In the City of Shy Hunters Read Online Free Page A

calligraphy DOOR OF THE DEAD on the side.
    Door of the Dead was a game my sister Bobbie and Charlie 2Moons and I used to play.
    I took it as a sign.
    Blue smoke was coming out the back of the van and people were climbing inside, through the side door, white people all in black. Black leotards, black luggage, black hats, black shoes.
    Then, just like that, Ruby Prestigiacomo’s face was smiling right in front of me.
    Don’t let the van spook you, Ruby said. We just bought it from the band, Ruby said, smiling, The Door of the Dead band.
    There’s room for one more, Ruby said. You’ll be all night here waiting for a cab. I can give you a ride for fifteen dollars. Cab’ll cost you twenty-five.
    Inside my chest, near the sore place where I smoke, so easy, I felt Ruby’s smile.
    I wished I could be so easy, wished I could smile like that.
    My wallet was still in my inside jacket pocket. Ruby just kept there, kept standing in the unrelenting fluorescence, smiling, too close, his blueeyes the way crazy people look at you, moving in on you, like when you go to kiss somebody. Blue eyes and thick red-blond hair, blond hair on his forearms. Beautiful. The kind of skin that freckles and tans gold. His red polyester shirt—buttons open so far down I had to avert my eyes. Hair pulled back in a ponytail. A silver ankh dangling from his queer ear, soul-patch triangle of red-blond hair just under his bottom lip.
    Ruby Prestigiacomo, what am I going to do with you?
    All death did was make Ruby smile all the more.
    YOU ’ RE GOING TO wait all night here for a cab, Ruby said. Fifteen dollars, Ruby said, Anywhere in Wolf Swamp.
    Wolf Swamp? I said.
    Manhattan, Ruby said.
    Ruby reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out an old blue Velcro wallet, pulled the wallet open, and from the wad of papers pulled out a business card. Ruby’s fingers were long and thin and there was grease under his thumbnail. Thumb print of grease on the business card.
    ROMEOMOVERS SPIRIT SCHLEPPERS were the words on the card, WOLF SWAMP . Under SPIRIT SCHLEPPERS was DOG SHIT PARK , then under DOG SHIT PARK was RUBY PRESTIGIACOMO , under RUBY PRESTIGIACOMO a phone number, then under the phone number was CLYDE TRUE SHOT EXPERIENCED DRIVER .
    Shit on a business card.
    What’s Dog Shit Park? I said.
    Lower East Side, Ruby said. It’s a park. Tompkins Square, but everybody I know calls it Dog Shit Park.
    Where you going? Ruby said.
    Two-oh-five East Fifth Street, I said.
    Between Second and Third, Ruby said.
    Ruby grabbed my duffel bag and my old suitcase with the travel stickers on it. I picked up my backpack and followed Ruby past the line of people waiting for taxis. My wallet was in the inside pocket of my jacket.
    The four white people all in black were sitting on their luggage in the back of the van, all of them with big red lips, even the man. Big hoops in their ears, all of them smoking cigarettes.
    They’re from France, Ruby said, Vogue magazine. They only speak French except for fuck you. You got the fifteen dollars?
    My wallet from my inside jacket pocket, when I opened it, my money was suddenly public domain opened up like that on the street.I gave Ruby a ten and a five, stuck my wallet back in my inside jacket pocket.
    Bonsoir, I said in French.
    The French Vogues all looked like mannequins. They all said quick French things back. Twice as hot inside the van. I sat down where I was standing, started doing what I always do when I don’t know what to do, rolled a cigarette with one hand like I can, French Vogue mannequins all around watching me. When I got the cigarette rolled, I offered the cigarette to the man French Vogue first. He looked away, poked his left shoulder up, pointed his hand and took the cigarette, silver loop dangle side to side, the fuck-you smile on his red lips, red lips pursing, French grunt.
    Then it was a cigarette for each of the others, each accepting with a choreography of stance,