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"Thanks again," said Doc, liptight. Aglow with moment's satisfaction, the policeman returned to his car, heels clicking the pavement, gun and club bumping like pendulous tumors against his thickened hips. We slunk past the feeble barricade onto Fortysecond. Once distanced, Doc beat the door with his hand; his voice roared into true range.

  "Flatfoot mick motherfucker," he shouted, unmindful of listening ears. "Cost me ten bucks to fix that shit. Sonovabitch bastard."

  "That was unreasoned action," I agreed.

  "Unreason, hell. No reason. No fuckin' reason at all," he continued. "Goddamn mick cops. Ever' goddamn one of 'em on the fuckin' take. All they do is give poor folks bullshit. Gets me steamed. "

  "Would a report be fileable?" I asked; ombudspeople lend dis traction if little else. Doc didn't answer. We rattled over Fortysecond's cobbled epidermis, banging across asphalt-bandaged lacerations. Streetlamps' blurred halos hung in the dark, showing as angels' crowns, their wearers held frozen by proximity to earth. In the centerlane ran streetcar rails, like those in Moscow or in the Bronx, our Bronx; none hummed by before we turned north onto Tenth. Doc swerved round a wooden-wheeled cart easing upstreet; passing, I noted horsepower. The beast's splintered hooves, mired full, supported its spine-sprung carcass; the cart it dragged bore sidewalls armored with heavy, battered pans and pots, holding it secure from informal assault. When we paused at a stop I looked above two small shops with French names; two billboards hid the building's flank. One said HO'T'EL PENNSYLVANIA/PE6-5000; the other:

  Opens August 17 at the Capitol Theatre

  THE WIZARD OF OZ/starring/JUDY GARLAND/RAY BOLGER/ BERT LAHR

  and

  W. C. FIELDS as the Wizard.

  When I looked again we'd driven on; it was gone.

  "This is city of New York?" Oktobriana said, her voice startling us all. Jake had removed his phones, and studied all with open eye. He nodded, taking his hand from her face. As her sense returned, Jake drew away from her as would a mimosa from fingertouch; resettling, she pressed nearer as he inched off. When she'd sandwiched him between door and self she burrowed into his embrace; his face waxed over with seeming unawareness.

  "How you doing, miss?" Doc asked. "Khorosho?"

  "Da," she said, acknowledging his dreadfully pronounced Russian. "I noted situation after occurrence. Mild concussion without fracture or hemorrhage. No internal trauma. Swelling on left radia infers possible bonecrack-"

  "Miss, you're in shock," Doc said. "Where'd you learn to diagnose?" he asked, laughing.

  "Moscow," she said. "Any fool could diagnose."

  "Doc," I interrupted. "That paper you flashed. That's a flyer?"

  "That's it," he said; his struggles to control unwise wording showed plain. "You from Mars, man?" Depocketed once more, he gave it over; unfolding, I read. His grace came on Interior Department letterhead: the paper was much finer than that used for our cash; the Great Seal's engraving appeared drawn by master's hand, such detail it held, unlike our government's standard design of singleline eagle's profile.

  Norman Quarles is to be allowed unhindered transit between the state lines of New York and New Jersey from the period Nov 1 1938 to October 31 1939 in accordance with his profession as doctor, by my order.

  Undertext was the interior secretary's scrawl and the counterslash of Vice President Knox. Such a document recalled to my mind the old internal passports used between the martialized states in the years following the Ebb, but the notes inscribed here sang a different song. I returned it.

  "Say you're American," said Doc, avoiding a milk truck doubleparked on right; it looked to have been beaten out from tin. "You say you never seen or heard of these? You a missionary kid or something? Grew up somewhere else?"

  "I'm irreligious," I said, wondering when and if to tell. At that moment I could viz him pulling up to heave us pavementways, having done with us all, and cruising back into an uninterrupted life. Before I could run truth through unhearing ears, he voiced anew

  "One of the sons of darkness, huh?" he asked; I'd no idea what was meant. "Look, I can't figure this out. I'm going to give you all the medical help I can. But a lot of this jive just doesn't wash, friend. Once I get you fixed up we're going to have to do some serious talking if you want anything else. And I want straight answers, get me?"

  "None other," I said.

  "Americans, my ass."

  Tenth Avenue, unnoticed, became Amsterdam. As scenes unwound before me in unending loop my head's throb redoubled, but each sight fascinated so that I could do no other than to try blinking away the pain as every vision passed. Long low blocks of tenement drabness, unshattered by highthrown stone and glass spears; taxi's lemon exoskeletons amidst hundreds of gray scuttlers parked and mobile; fitfully illumined allnighters hawking crates of produce, restaurants IDed with neon curls, newsstands safe behind paper battlements; olive-hued mailboxes, enameled blue streetsigns, black iron lampposts and churches' stained glass; deadhour strollers rambling under jacket, tie and hat, free of sweat's gel, pacing night's walks as if en route to office: all bespoke a different world's thrall, newmade flesh from history's dust. That we could spend many unguided minutes here seemed unimaginable; doubtless the late hour sent optimism into coma. Doe's breath seemed to be coming easier to him now; perhaps he'd calmed enough to talk of other puzzlements.

  "How're you familiared with Russian tongue?" I asked. "You've been?"

  "After the war," he said.

  "Drafted?"

  "We all enlisted, man. Thought we could prove ourselves that way. Come out of it with some respect. Shit." His smile showed nothing approximating happiness. "Kept the whole 369th over here doing KP and maintenance whole damn time. Least I was in the hospital unit even though half the time I didn't do nothing but make sure the blood didn't get mixed, once we was allowed to give blood. Even then I think they just used ours on the French." He sighed; lit another cig. "Our commanders kept saying we'll go soon, we'll go soon. Theirs kept saying not yet, not yet. Once Armistice Day came, then we finally get shipped out."

  `After war's end?"

  He nodded. "Siberian Expeditionary Force," he said. "After the Reds took over. Don't know to this day if anyone shooting at us was a Bolshevik or not, one or two times anybody shot. We just camped out in the middle of nothing, drinking potato juice and wishing we was back home. Froze my goddamn ass off; they said what they gave us was winter gear but I don't think so. Lost three toes. Didn't even feel 'em go. One day they packed us up. Sent us back, same as before, except half of us died of exposure there and another third caught the bug and were dead before we reached home port. Swear to this day only reason we went was so they could get rid of as many of us as they could without anybody noticing." His voice trailed away, as if fading from spectrum range. "You used to be in the service?"

  "Retired," I said; the way he'd described the campaign wasn't as I'd read of it, but then his would have been a prejudiced view. "How'd it show?"

  "Way you carry yourself," he said, turning onto 110th, heading into Harlem. "Even the mud shines on your shoes. I can always spot a military man."

  "The uppers are glossed with Everglo-" I began, explaining my polish; caught myself.

  "Where were you stationed?" he asked, not noticing, or choosing not to notice.

  "All over."

  "Oh." He smiled. "So you was in the service and you're going to tell me that's why you don't know what flyers are? How long were you in?"

  "Twenty-three," I said. He didn't eye me directly before we reached the next light. Something had faded the signals' dye; they showed as blue and orange.

  "In American service?" he asked; I shrugged. "How old are you?"

  "Forty-seven. "

  "I'm forty-nine," he said; from his face's line and sag I'd have added ten. We turned onto Eighth in silence which thereafter remained unbroken; perhaps fatigue outweighed suspicion. Within minutes our evident destination showed; Doc pulled up on the righthand side of the avenue, before a five-story brownstone older than mos
t of those surrounding. "I can park here till morning. This is it. "

  Through the carwindow came, from basement's direction, manmade sound, blaring pure with percussion's blast, with horn's entwining notes. Opening the cardoor I heard the music swallowed by unexpected roar; as it crescendoed I touched foot to sidewalk. Black shutters curtained the sky; a slender metal tree burst through the pavement near. An elevated ran atop Eighth; a train screeched uptown.

  "Let me unlock the front," Doc said, walking round the car, opening the trunklid. "Follow me. Here's your bags, Luther. Jake, let me give you a hand with Octoberana." To the entrance stoop's left, from basement to sidewalk, ran an awning's long tunnel, aimed out of the club from which the music issued; the club's name was Abyssinia.

  "Oktobriana," I corrected.

  "Weighs more than she looks," Doc grunted, with Jake bearing her upward. I lugged the bags. Beyond the entrance's twowindowed wooden door I vizzed a broad tilefloored hall lined with plaster columns, rich with marble detail. A chandelier brightened the gloom. Unlocking his office's door-his name thereupon was stenciled in gold-with a key of medieval look, he walked across the hall, unlocked the door facing and went inside.

  "Wake up, Wanda," he cried. "Going to need a hand with some patients I got here."

  "Turn off the damn light," the other, louder voice replied.

  "Put on your clothes and get out here. " He emerged, pulling the door nearly closed, approached us, entered his office. "Toss the bags in here for now," lie said, turning on two lamps. "Right down over there." Oktobriana, conscious but groggy, leaned wallways, kept from tipping by Jake. "Let me look her over first. You two oughta be able to hold out awhile longer. Never seen anybody laugh off a dislocation like you act like you're doing," he said to Jake.

  Doe's office was observably split into two large rooms, one to receive, one to repair. Opening a window, he switched on a ceiling fan, whirling hot air into eddies and pools roomwide. Jake carried Oktobriana into the exam room and lay her on a padded table covered with Japanese paper.

  "Who's Wanda?" I asked.

  "Me," came the loud contralto heard moments before. Wanda, of medium height and solid girth, wore cola-colored skin. A mauve kerchief knotted round her head hid all but a few strands of straightened hair. She strode through the room as across a boxing ring, her pink robe sweeping the floor. "Who wants to know?"

  "My wife and associate," Doc said, introducing.

  "Nurse," she corrected. Her voice carried an unspecifiable accent. "Bringin' in strays again, Norman?" she asked; her tone lowered, thickened with menace as she eyed Jake and Oktobriana. "We're treating their kind now? Mighty big of you."

  "This is Luther," he said. "That's-"

  "Oktobriana," said Jake.

  "Who's the hokey-pokey man?" she asked, hearing his interruption, giving an updown over his muddy whites. "What's their racket? Bootlegging?"

  "That's Jake," he said. "They're just folks fell on hard times, Wanda. Need some fixing up."

  "Need an overhaul, they look like. Cat find 'em or you did?"

  "Coming in from Jersey. Get me my bag, darlin'." To us: "You two sit out there while I check her out. Read something. Catch up on the news."

  Jake and I, stuck with our own devices, took in all about his reception room. We eyed oak furniture of unguessed tonnage, deep-glossed woodwork, low-watt wall sconces, an ancient black dial phone with unknotted cord. My look shifted over time's easierignored flotsam: a malachite lamp in nude woman's shape, an ash wall clock, its filigreed hands pendulum driven; an ashtray where cigs might be clutched by deco penguin beaks; a typewriter of MOMA caliber. Desksided was a wastebasket hollowed from recycled elephant's foot, whose descendants passed from their veldt in my memory, leaving zoo-held stragglers to serve their species' sentence. The details were all; to see such items in obvious use, not hidden in owner's vast holdings, under museum glass or vizzed momentslong in sets of films, lent unforeseen awe, the shock of the old.

  "He must be moneyed full," said Jake, totaling bounty.

  "All's for daily use," I said. "Thriftshop bound. Fifty old dollars'd buy all, I'd hazard. It only lends wealth's impress."

  Jake snorted, unconvinced. The particular history armymen soaked up served as background for strategy's sake; of Khe Sanh, Passchendaele and Blenheim I could describe each assault, each retreat, every bullet shot. But as to when pens first came already inked, when refrigerators began defrosting themselves, when TVCs learned to speak, I held but little notion. I assumed Jake knew history so well as any American; that is, knew that since he was born, things had changed-though in Jake'' case I doubt that they had.

  "How's his action trustable?" Jake asked, nodding towards the office's shut door. "How low's his line dip?"

  "They're doctoring," I said. "Calm yourself."

  "Witchdoctoring," said Jake. "What if he terms inadvertent? Or advertent?"

  "He won't," I said. `All differs here. Keep that minded, Jake, trust's essentialled. You vizzed the outside-"

  "Calcutta," said Jake. "World within world and nothing more. We'll compensate fine."

  "But not sole," I said. "He'll have to be backgrounded. I see no other way-"

  "Betrayal awaits," he said. "Think twice."

  1 shook my head. "Five times I've thought," I said. "All's risked inescapably in whatever situation. His suspicions have grown since first meet. We've attracted, that's the reason he's not let us drop."

  "Prep yourself to action once he shows untrue," said Jake, wording me to do to Doc what I'd readied to do to him, when and if time came; I nearly laughed, though I knew he gave truth. Still, we had to take trust upon its deformed face. "What's ragged?" he asked, eyeing tabled nags and papers.

  "Let's input," I said. "We need all info availabled. How's the arm?"

  "Attached," he muttered. Seating ourselves in tufted leather chairs as if to hear chamber music, we gleaned the past's pages. Life's sheets photoed the known-La Guardia, Goering, Einstein-and unknown: Brenda Frazier, Leverett Saltonstall, Jerusalem's Grand Mufti. Enormous space was devoted to collegiate goldfish eating.

  "She'd desire," said Jake, flashing Liberty's cover, whereupon the Big Boy, agin as we'd seen his image only that morning past, looked out at his American buyers. He ripped it free, folded and pocketed it. Dime Mystery's pages held a Sherlock Holmes tale by Conan Doyle, a reprint, it noted. Having never read the stories, only having seen the vids, I'd never heard of "The Sumatran Rat."

  "Is radium silk irradiated?" Jake asked.

  "Undoubted," I said, not knowing. "Why?"

  "Fools," he said, showing me a Collier's ad. "They use it in shirts." Selling for three dollars-old dollars-per, they seemed a bargain for the cancers surely obtained. Such folly amazed, but then, as spoken, these were innocents' times. I tossed aside two Superman comic books, and didn't even examine what appeared as a sci-fi mag. Inpiled were two papers, the New York Age and the Daily Mirror.

  " `Back to Africa-Is the Time Right?' " I said, reading aloud the Age's head.

  "Africa?" said Jake. "Everyone there's dead."

  "Not entirely." The article editorialized; Jake interrupted before I might read what it thought about what.

  "What's this garble tell?" he asked, showing the head on the Mirror: G-MEN CLIP HOMER'S KANSAS SPREE.

  "Unknown," I said; seeing who was photoed below, I felt my neck hair rise. "Look there. He's alive now " There in gray fuzz and white blur Hitler showed; not merely alive but having only begun, the one who ultimately made this world into ours, poised at upheaval's age. We were-I was-so overfamiliared with societal evil that the recognition of personal evil shocked as I'd not been in years.

  "Hey," cried Wanda. "Digger O'Dell and Dug-up. Come on in."

  Sharp alcohol scent cleared my head as we entered the exam room, enabling me to feel my pain more easily. Oktobriana lay bundled beneath a blanket; damp cloth cooled her brow With fever-bright eyes she followed Jake's step, his careful move.

  "Let's have a look
at that shoulder, Jake," said Doc, putting arm on him waistround, as if to assist his walk. "You wear a brace?"

  Before seating himself Jake reached undercoat, slipped from its folds his chainsaw, handing it across, as if suspecting confiscation awaited. Doc must have brushed its ignition, or safety, or both; as he touched it the blade roared free, doubling in length. He dropped it floorways, where it sliced in deep before Jake reached down and cut it.

  "Careful," he said. For the moment the music below stopped. A blue glass jar topful with pennies sat atop folders nearby; such an odd accoutrement for a doctor's office, I thought.

  "Goddamn, Jake," said Doc, his face free of all color but skin's. "What else you got under there?" Stripping coat, jacket and vest, keeping shirtsleeved, Jake counted out his ordnance's inventory, laying down his chuks, chain and trunch; shiny razored knucks; his powerdrill and select bits; the Omsk, retrieved the evening past. With smooth hand he drew Skuratov's Shrogin; Doc eyed its digital display.

  "This ain't no tommy gun," said Doc, tabling it carefully, to avoid accident. "Why're you packin' so much heat, Jake?" Doc asked, counting Jake's probes, stickers and flicks.

  "I'in a security consultant."

  "Pretty damn secure," said Doc, blading Jake's primary switch, used as silverware the night before. "Jacket still weighs a ton. What's it made of? Looks like linen-"

  "There's a Krylar underlay," Jake noted. Wanda leaned down to remove his shirt.

  "These buttons don't hook into anything," she said.

  "Velcro. Just pull. Krylar deflects small projectiles."

  "Not enough of 'em," said Doc, seeing Jake's torso revealed in high relief, scar's webbing woven from neck to waist. "Get blown up and sewn back together?" he laughed.

  "This alone," said Jake, lifting his left leg as if to spray. In the stash there tabled showed neither the tracker nor his pocket-player; somewhere still enclosed jacketways, too, I knew, remained a thirty-meter line in event a climb essentialled. Doc pounced only on those goods holding obvious harm. Kneeling, he unlocked one of several cabinet doors, gleaming with baked-white glaze. Gathering Jake's toys he pushed all within and relocked, pocketing the key. Jake looked on, surprisingly calm. "Those are necessaries," he said.