Blow Fly

"You'd make a great prosecutor," Lucy says drolly, still not looking up. "I would never have a chance under your direct or cross."

"A scenario I don't want to imagine. Jesus. Mr. Caggiano-Mr. Jean-Baptiste Chando

"He was going to kill Marino."

"Who told you that? Rocco or Marino?"

"Rocco," Lucy barely says.

She's in too deep. It's too late. She desperately needs to purge herself.

"Inside his hotel room," she adds.

"God," Berger mutters.

"We had to, Jaime. It's no different than, than what the soldiers did in Iraq, you get it?"

"No, I don't get it." Berger is shaking her head again. "How the hell you could do something like this."

"He wanted to die."

79

LUCY STANDS ON THE MOST beautiful Persian rug she has ever seen, one she has stood on many, many times during better moments with Jaime Berger.

They are far apart from each other in the living room.

"It's hard for me to imagine you dressed as a prostitute and getting into an altercation with a drunk," Berger goes on. "That was sloppy work on your part."

"I made a mistake."

"I'll say you did."

"I had to go back. For my tactical baton," Lucy tells her.

"Which one of you pulled the trigger?"

The question shocks Lucy. She doesn't want to remember.

"Rocco was pla

Berger looks out at the city, her hands tightly clasped. "He sort of killed himself. You sort of murdered him. Sort of dead. Sort of being pregnant. Sort of committing perjury."

"We had to."

Berger doesn't want to hear this. She has no choice.

"We did, I swear."

Berger remains silent.

"He was a Red Notice. He was going to die. The Chando

"Now the defense is mercy killing," Berger finally speaks.

"How is it different from what our soldiers did in Iraq?"

"Now the defense is world peace."

"Rocco's life was over, anyway."

"Now the defense is he was already dead."

"Please don't make fun of me, Jaime!"

"I'm supposed to congratulate you?" Berger goes on. "And now you've fucked me, too, because I know about it. I know about it." Berger repeats each word slowly. "Am I stupid or what? Jesus! I sat right there"-she whirls around and jabs a finger at Lucy-"and translated those goddamn reports for you.

"You may as well have walked into my office and confessed to a murder, and had me say, Don't worry about it, Lucy. We all make mistakes. Or It happened in Poland, so it's not my jurisdiction. It doesn't count. Or Tell me all about it if it will make you feel better. See, I'm not a real district attorney when I'm with you. When we're alone, when we're inside my apartment, it's not professional."

80

"THE FLUID WHITE as light and brilliant with sparks. Page forty-seven! Who's there!"

"Jesus Christ!" Eyes flash in the barred window, different eyes this time.

Jean-Baptiste feels the heat of the eyes. They are nothing more than small, weak embers.

"Chando

That familiar hateful laughter. "Mini-Dick, Mini-Dick! Mini-Dick, Mini-Dick…!" Beast's is a voice from hell.

Jean-Baptiste has been within twenty feet of Beast. That's how far away the barred window in Jean-Baptiste's door is from the indoor recreation area one floor below him.

There is nothing to do during the one hour a death row inmate with privileges is allowed to spend on the rectangular wooden floor that is securely enclosed by thick wire mesh, like a cage at the zoo. Shooting hoops is popular, or simply walking a mile, which by Jean-Baptiste's calculations requires approximately seventy laps that no one but he is motivated to do. If Jean-Baptiste runs the laps, which is his habit during the one hour per week he is allowed recreation, he doesn't mind the other men on his cell block who leer out at him, their eyes small hot spots from sun shining through a magnifying glass. They make their usual insolent remarks. The recreation hour is the only opportunity inmates have to chat with and see one another from a distance. Many of these conversations are friendly and even fu

He is familiar with every detail about Beast, who is not considered a model prisoner but, unlike Jean-Baptiste, has privileges, including daily recreation and, of course, his radio. The first time Jean-Baptiste experienced every detail of Beasts presence was when two guards escorted Beast to the indoor recreation area, where he directed his diseased energy up to Jean-Baptiste's cell door.

Jean-Baptiste's hairy face looked out the bars of his window. It was time to see. One day, Beast might be useful.

"Watch this, No Nuts!" Beast yelled at him, pulling off his shirt and flexing bulging muscles that, like his thick forearms, are almost black with tattoos. He dropped to the concrete floor and fell into one-arm push-ups. Jean-Baptiste's face disappeared from the barred window, but not before he studied Beast carefully. He is smooth-ski

He keeps his hair shorn close to his scalp, and although he appears quite capable of rough sex and beating his woman, one wouldn't be likely to suspect that his preference is abducting young girls, torturing them to death and committing acts of necrophilia on their dead bodies, in some instances returning to the shallow graves where he buried them and digging them up for further acts of perversion until they are too decomposed for even him to stand it.

Beast is called Beast not because he looks like a beast, but because he digs up carrion like a beast and is rumored to have ca

Jean-Baptiste doesn't bide his time imagining creative ways to smash Beast's bones or crush his windpipe-idle fantasies for those who can't get closer than ten feet to Beast. The necessity of keeping inmates separated is obvious. When people are sentenced to die, they obviously have nothing to lose by killing again, although in Jean-Baptiste's way of thinking, he has never had anything to lose, and with nothing to lose, there is nothing to gain, and life does not exist. References to those damned at birth are descriptive and dehumanizing and, in Jean-Baptiste's case, trace back as far as his earliest memories.

Let's see.

He thinks from his magnetizing metal toilet seat. He remembers being three. He remembers his mother roughly ushering him into the bathroom, where he could see the Seine from the window, and inevitably at a very young age co