61.

Vienna makes her living on the lam. She swears more often now since the Elizabeth job backfired, and has officially given up public decency, like any bad habit. She left Marion with Manhattan alive, of all things, and is ironically superior to her ex-roommate at giving up regret.

The second she sees Phoenix - alive of all things - her heart maybe explodes.

68.

London sleeps like a rock. Literally. He's incapable of sleep.

Half the problem is Phoenix mumbling revenge schematics in his unconsciousness; the other half is the spin-off ideas this gives London. Blend with a dozen Hail Marys, cold, and you've got yourself a nice little mixed metaphor, complete with the twist of irony.

He climbs to the ramparts, to see everything. Tonight it's a ship, swiftly moving east.

82.

The unicorn greets the man who ruined her with a kiss. He, in turn, smiles like he doesn't remember he's the proverbial "stairs" she purportedly "fell down." It's a sweet thing they have.

Manhattan (the unicorn) says, "How's your day, sugarpie?"

Dallas (the unicorn-slayer) says, "Swell, honeymuffin."

The former, being a sucker for irony, sucks milk from a carton reading: Have YOU seen Phoenix Hazley? Dallas, unscrewing his sweetheart's own medicine, says:

"You'll never guess who I met today on the train."

86.

Dallas starts taking the train to control his blood pressure, otherwise exacerbated by those fuckin’-hickville-Jersey-pedestrians-who-can’t-
cross-a-godsdamned-street-to-save-their-life. One day, he meets a stranger, who tells him everything.

[Once upon a time, The Ghost’s life was ruined – debatably ended – by a legendary seductress, named Manhattan. The stranger vanished, leaving a slew of bewildered survivors to avenge him. He renounced love and committed, ambivalently, to either death or forgetfulness.]

The clattering monologue smoothes down. “Anyway... thanks.”

"Sure." Dallas grimaces, sympathetic. “What’s your name?”

The Ghost extends a thin hand.

“Phoenix.”

90.

Every third residence the end-all event, a slow walk from 60th to 61st sounds like the radio driving through Iowa. Having left Vienna’s for the euphemistic fresh air, Cairo pauses at what could be 97.1, offers her a cigarette. She smiles, hands in pockets, says “no thank you.”

“You think it’s happened yet?” he says.

“What?”

“The end. The beginning. Happy-go-crazy-time.”

Vienna listens. “Not yet,” she judges. “Phoenix…”

“No. Eh... pray. Actually, I’m fairly surprised you haven’t murdered –

Manhattan, two blocks away, yells “ten,” meaning the champagne won’t drink itself.

94.

After the Dallas incident, the novice is smoking like mad. “Lung cancer doesn’t happen overnight,” admonishes London, whose monastic wisdom comes in the after-school special packaging, for sure. “Try traffic.”

“Not funny,” says Santiago.

Lazy, the benediction reeks of 4/4 signature conducting. The Ghost hums, bubblegum requiem, between smoke rings.

“Tell me everything,” coos the stranger on the train.

The Ghost buys his rock-like sleep with a full confession. Strangers are easy, like priests, but not to be trusted.

Santiago always knows a guy, who died or something, who makes these things not funny.

96.

When Phoenix and Cairo were children, they found a duck caught in the curbside gutter grate. Like any respectable small animal in a childhood story, this duck was an object lesson.

The elder – eight, new to addiction, August bronze and already letting Cool and Vitamin D fight for his adolescence-scheduled cancer – flicked his cigarette with a virginal finesse to the curb. Scorched feathers, a shriek from the littler boy:

“You hurt him!”

“We wouldn’ta found ’im otherwise.”

Phoenix watched his idol, up-and-coming sage, wrest the object lesson free.

Phoenix grows up with a lot of scars.

98.

Santiago, stained glass silhouette, knows everything.

This is better than ordinary omniscience. This, gutted and stripped to the dirty, the pithy, the ten o'clock highlights reel. He tends bar, Bloody Hail Marys, and, unlike God, remembers everything.

You tell him your past, he’ll tell you your future.

(In the name of the Father, naturally.)

“Tell me I’m saved.”

“Tell me your sins.”

“This will give you nightmares.”

(…and of the Son.)

“It’s been about an hour since my last confession.”

(…and of the Holy Ghost.)

“I’m dead, you know.”

“I know.”

The Ghost smiles.

“Of course you do.”