The Game of Love and Death (12 page)

N
OT
long afterward, Love followed Grady Bates into a rough section of town a few blocks south of the Domino. At first, he’d appeared as James Booth, in his shabby suit, his golden hair glowing in the light. Worried about witnesses, Love broadened his frame, ruined his posture, and added a bit more history to his clothes and face. He stayed two blocks behind Grady, following him through the benign rays of an early-afternoon sun.

The neighborhood was bleak compared to other parts of the city, especially compared to where Henry lived. A row of skinny maple trees planted along the sidewalk offered little in the way of shade or ornament. Crumpled bits of yellow newsprint tumbled through vacant lots, and shards of glass from broken bottles glittered in the dirt.

A single thought circled through Love’s mind as he walked, a mad idea, one he should have spit out like a piece of bad meat.

Kill Grady Bates.

It unsettled him, to say the least. He doubted this was how Death felt stalking her prey, exposed and quaking. But it was the right choice. Grady was a danger and an obstacle, and the way to remove him permanently was to steal a play from Death’s book.

She would be furious, of course. Love wondered briefly why that bothered him more than the prospect of a man’s imminent murder.

Grady stepped inside a shop that carried newspapers, magazines, and tobacco. Unsure how long the man’s business would take, Love leaned against a lamppost and waited. He was halfway tempted to go inside and buy a newspaper, but something held him back. Instead, he considered murder methods. What would he do if he were human? Use his fists? Wield a broken bottle like a knife?

How intimate fists and blades were. Almost as intimate as love itself. Death often used a touch, but Love couldn’t imagine it was anything like love, what she did. Her powers also far exceeded his own. She could manipulate matter, bring down an airship, and stop time. By comparison, his gift felt pathetic. All he could do was fill a heart with love.

He removed his hat and rubbed his forehead, squinting against the sun. The door opened and Grady emerged with a newspaper folded beneath his arm. Love peered inside Grady’s heart. The man’s next desire? A gingersnap — and a moment with the pretty girl who worked behind the bakery counter.

This small infidelity ordinarily would have bothered Love. Now, he relished it. He followed Grady into the bakery. The young woman behind the counter — she was perhaps two or three years older than Flora — regarded him with a flicker of suspicion before she turned her attention back to Grady and smiled. It stung to be treated differently for his skin color. To think of how often the white majority of the city looked this way at the small population of brown-skinned residents was worrisome. As ever, Death had been shrewd in her choice of player.

He perceived a third human in the bakery. The baker, a quiet, middle-aged man, shuffled out from the back, his face dusted with flour. He looked hot, no doubt from standing by ovens all day long. With regret, Love plumbed the depths of the baker’s heart, adding layers to it as a brick mason might construct a wall. He needed to insert an overdose of the wrong type of love, the sandpapery, possessive sort that rubs a heart raw. He folded this twisted love into the soft spaces, and he held it in place so the man’s mind could not shake it free.

The baker believed he was eternally in love with the girl behind the counter, the girl who was laughing and flirting with Grady as though such things came with every cookie sold. Love whispered the baker’s name, knowing it was the single word most likely to send him over the edge. The man opened a drawer beneath the cash register. He pulled out a revolver. Grady backed up against a rack of freshly baked loaves of bread, holding his hands high.

“Now,” Love whispered.

The baker swung the gun toward Grady. Love held his breath as the safety clicked off.

Just then, a figure materialized in front of him. His mind registered who it was as her hand flew against his cheek. The blow broke his hold on the baker, who dropped the gun. It discharged, blasting through the sweets display case. Both the baker and Grady covered their heads to protect themselves from raining glass.

The girl dropped to her knees.

“Please,” she whimpered. “Please, no.”

Embarrassed, Love felt his blazing cheek. Death stood inches away, her eyes narrowed to slits, her mouth a slash of red lipstick. She looked like Helen and she looked like herself at the same time. “What do you think you are doing?”

“You, of all people, ought to know.” Love worked his jaw, half expecting it to break to pieces. There was a flash as the baker bent to retrieve the gun, which he examined like it was something alive.

Death froze time.

“Of course I know
what
you were doing. What I’d like to know is
why
. How
dare
you.”

“How dare I what?” Love said. “How dare I do what you do every day?”

Death clenched her hands, and Love braced himself for another blow. Grady stood frozen, holding the folded newspaper across his chest as if in defense, his mouth parted because he’d been about to speak.

“He’s in the way,” Love said, unable to say Grady’s name.

“He’s a human being,” Death said. “A living soul. And this isn’t how you play the Game.”

Love couldn’t quite read the expression on her face. As ever, her mind was closed to him. “What do you mean? It’s how
you
play the Game.”

“Exactly,” Death said. “You are not me. You don’t —”

“I don’t what?” He lifted his hat and smoothed his hair. “I don’t want to win? Is that what you think?”

Death made a noise of frustration. She stepped outside. Love followed. “Leave them alone. You don’t need to do this,” she said.

Love looked back at the humans, still frozen in the shop. “Fine. I won’t.”

Death released her hold on time. A look came over the baker’s face. He gazed at the gun, and Love remembered, too late, that poison remained in the man’s heart, more than enough to be dangerous.

The girl flinched. “Please, no!”

Love looked to Death. Her irises flashed white as the baker took aim. She materialized inside the shop as the gun flashed. Too late to save him, Death caught Grady from behind. The bullet had torn through the newspaper. An unholy crimson flower bloomed through the paper and ink. Grady coughed blood, and Death set him gently down.

The baker cried out, his heart drumming a frantic beat. He rushed toward the girl, who’d backed up against the sacks of sugar and flour.

There was second shot, then a third.

Love closed his eyes. “No,” he whispered.

A few moments later, Death stood beside him. Through the shop window, three bodies had been laid neatly side by side by Death, as if sense could arise from this small gesture of order. Blood spattered the bakery walls and floor. Her knees buckled. Love held her up, marveling at how small she really was. She lifted her head and looked at him, her eyes still the silvery white they turned when she was feeding. After a moment, the color flowed back. She pushed away and wiped her eyes.

She’d abandoned her Helen guise and was fully herself, beautiful, ageless, and hard. “My fate is a prison. It’s the one thing humanity and I have in common. You were the only one of us who didn’t need to inhabit one. I took responsibility for these souls for you, even though their deaths are your fault. You should be forced to feel what it’s like for someone to be imprisoned.”

Anguished, she disappeared. Love knew he was meant to follow, even though she had not told him where to find her. In the distance, a police siren wailed. And in a sickening moment of clarity, Love knew where to go.

Death waited for Love on the wind-scraped peak of the Presidio, looking over the hazy water toward Alcatraz. In the setting sun, the island darkened like a bruise on the horizon. It was the worst of prisons, and it’s what she wanted him to see. A eucalyptus breeze lifted her hair. Then a foghorn blew, and she sensed his presence.

“Is it really inescapable?” he asked, closing the distance between them.

“What, the prison?” Given the circumstances, she had to ask.

He nodded. “Has anyone tried?”

“So far, just the one. A little over a year ago.” She searched her memory. “His name was Joe. One day he tried to kill himself by breaking his glasses and sawing through his own throat.”

“Was he insane?”

“Consider where it occurred,” she said. “Also, he steered clear of his carotid artery. He didn’t really want to die. He was sending a message in blood.” The wind blew her hair again, and she pushed it back.

“What else of Joe?” Love asked. “Did he have friends?”

“No. There was no one. Even among outcasts, he was considered a freak.”

“Why was he in prison?”

“He stole sixteen dollars and thirty-eight cents in a post office robbery. Twenty-five years to life.”

“He would have stolen more if there had been more to take,” Love said. “It’s not the amount. It’s the act.”

“He was hungry.” Death raised her voice so she’d be heard over the cold scream of wind off the bay. “He was hungry and couldn’t find work. Care to guess the last image he offered me?”

Love shook his head.

“It was his own face. Unlooked at. Unseen. Unloved. In his life, there was one moment of great resolve: the moment he chose to climb the stone wall and escape. And then the guard’s bullet found his back.”

Love swallowed. “And you know this from a touch? How do you remember it all?”

“How do you remember your own hands?” Death said.

Love reached into his pocket and removed a chocolate bar. He broke off a square and handed it to her. She put it in her mouth, where it began to melt.

“Bittersweet,” she said.

“It seemed the thing. Chocolate contains some of the same chemicals the human brain produces when it’s in love. I’m surprised you have any taste for it.”

She stared at him. “Condescension does not become you.”

They finished the chocolate as stars emerged in the endless cage of sky, a few at a time, beautiful unblinking monsters.

“I’m sorry about what happened,” Love said.

Death squeezed his hand. “Play as yourself. Not as me. Trust me on that.”

Love nodded. Had any human eyes been on them that moment, they would have seen what looked like a couple in love standing beneath a sky pinned in place by a fishhook moon.

H
ENRY
made a deal with himself. If he read fifty pages in his history textbook, he could go to the Domino. Never mind that he’d be out late again and would certainly be too tired afterward to finish his remaining calculus problem. Other calculations mattered more — as in how he might get Flora to change her mind about “someday.”

Clutching a sheaf of unruly pink peonies from Mrs. Thorne’s garden, Henry hastened toward the club. He was sheepish and excited and had a million things to say. Mostly he wanted to be in his seat, watching Flora sing. He wouldn’t press for more, but he had to be near her.

It was strangely quiet on the street outside the club. Usually, snatches of music leaked out of the building. Or couples on their way inside chattered with each other and called out greetings to their friends. Maybe it was just a slow night. Or maybe — he picked up his pace — a police raid had shut the place down. The bulb above the door was dark. The bouncer wasn’t standing at his post. Something was wrong.

Henry pounded on the door until his knuckles hurt. Eventually, as he was about to give up, it opened. Flora’s uncle emerged from the shadows.

“Club’s closed,” he said.

“Closed?” Henry felt stupid for saying it.

“Now I know you don’t got a hearing problem, son. Otherwise, you wouldn’t come here so often. So don’t make me say it again.”

Henry could hardly feel his limbs. “Closed … closed for good? What happened?”

“For now, kid,” the man said, his voice bitter. “Bass player got shot and killed, not that it’s any of your concern.”

Henry felt ill, as if his antipathy for the man had caused his death. “But Flora, she’s all right?”

The man did not answer. “Go home, son. You look like something a cat coughed up.” Then he closed the door.