Bravado's House of Blues (9 page)

Heather left for the airport. As the cab pulled away, Uly prepared himself. He put on the jeans Heather had convinced him to buy, put on her Seattle Mariner’s cap, and walked out of his sanctuary. He waved at the Nguyens as he passed their shop and made his way down to Jones Street. He crossed Main by the old Five and Dime, knocked on the glass, and waved at Mrs. Templeton as she swept the aging retail outlet. This was his town, he thought resolutely. He’d lived here his whole life and he’d be damned if he was going to let Stuart Johnson drive him out.

After several blocks, he crossed Maple in front of the courthouse and stood staring at the Wild Thangs, the only bar in town. He knew he would find Stuart here, knew it just as he knew that the retired farmers would all attend his next funeral, like the Liquor Village would sell to minors, like the redneck bigots of this growing town feared those different from themselves. This fear had finally registered with Uly. He knew fear and uncertainty. He knew what they refused to see—what ate at them. He’d been living in the shadow of fear for thirty odd years and had finally embraced it. These macho boys would never know what hit them.

A warm wind blew across the town that evening, Uly observed—wind that smelled of thunderstorms. He felt the energy rippling through his body like a Tesla coil.

*

The Wild Thang catered to lawyers and local government workers until just around six. That’s when the decent folks headed home for supper with the family and the rougher crowd moved in. Uly quietly walked around the two pool tables as the last of the suits made their way to the exit. Within a half an hour, the place held two die-hard lawyers, arguing the merits of some case or other in one of the back booths, and Uly. He sat at the bar, nursing a scotch and soda, when he spied his first target. Billy Templeton, at the ripe old age of eighteen, had already sided with the no good, bottom-feeders in town. Uly challenged him to a quick game of eight ball. Rumors had it that Billy fancied himself a hustler. Uly took twenty dollars from him in the first thirty minutes, all the while feeling the luck sing in his ears.

An hour later, Uly watched from a side table as Stuart and some of the others entered the bar. They didn’t notice him at first, but took over the bar en masse. Within minutes, Billy filled them in on his losses. Stuart threw back a shot of whisky and called out to Uly.

“So, faggot . . . Billy here says you can play some pool.”

Uly slowly chalked his cue and stared at Stuart.

“How about you and me play for some real money,” Stuart said as he slapped a single hundred-dollar bill on the table.

“You’re on,” Uly said.

Uly let Stuart get ahead before he put on the juice. He ran the table, sending Stuart around the room cursing and stomping. Uly reached for the hundred with all the confidence in the world.

Stuart called him again and they played for two hundred, “Double or nothing,” Stuart had brayed.

The outcome was the same. Uly pushed his luck again and again. He even went so far as to cause Stuart to scratch on the break of their fourth game. By this time, Stuart had consumed a large quantity of alcohol. Uly stayed one step ahead of the boys all night, tweaking the balls at every opportunity. Many of the other patrons started grumbling words like “cheater” and “hustler.” Uly watched gleefully as Stuart’s rage continued to build.

Finally around eleven, Uly picked up the seven hundred dollars he had taken from Stuart and his boys. He folded the money dramatically and shoved it deep into the front pocket of his jeans. He tipped two fingers to the side of his head in salute to the barmaid and stuffed a twenty into her tip jar. She just eyed Uly as she wiped down the bar.

Uly went to the bathroom. When he came out, the bar had pretty much cleared out.

“Good night,” Uly said to the barmaid.

“Don’t come in here again,” she said in return. She didn’t look happy. Uly smiled at her really big as he grabbed a handful of peanuts out of the wooden bowl on the bar. He sat down and looked up at the television.

“Been playing the same news story all evening.”

“What’s that all about?” he asked the unhappy barkeep.

“Don’t suppose you paid any attention to the news, seeing how you were hustling Stuart Johnson.”

“Yeah, I did humiliate him tonight, didn’t I?” he asked with a smile.

“He’ll kill you, you know that don’t you,” she said, her voice flat and unemotional. Like she was telling him his fly was open.

“Yeah, well, I can handle myself,” he said. His bravado rang with his stunning victories of the entire evening. “I kicked their asses.”

“Shut up,” she said, and turned off the mute on the television.

*

In our continuing coverage of the air disaster over Montana . . .
He spun around on the stool.

Tonight another Boeing 737 fell out of the sky, killing all one hundred and thirty seven passengers and crew aboard. The National Transportation Safety Board has not confirmed why the late model Boeing jet fell from the sky. The last transmissions from the pilots to the air-traffic controllers reveal no problems. Weather has not been ruled out as a cause. The NTSB will know more once crews discover the black box that is somewhere in the five square miles of wreckage.

He watched in horror as the flight number flashed across the screen. That was Heather’s flight.

He thought back to the afternoon. Heather had stumbled when coming out of the shower and broke the shower head off the wall as she tried to prevent herself from falling. While packing, she’d accidentally smashed her favorite bottle of perfume into her suitcase, drenching all the clothes she had here in Kentucky. As she rushed to get out to the taxi, she broke the heel on her left shoe and had to go back inside for another pair. She had left the book she was reading on his nightstand and she had stepped on her sunglasses. He had been so preoccupied with plotting his revenge that he had not put the pieces together. Mr. Bloocher had warned him against tampering with the luck of the living. He hadn’t listened. He had tapped into the natural ebb and flow of her luck, and now he was responsible for the deaths of one hundred and thirty seven innocent people, including the woman he loved.

Uly tried to stand, but found his legs would not respond to his commands. She was gone and he’d killed her. The wild fluctuations of the living luck had filled him to overflowing and had left her wanting. The television began to talk of pilot error.

He staggered out of the Wild Thang and leaned against one of the three parking meters on Maple. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath. The night around him throbbed with the upcoming storms, but he had lost the sympathetic thrum he had felt earlier. His luck had been expended, pushed to its limits in his rush to humiliate his enemies. He needed to get home, to find Mr. Bloocher. He’d know what to do. He numbly walked across Maple and cut across the courthouse lawn. As he neared the parking lot behind the jail he heard the quiet crunch of gravel.

“Who’s there?” he called into the late night gloom.

Out of the alley between the courthouse and the jail stepped Stuart Johnson and his boys.

“Think you’re pretty hot shit. Don’t ya,” Stuart said as he stopped under a street lamp. “You really fucked up, boy.”

Uly had no illusions. He knew there was no way he could handle a single one of those boys—much less the six or seven that were there.

Uly tried pushing his luck but nothing happened. All he felt inside was a huge vacant vortex.

The grumbling sky finally broke open with crashing lightning and hammering fists. Water splashed against the back of Uly’s neck as he tried to breathe through his battered face. He watched as the rain diluted his blood that flowed into the street. The night rumbled in anger as he finally succumbed to the repeated kicks. His one moment of glory lost in the blackness.

*

Uly blinked his eyes into focus. The soft beep, beep of a heart monitor filled his world as he took in his surroundings. Every muscle hurt.

“Hello,” Uly croaked. “Could I get something to drink?”

“Well,” Mr. Bloocher said, bending the magazine he was reading to his knees. “About time you came around. I was beginning to wonder if I’d be needing a new assistant.”

“So, I’m going to survive, after all?” Uly asked.

Sam Bloocher’s look was not entirely encouraging. “You’ll live,” he said. “What the hell got into you, boy?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s a good thing Susy over at the Wild Thang called me. If you’d lain in that alley much longer, the doctors said you woulda died.”

“Maybe I should have,” Uly said. He remembered the plane crash and the fiery destruction of the only woman he had ever loved.

“Your grandmother will be happy when you are feeling better. She offered to have you move down to Florida with her. I convinced her to let you stay on here.”

“Thanks, I wouldn’t have gone anyway.”

“Don’t be too sure,” Mr. Bloocher said. “You are going to have a bit of a problem getting around. The doctors said with adequate physical therapy you might be able to walk with a cane.”

“I pushed my luck too far, didn’t I? You know I siphoned luck from Heather before . . . before she died.”

Bloocher sat stoically in the hardback chair, not answering.

“I know you told me not to attempt pulling luck from the living, but Stuart had gone too far, I had to do something.”

“You’ve been in a coma for seven weeks.”

“What?”

“Yep, seven weeks. A lot of things have happened since you screwed up.”

“So, what’s seven weeks? I’m wondering if I shouldn’t have died. How am I going to live with the guilt, without her?”

“Not everything’s your fault, boy,” Mr. Bloocher said. He stood and crossed to the bedside, patting Uly on the hand. “Sometimes folks do stupid things and some folks are just unlucky. You managed to be both recently.”

Uly turned his head toward the wall, tears streaming down his face.

“Stuart Johnson was arrested two weeks ago for attacking Mr. Nguyen. Who knew that spindly little character was also a black belt. Beat the tar outta Stuart before calling the police. That on top of the beating you took is probably enough to put him away for a few years.”

Uly felt hollow inside.

“That boy’s been pushing his luck his whole life, Uly. You can’t continue to do that without it catching up to you.”

“I know.”

“Well, I told you, you had the damnedest luck I ever saw.”

“I can’t feel it. I couldn’t feel it after I humiliated Stuart. I think I broke something important inside.”

“Well, you did a number on yourself, but like most muscles, this one can be repaired.”

Uly continued to stare at the wall. Okay, so he could rebuild his luck, scratch his way back up to having a normal existence, but the luck muscle was not the one that hurt at this moment. The ache in his chest felt more hollow and painful than anything he had ever experienced.

“What I didn’t know was that Heather
was
my luck,” Uly finally said.

“We all get gifts in our lives,” Mr. Bloocher said. “Some of us never appreciate them. At least now you know what you have.”

“But I can’t stand the thought of life without her, can you understand that?” He felt the anger rising into his face. “Damn it, she didn’t deserve to die. She didn’t deserve to be used like that. She was too good.”

Uly looked over at the sound of Mr. Bloocher chuckling.

“What’s so damn funny?”

“You, son. That’s what. Oh, I can’t blame you, but you are in for a serious change of heart.” He looked at his watch and nodded. “I’ve got to step out for a few minutes. I’ll be back shortly.” He slipped out the door.

Uly rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. He thought of all he and Heather had shared, of the joy he had known for such a brief time.

The door quietly opened. He didn’t look. After a couple of seconds, when no one came in, he turned his head to see . . .
her
.

Heather stood in the doorway, clutching a magazine to her chest with one hand, the other pressed firmly against her mouth. He looked on in shock as the tears rolled down her cheeks.

“I’d thought I’d lost you,” she said.

Uly couldn’t believe what he was seeing. How could she be there?

“What happened, how are you . . .” He struggled to sit up. He fought the blankets and tubes for a few seconds before he fell back exhausted.

“Oh, Uly. Mr. Bloocher told me you thought I’d died in that crash. I never made it. I was in an accident, but it was the taxi. I never made it to the airport that night.”

“What?”

“It’s true, as you can see,” she said, spinning one full turn, stuttering around on the cast on her left foot. “I’m a little banged up, but could be worse.”

“My God,” he gasped. “I just can’t believe you’re here.”

“You better believe I’m here. Your grandmother and I have had several long phone conversations, mister. She told me what a stubborn, mule-headed child you always were.”

Embarrassment fought with elation as he continued to stare at her numbly.

“I’m glad she was right. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t hung in there,” she crossed the room and put her hand on the side of his face. “Mr. Bloocher says you feel responsible somehow. That’s just foolish. The accident proved to be the best thing that could have happened to me, all things considering.”

Uly continued to stare at hear, drinking in her touch on his face—the sound of her voice.

“I lost two good friends on that flight,” she said with a touch of sadness in her voice. “But I didn’t die.” She stroked his face, brushing away the streaming tears. “You silly man. How could you be responsible? You are the best thing that ever happened to me. I love you.”

The HANGING of the GREENS

L
egate Atticus spurred his horse forward through the thickening snow. The expectancy of combat pulsed through him as the air hummed with the foul taint of magic. Once again the Gauls called upon the Fey to assist them.

At the top of the ridge, above the tents, he stopped to survey the troops as they prepared for the day’s battle. The left wing moved into position—three cohorts strong. The center had been in place since sunup. He grimaced at the ragtag formation of the four cohorts on the right. Their skirmish line spread across the field like a ragged scar. The new recruits needed discipline.

“Damn this winter.” He spat onto the frigid ground. “It takes a heavy toll on Caesar’s best.”

Several of the men blamed the Gauls for the harshness of the weather. Frigid nights concerned Atticus less than Caesar’s inattention. How many cohorts had Caesar lost since fall? Twelve? Fifteen? Caesar mourned the losses in his family, haunting Rome in his anguish, allowing the front to languish. But the deaths of ten thousand or more solid legionnaires due in no small part to an inexcusable lack of attentiveness spoke ill for the coming campaign. Rumor abounded of the Gauls’ victories over the past seasons. No few of them mentioned the druids and their allies, the Fey. Atticus had witnessed the woods working against Caesar and his men. When they crossed the Meuse into Belgae, huge trees had flung themselves into the river and carried many good men to a watery grave.

His horse moved restlessly beneath him, anxious for battle, no doubt. Atticus watched the woods in front of him, watched the snow falling from the gray sky. This winter, we will crush them, he swore to whatever gods cared to listen. In response, the snowfall thickened around him, muffling the sounds of the men and horses. The curses and mutterings faded along with the clinking of armor and weapons. Atticus shook his head, trying to clear his mind.

*

A thick blanket of new winter snow covered the hollows for miles around Hindman, Kentucky. Schools had been closed for a week and a festive mood crept along the back roads and trailer parks like a hunting beast. Once again, the warm glow of Christmas graced the little country church deep in Tadpole Hollow.

The women of the church bustled around the hall. A fire burned merrily in the huge fireplace along the eastern wall, filling the hall with warmth. Children played with the wooden nativity set. Christmas music droned in the background, adding a nice undertone to the quiet, eager exchanges between the parishioners. Excitement reached a tight pitch as the festival preparations began to finish up.

This was a most special celebration, for two of their own had returned from exile. The women-folk orbited around Sally Preston and her young daughter Candace. Beauty Queen Sally had left Tadpole Hallow after high school, following a charismatic preacher-man she’d met during a tent revival. Anyone could have told her that the hell-fire-and-brimstone preaching wouldn’t stop at the tent, but she didn’t see it. After six years of broken dreams and broken bones, Sally had left the Right Reverend Winston and returned to her home, a skittish woman whose beauty had been marred by too many bruises and too little hope.

Junie Stimpleton, once Sally Preston’s best friend, passed through the meeting hall wielding her two-quart jar of eggnog like a weapon—parrying and thrusting, darting and dancing around the crowd of old and young alike. She watched Sally like a hawk, protective and distant at the same time. Every time the jar emptied, she swung back to the kitchen to report to Mabel.

Mabel Carpenter puttered in the small kitchen, putting the final touches on a tray of warm, doughy Christmas trees. Sprinkles of green sugar added the
coup de grace
.

The final cohort moved into place. The creak and groan of the war machines gave Atticus a warm feeling of confidence. The time for the dance was upon them. Experienced troops manned the scorpions, moving about the machinery with ease, loading the bolts with precision and care. The ballista units, however, had suffered heavy casualties in the last battle and the newly conscripted crews handled the stones and counter-weights with all the discipline of geese. Atticus watched the men as they moved about the bulky war machines. He was struck by the whiteness of their breath and wondered how many of them would fall steaming onto the cold packed earth before this day was through.

*

Reverend Thomas E. Sykes held court with the local men folk. Tonight they would enter the wild woods and gather the raiment for the celebration of winter’s promise of resurrection.

“This year, we’re taking three vehicles. Bobby Stinnet will drive his new pickup and take the Farley brothers. Now, Bobby, you watch out for those two—never saw a pair of twins that wasn’t up to some form of mischief.”

The tall, fair-skinned boys grinned at the reverend, nudging and jostling each other when they thought he wasn’t looking.

“Ed will take Michael and Kyle in his Blazer. And I’ll drive up with Deacon Smith in his Lincoln.”

The other men sniggered. Deacon Smith hiked up his britches and glared at the others.

“Ridin’ in style won’t do you no good, Reverend,” said Kyle Pruitt. “That sled won’t make it anywhere near Dwarf or Rowdy.”

“I got the trunk loaded down with twenty-pound bags of cement,” Deacon Smith said. “You just make sure you boys don’t get lost. If I recall, we pulled you and Mikey out of the ditch over by two-nineteen last year.”

“Black ice, that’s what it was,” Michael said. “Ain’t cause I’m a bad driver. I got a C-plus in Drivers Ed.”

“All right, boys,” Reverend Sykes said. “We know you’re an excellent driver, Michael. We all run afoul of black ice in our lives, now, don’t we, fellas?”

All the men nodded and answered in a chorus of “Uh huhs.”

“Now,” the reverend continued, “we once again honor an ancient tradition of rebirth and immortality. We pay homage to the good Lord and honor his commitment to the everlasting life that is our right when we accept him into our hearts.”

“Amen,” they chorused.

“And in keeping with the traditions of this glorious season, we once again take up sickle and saw, knife and hatchet to harvest the bounty of the forest in the service of our Lord.”

“Amen.”

“I been watching that stand of oak out on the Mercer place,” said Tim Farley. “Me and Jim climbed up there around Thanksgiving and checked on the mistletoe. Looks like a good crop this year.”

“That’s good news, boys. And Kyle—you and Michael are in charge of holly this year. Make sure you get plenty, and try to get some with berries if you can.”

“Aw, Reverend. Them holly bushes got prickers,” Michael said.

“Wear gloves, idjit,” Deacon Smith said, tapping his fingers on his can of pomade. “You were supposed to get the holly last year when you
conveniently
got stuck in that ditch.”

“Remember, Michael,” said the reverend. “You are in the service of the Lord. Surely you can’t think that taking a few holly boughs could be any harder than wearing that crown of thorns. You didn’t hear Christ Almighty whining about the prickers, now did you?”

“No sir, Reverend.”

“Good. Now men, don’t let the mistletoe hit the ground. Can’t have it tainted. And Deacon, I want to harvest some laurel if we got the time.”

“Oh, we’ll make time, Reverend,” Deacon Smith said with a broad smile. “We’ll do it up like the old days.”

“Let’s be careful,” Reverend Sykes said. “I don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

“Gram tells about a fellah getting killed bringing in the greens,” Michael said. “Musta been forty years ago.”

The men looked from one to another.

“Thirty-seven,” Reverend Sykes said. “Old Mabel’s first husband, God rest his soul.” He looked at each of them, holding eye-contact for a brief moment. “No accidents. What say you?”

“Amen,” said the men.

*

Atticus watched the Gauls move in and out of the shadowed wood, many howling along with their huge hounds.

He waved the emissaries out across the left wing. The men hesitated, looking around in dismay. The last three engagements had seen the emissaries returned without their heads. Why Caesar insisted on giving these barbarians a chance to surrender this late in the campaign he just couldn’t understand. This spoke of a weakness that could very well prove to be Caesar’s greatest flaw. Strike first, Atticus believed. Let the gods sort the innocent from the guilty.

*

“What are the men doing, Momma?” Candace Preston asked, twisting her left foot back and forth as if she were putting out a cigarette. She tugged at one straw-blonde pigtail.

For a moment, no one said anything. Sally Preston put down her cross-stitch and looked at her daughter thoughtfully.

“They’re bringing in the greens,” Mabel Carpenter said before Sally could respond.

Candace stared at the old woman. She looked about four days older than dirt and had a disposition to match any of the snakes the men folk would be passing around later as they sang hymns.

“What for?” Candace asked.

“Child, didn’t your mother teach you anything?” Mabel asked. “They’re gathering the laurel and holly, pine and mistletoe, to decorate the church and celebrate the season of renewal.”

“But why do we do that? Hang the greens, I mean?”

Mabel shot Sally Preston a narrow-eyed glare. Sally wouldn’t meet it. “Well,” Mabel began, “the greenery represents everlasting life.”

“You mean like in Heaven?”

“Yes, honey,” Sally said.

Candace grimaced as old miss Mabel glared at her momma again. “How long you going to be telling that child such fabrications?”

Candace looked around the room. Many of the women looked away. Her momma’s eyes grew large. “She’s only a child,” her mother said. “She ain’t ready to hear that sort of wives’ tale.”

“Wives’ tale?” Mabel growled. “There are few
tales
told in this church, young lady. You should know better than that.”

Her momma hung her head and stroked Candace’s hair quietly. Around the room the other women worked with bowed heads. The whisper of thread being pulled through linen slithered through the silence.

“You come over here, little’un, and I’ll tell you the real story.” Mabel held her hands out to Candace, who looked back and forth between her mother and the old woman.

“Calliope,” she called over. “You take the young ones upstairs and sing carols while we have a talk.”

“Yes’m,” Calliope Smith said with a nod.

The riotous noise of a dozen children scampering up to the sanctuary echoed through the hall.

As the last child vanished Mabel smiled sweetly and held out her arms. “Come on, honey,” she crooned. “Let old Granny tell you a little story.”

*

Atticus and his men huddled in a defensive formation, panting from the most recent skirmish. Blood dripped from his torn scalp, a present from a thick oaken cudgel. The fever of battle faded as the dead steamed at their feet. This was nothing compared to the engagement just days before. That fight had been swift and merciless. Of the seven cohorts under Atticus’ command, two of the more experienced had held the skirmish line, protecting the baggage and siege engines. The new cohorts had fallen, breaking under the fierce barbarian onslaught, and now were sport for the crows. Of the remaining cohort, two centuries of battle-hardened legionnaires remained. They hunted the Gauls, if one could call two hundred men hacking and burning their way deep into the primal forests a hunt.

The forest was eerily quiet as the men caught their wind and tightened up their formation. Atticus walked ahead several paces, away from the protection of his men, but also away from the sound of their breathing and the stench of their sweat. He needed to listen, to smell clean air and think. This ambush had been small, two dozen men and their large, slavering hounds. The gods favored him, Atticus surmised, for he had lost just three men this time. How many more days must he pursue the mad druids and their ilk?

“Legate?”

Atticus whirled around, his short dagger flashing out. He lowered his blade when he recognized one of his scouts.
Control there, Atticus,
he thought to himself.
Keep a grip on things.

“Bellicus, what say you?”

Bellicus held out a small, squirming sack. “We caught one of the pixies alive this time.”

“Excellent,” Atticus said with a grimace. They walked back toward the rest of the troops. “How did the men fare?”

“We had a narrow escape,” Bellicus said. “They magicked a great oak to fall across our path as we scouted ahead.”

Several of the battle-weary men within hearing cringed as if they had been struck. Their fear of the wild ones lay across the group like a thickening fog.

“Show some spine,” Atticus snapped. Even the veterans quailed at the magic of the Fey.

“And how did you capture this . . . thing?” Atticus asked as he poked the swinging bag with his dagger. A tiny yelp escaped the canvas. The men around them hurried about their business, giving the bag glancing looks, as they made ready to move.

“This one took too long gloating,” Bellicus said with a wicked grin. “Your idea of the nets has proven a good one, Legate.”

Atticus grunted and poked the bag once more. “Any way to make this creature speak?”

“Oh, he’s been speaking all right,” Bellicus said, casting his glance from side to side. “The others are sure that the tiny creature is cursing us with every breath, but we can’t make out anything he says.”

“There’s got to be a way to get some information out of this little bastard,” Atticus said. He slapped the bag, sending it rocking back and forth in the scout’s grip. This time the noise that escaped took on a more sullen quality.

While Bellicus held the bag carefully, Atticus forced his dagger into the opening and carefully pulled the cloth aside, peering into its depths. A small winged creature lay in the bottom, tousled and very, very angry. Atticus noticed how the wings shimmered in the thin light. These creatures had haunted his dreams when he slept and bedeviled his days when he rode. It astounded him how something this small could cause Caesar’s army such great anguish.