Hard News

they’re in good moods, some days they’re in bitchy moods. And can we talk! We walk all over the place and I tell her things. She understands. Our minds kind of work alike.” Rune glanced at Courtney. “She’s going to be just like me when she grows up.”
    “I know natural
mothers
who don’t sound that happy with their kids.”
    Boggs was tasting the Bud like it was vintage wine. Rune offered him the bag of Chee-tos. He shook his head. He said, “Must be nice having someone to live with. I had me a couple girlfriends, various times, but I was never married. I don’t know, it’d be pretty strange for me, I think. Living with somebody when you don’t have to. Inside, you don’t have any choice, of course.”
    “Inside?”
    “In prison.”
    “Oh, sure … Well, I usually have roommates. They’re sort of a necessary evil in New York, with what rents go for. But I’ve lived by myself a lot. I’ve gotten used to it. It’s like a skill you work on.”
    “Don’t get lonely, huh?”
    “Sure. I remember some nights I’d be sitting there, watching
Gilligan’s Island
reruns on this black-and-white TV—you know, the kind with a coat hanger for an antenna? And I’d be watching this show and I’d hear a piece of paper slide under the door. And I’d start to get up and see what it was but then I wouldn’t. Because I knew it was only a menu from a Chinese restaurant a delivery guy was slipping under all the doors in the building. But if I
didn’t
go see then maybe it’d be a note from someone. Maybe it would say, ‘There’s a party, in three-G. Plenty of men. Come in costume.’ Or maybe it would be mysterious. ‘Meet me on the corner of Avenue A and Ninth Street at midnight on the night of the full moon.’”
    Boggs was looking at her, trying to figure this all out.
    “But, naw, it was always just a menu. And I’d go back to sitcoms and commercials. But ups and downs—that’s what makes life what it is.” She thumped her chest. “I’m from Ohio peasant stock.”
    Boggs said, “There’s one thing I’d like to say….”
    Rune had been wondering if he’d bring up the sleeping arrangements, which is what this sounded like it was going to be about. But just then Courtney called, “I want juice.”
    “Say ‘please.’”
    “I want please.”
    “Very funny.” Rune called, “One minute, honey.” To Boggs, she said, “I’m hungry for some real food. I’ve got a couple leftover Whoppers in the fridge. You interested?”
    “Sure. Heat me one up too.”
    Rune started into the houseboat. Suddenly Boggs stopped. He turned and twisted his head, like a dog hearing an ultrasonic whistle. He lifted his face to the sky. His nostrils flared wide as he inhaled. “How ‘bout that?”
    “What?”
    “The smells,” he said.
    “Yeah, we aren’t exactly talking perfume in New York.”
    “No, I don’t mean that. What I mean is there’re a bunch of them. A thousand smells.”
    She sniffed then shook her head. “I can’t make out too many.”
    Boggs inhaled again. “When you’re Inside there are only a couple smells you smell. Disinfectant. Onions or grease from the kitchen. Sweat. Spring air. Summer air…. It’s like you get used to them. But here—What do I smell?”
    “Rotten fish and dog doo and garbage and car exhaust.”
    “Nope. What I smell is freedom.”
    ONE POTATO, TWO POTATO, THREE POTATO, FOUR…
    Jack Nestor, walking slowly along the old docks on the Hudson River, was thinking: In Florida people
ought
to be on boats. Especially in south Florida, close to the ‘Glades, you realize that even on land there’s water everywhere and it’s a part of your life. Houses are raised up on stilts and everybody’s got a boat of some kind in the yard.
    But in New York, it seemed pretty weird to live on a boat.
    Five potato, six potato, seven potato, more
…
    Nestor had parked on Tenth Street not far from the river. He’d rented the car, which he didn’t like doing because that left a record. But he knew that after what was about to happen there was a pretty good chance his description would go out citywide, including to the Port Authority police at the airports and bus and train stations. But nobody could ever stop you from
driving
out of New York.
    The sun was down by now and the sky was a shade of blue it never was in Florida. It was a gray-blue, metal-blue, junkyard blue. Nestor was thirsty but didn’t want to look for a deli—that many more people to see him. So he sat on