“I have a bit of a sweet tooth.”
“Let’s go have some coffee and let Johnny eat,” says Tracy, shooing us out of the room and closing the door.
“He likes to eat by himself. He knows his food bothers living people. It’s his way of being polite.”
“He’s not what I expected. He’s like a kid.”
Fiona started the coffeemaker while we were in with Johnny. It smells good. She pours cups for all of us.
“He isn’t always like this. None of the undead sleep, but they still have bodies and bodies need rest. Every few weeks, Johnny goes into a kind of fugue state. Sleepy. Vague. Uncommunicative. Like he’s suddenly autistic. After a couple of days, he starts coming out of it. That’s what he’s doing now, so he’s a little slower than usual.”
“How’s his memory?”
“Look, if you still think someone’s been sneaking him out, you can forget it. Johnny’s tagged with one of those house-arrest ankle bracelets. If he tried to leave here or if someone tried to take him, alarms would go off all over the place.”
“Someone could disable it with tools or magic.”
“Yeah, but they’d have to know about it. The bracelet isn’t on his ankle. It’s inside him. Sewed inside his stomach cavity.”
Dammit. Cabal using Johnny as a blunt instrument was a nice neat package, but Johnny seems to be off the hook. Cabal, on the other hand, is still homecoming king to me. I just need to connect a few more dots.
Allegra pours cream and sugar into her coffee.
“How’d he get the name Johnny Thunders?”
Fiona smiles like a mother remembering her kid’s first step.
“Johnny was in one of his fugues when they brought him here. I think moving when he was zoned out was hard on him. He ignored us and didn’t talk for days. He just stared at the wall. We used to leave the TV or music on when we weren’t in the room so he’d have company. Usually one of us was in the apartment, but this one night Tracy’s car broke down and I had to go and pick her up. When we got back, Johnny was bouncing up and down singing along with the stereo. It was the Murder City Devils song ‘Johnny Thunders.’”
I drink the coffee straight. It feels good to have coffee for its own sake and not to cure the night before.
“Why was he staring at his hands with a magnifier when we went in?”
Tracy says, “He wasn’t staring. He was working. I said it before, Savants are obsessives. They do something really well and they do it over and over again. They’ll do it forever, I guess.”
She pours herself more coffee.
“Johnny likes words and he likes geology. He’s transcribing the entire Oxford English Dictionary onto grains of sand. The last time I asked, he was up to ‘farraginous.’”
I take my coffee, go back to Johnny’s door, and open it. He’s bent over the cooler on his knees, a fistful of pig guts in each hand. His mouth and chest are smeared with blood and half-dissolved jelly beans. Not exactly a yearbook photo, but I saw plenty worse Downtown. Hell, I did worse. When Johnny notices me he smiles.
“These are really good. Thanks.”
“Before Tracy told me to bring the candy, I didn’t even know Drifters could taste anything.”
“That’s what most people think. They bring smelly meat and old, clotted blood. That’s zed food. This is better.”
“You’re welcome. Who comes to see you?”
He shrugs.
“A few Sub Rosas. I think they’re important, but they’re not very interesting. They always ask about what I remember. I tell them the same thing I told you. I don’t remember anything before waking up, but I think they think if they keep asking, I’ll remember and they’ll win a prize or something.”
“Even if you do remember, you don’t have to tell them anything. They’re your memories, not theirs.”
He nods and shoves more pig into his mouth.
“If you don’t mind, I’m going to finish my coffee and come back and talk a little more.”