Green Eyes

  ‘Early one mornin’ with light rain fallin’  I rode off upon my iron horse,  You seen my poster and you read my rap sheet:  Armed and dangerous, no distinguishin’ marks,  Wanted for all the unnatural crimes  And for havin’ too much fun,

  He leads a pack of one-eyed Jacks, ,  He’s known as Harley David’s son!  Aw, they say hell hath no fury  Like a woman scorned,  But all them scornful women catch their hell  From Harley David’s son!’

  The door slammed; Richmond quit pounding and noodled the keys, a musical texture more appropriate to the peaceful morning air. Sunlight laid a diagram of golden light and shadow over the carpet, the lowest ranks of the paintings were masked in reflected glare, and ceramic figurines glistened on end tables beside the French doors. Jocundra and Audrey were sitting on a sofa, talking, at ease, and their voices were a gentle, refined constant like the chatter of pet birds. The old house seemed to be full of its original atmosphere, its gilt and marble and lacquer breathing a graciousness which not even Richmond’s song could disrupt. And yet Donnell detected an ominous disturbance in the air, fading now, as if a gong had been struck and the rippling note had sunk below the audible threshold. He felt it dooming through his flesh, insisting that the peace and quiet was an illusion, that today was May the third, Magnusson’s May the third, and thereafter nothing would be the same. He was being foolish, he told himself, foolish and suggestible. He did not understand half of what Magnusson spouted, and the other half was unbelievable, but when he tried to finalize his disbelief, to forget about Magnusson, he could not. The old man’s arguments -though they sounded insane - were neither disassociative nor rambling, not senile.

  ‘Hey!’ Richmond nudged him and handed him a piece of paper. ‘Check it out.’

  Donnell was glad for the distraction. He read the lines, then used the piano bench as a table on which to scrawl changes. ‘Try this.’ He passed the paper back to Richmond, who frowned and fingered the chords:

  ‘Cold iron doesn’t stop me  And you ain’t got no silver gun…’

  Richmond clucked his tongue. ‘Lemme see how it works together.’ He sang the song under his breath, filling with the chords.

  The song was Richmond’s sole creation, and Donnell approved of it; it was, like Richmond, erratic and repetitive and formless. The choruses - there were dozens, detailing the persona of a cosmic outlaw who wore a three-horned helmet - were sung over a major chord progression; Richmond talked the verses in a minor blues key, telling disconnected stories about cheap crooks and whores and perverts he had known.

  The slow vibration in the air ended, sheared off, as if a circuitbreaker had engaged, and Donnell suddenly believed it h.ad been in the air, a tangible evidence of Magnusson’s proof, and was not a product of suggestion or sensory feedback from his own body.

  ‘This here’s the best goddamn one yet!’ Richmond poised his hands above the keyboard. ‘Dig it!’

  ‘I think Magnusson’s done something,’ said Donnell.

  Richmond snorted. ‘You hearin’ voices or something, man? Shit! Listen up.’

  ‘If you hear a rumblin’,  It’s too late to run,  Cold iron doesn’t stop me  And you ain’t got no silver gun,

  Then your girlfriend’s breast starts tremblin’  And she screams, “Oh God! Here he comes!”  Half beast, half man, half Master Plan,  It’s Harley David’s son!  Aw, I’ll kiss your one-eyed sister,  Hell, I’ll lick her socket with my tongue!  I’m Christ-come-down-and-fucked-around,  I’m Harley David’s son!’