Clown in the Moonlight Read Online Free PDF Page B

can have some fun with it.  
    I decide not to go home.   I don't want to see my father.   I don't think I ever want to see my father again.
    That night I stay in Cow Harbor Park, under the gazebo less than a half-mile from Lowers's corpse.   I stare out at the waters of the Long Island sound and see that someone has already started to carve up the woodwork.  
    In one of the benches, a full inch deep, are the words SAY YOU LOVE SATAN.

8.
     
    M y dreams are mostly vapid, sexual half-memories.   They mean nothing beyond the obvious.   Ricky visits in vivid detail.   He tries to set fire to my socks.   My mother arrives, her face holding answers, but before she can say anything, I jump awake as a cop taps on the bottom of my sneaker with his billy club.  
    The crows wait in the trees for my undoing.   I nod to the cop but it's not enough.   He wants to put me through my paces, go the full route.  
    "Let's see some ID."
    I hand him my driver's license.   It's not enough.   It's new, less than a month old.   It's so fresh he actually holds it up to his nose.   He gestures for me to give him my wallet.   I turn it over.   He goes through it, checking each fold and pocket.   He pulls out a photo of my mother and holds it up close to his eyes, turns it over to see if there's any writing on the back.   There isn't.
    "You carrying any drugs?"
    "No."
    "Why are you sleeping here in the park?"
    "I had a fight with my father."
    He leans in and sniffs my breath.   I sigh in his face.   He seems satisfied there's no liquor on my breath.   Any residual stink of marijuana that might be on my clothes is covered over by the water and fresh rain fragrance on the brush.  
    But he makes me walk the line, say the alphabet backwards, do all the other little monkey dances.   I jump through the hoops the way I'm supposed to, even though, technically, my car is parked.   I'm not driving drunk.   There's no call for this, but he has his mind set.
    It's still not enough.   He calls it in and learns my history.   Then he really starts grilling me.
    I don't mind.   I answer all his questions amiably and honestly.   He's still got my wallet in one hand, my mother's photo in the other.   I think about how bad things will go down if I tell him about Lowers.   I don't bother.   The whole world will know soon enough.  
    The cop doesn't like mutts like me messing up America's beautiful parks.   It's obvious he wants to tune my ass.   He's got a lot of steam built up and wants to let it loose by working me over with his nightstick.   We had bulls in the can like this.   We had orderlies on the ward like this.   My father is like this.
    The cop loosens his shoulders, cracks his neck.   He sticks my mother's photo back in the wallet to free his right hand and throws the wallet at my feet.   He's clear to draw his club or his gun.   I'm resolved not to let that happen no matter what the cost.   He senses I've taken a stand.   The summer morning heat is bad.   He's sweating and uncomfortable and he's got an edge to him.   Probably a bad marriage, a gambling problem, a small coke habit.   He's as twitchy as Ricky.   He's got a lot on his plate.  
    We stand there like that for a while, neither giving any ground, the moment lengthening and full of possibility.   His hand hovers over his holster.   Now we're getting somewhere.   I like the direction.   He's through with the idea of beating the hell out of me.   I wonder how he expects shooting me in the head will change his life for the better.   Maybe he thinks it's the first step to the lottery, a stronger marriage, earning his daughter's respect, an easy retirement on the south shore.   I represent so much to him now that I'm flattered.
    He's not fast enough to draw and shoot before I launch myself and break his neck.   He could always run for cover, but retreat will destroy all the amassed power of this instant.   He can either do it now or he can't.  
    His