Crescent City Connection

around.
    “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
    She smiled as if he was her long-lost lover. “Hi, Chip. I realized I’ve really got to get going—my mom’s going to be frantic if I don’t get home soon.”
    At the mention of her mom, his anger turned to confusion. She knew what she looked like—a well-scrubbed college girl. If he tried anything here, these people would call the cops—fast.
    “Well, why didn’t you say so? Listen, I’ll take you home. No problem.”
    “Oh, that’s okay. Here’s my cab.”
    He followed her out and spoke through clenched teeth: “Give me my money, you little whore.”
    She said as if she didn’t hear: “Listen, I really appreciate the ride. Tell Sam and Mimi good-bye.”
    She gave the driver her uncle’s address.

Five
    THE WHITE MONK pulled up his hood and began sweeping the patio, counting each stroke as he did so. He sometimes did this three times a day, sometimes six or eight. Because he worked practically for peanuts, his boss, Dahveed, thought he’d died and gone to heaven.
    The Monk could count and think at the same time. It was a form of meditation for him. On a beautiful March day like this—crisp and windy, but bright as copper—he could contemplate theology all afternoon. But there were other things to do—some dusting, some heavy cleaning, some framing. Even his own work.
    He looked forward to it all equally, would as soon be doing Dahveed’s work as his own.
    He was as close to peace as he’d ever been; except for the doubts. He still couldn’t be sure he hadn’t killed someone. Or wouldn’t, sometime in the future.
    “So then,” said Revelas, who was painting in the courtyard, “I says to the guard, ‘You blink your eye, I’ll cut your eyelids off.’ Meanwhile, Skinny and Poss are lyin’ there bleedin’, see…”
    The Monk was conspicuously not in the mood, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. “See, I got a philosophy—long as I’m not dead, I’m ahead. So I know if I can get through this, I’m ahead. If I don’t, well, then, I’m only dead and who’s gonna care about that? Not me, I can handle it.”
    I love him,
The Monk thought.
I swear to God I do
.
The guy’s a thinker.
“Long as I’m not dead, I’m ahead.” It’s a version of “Whatever doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.”
And I love his courage! Talk about nonattachment
. “If I don’t, I’m only dead and who’s gonna care …”
What would it be like not to be afraid?
    Yet The Monk was in a good place right now. There had been times—lots of them—when he absolutely couldn’t have listened to this. Every single negative thought would have had to be counteracted. Every time Revelas said “dead” or “die” or “kill,” The Monk would have had to wait until he said “live” or “life” before he could leave his presence, and then every time he thought one of the words himself, he would have had to counteract it in his own mind. But that wasn’t plaguing him right now. At the moment there were only two really forbidden words, and they were a name, a name that Revelas probably didn’t know, thank the gods.
    He had to count right now, and some other things, but the word problem had receded for a while—a good thing, too, or he couldn’t work with Revelas, who was his best friend at the moment. It could pop up at any time, though. He never knew what would trigger it.
    Damn!
    He swore because he’d lost count and he had to start all over again.
    He tapped Revelas on the shoulder and crossed his index fingers in an X—their signal that The Monk was meditating.
    Revelas was so black he looked painted. Though he was technically unable to blush, he looked so distressed, so truly embarrassed at disturbing The Monk, he might as well have turned pink. He was one of the most sensitive people The Monk had ever met, though the wife he had stabbed to death may have had her own opinion.
    Everybody knew The Monk counted. That is, they didn’t really—they just knew he couldn’t be disturbed when he was sweeping or he might never finish. The Monk didn’t tell them why.
    No doubt they thought he was thinking deep and holy thoughts when he was only counting his broom strokes. In truth he hardly ever thought deep and holy thoughts, or so it seemed to him. To him, his spiritual growth seemed so slow it was like watching a plant grow.
    Today, he could believe in it, though—and in God, or the gods, in Kali or Coyote, in Jehovah or