ABSTRACT
By the time we manage to push and shove our way up to the front, the cops decide to get ugly and brandish their nightsticks, looking, for all the spit and polish of their uniforms, like drunk, dangerous modern-day pirates. But we want to see, like everybody else, even though we’re not smiling the way everybody else is— that transfixed, gruesome smile you’d expect to see on the face of a real vampire just after he licked his lips—the serial killer’s smile. Melvin’s with me, although since he’s taller and wider across the shoulders than I am, he has less trouble than I do fighting his way up there through the crowd. So, just what I thought would happen, happens: He gets so excited that he lets go of my arm. Normally, when that happens in a situation like this, I panic and race after him, all cold and sweaty, like back in the time I hate to remember. But that time isn’t tonight or coming anywhere near, and right now I’m feeling pretty safe, even with this crazy slobbering crowd, because I can see his back and those two long shoulder blades sticking out like ridges beneath his plaid shirt. He can see, but the way these people are shoving—just trying to hold myself up, I step on a young girl’s foot. I can tell from her features that she’s probably Dominican, probably no more than fourteen.
