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Centering on the quest by a runaway boy named Angel, Kotler presents a literate thriller that careens wildly from the jazz clubs of Jerusalem to the secret underground chambers of the Vatican.
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Published in the United States by Four Walls Eight Windows 39 West 14th Street, room 503 New York, NY 10011 http://www.fourwallseightwindows.com
U.K. offices: Four Walls Eight Windows/Turnaround Unit 3 Olympia Trading Estate Coburg Road, Wood Green London N22 6TZ
First printing March 1999.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a data base or other retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data:
Kotler, Steven, 1967 The angle quickest for flight / by Steven Kotler. p. cm. ISBN 1-56858-129-7 I. Title. PS3561.08459A851999 813'.54dc21 98-55984 CIP
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 Printed in the United States
Interior design by Ink, Inc.
Page iii
"I'll have none on my boat who doth not fear the whale." Herman Melville
Page 1
He came west, traveling in a long pocket of dawn that never strays far from a sallow gray. Behind him a set of mountains reaches high into a wide sky and on certain peaks are footprints and patches of grass pressed flat against the earth where he had made his camp. Behind these places are other camps and other footsteps and a long walk without a good reason and somewhere back there are his parents, alone now, in a house too big for them, wondering where their son has gone.
It is no longer winter. Soon his picture will begin appearing in leaflets and grocery stores among so many other lost or left or no longer wanting to be found. But it's not much use, he dyed his hair in the bathroom of a Texaco and lost his virginity to a long-legged bull rider named Linda in the hayloft of a Texas panhandle barn and is about as gone as gone can get.
Now, it's morning in Santa Fe and he sits in plain sight on a shaky park bench under a sad willow. There's a wind in the trees and a dull roar to the north where a storm's been building. This is the main plaza, a plunk of grass surrounded by a square of streets. It's early and except for a stalled pickup in the northwest corner, the roads are empty of cars. In the distance, salsa plays. There's a rhythm there, but it's too soon and no one moves to it.
Across from him, under a long verandah, Indians are setting out wares. Fresh bread, pottery, jewelry, brushed wool blankets in neat rows on a hard ground. They're slow
Page 2
and old and sick of it all. They know that the weather won't hold and the few tourists left in town are still asleep in their hotel rooms, but it's been a long time since they have had any choice in the matter. He watches them slump, that's the word for it, knowing that the silence and the gray and the approaching storm hold something for them that will never be his.
He cups a cigarette deep in his fingers, the smoke hanging in the heavy breeze, hanging close to his mouth a moment longer than it should. It isn't much of a trick, rather something that happened to him. Just the way the world works now.
An old woman watches him from the opposite corner of the plaza. Not one of the Indians, though at a glance there's almost no telling. Lean and taut. Eyes the color of ash. She wears old jeans and cowboy boots sculled at odd angles as if they had been drawn and quartered and restitched out of sentiment. He understands this, the need for things attached.
He's been here a week and seen her for most of it: a far shadow that is always there. The way she moves like an old history teacher makes him think there is no way she should be able to keep up.
She watches him with nonchalance, as if this is another thing in a long list of things she does, as if he were to stand and turn and walk out of her life forever it would be no different than if she never bothered to read today's paper.
He isn't going to do anything about her, or not yet. There's a part of him that will always like such games.
The rain starts as sound. At first he thinks it's coming from a radio, a canteen band playing a chutney of Latin
Page 3
rhythm. It comes slowly and there's even a pause between drops, but he hears the hiss of grass: cold rain and black skies, the way it happens in the desert. Maybe it will start slowly and he'll have time to make it back to his camp or wait it out in the library; he doesn't really know what to do with this day. He doesn't have time. The rain falls hard and fast. And he understands this too, the need to seek level ground.
Only the Indians don't move. This is Just another storm they'll have to wait out.
He walks across the street and up the stairs of a bar. He doesn't have a gait as much as a motion, not slick or slow or shambling or shuttling or anything quite. He walks with his square shoulders square and his chin up and eyes the color of lawn grass always looking into some medium distance, just beyond the edge of sight. The street is already wet, his boots track water into the bar. It's a little early for a drink and he doesn't have ID and, even if he did, he's still only seventeen. But in this rain it doesn't matter, before anyone notices he's sitting on a stool, beside three or four others, sipping a cup of hot coffee.
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1999