont stepped back from the forefront of consciousness. That’s how it felt. My awareness was like a pulpit or a podium that varied personalities approached in order to use their knowledge and abilities. I was always there but not necessarily in control.

There came a knock.

“Yes?” I said, standing to the side of the door, squatting low.

“Mr. Strong? It’s Alberto. Tony send me up to tell you somethin’.”

I opened the door on the red-skinned, fleshy-featured young man.

“These bad dudes come up to Tony and said where was you at? Somebody called before then asking for Jack Strong, but they hung up. Tony figured it was the bad men that called, but he didn’t know.”

“Who was calling?”

“The bad dudes,” Alberto said, upset that I wasn’t getting his meaning. “Tony sent ’em to a empty suite on the eighth floor, but you got to get outta here before they find out you’re not there. Tony already split ’cause he don’t want ’em comin’ after him. He called me on his cell phone an’ told me to warn you.”

“Is there a back way, Alberto?”

“I’ll show you.”

Before sneaking out the service entrance of the hotel, I told Alberto that if a woman named Anna Wolf called for me to have her call and ask for Carl Rothman at the Beamer Motel after six the next day. I repeated the message twice and gave him a hundred-dollar bill.

“My cousins Esther and Shoni work the switchboard,” he said with a smile. I noticed that an upper tooth was edged in silver. “They’ll do it.”

Two twenty-three in the morning found me at a twenty-four-hour coffee shop on the dowdy end of the Strip. I was sitting hunched over a table in a booth at the back eating a chili size and searching my mind.

Richards. Lance Richards. He’d been dead for a while. It was 2008 when Mr. Petron’s bookkeeper figured out that Lance had been skimming off the money Petron had been skimming from the big boss Ira Toneman. Lana Santini, the daytime bartender, and Richards had worked together to get a nightly bundle of twenty-dollar bills from the vig chest into their joint safe-deposit box. They’d been doing it for almost two years and had more than six hundred thousand stowed away.

But then it came out that Lance was the one who’d been stealing. He went to Lana’s, and she gave him a shot of whiskey. That was the last memory Richards could muster. She had probably killed him. He always carried the second key to the box in his wallet when they went to the bank in Phoenix. She probably thought he always had it there. It was only after he was dead that she must have realized her mistake.

He took the money, but Lana was the one who smuggled it out of the casino. Maybe Petron never suspected that Lance had a partner.

Lance hungered for his lucre. He lingered near the forefront of my mind.

Call Lana, he said silently.

I ignored the plea, wasn’t concerned with the money.

Who was I? What was I?

“Mr. Strong?”

Wearing a tailored gray suit, he was my height and well built, the color of a denizen of southern Italy, tan tending toward olive. His eyes were a brilliant green, and his hair was black and shiny.

I gripped the pistol in my jacket pocket and took a quick look around the room. There was nobody there except a tired waitress leaning against the counter.

“Who are you?” I, and hundreds of others, wanted to know.

“May I sit?”

It took me a few moments to say, “Okay.”

He slid onto the long seat opposite me.

“Tom Grog,” he said. “I represent an organization called the Convocation.”

His green eyes stared into my multi ones.

“What does that mean to us?” I recognized the plural and accepted it.

“Why are those men after you?” he replied.

“I think I stole some money from them a few years ago. I guess they want it back.”

“You stole it with Lana Santini?”

“Who are you?”

“Tom Grog,” he said patiently.

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“No. I suppose not.”

“Do you know what I am?”

“You are the phoenix. I’m here to witness your rebirth and transformation.”

“I could snap your neck like a twig,” Connolly Wright said from the chorus that made up the background of my mind.

“Can you help us?” Minna Achet, another of my personas, cried.

“Not if you break my neck,” Grog said with a frown on his lips and a twinkle in his jeweled eyes.

“Are you the guy in the black van?” I said, taking back control.

“My people. I drive a silver Benz.”

“What do you want, Mr. Grog?”

“Simply introducing myself, Mr. Strong, and possibly to offer an apology along with a little advice.”

“Apology for what?”

“The trouble you’re in,” he said, tilting his head slightly to the right as if gesturing toward a bow. “When Lana Santini brought you to our representative, we had no idea that the Steadman mob was after you. But now that the truth is known, you should leave Las Vegas and accomplish your tasks elsewhere.”

“What tasks?”

“That’s up to you.”

“Why is the ring finger on my left hand black?”

“It’s more a chocolate brown, wouldn’t you say?”

“Did I die?” I asked, remembering a child pleading with his mother to save his life and his leg.

“I shouldn’t even be talking to you, Jack. My job is purely that of a watcher. I am here to observe how you integrate into society and yourself.”

“You got to tell me what’s going on, man.”

“I cannot,” he said with some regret. “All I can do, I have done. Leave Las Vegas.”

When Grog stood up, I had every intention of stopping him. I was going to grab him and search him and maybe even torture him until he gave me the information I needed.

But instead, I became lightheaded. I wanted to rise, but I could barely keep my face from thumping down on the Formica tabletop. I shook my head like a beast in the wild.

For a moment, I was a creature, an animal in some deep wood.

“You’re a powerful man, Jack Strong,” Tom Grog said. “But we have ways to subdue you if push comes to shove. You’ll be okay in a few minutes. Have a cup of coffee and leave Las Vegas.”

I tried to speak but could not.

“The effects won’t last long,” Grog added. “When you have your strength again, leave town. We don’t have the manpower to protect you from gangsters.” He threw a large brown envelope down on the table. “This will help.”

I watched the suave man saunter toward the front. He said something to the waitress and then went out the door. I wanted to follow, but there was no strength in my limbs.

When Tom Grog was gone, I felt as if my last chance to understand had left with him. There were people who wanted to kill me, but that wasn’t nearly as important as who I was, what I was, and why.

The lethargy that my visitor had somehow induced got worse. I was looking down on the red Formica tabletop trying to keep from falling face-first into the chili bowl.

“You okay, Sugah?” The waitress was redheaded with widely spaced cornflower blue eyes. Her skin was pale and heavily freckled from the desert sun. She was attractive but no longer young. I was sure that she had been a Las Vegas beauty, a showgirl maybe with those long legs. But at forty, her loveliness would go unappreciated in the capital of gaudiness and glitter, youth and rot.

“What?” I said.

“Can I get you something else, honey?”

“Rosetta,” I said.

“You can read at least,” she said touching her name tag with a single finger. “That’s good. I have learned not to talk to a man who can’t read.”

“Oh? Why’s that?” My strength was returning.

“Because either he’s been to prison or he’s on his way there.”

At that moment, I appreciated being a repository for so many points of view. There was a seemingly natural inner desire to come to agreement among the chorus of my mind. We concurred that Rosetta had failed to attain the life she had hoped for. Too late she’d learned the lessons that beauty never lasted and that the love garnered by beauty was most often off the mark.

“How’d you like to make fifty thousand dollars, Rosetta?” I asked.

She took Tom Grog’s seat across from me.

“As long as I don’t have to kill or maim my son or my mother,” she said, “I’d like it very much.”

Rosetta looked at me in a way that beckoned my feminine side. This response was sexual and yet somehow social.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Jack.”

“Jack what?”

“Jack Strong.”

“Mmm. That’s a nice name. You got ID?”

“You think I’m lying?” I asked while taking the wallet from my pocket.

I handed her the license I’d found after coming awake in the Motorcoach Hotel.

She studied the picture and smiled.

“Drugs?” she asked. “Some kind of card-counting scheme?”

“I need you to pretend to be somebody else,” I said.

“That’s easy. I do that most of the time anyway. I spend whole days thinkin’ I’m Madonna or Fergie. Sometimes I’m Princess Diana, but I never got killed.”

“Do you live with your son?”

“He stays with my mama on weeknights, out in the burbs where they got good public schools. I get off in ten minutes. If you want, you can take me home and tell me how I’m gonna get so rich.”

I must have frowned because she asked, “What’s wrong?”

“You seem very willing to get into a deal with a complete stranger.”

“I was gonna start talkin’ to you anyway,” she explained. “You’re a good-lookin’ man, and I just spent the whole morning thinking about what I could do with just ten thousand dollars. Nobody’s knockin’ down my door or nothin’ anymore. I got responsibilities. And, anyway, if I don’t like what you got to say, then I could just say no.”

Sex with Rosetta Jeanette Lawson was a revelation for me, actually, a series of revelations. I approached her feeling as a woman, not a particular woman in my psyche but as the female anima. My whole purpose was to pleasure her to the heights of orgasm. It was a route I knew well as a woman but hardly at all as a man. And it was exciting because, physically, I was not the woman I felt I was. I didn’t have the genitals that were crying out for satisfaction in my mind.

And at some point, I realized—as a woman—my erection. At that moment, sex was a miracle unfolding like waves at the shore. Looking at her and looking at myself—a man with a woman’s soul, a woman with a man’s hard cock—I experienced an orgasm that wouldn’t stop, that echoed through all the personages inside me. The experience, in addition to its physical power, had the effect of bringing my disparate souls closer together. It bound us in a way so deeply satisfying I almost passed out.

Rosetta came on that journey with me, so to speak. She was saying things, but my ears could not hear. She was pounding my thighs with the heels of her hands, but it didn’t hurt until hours later. When the climax had crested and fallen, Rosetta stumbled from the bed and into the hall.

I crumpled on my side, half on and half off the bed. The power of the two sexes coming together inside me, and with Rosetta, too, was something I had never even suspected was possible. I shivered with intensity that was so charged that it couldn’t properly be called pleasure.

A few minutes later, Rosetta came back through the bedroom door taking a deep drag off a cigarette.

“You smoke?” I asked when she sat down next to me on the bed.

“Not for seven years,” she said. “But after that, I don’t care. I need this cigarette.”

She held the butt end toward me, and I took a grateful drag.

“Baby, you don’t need to give me no money at all,” she said. “Just do that once a month, and I will consider myself a rich woman.”

I pulled her down on top of me and kissed her eyes, which fluttered shut with each osculation.

“Did you go to school for all that?” she asked.

“Many.” My erection was returning.

“I know you want it, Jack Strong. I do, too. And you know I can, but I can’t. If I go through that again, I might just die before you can get to tell me where all that money’s comin’ from.”

“I thought you didn’t want the money.”

“I’ll use it to feather your nest.” She kissed my lips and rolled off.

I got up and walked for the door.

“Where you goin’?” she demanded.

“Into the other room until this dick goes down.”

In the dark of the living room, I peered out between shuttered slats of the venetian blinds. The black van was parked out there, silent and still.

I took the envelope Tom Grog had given me and tore it open. It contained six thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills and an address on Park Avenue in Manhattan.

Manhattan. I used to sleep in various grottoes formed by huge boulders in Central Park there in the summer. In the winter, I knew every grate that spewed heated steam. My life had been contained in a Grand Union shopping cart. I had my football award from Perry High and a loaded pistol I’d found and kept.

“Jack?”

She had come to the doorway of the darkened room.

“Why’d you put your robe on?”

“You don’t wanna be lookin’ at no middle-aged woman’s skin.”

“Take it off.”

“How about your dick?”

“He’ll behave as long as you don’t tickle him.”

She let the white silk kimono fall from her shoulders, and I sat on a stuffed chair. She lowered into my lap and I gave her the money, minus ten bills.

“What’s this for?” she asked.

“Down payment on the money I promised.”

Leaning over, peering into my eyes, Rosetta asked, “Where did you learn to make love like that?”

“From a woman.”

She smiled. “Did that woman ever tell you that it’s not a good manners to give a lady a wad of cash when she’s naked on your lap? Might give the wrong message.”

“We struck the deal about something else before the wrestling match.”

“I won,” she said.

“Me too.”

We kissed.

“Okay,” she allowed, moving over to the green sofa placed at a perpendicular angle to my blue chair. “What are we gonna do for this money?”

“A while ago another woman and I stole a great deal of cash from a bad man who stole the money from a worse man. She tried to kill me but failed. Now I need her key to the safe-deposit box that holds the money.”

“How long ago?”

“Four years.”

“Four years? Where’ve you been all this time?”

“Recuperating.”

“Damn. You must’ve been somethin’ else before you got sick.”

“I’m something else now.”

“Is that why your skin is all patchy?” Rosetta asked. “Did she burn you with acid or somethin’?”

“Something. Are we in?”

Rosetta’s visage became very intent. She said, with a sneer, “All the way in.”

After my temporary lover and partner in crime had gone to sleep, I used her phone to call a guy Lance Richards once knew.

“Hello,” he said in the smallest possible span.

“Roaches?”

“Who’s this?”

“Lance.”

Silence.

“Roaches?”

“Lance who?”

“You know damn well who. You still workin’ at the Beamer Motel?”

“Uh-uh, but my cousin Rolly is.”

“Somebody is gonna call there for a Carl Rothman. You take the message and call this number with it.” I gave him the number of a cell phone that I’d found in Rosetta’s purse.

“Okay. Okay. Where you been, Lance?”

“Away.”

“Away like the joint?”

“Just like that. And let me tell you something, Roaches.”

“What’s that?”

“I still know the address of the liquor store got robbed in L.A., the one where that cop was wounded. All I got to do is say your name, and that video will be looked at next to your mug shot.”

“You don’t have to threaten me, man.”

“No threat. I just want you to know that even if I’m dead and cold that information will be delivered to the LAPD.”

I hung up on the petty thief and armed robber. Roaches was a little soap-colored man who was always scratching. Whether the itching came from psoriasis or neuroses, no one knew, but the name Roaches stuck on him because he always seemed a little dirty and disheveled, you expected to see bugs darting out from a pant leg, sleeve, or collar.

A certain glee appeared at the deprecation of the criminal, and my persona, randomly named Jack Strong, mentally shrugged off the unclean Lance Richards. I was, Jack Strong was, the top man in the pyramid of innumerable personalities that made up my mind. This certainty caused a sense of security throughout the fields of thought and feeling that comprised me, were becoming me.

Jack Strong got up from the stuffed chair and went back to the window.

There was another car parked in front of Rosetta’s little matchbox house—a red 1967 Mustang.

Rosetta was sleeping when I left hours before dawn.

It was maybe four in the morning when I arrived at another tiny house in yet another sleepy suburb of Sin City. It looked gray in the darkness, but I knew that Lana Santini’s house was turquoise and white. Lance was so angry that for a moment he almost broke through to the podium intending to go up to her door. But I held him back and called her number from memory. It had been disconnected so I tried information. That got the call put through automatically.

“Hello,” she said, all sleepyhead.

It surprised me that Lance still had feelings for her.

“Lana, it’s Lance.”

“Oh.” Her words were flat and cautious. “I heard you were at the casino today.”

“Yeah, I was there.”

“What do you want?”

“Why’d you do it, baby? Why’d you have to try and kill me?”

“I didn’t.”

“You thought you could get the money, and Mr. Petron would be searching for me not knowing that I was buried out in the desert somewhere.”

“I didn’t do that, Lance. I swear.”

“You thought I kept that key in my wallet. You thought you could get away clean and leave me holding the bag in my dead, cold hands.”

“You sound funny. You’re talking funny.”

“I been through some shit,” Stumper Brown said through my lips. He’s the one who had been on death row. He’d hung himself from the bars of his cage rather than let the officials of the prison have the satisfaction of executing him.

“What do you want from me?” she asked.

“The safe-deposit box key.”

“Half of it is mine.”

“You lost your claim on that when you tried to kill me.”

“I was afraid. I thought that if they caught you that they’d make you tell about me. Or … or … or you’d turn me over offering them the money using my key.”

“Tell me something, Lana.”

“What?”

“Why don’t I remember how you did it?”

“You were unconscious,” she said mechanically. “I shot you in the heart after putting laudanum in your whiskey.”

That made sense. But the train of thought led me on a tangent.

Most of the personae in my head didn’t remember the moments of their deaths. Of the suicides—some did and some didn’t. But even there, they remembered the fall or pulling the trigger, falling asleep or sudden unexpected pain; my congregation of souls remembered flipping the switch but not exactly when the lights went out.

“Lance?” Lana Santini said in my ear.

“Yeah, babe?” I could see a light go on in the kitchen at the side of her little home.

“That’s what you used to say to me all the time.”

“What’s that?”

“Yeah, babe.”

“And then you tried to slaughter me.”

“You would have done the same.”

Lance retreated at the accusation. He didn’t believe it, instead felt he was the victim of the classic heartless vamp. If it were his mind alone hearing Lana’s indictment, the words would have fallen on flinty denial.

But Lance was a member of an intimate society the likes of which had never before existed upon this earth. He was one of a multitude of minds and partial souls that judged in unavoidable concert. We all knew that Lance would have killed Lana if it were necessary. He killed his own stepbrother, Bernard, when a heist they’d planned went awry.

“Nothing personal,” he said before pulling the trigger.

He didn’t mourn Berry’s passing.

He’d loved his brother more than any woman he’d ever hooked up with.

“Lance?” Lana asked.

“Hold up a second,” one of the many uttered.

I couldn’t speak because I was busy experiencing a miracle going on inside me. It felt like all the cogs and gears, weights and pulleys of a great clock coming into epochal alignment. Lana’s simple declaration, Lance’s memories, and his peers’ reaction broke down a part of the immoral character that had been forged so long ago. There was a mental gasp, and part of Lance changed … actually changed. His remorse was a dark red sunset in a gaseous sky. It was beautiful and repugnant, a dying and a rebirth in the same wrenching revelation.

“It’s like this,” I said to Lana Santini. “You betrayed me and now you got to pay.”

“I deserve something.”

“Yes, you do,” I agreed. “And you’re lucky that I no longer want to pay that debt in full.”

“You’re talkin’ funny again.”

“But you get my meaning.”

“What do want me to do, Lance?”

“Meet me at the bar in Tyson’s Playroom in thirty minutes.”

“Thirty minutes? I just got out of bed.”

“In thirty-one minutes, I call Mr. Petron and tell him about the safe-deposit box at Phoenix National Trust.”

“Okay. I’ll be there.”

“Come alone,” I said. “And bring the key.”

“Okay.”

She hung up, and I touched the red icon on Rosetta’s fancy phone.

I sat there for the next quarter hour watching lights go on and off in Lana’s house while Lance Richards wailed at the back of the great chamber that made up the central part of my mind. He cried like a child found in the wilderness or the mother seeing her baby brought home safely. There was joy and deep sadness, repentance and inescapable shame, not at what he had done but because of the recognition of who he had been.

Lance was giving up part of his psyche willingly. He was killing a part of himself, maybe the largest part. It was a weight dropped in deep waters; he had been tethered to a stone that was meant to drown him, but the rope had been cut. And now, in the face of his mortality, he felt a quivering fear.

Lana came out of the front door with a largish man with sloping shoulders. He was wearing a light-colored suit but would have, most of us agreed, looked more comfortable in overalls. They got into an old Buick parked in the driveway, backed up, and drove off toward the Strip.

There were six lights across the back of the car. This was an unusual configuration, and so I could afford to wait awhile before taking off after them.

I followed at a distance not thinking at all. Lance was still lachrymose. This felt like healing. Lana and her contraband passenger were headed for a meeting, and I had yet to see where the chips would fall. I decided on the drive to buy gloves. My hands were the biggest giveaway I had.

Tyson’s was a freestanding establishment with few slot machines and no other forms of gambling. People went there to drink and play pool. They didn’t want to fleece tourists or to be encumbered by any hope of instant wealth. This was a room in which a true gambler could relax.

Lana parked the car at the curb, got out alone, and walked through the front door of the twenty-four-hour pub.

There was no sign of the man she drove off with.

I waited a ninety seconds and then sauntered over to the car. I loitered a few feet away while a couple came out of Tyson’s arguing. After they had moved on, a homeless man down on his luck staggered past. He was a white guy, wearing a suit that was old and tattered but fit him so well that he might have acquired it when it was new. When he stuck out a hand, I gave him a hundred-dollar bill.

His eyes widened, and he clutched the lucre with both hands. He didn’t say anything, just rushed down the street—the money already spent.

When he was a block away, and no one else was in sight, Sergeant William Tamashanter Mortman broke the back window of the four-door with the butt of the pistol he’d recently taken off a corpse. He reached inside, jerked the handle, and pulled the door open.

A man-shaped form in the backseat was trying to throw off the blanket that covered it. Sergeant Mortman and I grabbed the form by the collar, pulled it out, and slammed it against the passenger’s side front door. While being astonished at my own strength, I hit the nameless Latino man in the forehead with the butt of my pistol. I figured I was doing the guy a favor. Lana would have certainly killed him once she’d recovered my key to the loot.

After searching his pockets for weapons, I tossed the unconscious conspirator into the backseat and covered him with the blanket. Then I walked into Tyson’s feeling very good about the operation so far.

She was sitting at the bar, as beautiful as the day Lance had met her. He had called her his golden girl because of her skin, hair, and eyes. The metallic hardness of Lana’s tanned body, copper-blonde hair, and ocher eyes made her both cold and precious. Her eyes widened when I approached. Her nostrils flared. These sexual expressions used to excite my heartless skull mate, but now both he and I knew that she could summon such physical innuendos on command.

“You’re late,” she said.

“I been watching you.”

I took the stool next to her, turning slightly to check out my environs.

The bar had nine other inhabitants, including the bulky bartender. Lance didn’t recognize any of them. Siggy Petron would have sent out the word looking for the face I wore, but I didn’t plan to spend long in that bar or the city for that matter.

“You got the key?” I asked, still looking out across the gloom of the bar.

“Your hair is different,” she said. “Red and curly.”

“You have the most beautiful skin I have ever seen, Lana,” I, and most of my cohorts, remarked.

There must have been power behind the words because, unbidden, her lips parted and she took in a quick breath. My golden executioner was looking at me, trying to see if I was who I said I was, when the compliment threw her off.

“Are you comin’ on to me, Lance?”

“Death fascinates all living things.”

“You see?” she said. “The Lance I knew never said things like that.”

“The Lance you knew liked to lick the little brown mole on your left labial lip.”

I realized that she had been tense because she relaxed at those words. Her shoulders let down a quarter inch, and a smile that any Renaissance master would have appreciated appeared.

“Would you like to do that again?”

“That position would leave the whole top of my head exposed.”

“You don’t have to worry about that.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“Because I know now that I was wrong to try and kill you,” she said.

“Because it didn’t work?”

“No, it’s four years later and I’m still alive. You could have gone after revenge or turned me over to Mr. P anytime you wanted.”

“Do you have the key?”

“I’ll give it to you outside.”

I considered pretending that I was nervous, asking her to go in the alley instead, that I didn’t want her pulling a gun on me. This last notion reminded me of a need I had.

“Okay,” I said. “But give me your purse.”

There was a red handbag sitting on the green-and-white marble bar. It matched her dress perfectly.

“Can I get you anything?” the lethargic bartender asked. He was looking at my face as if it was familiar but he hadn’t placed it—yet.

Without looking directly at him, I took a twenty from my wallet and placed it on the bar. I took Lana’s handbag with the same hand and said, “No thanks. I’m just here to meet the lady. You can keep the change.”

I stood up and Lana did, too. She could have complained, but I didn’t know about the big man in the backseat of her car. Maybe she’d say that we could go to her house and get reacquainted with her pet mole. Maybe she’d cut her losses and have him kill me right off.

When we got to her big western car, she saw the error in her logic, if not her ways, through the shattered back window. She made to run, but I grabbed her arm.

“Think carefully, Miss Santini,” Jack Strong said, “because any sound you make will be your last.”

I opened the passenger side door and ushered her in and over to the driver’s seat. When she was behind the wheel and I was settled next to her, I opened the red bag.

There was a small .25 caliber pistol inside, chrome with a red handle. Lana was the luster of gold, but she loved rubies.

“Pedro!” she said.

“He’s not listening, but I don’t blame you for the try.”

“Is he dead?”

“No.”

I rummaged through the little bag for a while and then looked up. Lana was beautiful. So what if she wanted me dead? I was already pretty much dead to the world. I could die one more time again in her arms.

I was about to drift off into a morass of individual desires and disgusts, but I reined these digressions in.

“Where’s the key, Lana?”

“I don’t have it.”

“Not only do you have it, it is on your person.”

“Why would say that?”

“Because you plan for every exigency,” some overeducated soul in my entourage offered. “And you were worried that maybe you’d fail to kill me again.”

“I wasn’t going to kill you.”

“Where’s the key?”

Suddenly, without my cognition, Lance came out of nowhere and, taking Lana’s pistol in my left hand, he cocked back the hammer and pressed the muzzle against her temple. I didn’t know that I was left-handed. I didn’t realize what Lance had been planning.

“You killed me, bitch!”

“Don’t! Please, don’t!” Her right shoulder went way up with this new threat.

In the background of my mind, a struggle had broken out. Murderers and the murdered called for vengeance. God-fearing souls begged for forgiveness. The cacophony of mental cries in anguish and rage was almost deafening. But I couldn’t hear the words because Lance was trying to pull the trigger and I was doing my utmost to stop him.

I got the upper hand because there was a hierarchy that I, more or less, controlled. The hand holding the gun belonged to me, unless I lost focus. But once I rededicated my mind to constrain physical motion, Lance was displaced.

When he understood that he could not kill her immediately, he started to talk.

“You killed me, Lana, and now I’m gonna do that to you. You took away the sun and rain and good whiskey. I was ready to run with you, and you just shot me like dog.”

A memory of Bernard “Berry” Richards came up before the bellicose assembly in my mind. He was wearing dark clothes drenched in glistening blood. He was begging for his life, but Lance did not heed him. Lance killed his brother and moved on without even a prayer.

Lana, for her part, chose silence as her plea. She looked into the eyes of the many, and they relented, granting her a reprieve.

They did, but I didn’t.

When Lance tried to put the pistol down, I held it in place.

“The key,” I said. “You hand it to me of your own free will, and I will send you on your way. Don’t, and I will shoot you and take it off your corpse.”

A minute went by. My hand began to cramp, but I kept from shooting.

Lana reached down and took off a scarlet pump. Therein, taped along the arch, was the key to her survival.

Lance was crying again.

I smiled and put down the gun.

Across the street, I saw a familiar black van.

“Put it down on the dash and get out,” I said.

“You’re not taking my car.”

“Au contraire.”

“What about Pedro?”

“He’ll be safer with me than with you.”

“Can I at least have my purse?”

I took a hundred-dollar bill from my pocket and handed it to her.

“Take a taxi back home and wait there for forty-eight hours. Don’t go anywhere or talk to anyone. I’ll send you the bag in a couple of days. Do what I say and righteous retribution will be denied.”

“How did you survive?” she asked.

“What did you do with the body?” It was a question I had almost forgotten to ask in the distress of the moment. After all, I barely averted a murder and maybe made six hundred thousand dollars in moments.

“I called the Moving Man, Ed Coffers.”

“You drugged me and shot me in the back.”

“Through the heart just like you always said. You used to say that a shot like that would make cops think that it was an amateur job.”

“But you turned me over to Ed. Nobody ever finds the bodies he gets.”

“Doesn’t hurt to be on the safe side.”

“The safe side of murder,” I said. “That’d be good title for a novel.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Get out.”

She opened the driver’s side door and was about to get out. Then she turned. I put a hand over the pistol, just to be on the safe side, but she didn’t pose a threat.

“It wasn’t Ed who came,” she said.

“No?”

“It was this black guy who called himself Winters. I asked him why he was there when I called the number I had for Ed. He said that Ed had started a national concern and did his service through franchises all over the country.”

“Why you tellin’ me this?”

“Same reason you aren’t killing me, I guess.”

Lana got out of the car and walked half a block before hailing a taxi. I sat there side by side with Lance Richards.

“She was something else,” he said in the central chamber of my mind.

“She slaughtered you.”

“And I killed my brother, walked away without a prayer or a backward look.”

“What would your brother have done if the tables were turned?”

“He’d have tried to save me and, failing that, he would have left me alive, taking the chance that I wouldn’t have turned him over.”

This was Lance Richards, only he was telling the truth for maybe the first time in his life. He’d always blamed others when he had to hurt them. They made him mad or were unconscious threats, they would have done the same thing or they were fools who deserved what they got.

No more.

The impression of Lance dissipated, and he blended into the chorus of my mind becoming one of the many murmuring voices that continually echoed in the background of my perceptions—like a host of monks singing Gregorian chants at a twenty-four-hour chapel on the border of Vatican City of the future.

When Rosetta finally woke up, I was sitting at her kitchen table, using one of my many personae to make Lana’s driver’s license into Rose’s, lifting Rose’s image from her own license.

“Have you been up all night?” she asked, the silk kimono falling off her left shoulder.

I had driven Lana’s car to the Kasbah Kasino’s outside parking lot, leaving the man named Pedro near consciousness but still stunned. Dr. George Forsythe, one of my more educated skull brothers, had decided that the would-be murderer would live and so I left him in the backseat.

From the Kasbah, I made my way to an alley behind Las Vegas High School where one of the city’s rare brick walls stood. I used one of these bricks as my private safe-deposit box for various properties that would not be secure on my body, with my friends, or in my house or car. I loosened the mortar around the only black brick in the wall and pulled out the two-quart, triple-strength baggie. Therein, I had secured various proofs of other peoples’ crimes committed either with me or in circumstances I had become aware of. And there was the safe-deposit box key that I put there only a few hours before being slain by my lovely partner. I had taken this precaution because I knew Siggy Petron had put a black spot next to my name.

Then I took a radio-cab to Rosetta’s house and spent the rest of the morning using the skills of Johnetta Reis, a very competent counterfeiter.

Johnetta’s expertise was foreign passports. She could whip up Japanese or Hungarian papers with paper clips and Polaroid stock. A simple Nevada license, especially since Lana had so generously donated hers, was no trouble at all.

So when Rosetta came in on me and asked if I had slept at all, I said, “A lot on my mind.”

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Giving you a document to get us into a certain bank in Phoenix.”

“That’s where the money is?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You’re not planning to rob that bank, are you?”

“No, ma’am. The money was already stolen by somebody else.”

“But the bank is holding it legal,” she said, making this statement a condition with her tone of voice.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, wondering what voice in my choir expressed itself with such humility.

“How much is it?”

“At least fifty thousand,” I said, “minus the five thousand I already gave you.”

“You don’t know me, Jack. How can you be sure I won’t turn you in?”

“I’ve already been turned into something that I don’t at all understand,” I said.

“Huh?”

At that moment, Rosetta’s phone sounded in my pocket.

When I pulled it out, she said, “Why do you have my phone?”

“Just to make a call about our money,” I said as I touched the green icon at the bottom of the tiny screen. “Hello?”

“Lance?”

“Rolly?”

“Roaches told me to call you and say when some chick called and asked about you. I gave her this number.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fournier. And tell Roaches that he doesn’t have to worry about me.”

There was another call coming in on the line.

“I gotta go, pal,” I said. “She’s already calling.”

The new number had a Cincinnati area code. I smiled while switching calls.

“Anna? Is that you?”

“Ron?”

“The next best thing.”

“What does that mean?”

“Listen, babe, I’m going to give you an address. Come by yourself.”

“What kind of trouble are you in?”

“You will have to look me in the eyes and hear my words to even have a chance to understand.”

Anna was always the brains of our partnership. I resented her when the chief paired us up. But over time, I came to realize that she had the gift of cold logic, which kept you alive in the field.

“What’s the address?” she asked.

“Who was that?” Rosetta asked when I handed her the phone.

“The woman who’s gonna watch our ass.”

“Your wife?”

“You are the only woman in my life,” I said honestly.

This declaration surprised Ms. Lawson. She was a little defeated by it.

“You need me to leave?”

“It would be best if your face wasn’t on Anna Wolf’s radar,” I said. “She’s a cop, of sorts, and more efficient than any shark in the sea.”

Rosetta smiled then. “I knew when you came in the restaurant that you were trouble, Jack Strong. And I could see in your eyes that you knew I was a woman who liked a man like you.”

“Go to your mother’s house. I’ll call your cell phone when it’s time for us to jump. I took your car last night but you can take my T-Bird, it’s parked out front. The key is probably in the visor.”

Sitting in the living room of the modest house with the blinds drawn and all the lights on, I cleaned the pistol that Tamashanter had lifted from a corpse. Now and again, I considered going out to the black van and asking them who the hell they were and why were they following me. But such a move was ill advised—I knew. The men in that car had known me as a dead man, as a whole barn piled high with dead men, women, and children—and maybe an animal or two. That was a terrible kind of knowledge that might repeat itself if I wasn’t careful.

The murmuring chorus that made up the background of my mind was very quiet while I sat and thought and cleaned. I suspected that I, and at times my needs, controlled the level of interference that the many I was comprised of could exert.

When the door chimes sounded, I had just spent a good hour in almost absolute internal silence.

While I approached the door, points of view began to pop up like unbidden ads on a computer screen when you’re surfing the net.

“It might be the gangsters,” someone painted in red letters on a brick wall.

“There’s a man out there,” came the paraphrased snippet from a paranoid blues song.

“Let me get that door,” Sergeant Mortman offered.

Ignoring my disparate sensibilities, I pulled the door open.

Anna had put on some weight in the last seven years, and the small lines around her eyes were just a bit more pronounced. She was still lovely however. …

This last thought surprised me. The Ron Tremont in me never thought, or allowed myself to think, about this bronze-skinned woman romantically. We were partners. After a few years, we were even friends. She tried to give me CPR and mouth-to-mouth on that desolate highway in the early morning, when I was dying and she had tears running down her face. …

“Who are you?” she said, letting her hand drop into the open purse hanging from her right shoulder.

“You bring Little Benny or Big Bertha?” I asked referring to her pistols of choice.

The confusion on her face brought a friendly smile to my lips and eyes.

“I always told you that I didn’t believe in reincarnation, but …” I began the old quote.

“… if it was true, they’d bring you back in the body of a federal felon just to show you how the other half lives,” she said completing the quote. “Ron, it doesn’t look like you. Not even a little bit.”

“Come on in. I’ll make you an egg sandwich.”

I turned my back on her and walked toward the kitchen. Every word I said was calculated to remind her of her dead partner, Ron Tremont. I was him: the big fat white guy who felt that his country, culture, and race were the only things holding back the darkness that the rest of the world represented.

In the kitchen, he had the five-six FBI agent sit on a high stool next to the countertop stove. Bacon was sizzling in a sectioned cast-iron pan while two whole-wheat slices from the refrigerator waited patiently in the toaster.

“I know you like ’em runny,” I said as she stared.

“What name are you going by?” she asked.

“Jack Strong.”

“And how is it that Jack Strong says all the things that my dead partner used to say seven years ago?”

There was tension in her face and eyes. No one but Ron Tremont would have seen it. That, more than anything else so far, convinced me that I was some kind of abomination set loose upon the world for reasons unknown.

I melted butter in the two smaller squares of the skillet and broke eggs into them.

“Did you see the black van parked outside?” I asked.

“They’re watching you?”

I depressed the lever on the toaster and said, “There’s no mustard, but she has mayonnaise. I sliced some onion and tomato, too.”

“Why are they on you?” she replied.

I took that as my cue to tell the story of Jack Strong: how he woke up in a hotel bed with scars and patches, a black man’s ring finger and a woman’s pinky, with memories so broad and far-reaching that he does not believe that he is just one man or woman, or maybe not even wholly human. I left out the part about the slaughter of three thugs in a back room at the Steadman Casino—Anna was a law enforcement official, after all.

Her response was to question me in detail about memories of being Ron Tremont. Foods I liked and transgressions I committed. For a while there, the fat man had a hot and heavy affair with a nineteen-year-old named, of all things, Cherry. He didn’t think that Anna knew about the liaison, but now she disabused him of that notion.

“Tell me the nickname, the real nickname,” she demanded, “that Ron had for Chastity ‘Cherry’ Hirsch.”

The FBI agent, residing somewhere in the folds of our brain, got shy, but that didn’t matter. I knew the name.

I smiled and nodded and said, “Cherry Bomb.”

I handed her the bacon and egg sandwich and she started eating, shaking her head as she did.

“It just doesn’t make any sense,” she said.

“Chastity would explode in that Mongoose Motel room we used.”

“Not that,” my ex-partner said with a wry grin. She never approved of my skull brother’s sexual predilections. “You. I mean you’re sitting here looking like some Vegas hood who’s been doing push-ups out in the prison yard with all the memories of my lizard-brained ex-partner. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Mason Daub was investigating you there that last year,” I said, using my most intimate knowledge.

“Me?”

“I didn’t understand it at the time,” I continued while she chewed. “Now I see that unconsciously he resented a black woman on the team. He found out that you were involved with a group in college that an earlier administration had labeled subversive.”

“What group?” she asked, gazing at him with eyes that even her old friend could not read.

“Sisters of the American Revolution.”

It wasn’t anything, just some foolishness that three black girls at Wesleyan College cooked up to feel political and empowered in a white world. They had little meetings and made plans to take over Corporate America by attaining positions in hiring and placing very capable people of color in key positions while at the same time hiring incompetent white men for similar jobs. That way, they figured, they’d take over from the inside. It was pretty smart, but Anna and her friends were just playing. It didn’t mean a thing.

Too bad that one of the Sisters later took up with a pretty but bent young brother named Filo Drammon. Filo was stealing from a warehouse he worked for in Massachusetts. He’d take a couple of handfuls of computer chips that were in transit, throw them into his pockets, and drive them down to Florida once a month where some enterprising offspring of ex-Sandinistas would smuggle the government-controlled technology down to Cuba.

That made Filo’s crime interstate and international, and so when the search of the innocent woman’s home turned up a diary that mentioned a current day FBI agent, our supervisor, Mason Daub was notified.

In the beginning, Ron Tremont also despised Anna. He had changed his perspective but, for reasons of job security, had not shared this new opinion with his white compatriots. So when Daub approached him, he pulled out a file that a previous supervisor had him compile, implicating Daub in some fairly innocent prostitution ring run by his brother. Daub just passed along money and phone numbers, but it was enough for the main office to send him into early retirement—if they ever found out.

Ron, with my voice, explained all this to Anna.

“So, so you’re some other guy with Ron’s brain?” she asked.

“I wish that was the only voice in my head,” I, Jack Strong, said. “There are a couple of dozen names I could tell you and many more that I haven’t figured out yet. Men and women, and I think there’s a wolf in there, too. I could lift the old 327-pound Ron Tremont over my head and throw him across the room. I can speak more languages than a professional translator could recognize. And there’s that black van following me wherever I go.”

“So you got me mixed up in some kind of science fiction movie?”

“Just like if Corman and Romero went to bed and had the same dream.”

“Ron said that he weighed 290.”

“He lied.”

Anna laughed and I knew we had a deal.

“What do you want me to do, Jack?”

“Not Ron?”

“No. Ron is just a foot soldier in this army.”

I smiled and unraveled a plan that some strategic command at the back of my mind had been hatching while the woman in me made love to Rosetta Jeanette Lawson in the guise of a man.

Rosetta and I picked up her car parked down the block from Tyson’s pub and drove to Phoenix the very next morning. We got a room in a hotel down the street from Phoenix National Trust.

There was love in the room, great quantities of it. That passion wasn’t between us but inside each of us. We could have been entire galaxies passing through each other without touching but still luxuriating in the bath of gravities.

When the landline in the hotel rang, I was on my back feeling as if I was just a solitary man who had just made love for the first time in the history of my race.

“Hello?”

“They just landed at the airport,” Anna said in my ear.

I was looking out of the window at the black van parked across the street.

“Let’s hit it.”

Phoenix National Trust was housed in a large commercial office building, on the first floor. There were two doors through which you could enter, or exit the bank. Lance Richards had chosen this configuration on purpose—always wanting a back-door chance.

There was also a fancy safe-deposit box system. When applying for admission to your box, you were brought first to a room where you sat and waited while the officer in charge checked your papers. So when Rosetta came in as Lana Santini, I knew that she would be cosseted away, hidden from general sight.

She went in at two fifteen, and I waited in a coffee shop inside the office building, across the entrance hall from the bank.

At two fifty, Rosetta’s cell phone vibrated in my pocket. The text message: two blocks away.

Anna had contacted the LVPD and got them to have one of their snitches call Siggy Petron’s lawyer and tell him that I had surfaced in Phoenix at the National Trust. The snitch said that I had promised to pay off some old debts and pay my way out of the country with money I took from that bank.

I left the coffee shop and took a walk around the block so that when I walked into the front doorway of the bank, Siggy and three of his trusted lieutenants were watching me from a blue Olds across the street.

I walked up to the safe-deposit desk and said to the lovely and stern Miss Andrews, who was seated there, “My partner, Ms. Santini, is already here I believe.”

“Mr. Richards?” she asked.

“The same.”

I had altered my license also, and Miss Andrews, with her copper hair and slightly upturned nose, studied the forged document perfunctorily.

“You haven’t been to the bank in some years,” she said.

“Out of the country on business.”

“That’s what Ms. Santini told us. I hope we’ll be seeing more of you in the future.”

“Most definitely.”

Rosetta/Lana and I were shown to our box where we used our keys to unlock the metal rod holding the long metallic unit in place. We were then ushered to a private room that had a gray metal table and white wood chairs. I opened the long lid of the tray to reveal sixty bundles of hundred-dollar bills, each of which represented ten thousand dollars.

“Oh my God,” Rosetta said. “That’s a lot more than fifty thousand.”

“Yeah,” I said. “You take ten stacks and put ’em in your purse.”

“Then what?”

“Go out to your car and drive back home.”

“What about you?”

“I don’t think you’ll be seeing me again, Rose.”

The look of pain on her face sent a tremor of emotion through the souls that comprised me. I felt everything from empathy to disgust. But none of that mattered.

“Make something of your life out of that money and think about me when your kid is laughing,” I said.

Rosetta was about to complain or maybe express love, but she’d lived long enough to take what she could and leave the rest. She moved an inch toward me then took her part of the loot, put it in her purse, and walked out quickly.

I was able to get eight bundles in my pockets without them bulging too much. Then I put the rest in an empty satchel I’d brought. Along with the loot Lance had stolen, he had a note that Siggy had carelessly left for his accountant Bernard Lime. The note read: Take this money and put it in the hopper. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

Half an hour after Rosetta had gone, I called her cell phone. She answered and told me that she was on her way out of town. I took that as my cue to walk out of the bank with the satchel dangling from my left hand.

Siggy, surrounded by his three guardians confronted me half a block away. I tried to look nervous.

“Hey, Lance,” he said. “What you got in the bag?” There was a big grin on his face.

“You need a whole troop just to ask me that, Sig?” He hated to be called Sig.

“I learned from Sammy, Kraut, and Trapas not to underestimate you, Lancey.”

I handed Siggy the bag and, like a fool, he took it from me.

“We’re going to take a drive,” he managed to say before we were inundated with federal, state, and local law enforcement.

There must have been twenty or more officers of law on us. They grabbed Siggy and his men and clapped steel bracelets on them. They left me alone. I was the informant. I had the protection of the FBI. I also had eighty thousand dollars in my pockets, and the only man in the world who would want my face dead was under indictment from the law and a death sentence from the big boss Ira Toneman.

Anna would have to do some fancy footwork to convince her superiors that she hadn’t left the reservation, but I knew that she’d land on her feet.

At the Phoenix airport the next morning, I was stopped at the metal detector and set aside for special TSA handling. They found a metal aberration in my left forearm.

“What’s this?” the woman agent asked. She was black and handsome the way women can be handsome. The women in me responded to her like iron dust to a magnetic wand in a child’s toy.

“I don’t know,” I said honestly.

“Has your arm been operated on?”

“No.”

“Well, sir,” she said gently, “if you can’t explain, we can’t let you through.”

“I understand,” I said.

I took a cab back to the city and rented a room in the Stay-the-Night Motel. There was a hardware store on the corner. I bought a sharp ceramic knife and a camper’s first-aid kit.

Using my doctor’s skills, I slit open the underside of my left forearm careful not to sever any arteries or main veins. The little unit was embedded in muscle, but I pulled it out without too much discomfort. Using the fingers of my left hand as an anchor, I was able to sew the wound up. The bleeding was minimal. I had performed the operation in the bathtub so afterward I could wash most of the red away. I bandaged the arm and placed the transmitter in the overhead light fixture.

From the alleyway outside, I could see the black van. If I was right, it wouldn’t be going anywhere soon.

At first, I didn’t know why I had decided to hitchhike to L.A. Actually, I didn’t know why I was going to L.A. at all. But out on the highway, seventeen miles from the Phoenix border, Aldus Ray made his way into my consciousness. Aldus was a hitchhiking serial killer who thought he was a carjacker with bad luck. He was hungry for another victim after twelve years being dead. I was going to have to push the single-minded murderer down and then strip him of his compulsion before figuring out which of my many souls had unfinished business in the City of Angels.

About the Author

Walter Mosley (b. 1952) is the author of the bestselling mystery series featuring Easy Rawlins, as well as numerous other works, from literary fiction and science fiction to a young adult novel and political monographs. His short fiction has been widely published, and his nonfiction has appeared in the New York Times Magazine and the Nation, among other publications. Mosley is the winner of numerous awards, including an O. Henry Award, the Anisfield-Wolf Book Award, a Grammy, and PEN America’s Lifetime Achievement Award. He lives in New York City.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

[Fluffer Nutter]

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2014 by Walter Mosley

ISBN 978-1-4804-8914-1

Published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com

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Table of Contents

- Cover
- Praise Quotes
- Title Page
- Jack Strong
- About the Author
- Copyright