The Bazaar of Bad Dreams

I could hear the traffic on Barnum Boulevard, and knew exactly what that bad boy was planning. He thought what worked once would work again. It was a pair of special glare-reducing glasses instead of a Steve Austin lunchbox, but the basic idea was the same. Later the kid who took Ronnie’s glasses would cry and say he didn’t know what was going to happen, he thought it was just a joke, or a tease, or maybe payback for Ronnie pushing the pudgy little carrottop down on the sidewalk.

I could easily have caught up with Ronnie, but at first I didn’t. He was my lure, you see, and the last thing I wanted was to reel him in too soon. When Ronnie got close, the boy doing the bad little kid’s dirty work darted through the stone arch between the park and Barnum Boulevard, still waving Ronnie’s glasses over his head. Ronnie ran after him and I came third. I jogged as I unzipped my gym bag, but once I had the revolver in my hand, I dropped the bag and went into overdrive.

Stay back! I shouted at Ronnie as I ran past him. Don’t you go one step further!

He did what I said, and thank God for that. If anything had happened to him, I wouldn’t be here waiting for the needle, Mr Bradley; I would have killed myself.

When I got through the arch, I saw the bad little kid waiting on the sidewalk. He was the same as always. The big kid was handing him Ronnie’s glasses, and the bad little kid was handing him a bill. When he saw me coming, he lost the nasty little smirk on those weird red lips of his for the first time. Because that wasn’t the plan. The plan was Ronnie first, then me. Ronnie was supposed to chase the bad little kid into the street and be hit by a truck or a bus. I was supposed to come last. And see it.

Carrottop ran into Barnum Boulevard. You know what it looks like outside the park – at least you ought to, after the prosecution showed their video three times at the trial. Three lanes in each direction, two for travel and one for turning, with a concrete divider in the middle. The bad little kid looked back when he got to the divider, and by then he was a lot more than startled. That look was pure fear. Seeing it made me happy for the first time since Carla went upsy-turvy down those church steps.

One quick glimpse was all I got, then he charged into the southbound lanes without a single look to see what might be coming at him. I ran into the northbound lanes the same way. I knew I might get hit, but I didn’t care. At least it would be a genuine accident, no mysterious stuck accelerator. You can call that suicidal, but it wasn’t. I just couldn’t let him slip away. I might not have seen him for another twenty years, and by then I would have been an old man.

I don’t know how close I came to getting creamed, but I heard plenty of screeching brakes and squalling tires. A car swerved to avoid the kid and sideswiped a panel truck. Someone called me a crazy asshole. Someone else shouted, What the fuck is he doing? That was just background noise. I had all my attention fixed on the bad little kid – eyes on the prize, right?

He was running as fast as he could, but no matter what kind of monster he was on the inside, on the outside he was stuck with short legs and a fat ass, and he never had a chance. All he could hope for was that a car would hit me, but none of them did.

He got to the far side and stumbled on the curb. I heard some woman – a stout lady with dyed blond hair – scream, That man has a gun! Mrs Jane Hurley. She testified at the trial.

The kid tried to get up. I said, This is for Marlee, you little sonofabitch, and shot him in the back. That was number one.

He started crawling on his hands and knees. Blood was dripping onto the sidewalk. I said, This is for Vicky, and put another one in his back. That was number two. Then I said, This is for my dad and Mama Nonie, and put a bullet into the back of each knee, just where those baggy gray shorts ended. That was three and four.

Lots of people were screaming by then. Some man was yelling, Get it away from him, just tackle him! But no one did.

The bad little kid rolled over and looked at me. When I saw his face, I almost stopped. He didn’t look six or seven anymore. Bewildered and in pain, he looked no more than five. His beanie had fallen off and lay next to him on its side. One of the two plastic propeller blades was all crooked. My God, I thought. I have shot a blameless child, and he’s lying here at my feet, mortally wounded.

Yes, he almost got me. It was a good act, Mr Bradley, real Academy Award stuff, but then the mask slipped. He could make most of his face all wounded and hurt, but not his eyes. That thing was still in his eyes. You can’t stop me, his eyes were saying. You won’t stop me until I’m done with you, and I’m not done with you yet.

Get the gun away from him, somebody! a woman yelled. Before he murders that child!

A big fellow ran toward me – he testified too, I believe – but I pointed my gun at him and he stepped away fast with his hands raised.