The avenues at night become long straight tunnels, shaped by hangnoose bursts of orange sodium lights. Mac's seventies-era Plymouth idles on the corner of a used car lot where an actual automobile pole-squats thirty feet in the air like a saint upon a stylite: Honda on a stick.
He narrates his progress aloud: "Louisville, going on seventh . . . sixth . . . fifth, whoops, red light at fifth." It's maybe the tenth time he's been through here tonight.
The door handle to the Fury begins to rattle: sudden low frequencies. Boom-boom-bssh. In the left lane a low-rider Monte Carlo slides up. Mac looks over earnestly at the face looking back. The window on the passenger side scrolls down jerkily and the jarring stops.
White teeth in a dark unlit face. Mac smiles back—someone he knows? The face laughs at another face, belonging to the driver, who's wearing dark glasses and a necklace of oversize dice. "Hey," Mac calls, pleased by the exchange, its very existence.
"Ah . . . yeah. Right."
"How's it going there?"
Laughter.
"Aint much happening tonight, is it. Seen some cars at Lazarre's point, but they headed out. Probly going to Moon Lake."
The answer is a grey pistol held out rigid. Then a shot. For the moment Mac goes deaf. The white teeth still flashing. He knows he felt a breeze, like a fly. The Monte Carlo blasts through the red, down and away.
Mac leaves the Fury, makes it to the lot, retches on concrete. He coughs and spits. No other cars come by this time of night. He clomps back to the still-idling Fury. There's no evidence that anything ever happened.
"Fourth . . . third . . . hold up at second," his voice a little quivery now, not unlike baseball announcers after a ninth inning turnaround. Driving on, he encircles the residential neighborhoods beside the river. All the way out to Deborah Drive to the bypass, down fast food row, past the all-night Holiday Grille where people wore suits, the TV broadcasting station, and then the park.
The infamous public restrooms. He knew more about stuff like that now.
Then he pulls over, stops. As though remembering for the first time. Was that a Monte Carlo down there near sixth? He's never not driven past something, even cop cars, lights going, ambulance sirens howling for a wreck. But he can't go down there now. A few things have happened for sure, but nobody has ever actually shot at him before.
He turns back, following the levee. Just keep driving.
Ahead huge brake lights on a monster-truck leap as over a speed bump. Mac slows. It's an animal. He pulls over. Someone's dog dragging itself in a pitiful circle, growling and jerking wildly.
Parking along the base of the levee, training headlights on the animal, he tries to help, approaching cautiously. You're supposed to let a dog smell you first. The dog lashes out, teeth across the back of Mac's hand. "Whoa, boy!" Then it goes for the ankle; Mac yelps and has no choice but to go forward with his foot, pressing the dog's head against the pavement. Soon he hears a dry crack.
He pulls free and hurriedly flees the scene, checking over his shoulders everywhere.
By the time he pulls into a convenience store several miles away, shaking, he discovers a missing shoe. Back there.
Mac's ankle is throbbing.
The guy at the counter inside looks familiar. So does the car parked around the side. It's a Monte Carlo.
Quick. But they've already seen him. The guy inside smiles broadly, terrifically.
He turns the key calmly. The Fury cranks. The driver steps out of the Monte Carlo, taking his shades off. He shakes his head No very seriously. Mac slowly moves his hand off the shift and cuts the ignition.
The smiling man exits the building in an erect, rolling motion, singing softly, and as if making a pleasant discovery, guides earphones off his head. He leans into Mac's window. I'd like to teach the world to sing. His voice is quite good, actually. Perfect skin, teeth.
"May I?"
Mac doesn't say anything as he goes around and slides into the passenger seat. He's still bopping to the music.
"H-how come you shot at me?"
"Wha?" A look of manic disbelief. "Kooler?" he calls to the man by the Monte Carlo, who shrugs broadly.
"Wait." Thinking. "Oooohhh, I see." He smiles, huge, then whispers. "Have you ever heard of parallel universes? Got to be what it was. Just a little wormhole." That smile.
"Oh."
"A man called Einstein is known for saying God doesn't throw dice. But the calculations he wrote imply there are worlds other than this one. Right here beside us."
"Huh. I had that idea one time, but it was about cards. Seems like me and Einstein think the same."
"Look out there. Look up." Mac does, tentatively.
"See that? The sky up there is a huge black sun. It keeps us from seeing."
"It's hot out, for sure."
"From seeing what's behind."
The convenience store looks empty. Mac remembers someone behind the register. Right?
"What is it you do? I drive deliveries, packages, letters for lawyers, stuff like that. Right here, my own car."
"Me? I finance transactions. Acquisitions and re-sale. I'm a b-man. I work the calculus of the markup. You like this music player? It's yours, for very little in return. Or how about security? You say somebody took a shot at you. You need security, glock-style?"
"Aw, man, I can't afford none of that."
"A circumstance many find themselves in, for certain. But you'd be surprised how little is required for security."
"Thanks, but probly not.""Many things can be yours." He holds out a canned soft drink. "Go ahead." Mac does, tentatively. "Wanna hear?" He offers the earphones to Mac.
I'd like to buy the world a Coke, the guy sings along, in a smooth, elastic professional voice. "What happened to your leg?"
"A dog bit me. I was just trying to help it out."
"Aint that the pits. If it's not another thing it's a mad dog after you. Tell you what. It would break my heart were something to happen to you. I would like for you to have some security. How much did you say you got?"
"Huh? Money? Not much."
"Let me hold it for you."
"I kinda need it."
"Huh? Didn't I just give you a coke?"
Mac grudgingly pulls out his wallet and hands it over. It was like junior high all over again. Where he'd always expected to be friends, after. Mac is decidedly mixed about it. The guy selects the bills, delicately re-folds the wallet and hands it back. Then he counts the money. "Get you a little more, then when I see you again, you'll have your security. Now what your name is?" He extends his hand.
"Mac."
They shake, then the guy slips out and the Monte Carlo is gone.
Mac pours coke over the bite, hoping for some kind of relief. Bubbles fizz around the edges of the wound. It's the real thing.
He can still feel the impression of the guy's hand in his. Last time somebody shook with him it was at a funeral, he's trying to remember whose.
