![]() “Ridiculous!” cries the woman at the other end of the sofa, her white hair done up in braids. “What might this something be,” says Ysabel. Keightlinger, over Chazz’s pink bald head, to Ysabel. Keightlinger tugs him back, tightening his grip full of turtleneck, “Good sir!” cries Chazz, with a choke. “We’ll hear you out.” But as Chazz leans forward into a step away Mr. “What could I possibly do with such a wee point.” “What, this?” says the woman at the one end of the sofa, white hair wild about her head, and a little silver paring knife in her hand. “There’s no need for swords, or shields.” The others beside and behind her, the little man holding his book to his naked chest, the man in the baggy coveralls, the woman in the robe. “Everyone, please,” says Ysabel, down at the other end of the dining table. “Your pardon, ma’am, Devil,” says Iona, taking one step back. ![]() The man in the black suit’s hauled Chazz around, held tight to meet her thrust. Her hand yanks open the passenger door feet kick off the seat the floorboard into a shallow dive over the sidewalk tuck and roll to come up running yellow blur foot leaping middle step then hitting porch and barreled through the front door left ajar a pushing leap her running shoe slaps the wall a spring momentum lofting over the bannister tumble a flip over heels over head as one hand pulling flash that lights the hallway steps and clutter through the doorway scuffle black suit pink head feet a-thump the floor her blade a whip swung down and back a half-step lunge “Iona!” and the blade-tip stops dead there, an inch, perhaps, from blinking eye. Yesterday the rains were rather heavy, sings the radio, and the man in the black suit yanks his elbow back, leans in to throw a punch. ![]() The man in the black suit’s talking to someone in the doorway. Yesterday she said her prayers and thank yous, coos the radio, morning heat crowding her room and thighs, and she leans down again, looks out the side window. Empty hands, one of them lifted to knock. He’s stepping off the sidewalk, there by the welter of bicycles, heading across the greening yard toward the pink-painted house, climbing the steps to the cramped front porch, a big man, unkempt brown hair and beard. Continuing this exotic kick, murmurs the radio, let’s feast our ears on these East African rhythms from the Lagos Music Salon. She shifts in the driver’s seat, leaning forward, watching the man in the black suit through the side windows of the SUV. Whatever’s playing on the radio dissolves in distorted feedback, a little Ennio Morricone, a little 3 Mustaphas 3, it mutters to itself.
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