Down Jersey Drive-shaft

Chapter Twenty Three: Bleeding Frequencies

To no one's awareness inside the bank, the death of Professor Arthur Lark down the road awakens a remodulated Johnny. Pulling off the white sheet over his body, he sits up at a ninety degree angle.

People huddled as one...a bank...sheet over my form signifies presumed death...where am...conquer the county seat...conquer...conquer...

Conquer what?

What or whom you choose...

Stiff as a drink, numb as a coma patient, he arises. Children attempting to find gaiety in tight spaces in the bank become unnerved by this inhuman walker and seek a different playground. The adults, defeated, distracted or otherwise disengaged take no notice. Larry is simply another lost soul.

He positions the white sheet around him as a cloak, a pale spy in plain view. Searching for a proper mode of attack...no. A proper time. Yes. Find the right one, the right face to instill terror. This sounds better in his dominated mind. See many but pick one, squeeze the ripest fruit. Watch. Study. Conquer...

Frederica Musa is more herself as minutes compound. Wandering about the faces as well, she wraps bandages for the elderly, tucks blankets under cold feet. One friendly hand returns the favor, handing her a damp wash rag. As she patrols, white powder from the Great Unknown is removed. The goosebumps and tingle subsides, leaving behind a tickling whisper near the carotid artery. Crank returns to this reality.

Back from the flip side.

She passes the man in the sheet hood to motivate towards a welcome sight. But Brown Hair, the lady behind the concession stand at the Fenwick, makes her move.

"Hey, honey. Remember me?"

"Io...ah, si. I mean, yes. You wanted Benny." English feels weird, Italian too though less so. Distant, as if something else could be Crank's mother tongue. But that's impossible. "Nothing is impossible."

"What's that, honey?"

The eyeballs of Crank double in size. "Hmm? Oh! Uh, I was thinking aloud about other places. Like this one. But not this one. I mean, the same town but different Earths with different his...stories. Ah..."

"Right." Brown Hair gives the slow head lift and fake grin. "Listen, sugar, I just wanna say I'm sorry about the theatre and am so grateful for what you and the fellas have done fighting for our city." She extends a hand for shaking. It's a marble smooth, young hand. Perky!

Crank shakes it with her small, pale but strong hand with the layered callouses. Brown Hair winces. "Sure, sure, sister. It's yesterday's news-- oh my! Excuse me." She bolts past Brown, peepers fixated on an object in the corner.

Is it an end table? Is it a bar? No, not quite.

"Is this a...? Yes! A McLagan phonograph!" She hugs the mahogany stand, rocks it back and forth on its four spindly legs. Cautiously, Crank lifts the lid. Gasp! "The grid blocking over the speaker. It's the Italian Renaissance model. My mother used to crave one of these. Someone took very good care of it. Records!"

Before Brown Hair can pose a question, Crank is off on the hunt.

"This joint needs some tunes!" In and out of cots she goes, scooting between people, asking if anyone has a record.

She hunts. Johnny trails behind. He'll wait.

***

"Hold on, Larry! Hold on, brother!" The Aero Sedan lacerates the corner of Fifth Street. Skinny has one trembling hand on the steering wheel, the other applying pressure to Larry's wound. Blood smears lick the seat, doorknob and the unfortunate kids in the back. It took all three to load him into the car. Skinny is paler by the second, envisioning what should go on his headstone. But he drives.