The Canal Read Free

as dry as Joe
was drenched. Nary a stray drop, or the slightest, glistening sheen
adorned that man's waterless face.
    Alan was always this distracting. And clean.
Distractingly clean. If he got a smudge on his shirt, be it a spot
of ink, a granule of dust, or a lousy subatomic particle, the shirt
would be immediately removed and replaced. Crooked hair:
straightened. Piece of litter: removed. Mispronounced vowel:
corrected. Frankly, it was a disgusting habit.
    Joe ground his cigarette into the bottom of
his loafer and flicked it in the water. He and Alan were standing
at the end of a bridge, a small one about the length of five cars.
Instead of drawing up like most bridges did, this one, the whole
thing, got pulled on tracks via a pulley system, into a clearing
along the side of the road. It was the last and oldest of its kind
-- so old you half expected a horse and buggy to come rolling
across, snuffing you under its parasol-sized wheels.
    Joe and Alan weren't alone. Groups of police
were waiting at the bridge's other end. They were all looking at
Joe expectantly. The sooner he got started, the sooner they could
finish and get out of the heat.
    By this point, Alan had managed to weather
the last remnants of cigarette smoke. He stood quietly for a
moment, and then managed to fix Joe with a calm smile.
    "You are a disease," he said, almost
pleasantly.
    "...I might say the same about you."
    "No more bullshit, Lombardi. Quit wasting
time and start your little magic act. You know, where you fool
everyone into thinking you're actually a cop."
    "Grow a pair, Alan. It's been all of five
minutes."
    "It's been more. It's been more minutes than
I can possibly believe."
    Joe turned back toward the water. Alan was
maybe right.
    "Tell me then," Joe said. "What exactly is
the problem?"
    Alan frowned. "The problem? You've been
fucking standing on it."
    "Excuse me?"
    "Barge crew, coming upriver -- they spotted a
body dangling from the bridge, from a crossbeam. It's underneath
us."
    While Joe processed this, Alan impatiently
clicked into motion. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and
carefully placed it on the bridge railing, so he wouldn't have to
touch the rail directly, then he threw a leg over and got his foot
on the metal ladder that led down to the riverbank. "Are we going
to do this?" he asked.
    "That depends," said Joe. "Is there anything
you're not telling me?"
    Alan, still straddling the rail, quickly
proceeded to tell Joe a great number of things: how Joe was
pathetic, a disgrace, and an embarrassment to the badge. It was the
same thing Alan had been saying, in one form or another, and at
every possible opportunity, for a couple of years now. And Joe had
yet to grow any less tired of hearing it.
    Joe, who had been watching Alan cling ever so
tightly to the handkerchief, fastened one of his hands atop Alan's.
And Joe's hands, by his own admission, were sink traps, feral and
coarse.
    Caught mid-speech, Alan's voice made a sharp,
and gratifying, leap. "What the fuck!" he shouted, hastily pulling
his hand free. He then spent several seconds examining the fingers,
looking for signs of rash or atrophy, presumably.
    "Clumsy of me," said Joe.
    "Go fuck yourself," grumbled Alan. He began
descending the ladder. "And some soap, while you're at it."
    As he disappeared under the bridge, Joe
waited, closing tight the collar of his coat. He'd have stood here
all night if they'd have let him. Until maybe they forgot he was
there, or until he fused with the bridge, to become invisible, to
become landscape. Because he didn't want to do this.
    But unfortunately, that was what they kept
him around for. Because he was the only one who could make these
kinds of sacrifices. Joe sighed, exhausted. Then he grabbed onto
the railing and followed Alan over the edge.
    He climbed down to a patch of gravel than ran
alongside the bridge, to the water. He could just make out the
flywheels and cables, part of the bridge's machinery. They were
standing in the