In the City of Shy Hunters Read Online Free PDF Page A

the curb, then another bump for the back right tire. True Shot hugged the wheel, leaned forward, and aimed the van in between the line of traffic on the left and a wall of concrete on the right.
    Clyde True Shot, race-car driver, hit the gas.
    WE ARE AN arrow, Door of the Dead arrow, howling through, tilted, banking, racing down where you’re not supposed to go, right wheels on the curb, left wheels in the gutter, guard-rail concrete wall only inches from us to the right. To the left, Day-Glo traffic cones, and the Volkswagen Chevrolet Ford Toyota line of cars, pickups, semis, and limousines traffic jam. Where we’re heading hellbent is in between, space enough or not.
    Ruby’s forehead is shiny with lights on the sweat. Ruby’s bones poking through, his smile skeleton big. He’s staring straight ahead, like all of us, at the trajectory, our thrust, but he’s watching True Shot too. Ruby loves True Shot and he’s watching True Shot, race-car driver, the two of them two guys, rodeo yee-haws, Friday-night homeboys, going fast, right-flanking one mile, two miles, three miles of traffic jam and counting.
    French Vogues lit French cigarettes. Fuck. Merde. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
    Toll booth! True Shot yelled, like this was Nintendo and toll booth was the dragon. The right front wheel bumped off the curb back onto the road, then the right rear wheel. True Shot shifted down to second.
    Watch for cops! True Shot yelled.
    Watch for cops! Ruby yelled.
    One of the French Vogues, a woman, reached down, opened the sliding side door. Blast of hot air, city lights, guard rail right there speeding by, air. I held my hand against my heart, my wallet in my inside jacket pocket, pulled my cap off, knelt forward, head out the side door. Wind blowing in my hair.
    There it was right in front of us: the yellow-and-black-striped toll booth STOP arm coming down. True Shot shifted into second.
    Geronimo! True Shot yelled. Geronimo! Ruby yelled.
    I closed my eyes.
    The yellow-and-black-striped toll booth STOP arm karate-chopped into the roof of the Door of the Dead van.
    But it’s not the truth.
    I knelt back, opened my eyes. Through the back windows, the yellow- and-black-striped toll booth STOP arm was locked in place behind us.
    Out the windshield, out the back windows, out the side door, there were no cops.
    True Shot yelled, Welcome to Wolf Swamp! And we cheered, all of us, me and the French Vogues, these people I didn’t know—we cheered. I rolled more cigarettes, lit six all around, and we smoked and smoked, and it wasn’t long before: Waldorf Hysteria! Ruby yelled.
    True Shot pulled up to the bright curb. The doorman opened the van’s side door. He wore a powder-blue military uniform. He was speaking French, snapping his fingers. Young brown men in matching outfits rushed to the van.
    One by one, the French Vogues stepped out. The doorman took each French Vogue by the hand. One by one, the bellhops slid the monogrammed alligator luggage out of Door of the Dead van.
    Alligators, True Shot said.
    Dangerous cargo, Ruby said.
    Faux alligators, True Shot said.
    Worst kind, Ruby said.
    The only good faux alligator, Ruby said, Is a dead faux alligator.
    Every extra lovely muscle in True Shot was laughing. Ruby too, but Ruby had to put his fist over his mouth. A deep cough was coming up, rattling Ruby’s bones. Ruby’s arm held his side.
    I stuck my head out the van’s side door, looked left, right, then all around, then up. Waldorf Astoria.
    Lunch at the Waldorf was a game my mother and I used to play.
    Hysteria. The lights of Waldorf Hysteria were bright bright, unrelenting. The light was inside me, moving through me. On the street was the swirl and flash of lights, a high off-pitch ringing, and something else: a sound, like in monster movies. The footfall of a huge monster.
    ALL DODGES SOUND the same when you start them up.
    Ruby reached behind True Shot and, from out of a heap, pulled a