The Transmigration of Bodies Read Online Free Page B

center of the street; they wagged their tails and cocked their ears, sneezed loudly, and when a car came along they parted with careful coordination before chasing it a few feet, barking at the tires. They’re more clever when there’s nothing in the way, he thought. The air seemed almost insubordinate with odors: because there was no smoke, the scent of jacaranda could be clearly discerned among the miasmas that had been blown uphill like never before, in the tropical storm that had skewiffed the wind like never before—and so the smells, rather than fading, fermented.
    There were a few people out and about, but more like ephemeral grubs than lords of the land. A few in cars with the windows rolled up. In a park three blocks away, the man who used to predict the end of days, now alone, in silence, thrown off. A guy in a white robe crossing the street with quick steps. And pharmacies, two-bit pharmacies, open. The Redeemer stopped in one to buy facemasks and a bottle of water. The salesgirl served him from a disgusted distance and took his coins one by one through a handkerchief.
    This doesn’t seem so bad, the Redeemer thought, almost happy. Long as it doesn’t last. And suddenly he no longer hated Dolphin quite so much for having hauled him from the bed of Three Times Blonde, who’d said Who in hell would order you out on a day like this? and pointed to the street. And he’d said An asshole with exceptional timing, and as she watched him get dressed she’d said You are seriously nuts, and then added: We were having fun, you and me, and now I’ll have to lock the door when you come back knocking. The Redeemer had stopped buttoning his shirt a second to see if she meant it, and tho he could see that she did he’d kept doing up his buttons and said Don’t know about you, but I make my living off the places people can’t get out of.
    Just then he hadn’t wanted to get out of anything, particularly, yet his reflexes kicked in the second the phone rang and Dolphin said I need you to help me with a swap.
    For who?
    For me.
    What happened?
    Don’t know. Shit went down last night. Someone took my son.
    Romeo?
    Yeah.
    Of course he knew who had him, that was why he’d called. Not to locate the kid but to get him back. So who did Dolphin have? Who’d he want to exchange him for?
    Where’d this go down? he asked.
    Lover’s Lane, said Dolphin.
    The Bug eyed him with a distinct lack of urgency, as if to say You think I give a shit about epidemics? No car stares straight at you the way a Bug does, he thought. It was the most expressive thing on the block. The Redeemer got in and drove across the city to see what he could wheedle out of Óscar, a compadre of his who worked the bar at a cathouse. Lover’s Lane was home to eight brothels in total, and together they tended to the various sectors of the population. There was one had cachet for kingpins and thugs with serious bank—even served champagne, and was staffed by girls who, word was, had appeared on soap operas. Two for those who liked to think they were street but lived nowhere near it, and tho those joints didn’t splash out on pricey juice or fine females, at least they could keep the lights on. Four itty-bitty bordellos with classic red-light decor and cement floors for the roughnecks, who also had the right to kick back. And a big old tomcathouse for women who earned their own dough: disco ball on the ceiling, tiger-skin sofas, and strippers with huge muscles and tiny G-strings, ready to romp for the right price. Óscar worked at Metamorphosis, where the better-bred boys went once in a while to put hair on their chests. Next door was Incubus—the one for women—so Óscar always had hot tips on what was going down on Lover’s Lane.
    He found him standing at the entry, stroking his tash as he gazed down the empty street. The Redeemer was embarrassed to be wearing a mask and considered taking it off for a minute, but opted to leave it on.
    How goes it, Óscar,