Chapter 2

Daisy looks around the bus terminal.

She looks very much like a Daisy.

Tall, blue-eyed, with short, blonde hair that is neither straight nor curly, floral blouse tucked into bluejeans whose soft, faded blue denim accentuate. her broad, flaring hips, the twin roundnesses of her buttocks.

A big farm girl, Daisy.

And she has left home.

Not run away, but simply left, her high school education completed, the farm a dusty expanse of whithered crops capped, near the highway, by a dilapidated cluster of barn, silo and house.

There was no argument, was in fact no discussion. Except for a sighing, grudging, "Well, maybe it'd be fer the best aft'all," from her father.

Who had no time or interest in her future, it being, by definition, than any version of his, of the farm's.

He had nothing for her.

There was nothing for her, back there. Talk of subsidies, talk of loans, slim possibilities, the suggestion, the shadow of hope, rather than hope itself.

Try it.

Come east.

Come to the city of possibilities, however nebulous, of hope, however slim and without foundation.

And now, looking around, she sees that the city has drawn her to it like a vacuum.

She has been attracted, moved by a nothingness, an emptiness even greater than that she left behind, she sees.

Because there is no clue here, no indicator.

There is no sign from heaven.

And to seek within her heart is to know only more emptiness.

Inspiration does not strike.

She has gone from hopelessness to hopelessness. Those with hopes and dreams, valid ones, do not take the bus.

They fly.

And she too could have flown.

She had enough money for that, at least.

But she didn't.

Why?

Because to fly is to collapse time, to shorten distance.

And, if all one has is a nebulous, shaky illusion, then flying is also to kill that, to nip it in the bud.

The policeman sees her.

And knows exactly what he is looking at.

And knows better than to direct her to Covenant i-louse or to some other shelter.

Because, unless he somehow arranges to transport her there by squad car, there is just no way she will make it.

He could, of course, give her subway directions. But before she could get there, even by subway, they would come.

The vultures, preying on flesh such as hers.

The people with the better ideas.

And she would listen to them, to their bullshit.

And would believe, despite common sense, despite caution, because she wants to.

Away.

A place to stay.

Money in her pocket.

And it would just be temporary, just until she can find "something better".

Something better.

That's the name of the dream, something better.

So he chooses not to see her.

She is loitering, but he will give her that much of a break.

And of course, if the guys in the patent leather shoes and the flashy vests and those hats with buckle bands come up to her, he will intervene.

But, other than that, she is on her own.

Not his choice, but a simple fact of life.

When you land here the way she has, you are, in every sense of the term, on your own.

She stands there with her cardboard suitcase, not knowing which way to turn and not moving.

And he knows what that is all about too.

Turn around.

Go back the way you came.

Chickening out, they'd call it here in the big city.

But she has nothing to prove to anyone here, only something to prove to herself.

So that there is that to be resolved as well. So many problems would be solved if she would simply go to the window and get herself a return ticket.

Where to stay, for example.

What to do, for example.

"Ah there, my little chickadee!"

She cannot believe this black man in those outlandish shoes is speaking to her.

He was, but he isn't.

Because—

"Don't tell me, let me guess!"

This from the cop.

"W. C. Fields, right?"

"Uh, yeah, bro', thass right."

"Well, W. C., you're gonna hafta go look for Mae West someplace else."

"Yeah, bu—"

"Or you could consider the alternative.

"And I gotta tell ya, I never laugh at the same joke twice."

The black man puts up his hands in front of his chest and backs away a half dozen paces, then scurries from the terminal.

The policeman looks at Daisy, clears his throat to speak, changes his mind, and walks on.

He does not want to see what becomes of her, because it can't be anything good.

"Excuse me, young lady."

Horn-rimmed glasses, a business suit, shorter than her, average build, colorless, balding.

She looks at him, curious.

There is nothing in him to inspire fear or wonder.

"You seem to be lost."

"No, this is the end of the trip all right," she replies.

He smiles.

But there is no warmth in the pale eyes behind the horn-rimmed spectacles.

"Let me rephrase that, then.

"You seem to be at a loss. Like you don't know what to do next."

She stonewalls him, admitting nothing, denying nothing.

"I have a suggestion," he says.

"That is, if you're qualified.

"Have you ever tended a garden?"

Now that, that she can relate to, can respond to.

"I was raised on a farm!"

"Who would have guessed?

"My employer has a garden.

"Or should I say, space for a garden.

"But he has nobody to tend it.

"He offers room, board, money to one who is able to do so.

"Does that sound like something that would be of interest to you?"

"Well, uh, I really haven't given it mu—"

"Problem here, miss?"

The policeman has returned, disgusted that he was not allowed to get far enough away from her to avoid picking up on the next approach.

Like flies on shit around here today, they are, he thinks.

Funny, though, how this guy doesn't look the type.

Probably an individual kink instead of the usual pimp, trying his luck.

This oughtta send him scurrying, though.

But it does not.

Instead—

"My good man, I happen to be Cranston, personal secretary to Randy Buck."

From his inside pocket, Cranston produces a card.

The policeman scrutinizes it.

Buck Enterprises, the guy's name, title—he's the genuine article, or so it would seem.

"I was passing through here on business of my employer when I noticed this young lady in need of assistance.

"Assistance, I might add, unless I am mistaken, which I doubt, that she was not about to get from you.

"Or am I wrong?"

The policeman glares at him, saying nothing.

"I thought as much.

"What is at issue here... officer?"

"Thought somebody was tryna pick 'er up, is all," he mumbles.

"Which, in fact, I am. I don't deny it."

"Look. You know damn well what I mean! "You know, unless you're new on the job, in which case I can explain it to ya."

"Please don't bother.

"Although I must say, that hardly speaks well of my appearance."

And he manages a wintry smile.

"Tell you what, officer.

"Just to show that there're no hard feelings, please, take my card.

"That way, when you discover the young lady is wanted is wanted for murder in twenty states, you'll know exactly where to find her."

Daisy takes a deep breath, surprised, not understanding.

"But I—" she begins.

But Cranston holds up a hand, silencing her.

"Until then, the young lady has many veggies to plant. That is," turning toward her, "unless you've something better to do."

"Me? No, I, uh... no."

"Excellent! Shall we go, then?

"Anything further, officer?"

"Guess not."

Cranston picks up Daisy's suitcase.

"Shall we go, then?

"The limo is just outside."

The policeman watches them leave and sees that there is indeed a limo parked in the alleyway which bisects the terminal, long and silver, its windows one-way glass.

And something clicks in his mind.

Not because of Daisy or the unremarkable Cranston, but because of the chauffeur, his skin parchment white, completely bald, wearing dark glasses.

He remembers, a year ago.

And that chauffeur resembles those robed creeps, like monks except they weren't, driving a van belonging to something called the Brotherhood of the Body.

He watches the limo pull away.

And, pulling out his wallet, instead of placing Cranston's card in with his collection, looks through the cards already there.

He finds the one he is looking for.

And goes to the terminal's small police station.

And dials the number on the card.

"Marvel Industries, Security. How may I assist you?"

"Uh, yeah, this here's Patrolman Ryan, Port Authority Bus Terminal.

"Bout a year ago, one a yer people axed me ta keep an eye out fer any of them Brotherhood of the Body types.

"An you're not gonna believe this, but—"

"Try me."

"I think I just seen the guy used ta drive their van.

"On'y now, 'steada that robe they all wore, he's got a chauffeur's uniform an he drives for Randy Buck.

"He just picked up...

"The Estate," Cynthia says.

"There, his office, the stadium—both stadiums— "

"I'd say forget the stadiums," Vanessa interjects.

"Scratch the stadiums," Cynthia resumes, as though it is her idea, which, since Vanessa had it on her time, technically it is.

"The Estate and his office.

"That oughtta just about do it, unless—"

Beep, beep, beep!

Vanessa looks at her lapel beeper, then shuts it off.

Cynthia looks annoyed.