9:02 a.m.
Opium.
The pallet, the tar, the pipe. Kick off those shoes, spark that flame.
The smoke hit his blood. It was immediate. The body was all conduit. Monsignor Meehan taught biology and smuggled arms by night. Dublin, 1918. Machine Gun Meehan knew from blood.
Opium. Three match strikes. The pallet drifts.
Stopover, L.A. Airplanes arrive and depart. The Airedale stares out a passenger window, agog.
He drove Beth and Tommy to the airport. It was sweet wartime l’adieux. He takes his oath of service tomorrow. Joe Kennedy will fly in.
He invited Hideo. Claire would appreciate that.
Stopover, Acapulco. Cliff divers and lobster salad. Claire in frocks from ritzy catalogues and Claire walking naked through steam.
Dudley smoked opium. He drifted through his own body and swam in red arteries.
He heard something. It was not of this drift on this pallet. It was a click. It was a creak.
He heard something. It was a footfall. It was a creak.
IT brushed the pallet.
He opened his eyes.
IT was Goro Shigeta, resurrected. He returned with a lacquered-wood face.
He covered his own face. He had no voice to say Please don’t hit me.
A knife came down. This thing stabbed him. This thing raked his arms and his neck. He hid his face. This thing stabbed him. He had no voice. This thing cut him—his back, his legs, his feet.
He heard Chink voices. They were far, they were close. This thing vanished. The pallet dropped through a hole in the world. His blood was ice on his lips.