Page 95 - The Myth and the Moment

Evening

“Yep. Just a pile of ash in the barbecue. And that’s the last we’ll
hear of Nate Evangelino for quite some time. Case closed, as D.A.
Breckstein always says at the end of Legal Beagles.”
Unnhh. No, don’t faint. It’s over. I’m screwed. That son-of-a-bitch
has done me in. Maybe I can recover. Another year of toil, of bracing
myself against The End coming too soon. So: go down the hill, find
the boulder, start rolling it back up. They’ve gone inside. Better lie
low until it’s quiet. What a lousy break, running into these predators.
After running away from them for so many years. Ah, the prey
became soft and over-confident, his protective coloring practically
perfect. He moved among the hawks and saber-toothed tigers and
they knew him not. Until one day he backed into a man-eater who
recognized his scent. And caught by the raptor’s hypnotic stare, he
marched straight into its slavering jaws. Undone by my own myth,
that I could live outside the kill-or-be-killed cycle of all earthly
existence. My moment came, and I blew it.
But the assassins left their job half-done. I’m still at large, and they
are flush with the smugness of victory. Phil, you will not profit from
my misfortune. Nor will I be victimized again. A different sort of
moment has come for me. Slowly, slowly, lift the quilt. Ah, there goes
the kitchen light. Time for me to make my move. Thank you,
Detroit, for not letting car doors lock on the inside. With cat-like
feet, I hardly make a sound. Out of the car. Nice and dark; must be
well past midnight. Will Aestheria phone them when the booby-
hatchers find an empty bed? Have to hope they won’t. So: what can I
do to darling Phil? Smashing anything will attract immediate
attention. Arson will also arouse the neighborhood. If I had some
cans of spray-paint, I could cover his house with denunciations and a
few choice epithets; but I don’t. Front of the house all locked up,
impervious to me and visible to public and private security patrols.
But I know my way into and around the back. No dogs, no alarm
system: just a fancy house wrapped around a filing cabinet full of
anonymous and involuntary contributions to the legend of Philip
Kolpak.
Lift the latch; easy does it, and leave it open behind me for a fast
getaway. Dark is the night, but smog reflects the green and orange
street lights of the basin below back down upon this Olympian
palace. Don’t trip on that damned deck chair, Nate. You’ve got no

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