Green Eyes Page 0,101

don't know,' said the Baron; he considered it. 'Hell, we ain't got time to think of nothing better. All right. See that far hatch? That goes down to the hold next to theirs. Here.' He gave her his cigarette lighter. 'You tippy-toe down there 'cause them walls is thin, and you pile them rags against the wall they behind. You be able to hear 'em talkin.' Soon as you get 'em goin', you gimme a wave and then yell like your butt was on fire.' He shook his head, dismayed. 'Damn! I don't wanna get killed 'bout no damn green-eyed monkey!'

He took off his jacket and wrapped it around his forearm and pulled a switchblade out of his trousers. 'What you starin' at, woman?' He cast his eyes up to the heavens. 'They gon' stick him 'fore too long. Get your ass in gear!'

She gathered the rags, and carrying an armful of them, made her way to the hatch. The stairs creaked alarmingly. Voices sounded through the wall opposite the stair, some raised in anger, but the words were muffled. As she heaped the rags, something scurried off into the corner and she barely restrained an outcry. Holding her breath, not wanting to give herself away in case of another fright, she touched the lighter to the rags. The cloth smoldered, and some of the paint smears flared. She was about to bend down and fan them when, with a crisp, chuckling noise, a line of fire raced straight up the wall and outlined the design of a three-horned man in yellow-red tips of flame. It danced upon the black boards, exuding a foul chemical stink, seeming to taunt her from the spirit world. Terrified, she backed toward the stairs. Two lines of fire burst from the hands of the three-horned man and sped along the adjoining walls, laying a seam across their midpoints, encircling her, then scooted up the railings of the stairs. More fire spread from the central horn of the figure, washing over the ceiling, delineating a pattern of crosshatches and stickmen, weaving a constellation of flame and blackness over her head. Forgetting all about waving to the Baron, she ran up the stairs, shouting the alarm.

Clea brought her knee up into Simpkins' groin, and he went down squirming, clutching himself. She and Downey clattered up the stairs just as Jocundra shouted. Donnell saw smoke fuming between the boards behind him. He turned back. Papa Salvatino was coming toward him, swinging his knife in a lazy arc, his head swaying with the movement of the blade. Then the hatch cover was thrown aside, light and a thin boil of smoke poured in, and the huge shadow of the Baron hurtled down the stairs. He dropped into a crouch, his own knife at the ready.

'Get your ass away from him, Papa,' he said.

Simpkins groaned, struggled to rise, and the Baron kicked him in the side.

Papa did not reply, circling, and in the midst of a step he made a clever lunge and sliced the Baron's chest with the tip of his knife, drawing a line of blood across his shirt front.

'Hurry!' shouted Jocundra from the hatch. 'It's spreading!'

Simpkins rolled off the floor, still clutching his groin, and limped up the stairs. Jocundra cried out, but immediately after called again for them to hurry.

Flames began to crackle on the wall behind Donnell, and as he looked, they burst in all directions to trace the image of a woman very like Otille. It might have been a caricature of her, having her serpentine hair, her wry smile: a fiery face floating on the blackness. Donnell got to his feet, weak from Papa's manipulations; too weak, he thought, to engage Papa physically. He searched around for a stick, any sort of weapon, and finding none, he dug into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins.

'Hey, Papa,' he said, and sailed one of the coins at him. It missed, clinking against the wall. But even the miss caused Papa to lose concentration, and the Baron slashed and touched his hip.

Papa let out a yip and danced away, steadying himself; he cast a vengeful look at Donnell, and as Donnell sailed another coin, he snarled. The Baron nicked his wrist with a second pass and avoided a return swipe.

'You done lost the flow, Papa,' chanted the Baron. 'That iron gettin' heavy in your hand. Your balls is startin' to freeze up. You gon' die, motherfucker!'

Donnell kept throwing the coins, zinging them