South Village (Ash McKenna) by Rob Hart Page A

hushed.
    “Magda isn’t all there,” I tell her.
    “You don’t sound like you believe that.”
    “No, I don’t.”
    She nods. “I concur.”
    Cannabelle doesn’t leave room for me to respond. She runs and leaps onto the branch of a thick tree hanging close to the ground and throws her legs over it. Upside down now, her shirt falling down into her face, she salutes, pulls herself up, and suddenly she’s on her toes, perched on top of the branch. She leaps to another branch, and the next, higher and higher until she’s gone. Off to work, leaving me alone.
    I don’t know what to do at this point. I could keep asking people questions but I don’t know what questions to ask. If there’s something untoward going on, there’s no sense in tipping off the guilty parties. I already went through all of Pete’s belongings, of which there were barely any.
    And then it hits me.
    I went through his physical belongings. I didn’t go through all his stuff.
     
    T he main dome is the one that makes me ache for home. Therefore, it is not always my favorite place to be.
    It’s the closest anything around here gets to ‘sprawling’. It’s the biggest of all of the domes by double and separated into a couple of rooms: There’s an office that’s used mostly for filing. There’s the computer room, which is a wheezing old desktop covered with stickers that someone probably bartered for ten years ago. It still uses Internet Explorer. I’m not a computer guy and even I know that’s some bullshit.
    Then there’s the bar/lounge. It’s not exact, but in style and spirit it’s a replica of Apocalypse Lounge. My favorite bar, which was being shuttered as I was leaving New York. The only place my friends and I had that felt like a beacon in a storm.
    The office is dark wood and smells of cinnamon and spice. That incense smell that bothered me so much when I first got here but that I’ve come to appreciate. This room is the darkest, the windows covered up so the failing tube monitor is viewable. A touch of sunlight and it gets washed out.
    The computer is perched between two overflowing gray filing cabinets. The seat is occupied by Alex, the little hipster girl who looks like she was plucked out of Williamsburg, wearing torn jean shorts and a Clash t-shirt with brunette bangs nearly touching her eyes. She’s clacking away at the keyboard, staring at a giant block of text. I come up behind her and ask, “Can I cut in?”
    She points a thin finger over her shoulder without looking up or losing stride on the keyboard. “Sign up sheet is on the wall.”
    I know about the sheet. I also know it’s full for the rest of the afternoon.
    “Bit of an emergency,” I tell her.
    “Got to write a love note to your slampiece?”
    “I don’t know what that means.”
    She looks at me and smiles with her cat eyes, eyeliner caked around them. “What’s it worth to you?”
    “I don’t have much to give.”
    “I’ve heard rumors of bacon.”
    Great. It was only a matter of time until word got around.
    At the bottom of the chest fridge, down where it’s coldest, there’s an old box of tempeh, which no one ever touches, because no amount of kitchen kung-fu can make it taste better than wet cardboard. There’s a package of bacon inside, property of me and Aesop. We also have a special cast iron skillet for bacon only, so there’s no cross-contamination.
    Meat isn’t technically off limits, but it will earn you a lecture. Whenever one of us feels the urge, we duck into the woods at night and fry up a few pieces.
    She leans back, stretches her arms over her head. “I think we could make a deal if you could scare up some of that sweet, sweet bacon.”
    I lean on the desk next to her, cross my arms. “What are your terms?”
    “Four pieces, extra crisp. Nearly black, but not like fully black.”
    “Has to be done under cover of night. I’m talking three, four in the morning.”
    She nods. “Night bacon. I dig it.”
    “So?”
    She