Falling Angel by William Hjortsberg Page B

foot? The one in the piano wearing a bowtie.”
    “Means I talk too much.”
    “About Johnny Favorite?”
    ” ‘Bout things in general.”
    “Not good enough, Toots.” I blew a little smoke in his face. “Ever try to play piano with your hand in a cast?”
    Toots started to rise, but sagged grimacing back onto the ottoman. “You wouldn’t do that?”
    “I’ll do what I have to, Toots. I can break a finger easy as a breadstick.”
    There was considerable fear in the old piano player’s eyes. I cracked the knuckles in my right hand for emphasis. “Ask me anything you want,” he said. “I been telling you the truth right along.”
    “You haven’t seen Johnny Favorite in the last fifteen years?”
    “No.”
    “What about Evangeline Proudfoot? She ever mention seeing him?”
    “Not where I could hear it. Last time she spoke of him was eight, ten years ago. I recollect it ‘cause it was the time some college professor come around wantin’ to write somethin’ in a book about Obeah. Evangeline told him white people weren’t allowed in the humfo. I said, ‘ ‘cept if they can sing,’ you know, pullin’ her leg an’ all.”
    “What did she say?”
    “I’m comin’ to it. She didn’t laugh but she wasn’t mad. She said, ‘Toots, if Johnny was alive he’d be one plenty powerful hungan, but that don’t mean I have to open the door to ev’ry pink pencil pusher takes a notion to pay a call.’ See, far as she was concerned, Johnny Favorite was dead and buried.”
    “Toots, I’ll take a chance and believe you. How come you wear a star on your tooth like that?”
    Toots grimaced. The cutout star glinted in the overhead light. “That’s so folks be sure I’m a nigger. Wouldn’t want ‘em to make no mistakes.”
    “Why is it upside down?”
    “Look nicer that way.”
    I placed one of my Crossroads cards on top of the TV. “I’m leaving a card with my number on it. If you hear anything, give me a call.”
    “Yeah, I ain’t got enough troubles awready I got to start phonin’ up mo’.”
    “You never know. You might need some help next time you get a special-delivery chicken foot.”
    Outside, dawn smudged the night sky like rouge on a chorus girl’s cheek. Walking to the car, I dropped Toots’ pearl-handled razor into a garbage can.

EIGHTEEN
    The sun was shining when I finally hit the sack, but I managed to sleep until almost noon in spite of the bad dreams. I was haunted by nightmares more vivid than any “Late Show” horror feature. Voodoo drums throbbed as Epiphany Proudfoot cut the rooster’s throat. The dancers swayed and moaned, only this time the bleeding didn’t stop. A crimson fountain gushed from the thrashing bird, soaking everything like a tropical rain, dancers all drowning in a lake of blood. I watched Epiphany go under and ran from my hiding place, gore splashing at my heels.
    Blind with panic, I ran through deserted nighttime streets. Garbage cans stacked in pyramids; rats the size of bulldogs watching from sewers. The air putrid with rot. I ran on, somehow becoming the pursuer instead of the quarry, chasing a distant figure down endless unknown avenues.
    No matter how fast I ran, I couldn’t catch up. The runner eluded me. When the pavement ended, the chase continued along a flotsam-strewn beach. Dead fish littered the sand. An enormous seashell, tall as a skyscraper, loomed ahead. The man ran inside. I followed him.
    The interior of the shell was high and vaulted, like an opalescent cathedral. Our footsteps echoed within the twisting spiral. The passage narrowed, and I came around a final turn to find my adversary blocked by the enormous, quivering, fleshy wall of the mollusk itself. There was no way out.
    I seized the man by his coat collar and spun him around, pushing him back into the slime. He was my twin. It was like looking in the mirror. He gathered me in a brother’s embrace and kissed my cheek. Lips, eyes, chin; his every feature was interchangeable with