Gypsy Blood by Steve Vernon Read Free Book Online

gone but there’s a lot more than meat that goes into the making of a man. There’s guilt and dreams and memories. The weight of years of experience passed through a bit of flesh and bone, like heavy echoes.
    Stop your whining, boy. It’s just dead meat. How bad is that?
    Very bad, Carnival thought. It’s very bad.
    You looked into his future. He was going to die anyway. He’s just dead meat.
    Yes, but a lot of dead meat. Every ounce of the man sucked into the concrete, like it was in a hurry to get itself under the dirt, pulling Carnival down there with it. Carnival dragged from the front. Maya followed behind, hands buried in her pockets. It was hard work. Carnival tried his best to make it look easy but it wasn’t.
    What am I doing, he wondered.
    You are dragging dead meat. It’s an honorable trade. Ask any butcher. Ask any gravedigger. It’s more honest than flipping cards and mouthing comfortable lies.
    Carnival wasn’t so sure about that. He wasn’t so sure about anything.
    I’ve killed a man, he thought. I didn’t want to kill him. It just happened.
    Tell him that. His ears are still open.
    Shut up, Poppa. I can feel his blood sticking to my hands. It feels like a cold burn. Hot, wet, sticky. It feels like guilt.
    Guilt is for gaijo. Guilt is for frames and cheap jewelry. Guilt is not for Gypsies. Blood is nothing but bad paint. It sticks and it stinks, like baby shit. Wash it off. Pilate had the right idea but the wrong kind of water.
    He’s dead, Poppa. I killed him.
    I saw. I had my eyes open. Not like you.
    What do you mean, Poppa?
    There’s dead and there’s dead. Open your eyes, boy.
    “Watch where you’re going!” Maya shouted.
    Carnival looked up but gravity took over. He tumbled backwards, his world a sudden shout of galvanized metal and trash. The garbage can he’d tripped over clattered into the wall of the alley.
    “Are you trying to wake the dead?” Maya asked. “Pay attention. This isn’t easy.”
    Carnival tried to stand, putting his hand in something on the alley pavement that didn’t feel like mud. What the hell was he doing? Talking to dead fathers and dragging dead bodies, not to mention a murder.
    He stood up.
    “Did I kill him?” he asked.
    She looked at him with a stewpot of mixed emotions - pity, disgust, impatience, maybe a little amusement. “I killed him. Weren’t you watching?”
    Listen to her boy. Your eyes have forgotten how to look clearly.
    Carnival picked up the dead man’s arms and started to drag.
    Sure. Drag the dead man. It’s easier than thinking. Duty is easier than responsibility. Ask any soldier.
    “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
    “It means exactly what I said,” Maya snapped.
    Just doing my duty. Following orders. Not my responsibility. I know these words. They were tattooed in the furnaces of Auschwitz , in the blood of a hundred thousand dead Gypsies.”
    “Shut up, Poppa. You were never in Auschwitz .”
    Ha. And where were you when I was carrying bodies from the gas houses to the flames?
    “Will you shut up,” Maya demanded.
    “Don’t tell me to shut up. This wasn’t my idea.”
    “You stuck the knife in him.”
    “I was pushed.”
    Ha. Do you know that’s just what old Ben Scratch said right after he belly-flopped into the lowest level of Hades shadiest bargain basement. He didn’t want to leave the penthouse, either.
    That was what the Rom called the devil. Ben, or Bengh. God, or what we thought was God, was called Duvvel, or Devel. The Gypsy loved to be contrary. We’d call black white, if anybody cared to argue with us.
    “You could help, Poppa.”
    Maya stared like she was getting set to blow a gasket. Let her, Carnival thought. He was carrying her leftover dinner.
    And how could I help? I’m a ghost, aren’t I?
    You’re more than that, Poppa.
    Don’t keep a woman waiting. It’s bad luck. Drag, boy, drag.
    Maya looked at him with eyes as clear and gray as the November sea. Carnival wanted to kiss each of her