“The man we got t’see, he don’t like people he don’t know,” Gus says. “Plus, he don’t like whitey, so that makes two strikes against you.”
“You want me to stay in the car?” Jack says.
Gus turns the wheel over, rolls slowly down T Street SE. “Huh. You stay in the car, the Marmoset he liable to come over, shoot you through the head. He don’t ask me, should I do sumthin’. It don’t smell kosher to him, he acts.”
“What’s a marmoset?” Jack asks.
“Some kinda monkey, I think, likes the treetops in forests, sumthin’ like that, anyway.”
“You ever see one? I mean a real marmoset.”
“Me, no.”
Gus’s eyes are scanning the street. Jack can feel something in Gus condensing with concentration.
“When you think I got time t’go to the zoo?” Between Sixteenth and Seventeenth Streets, Gus pulls into the curb, turns off the engine.
“This here’s Anacostia, no place fo’ you, okay? So jes’ keep close t’ me, don’t say a word, and do yo’ thing, got me?”
“Gotcha,” Jack says.
The Continental’s enormous engine ticks over like a clock winding down. The heat of the early evening seeps in, begins to weigh on the air-conditioned air. Gus grunts, opens the driver’s door.
They’re on a street of narrow row houses sided with peeling wooden slats. Tiny overgrown front yards are divided by cyclone fencing. A huge German shepherd starts to bark, throwing itself against the fence as its jaws snap.
“Hey, Godzilla.” Gus strolls over to the fence, Jack right behind him. “Marmoset’s neighbor keeps Zilla half-starved so he’ll go for anybody gets too close.” Gus digs in his pocket, pulls out a handful of dog biscuits, launches them over the fence. “Can’t stand to see a animal mistreated.”
As Godzilla cracks down on the first biscuit, Gus and Jack approach the next house. “My father, he was a dogcatcher,” Gus says. “Man, he hated his job—dealing with ’em alla time—the rabies, the mistreatment, he come up against it all.”
Gus leads them up the steps of a house painted the color of the evening sky. It has neat white shutters and a roof without the tar paper patches of its neighbors.
“This it here.” He raps on the door.
There’s a short pause, then, “Come on in,” a male voice calls.
The instant Gus opens the door, three gunshots ring out, and Gus throws Jack unceremoniously back out onto the stoop. Jack’s ears ring, he can’t hear a thing, but from his prone position he sees Gus pull a Magnum.357 from his jacket, bang open the door. He shouts something to Jack as he vanishes into the interior, but Jack can’t hear what it is.
Jack pushes himself up and runs inside. As he passes the door, he sees three bullet holes ripped clear through the wood. It’s strange to feel himself moving, but to hear nothing except the ringing in his ears, beneath which is a dead, all-encompassing silence. It’s as if the world has been stuffed solid with cotton balls.
Sprinting after Gus, he finds himself in a dimly lit room, so cluttered with books, records, magazines, strewn clothes, hats, shoes, sneakers that it seems like a maze. The ceiling fixtures have been removed, leaving bare patches like the hide of a mangy dog. Instead, a multitude of lamps on tables, chairs, the floor provide weird colored light. It’s a moment before Jack realizes that all the lampshades are draped with colored bits of fabric, dimming the illumination as well as dyeing it.
Across the room he sees Gus lumber back toward him from a butter-yellow kitchen. The Magnum is pointed at the floor. Gus says something to him, gesturing emphatically with his free hand, but Jack is still deaf from the aftermath of the gunshots, possibly in shock, and keeps on coming.
He sidesteps a precariously stacked pile of books, stumbles clumsily over another, larger mound. It has one red mark on its back, like a chalk mark or a brand. Then it hits him. First, his balance deserts him, then his legs turn watery, and he falls.
On his hands and knees, he finds himself not six inches from a thin, scarred face. The eyes, open wide, stare back at him. Then he becomes aware of the trickle of blood leaking from the corner of the half-open mouth, the horrific stench of offal, and he screams, leaping backwards, tripping over a pair of boots, tumbling onto his backside, his legs in the air. It would be funny if Jack weren’t so terrified. He pushes himself to his feet, smacks blindly into the wall in a desperate attempt to run out of the house. His only thought is to get as far away from the dead man as he can.
He’s crying, and he’s sick, vomiting onto the floor. He can’t get the sight of those staring eyes out of his mind. He wants only to have time run backwards, to be back in Gus’s air-conditioned Continental, safe and secure, before this all began.
Then Gus grabs him by the collar, hauls him off his feet. Jack is hysterical, kicking and screaming, and the fact that he’s still half-deaf makes everything worse, as if he’s living out a nightmare from which he can’t pinch himself awake. Nothing is real, and yet everything is all too real: those eyes, the blood drooling out of the half-open mouth, the stench of excrement and death, of a human body letting go of life. It’s all too much. His fists beat a silent tattoo against Gus’s shoulders; his shoes swing back and forth into Gus’s shins.
Then he’s outside and Gus has let him go and he doubles over, gagging and retching, feeling as if every atom in his body is exploding in pain and terror. He is empty inside. His guts feel as if they have been turned inside out. Every nerve in his body is firing at once, making his limbs jump, his torso twitch.
The night enfolds him, or is it Gus? Gradually, he comes down from the precipice where shock and terror pushed him. Gradually, he becomes aware that Gus has gathered him into his arms and is rocking him like a baby.
Then he hears the sirens start up and knows his hearing is coming back. At first they’re a long way off, but quite rapidly they come nearer and nearer.
“You okay t’go?” Gus asks.
Jack clings to him tightly, his face buried in Gus’s massive chest.
With Jack in his arms, Gus gets to his feet. He takes Jack back to the Continental, fires the ignition. They’re just turning the corner onto Sixth Street NE when the rear window is briefly awash in red and white flashing lights. Sirens scream close at hand, then rapidly diminish as Gus puts on speed.
A dozen gray blocks later, Gus pulls up to a phone booth.
“I gotta make a call,” he says. “On’y be a minute, kid, ’kay?” His eyes study Jack slowly, carefully. “You’ll be able to see me the whole time.”
Jack watches Gus squeeze half his bulk into the phone booth, feed the slot. His teeth start to chatter. Chills run through him, and as he imagines that that horrific stench has invaded the car, he starts crying again.
It’s only when he sees Gus striding back that he wipes his eyes and nose. He hiccups once as Gus slides behind the wheel. They sit in silence for a time. Gus stares straight ahead. Jack tries to piece himself together, but every now and again a half-stifled sob escapes him.
Finally, he manages, “Was that … was that …?”
“The Marmoset?” Gus nods. “Yeah, that was him.”
“What … what …?”
Gus sighs. “Remember that double murder at McMillan Reservoir Stanz wants me t’help him with? The Marmoset was my man onna case.” Gus looks around. “He got close to the bone, seems like.”
“Too close,” Jack says with a shiver.
Gus puts his arm across the seat back. “Anyway, ain’t nuthin’ fo’ you t’worry yo’self ’bout.” His brows converge in worry. “Don’t you believe me?”
“I was thinking of the Marmoset,” Jack says. “I was thinking that he should be buried, not pawed at by people who never knew him.”
For a long time nothing more is said. At last, Gus fires the ignition. After putting the car in gear, he eases out into the street.
Jack doesn’t know where they’re headed; he doesn’t care. He has sunk back into the world he knew through newspapers, TV, and the movies must exist, yet could never have imagined. It has come upon him too soon, its implications too much for him to handle. He wonders at all the tears he’s shed because he can’t remember shedding even one before this. He made it an iron-bound rule never to cry when his father beat him, not even when his father slunk back across the apartment and the strains of “California Dreamin’” winked out like a fearful light. He never cried when Andre and his crew took him into the alley behind the electronics store. Tonight, it seems, he can’t stop.
It takes Gus just eleven minutes to get to 3001 Connecticut Avenue NW, the front entrance to the National Zoo.
Jack turns, peers out the window. “Gus, it’s night. The zoo isn’t open at night.”
Gus opens the door. “Who says it ain’t?”
“Looka how small he is.” Gus stares up through the branches at the tiny black-and-white face staring down at them. There are other marmosets elsewhere in the large cage, but this one, having taken notice of them, has come the closest. The others are busy eating fruit held in their claws or gnawing at the tree with startlingly long lower incisors.
Jack studies the black eyes staring down at him. The face looks so full of intelligence and insight, as if the marmoset sees a world at once smaller and bigger than he does.
“What’s he thinking?” Jack says.
“Who knows?”
“That’s just it.” Jack’s voice is full of wonder. “No one knows.”
Gus puts his arm protectively around Jack’s shoulders. “Don’t get too close now, kid,” he says gruffly. “Mebbe these things bite.”
Jack doesn’t think to ask Gus how he managed to get the zoo open at this hour, because he knows Gus won’t tell him. Anyway, he doesn’t want to spoil the magic of the moment, which has temporarily banished all thoughts of death, thousand-mile stares, the stench of death. There is life here, strange and beautiful, its strangeness making it all the more vibrant. Jack feels his heart beating strongly in his chest, and a kind of warmth suffuses him.
“Hello, marmoset,” he says. “My name is Jack.”