Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2006

In gym class, the first thing Papa Smurf did was grab him by the back of the neck and smash his head into the locker room wall.

Neon dots jumped to his eyes, like fairies of pain summoned by the Smurfmaster. Linc’s legs grew wobbly, and he slumped to the floor. He nearly lost contact, but pulled himself out of it just in time to hear Papa Smurf say, “You a dead man, Linc.”

He sat on the floor in his gym shorts, feeling sick to his stomach because the pain was so bad, smelling the stink of his own fear through the Mountain Air scent of his sports deodorant, all the jackals walking out to the gym, ignoring him, no one helping him.

He heard the whistle blow in the gym. Mr. Quantz barked, and the boys played basketball, the ball dribbling with painful whacks up and down the hardwood floor.

He pushed himself up. The bile rose in his throat, but he choked it down. He touched his forehead, felt a warm wet bump forming, pulled his fingers away, and saw blood, not much, but enough to make him think of blood the way Madmaxx might. Could blood freeze? He thought of his own blood on the windowsill. He thought of the pigeon print in the blood. And it was then that the heavens opened, and sunlight flooded through, and he realized that the whole thing was about shoes after all, only not about Madmaxx’s shoes, but about a different pair, Papa Smurf’s size 14 Nikes, the Smurfmaster’s bright red Shox Ride 2s, worn day in and day out, picking up scratches and nicks, thousands of identifying characteristics, so they at last had their own pattern, as individual as a snowflake, and as unique as the grains of sand on a beach.

He got out of his gym uniform and put on his street clothes. He checked his wallet, had seventeen dollars, enough to get him downtown. He walked to the garbage can, lifted the bag out, and found extra ones beneath, ready for the janitor. He took out a spare bag and stuffed the regular one back in.

He walked to Papa Smurf’s cubbyhole, retrieved the Shox Ride 2s, turned them over, and inspected the soles the way a palm reader might look at lifelines. Nicks and dents, even a chunk missing from the left one — a pair of shoes like no other, a snowflake, a grain of sand, uniquely identified, perfectly designed to leave an impression in half-frozen blood, like that pigeon print on the windowsill.

Papa Smurf had written his name on the inside, “Alexander Guthrie,” as well as his telephone number. Case closed.

Linc slid the shoes into the bag, left the locker room, exited the school by the back, and took the bus downtown.

Got to the police station and went inside. Cops all around, but they hardly gave him a look. He approached the duty desk, said to the desk sergeant that he was Detective Donaldson’s friend, they played hoops together. Detective Donaldson had forgotten his shoes, and here they were, in this garbage bag, could you make sure he got them?

The desk sergeant opened the bag, looked inside, and backed away. “They stink.”

“They stink all right.” And Linc wondered if all killers had the same stink. “But they be special. Tell him that. They be one of a kind.”

The desk sergeant’s eyes narrowed.

Before the desk sergeant could put it together, Linc moved off.

He didn’t go home, couldn’t go home, went to the library instead.

He called and left a message for his ma and pa. “Don’t worry about me, I be fine. I ain’t comin’ home tonight, but I be fine.”

He sat in the DPl’s Main Library on Woodward Avenue, a Wednesday night so it was open till eight, and read Guitar World, interviews with newer guitarists — Warren Haynes, David Chastain, and Derek Trucks. Chilled there until they finally kicked him out, but still didn’t go home, stayed away from home, protecting his ma and pa.

He left the library and wandered Detroit’s cold streets. The snow had been packed by people walking on it, and was as dirty as a doormat.

He walked to keep warm. He rubbed his hands repeatedly. The cold wind blew from Canada and he knew that he should have worn gloves, that he had to learn how to keep better care of his hands if he was going to be the next Hendrix. He tried to form, midair, a flat-nine chord, but his hands were so stiff, his fingers wouldn’t cooperate, and he finally gave up.

Went to a jazz club, but they kicked him out because he was underage. Not good enough. Madmaxx always telling him that. Always getting him to strive for better.

So he went to another, and the doorman let him stay because he was a musician and wanted to learn. As he sat there, he felt some of the old thrill coming back, especially when the guitarist played a blues lick. He was reminded of all the hours he and Madmaxx had sat in his room listening to music, and how Madmaxx, just by his presence, had made the music mean something. For the first time since the murder, his hands loosened. He touched his finger calluses over and over again, remembering how Madmaxx had once called them miracles of determination.

He wanted to stay all night, but the club closed and he had to go, so he wandered around some more, walking, walking, trying to keep his blood moving. Blood froze. Sometimes, after a concert at the Fox, he and Madmaxx would walk around. Sometimes they would go to the library together. He was going to miss Madmaxx. Madmaxx was his friend. His main man. And he would never have a main man like Madmaxx again