How Soon Is Now - The Smiths
Guess it's time to share some more excerpts, this time from Chapter 4.
Faith led the flying Irlene across the square to the nearby police station. Officers whooped and elbowed one another as the two costumed women entered the building.
“Pony Girl, always a pleasure,” said the desk sergeant. “Who’s your friend?”
“Boys, this is Imp. She’s our newest team member. Please make her feel welcome.”
“I’ll make her feel welcome,” hooted a plainclothes detective.
“A little fellow like you?” countered Faith with a wink at Irlene.
“Little?” The detective drew himself up to his full height. It would have been more impressive if he didn’t immediately shrink down to four feet tall. “Hey, what the hell?” Raucous guffaws echoed through the station.
“All right, knock that shit off,” hollered the sergeant. “Can we please try to act like professionals?” He turned to Faith and smiled. “What have you got for us today?”
“Purse snatcher,” said Faith. Irlene displayed the perpetrator, who looked a little green from being slung around like a doll.
The sergeant adjusted his glasses. “Whose purse did he steal, Barbie’s?”
“Imp, if you’d be so kind …” Faith gestured at Irlene, who was staring around the police station at the cops and arrestees and the intricate ballet of organized chaos.
Irlene raised a hand and pointed at the purse snatcher. He grew slowly until he was back to his original size.
“Now that’s more like it,” said the sergeant, and fed a fresh form into a typewriter.
* * *
Harlan leaped to his feet eagerly and hurried toward the rear of the shop. He glanced back once at Gonsalvo. The man was examining the door handle closely under a workbench light.
Harlan slipped into the Parts Room, lit only by a naked bulb hanging from the ceiling and bits of sun leaking in through a window encrusted with decades of grease and dust. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Stale lubricants provided a sharp tang to the air, balanced by the bright accents of copper and steel, the sweetness of plastic, the subtle cool of ceramics, and underneath it all the persistent thrum of rust and dust. With the scents of industry flooding his head and making his mind whirl with possibilities, Harlan dove into the drawers, piles, and stacks of parts in search of the elusive thermocouples. Minutes stretched as he sorted through mysterious pieces, occasionally pocketing those he thought he’d need for his own work. He didn’t consider it stealing; that was why he brought Gonsalvo parts for Carmella. The old mechanic understood Harlan like nobody else in the world. Given a chance, Harlan thought he might like to come work for Gonsalvo and maybe someday the garage would be his.
“Hey, Harlan, come out here a minute,” called Gonsalvo.
Just then, Harlan saw the parts he’d sought. He must have looked right at them four or five times and not seen them. He grinned and tucked them into his bulging pockets and then sauntered back into the shop.
* * *
Tommy’s radio beeped. He pulled it from his belt. “Tornado,” he said.
“Tommy, it’s Bobby. I can’t reach Javier.”
“He had to head back to his place. For repairs,” lied Tommy.
“Ah,” replied Bobby in a voice which implied he knew Tommy was being dishonest. “Anyway, there’s a potential jumper on the GWB. Are you close enough to intervene?”
Tommy turned to look toward the George Washington Bridge. He could see flashing lights on the distant deck. “Affirmative. I’m on my way.”
He summoned up gale-force winds to carry him quickly over the water, his eyes locked on a white speck where none should be-against one of the towers. As he barreled onward, the speck resolved itself into a young woman who perched on a narrow ledge just out of reach of the NYPD officers trying to reach her. Tommy poured on the speed because he could see the woman was so distressed. As he approached, she either slipped or jumped.
He had only moments to react. He created a powerful updraft beneath the tumbling woman. The swirling air mass sucked up water from the Hudson into a powerful miniature waterspout that slowed her fall. Without hesitation, Tommy dove into the spinning air and water to gather up the shrieking woman in his arms. Air buoyed them both to safety on the far bank. Tommy pushed his sopping hair out of his face. They were both drenched from his waterspout.
“Are you all right?” He took the woman gently by her shaking shoulders as sobs racked her. She collapsed into him and bawled like a child. He held her awkwardly as she clung to him.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she repeated like a refrain.
* * *
Shane smoked cigarette after cigarette as he drove the service truck through the streets of Harlem. He’d explained that if he didn’t have specific job duties, he was supposed to “monitor” the local power grid for any trouble or potential repairs. “They train us to watch for loose power lines or to recognize the sound of a transformer blowing or whatever.”
“I always thought power guys just hung around drinking coffee and eating donuts until something went wrong,” admitted Gretchen.
“When we can,” laughed Shane. “But I’m trying to give you a better impression of New Yorkers. How am I doing so far?”
“Not bad.”
“Hey, you hear that? Under the sound of the traffic?”
Gretchen cocked her head and listened. Just barely, she could hear a humming, hissing sound. It reminded her of something from a mad scientist’s lab in an old black and white movie. “I think so,” she said.
“That’s a dying transformer.” Shane checked his mirrors and then cut across two lanes of traffic onto a side street. “Any second now …” Gretchen heard a loud bang like a gunshot and saw a puff of black smoke rise a block away. “There it goes,” said Shane. “Now I get to play hero, because I’ll be Johnny-on-the-spot.”
“Shane on the spot,” said Gretchen.
