The Devils Teardrop

add, Be careful. He knew Jefferies would.
    “Two minutes,” came a voice from above.
    Kennedy thought to the Digger: Where are you? Where? He looked up at a darkened camera and stared at it as if he could see through the lens and cables to some TV set out there—see through the screen to the Digger himself. He thought to the killer, Who are you? And why did you and your partner pick my city to visit like the angel of death?
    . . . in the spirit of peace, on this last day of the year, contact me so that we might come to some understanding . . . Please . . .
    Jefferies bent close to the mayor’s ear. “Remember,” he whispered, waving his hand around the TV studio, “if he’s listening, the killer, this might be the end of it. Maybe he’ll go for the money and they’ll get him.”
    Before Kennedy could respond the voice from on high called out, “One minute.”
    * * *
    The Digger’s got a new shopping bag.
    All glossy red and Christmasy, covered with pictures of puppies wearing ribbons ’round their necks. The Digger bought the bag at Hallmark. It’s the sort of bag he might be proud of though he isn’t sure what proud means. He hasn’t been sure of a lot of things since the bullet careened through his skull, burning away some of his spongy gray cells and leaving others.
    Funny how that works. Funny how . . .
    Funny . . .
    The Digger’s sitting in a comfy chair in his lousy motel, with a glass of water and the empty bowl of soup at his side.
    He’s watching TV.
    Something is on the screen. It’s a commercial. Like a commercial he remembers watching after the bullet tapped a hole above his eye and did a scorchy little dance in his crane crane cranium. (Somebody described the bullet that way. He doesn’t remember who. Maybe his friend, the man who tells him things. Probably was.)
    Something flickers on the TV screen. Brings back a funny memory, from a long time ago. He was watching a commercial—dogs eating dog food, puppies eating puppy food, like the puppies on the shopping bag. He was watching the commercial when the man who tells him things took the Digger’s hand and they went for a long walk. He told him that when Ruth was alone . . . “You know Ruth?”
    “I, uhm, know Ruth.”
    When Ruth was alone the Digger should break a mirror and find a piece of glass and put the glass in her neck.
    “You mean—” The Digger stopped talking.
    “I mean you should break the mirror and find a long piece of glass and you should put the glass in Ruth’s neck. What do I mean?”
    “I should break the mirror and find a long piece of glass and I should put the glass in her neck.”
    Some things the Digger remembers as if God Himself had written them on his brain.
    “Good,” said the man.
    “Good,” repeated the Digger. And he did what he was told. Which made the man who tells him things happy. Whatever that is.
    Now the Digger is sitting with the puppy bag on his lap in his room at the motor lodge, kitchenettes free cable reasonable rates. Looking at his bowl of soup. The bowl is empty so he must not be hungry. He thinks he’s thirsty so he takes a drink of water.
    Another program comes on the TV. He reads the words, mutters them out loud, “‘Special Report.’ Hmm. Hmmm. This is . . .”
    Click. This is . . .
    Click.
    A WPLT Special Report.
    This is important. I should listen.
    A man the Digger recognizes comes on the air. He’s seen pictures of this man. It’s . . .
    Washington D.C. Mayor Gerald D. Kennedy. That’s what it says on the screen.
    The mayor’s talking and the Digger listens.
    “My fellow citizens, good afternoon. As you all know by now, a terrible crime was committed this morning in the Dupont Circle Metro station and a number of people tragically lost their lives. At this time the killer or killers are still at large. But I want to reassure you that ourpolice force and the federal authorities are doing everything in their power to make sure there will be no recurrence of this incident.
    “To the persons responsible for this carnage, I am asking you from my heart, please, please, contact me. We need to reestablish communication so that we can continue our dialog. On this, the last night of the year, let’s put the violence behind us and work together so that there’ll be no more deaths or injuries. We can—”
    Boring . . .
    The Digger shuts the TV off. He likes commercials for dog food with cute puppies much better. Car commercials too.