Phoenix Read Free

his thigh. He stared ahead at the television screen and, as
the tapping became more deliberate and rhythmic, let his eyes
unfocus. Mort felt the plastic of the pen between his fingertips,
the crisp cleanness of the air being pulled into his lungs, and
thought about Brad until a clear image of the man took shape.
    The tapping pen quickened.
    The first hints of emotion began to form and
push their way into the folds of Mort’s mind. He held the image of
Brad and waited until the spectrum developed into something he
could interpret.
    The pen beat its rhythm. Tap , tap , tap . Tap , tap , tap .
    Hazy wisps that swirled around the mental
snapshot took on colors: red, black, different shades of blue.
After so many years, Mort had learned that each color had a
corresponding emotion. He let them grow until they were so strong
he could barely tell them apart from his own feelings. He gasped,
gripped the pen, and blinked until the room came back into
focus.
    He’s given up .
    "DeMint." Mort snatched his cell from the
coffee table and dialed the number.
     
    * * *
     
    It was midday and the sun was beating down
through the windshield of Brad’s car. Horns blared in front and
behind him, reflecting the mood of the traffic jam he’d been stuck
in for fifteen minutes.
    His cell had been ringing itself to death all
morning, each time displaying a picture that had been taken during
Mort’s jaunt in Mexico last year. The round, rosy-cheeked face,
salt and pepper hair, topped off with the biggest damn sombrero
Brad had ever seen. Hanging on each of his arms were two women,
gorgeous, tanned, scantily clad, and definitely not wearing
sombreros. That picture always made Brad chuckle, but not this day.
He was trying to distance himself from Mort because he was getting
too close to the thing Brad didn’t want to talk about. If he talked
about it, that gave it validity. As it stood, they were just
dreams. If he kept telling himself that, then eventually he’d
believe it. Dreams. Nothing more. If he talked about them, then
they might come true.
    "They’ll come true whether I talk about them
or not," Brad whispered. His eyes were burning and he realized he’d
been staring at the license plate of the Scion idling in front of
him. He blinked, shook his head, and pounded on the horn. "Come on
already. Jesus."
    The Sombrero vibrated and rang from where it
lay in the passenger seat, so Brad reached out and cranked up the
radio.
    "… swine flu clinic will be held today between one and three at Our Lady of Hope . They ask that you bring at least one nonperishable food item with you for donation , as the vaccinations are being given free of charge ."
    "Yeah, I’ll get right on that," Brad
grumbled, poking the presets until he found the classic rock
station.
    His head was bobbing back and forth to the
beat, his fingers tapping the steering wheel, when his wandering
eyes fell across a figure strolling down the sidewalk on the
opposite side of the street. Brad’s body stiffened as he watched
the man stop outside a florist shop and talk with the girl who had
been arranging bouquets for the sidewalk display. It seemed
innocent enough. She was smiling. He was flirting. But Brad was
breaking out in a cold sweat. A piercing whistle sounded between
his ears and the real world went black.
    Blood on his fists , a pair of scratches across his cheek . Her shirt ripped and her eyes black and swollen . Puddles of water on pavement . The smell of garbage , possibly dumpsters . The sound of a metal can rolling , catching the man’s attention . He turns and runs the other direction , away from the noise . The girl doesn’t move .
    Brad’s chest heaved, the image flashing
through his head in seconds. He didn’t know traffic had started
moving again; his eyes were fastened to the couple in front of the
roses. A blaring horn behind him snapped the real world back into
place and startled his foot into action. He drove down a block,
slapped the blinker, merged into