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t same shitty shortwave band。 'Skipper had an accident； that's all。 He was driving home and he went off the road。 His car rolled over and went into Lockerby Stream。 They found water in his lungs； so I guess he drowned； at least technically； but it was in the paper that he probably would have died； anyway。 Most of his head got torn off in the rollover； or that's what people say。 And some people say it wasn't an accident； that he killed himself； but I don't buy that。 Skipper was 。 。 。 he was getting too much fun out of life to kill himself。'
'Yes。 You were part of his fun； weren't you？'
I didn't say anything； but my lips were trembling and there were tears in my eyes。
Mr。 Sharpton reached over and put his hand on my arm。 It was the kind of thing you'd expect to get from an old guy like him； sitting with him in his big German car in a deserted parking lot； but I knew when he touched me that it wasn't like that； he wasn't hitting on me。 It was good to be touched the way he touched me。 Until then； I didn't know how sad I was。 Sometimes you don't； because it's just； I don't know； all around。 I put my head down。 I didn't start bawling or anything； but the tears went running down my cheeks。 The swords on his tie doubled； then tripled…three for one； such a deal。
'If you're worried that I'm a cop； you can quit。 And I gave you money…that screws up any sort of prosecution that might e out of this。 But even if that wasn't the case； no one would believe what really happened to young Mr。 Brannigan； anyway。 Not even if you confessed on nationwide TV。 Would they？'
'No；' I whispered。 Then； louder： 'I put up with a lot。 Finally I couldn't put up with any more。 He made me； he brought it on himself。'
'Tell me what happened；' Mr。 Sharpton said。
'I wrote him a letter；' I said。 'A special letter。'
'Yes； very special indeed。 And what did you put in it so it could only work on him？'
I knew what he meant； but there was more to it than that。 When you personalized the letters； you increased their power。 You made them lethal； not just dangerous。
'His sister's name；' I said。 I think that was when I gave up pletely。 'His sister； Debbie。'
IX
I've always had something； some kind of deal； and I sort of knew it； but not how to use it or what its name was or what it meant。 And I sort of knew I had to keep quiet about it； because other people didn't have it。 I thought they might put me in the circus if they found out。 Or in jail。
I remember once…vaguely； I might have been three or four； it's one of my first memories…standing by this dirty window and looking out at the yard。 There was a wood…chopping block and a mailbox with a red flag； so it must have been while we were at Aunt Mabel's； out in the country。 That was where we lived after my father ran off。 Ma got a job in the Harkerville Fancy Bakery and we moved back to town later on； when I was five or so。 We were living in town when I started school； I know that。 Because of Mrs。 Bukowski's dog； having to walk past that fucking canine cannibal five days a week。 I'll never forget that dog。 It was a boxer with a white ear。 Talk about Memory Lane。
Anyway； I was looking out and there were these flies buzzing around at the top of the window； you know how they do。 I didn't like the sound； but I couldn't reach high enough； even with a rolled…up magazine； to swat them or make them go away。 So instead of that； I made these two triangles on the windowpane； drawing in the dirt with the tip of my finger； and I made this other shape； a special circle…shape； to hold the triangles together。 And as soon as I did that； as soon as I closed the circle； the flies…there were four or five of them…dropped dead on the windowsill。 Big as jellybeans； they were…the black jellybeans that taste like licorice。 I picked one up and looked at it； but it wasn't very interesting； so I dropped it on the floor and went on looking out the window。
Stuff like that would happen from time to time； but never on purpose； never because I made it happen。 The first time I remember doing something absolutely on purpose…before Skipper； I mean…was when I used my whatever…it…was on Mrs。 Bukowski's dog。 Mrs。 Bukowski lived on the corner of our street； when we rented on Dug…way Avenue。 Her dog was mean and dangerous； every kid on the West Side was afraid of that white…eared fuck。 She kept it tied in her side yard…hell； staked out in her side yard is more like it…and it barked at everyone who went by。 Not harmless yapping； like some dogs do； but the kind that says If I could get you in here with me or get out there with you； I'd tear your balls off； Brewster。 Once the dog did get loose； and it bit the paperboy。 Anyone else's dog probably would have sniffed gas for that； but Mrs。 Bukowski's son was the police chief； and he fixed it up； somehow。
I hated that dog the way I hated Skipper。 In a way； I suppose； it was Skipper。 I had to go by Mrs。 Bukowski's on my way to school unless I wanted to detour all the way around the block and get called a sissy…boy； and I was terrified of the way that mutt would run to the end of its rope； barking so hard that foam would fly off its teeth and muzzle。 Sometimes it hit the end of the rope so hard it'd go right off its feet； boi…yoi…yoinng； which might have looked funny to some people but never looked funny to me； I was just scared the rope （not a chain； but a plain old piece of rope） would break one day； and the dog would jump over the low picket fence between Mrs。 Bukowski's yard and Dugway Avenue； and it would rip my throat out。
Then one day I woke up with an idea。 I mean it was right there。 I woke up with it the way some days I'd wake up with a great big throbbing boner。 It was a Saturday； bright and early； and I didn't have to go anywhere near Mrs。 Bukowski's if I didn't want to； but that day I did want to。 I got out of bed and threw on my clothes just as fast as I could。 I did everything fast because I didn't want to lose that idea。 I would； too…I'd lose it the way you eventually lose the dreams you wake up with （or the boners you wake up with； if you want to be crude）…but right then I had the whole thing in my mind just as clear as a bell： words with triangles around them and curlicues over them； special circles to hold the whole shebang together 。 。 。 two or three of those； overlapping for extra strength。
I just about flew through the living room （Ma was still sleeping； I could hear her snoring； and her pink bakery uniform was hung over the shower rod in the bathroom） and went into the kitchen。 Ma had a little blackboard by the phone for numbers and reminders to herself…MA'S DAYBOARD instead of DINKY'S DAYBOARD； I guess you'd say…and I stopped just long enough to gleep the piece of pink chalk hanging on a string beside it。 I put it in my pocket and went out the door。 I remember what a beautiful morning that was； cool but not cold； the sky so blue it looked like someone had run it through the Happy Wheels Carwash； no one moving around much yet； most folks sleeping in a little； like everyone likes to do on Sat…urdays； if they can。
Mrs。 Bukowski's dog wasn't sleeping in。 Fuck； no。 That dog was a firm believer in rooty…tooty； do