Slice by Rex Miller Page B

beginning.
    But the suggestion, while not even a hair off-key in tone, jars some vestige of caution in the girl and she begins a big number about how she just can't leave without calling home.
    “I gotta tell Mom. God, she'd shit if I, you know, would just leave ‘n that—not say anything . GOD! ‘N you know, I gotta get some things, ‘n I gotta—” And he smiles, nodding with her as he decides how he'll handle it when Mom draws the line. He has a fluid game plan. He will go with the flow as always. Ride with the tide. Boogie with the oogie. What a MORON. I gotta feed my goldfish, wipe my ass ... He has tuned her out as he searches for a pay phone at sidewalk level. One where he can closely monitor the girl's side of the conversation.
    He is parked. She is depositing money. He catches fragments of a no and he begins to formulate his next move until he hears, “HEY WELL YOU KNOW JUST FUCK IT THEN IF THAT'S THE WAY YOU FEEL FUCK IT!” The girl slamming down the receiver, Daniel fighting to look sincerely worried as she hurls herself back in the car. “You know, like you said, I just won't bother with any luggage ‘n that. I mean, we can PICK UP whatever I need. Right?"
    He can't believe it himself. “Right, sure. Absolutely.” He starts back into traffic as she begins recounting the lifelong battle of wits between mother and daughter. Bunkowski scores again. Too facile, perhaps? Yes, for the average person, maybe. But he does not have Daniel's inner compass which points toward the vulnerable heartbeat. Somewhere you have your Sissy Selkirk. The thing is, you and Sissy may never meet. If you DO find her, will you be able to spot her in a crowd? Chaingang can always find them. It is part of his nature.
    He looked over at the girl as if he'd homed in on that excited throbbing in the childlike bosom smiling his most disarming and trustworthy smile, the gruesome, bandaged face turned as far away as possible, the right side crinkled in warmth and good humor as he eyed her flat chest, smiling, beaming at her wonderfulness, and when she paused for a gasp of air, saying, “Morgan Fairchild,” nodding slowly, knowingly as he looked at her. “Yes. I think so. Definitely.” And that was just the incentive to set her back on course, and she started off on a long, aimless, circling butterfly flight of airheaded jabber as he let himself tune out with a contented smile.

WINDER

    “ O h, man, shit, Bo, I done drew DOWN on ‘im.” They had ditched the Crown Vic. “God DAMN that's a good fuckin’ feelin—SHIIIIT.” John Monroe was toked and stoked. He started counting again, one hunnert, two hunnert, three hunnert, damn ... He lost track ag'in. “Oh, man. I mean I was cocked ‘n rocked, weren't I?"
    “Uh huh."
    “Bo, that sucker come out from behin’ that post ‘n shit ‘n just pop outta there like a rabbit tree'd outta a damn cornfield, POW—pops up and goes, Awright, Louie, drop the gat, er, some ole-timey shit an’ I just go cooler'n a damn snake I go PPPKKKKKSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW! ‘n blast that fucker onta his shitty ass.” He laughed like it was the funniest thing he'd ever seen. A man dying. “Up jumps the devil and PPPPKKKSSSSSSSHHHHHEEEW WW! One rentacop"—he made the finger scoreboard gesture—"ten points! Hot dawgies."
    He started to count again, this time out loud, “Twenty, forty, forty-five, ninety-five, and, uh, ninety-five and twenty well call ‘er a hunnert and twenty, hunnert and forty, hunnert forty-five, two hunnert and forty-five, two hunnert and sixty-five—"
    “John.” Patient. Calm. His sweet, syrupy put-on voice.
    “Ya sure kin shoot, John. I mean f'r some dum-fuck bum-fuck ya’ kin drill, boy."
    “Ain't that the fuckin’ truth, Bo. Two hunnert and eighty-five. Three hunnert and eighty-five, uh, four hunnert and forty-five—"
    “Real fine on the draw there. Ya done real good with that there pipe."
    “Yeah.” He didn't like Wendell's tone. He kept