Cowboy Feng's Space Bar and Grille (10 page)

Anyway, Jamie seated himself beneath Libby’s breasts, Rose next to a model of an extinct piece of marginal technology, and myself below the Sword of Damocles, and we spoke softly about many things, far into the night. We spoke of travels on Old Earth, people we knew and missed, music, love; and it was as good as a meal at Feng’s.

The next morning, we were awakened at an obscene hour, like eight o’clock, by some sort of loud buzzing noise originating from somewhere within the apartment. The operative word here is
loud
. It had two or three simultaneous pitches, and they were all designed to grate on the human nervous system. Jamie and I met in the hallway, he in his red terry cloth, I in my red silk. Rose came out behind him dressed in a sheet. “It isn’t the doorbell,” she said. Tom was sitting up in the living room frowning a frown of puzzlement and staring at the kitchen, whence the noise seemed to originate. He got up (black briefs were his fashion statement) and walked into the kitchen, his arms dangling.

The sound was coming from a small black plasma terminal set into the wall next to an attached handset. Right. He looked back at me. I picked up the handset, the sound stopped, and a machine-generated voice said something in French while displaying it on the screen. I strongly suspect it said that we now had phone service.

“We now have phone service,” I announced. “I forgot I ordered it. The phone came with the apartment, and local service doesn’t cost much, so what the hell?” Had we only been here a few weeks? It seemed like much longer.

“Will it make that sound again?” said Rose.

“There’s probably a way to change the tone or turn it off.”

“You should find it,” said Rose. “That’s the important thing.”

“I understand that now.”

The four of us went after the instruction booklet, and the “?” button on the phone. Well, the three of us. Rose made coffee and helpful comments. I suspect that the instructions would have been pretty obvious if we spoke French. Fortunately most common mistakes routed one to someone who knew what to do, so we eventually got hold of a “Service Center Representative” who spoke English and filled us in on name codes, place codes, title codes, voice activation, preselect, recall, and the rest of the details concerning the operation of the easy-to-use private-band-series ground-to-ground Personal Communication Console Workstation and Dishwasher.

Well, I made up the part about the dishwasher.

“Great,” I said an hour later, feeling the same satisfaction either Joshua or Delilah must have felt when the Earth moved. “Now what?”

“Sleep,” suggested Jamie.

“Breakfast?” said Rose, pronouncing it “bref-tist.”

“Why don’t you call someone?” said Tom.

“Who?”

“How about Feng’s? Fred or Libby will be there.”

“Do you know the number?”

“What number? Hit ‘Commercial,’ spell out C-O-W—”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right.”

“Should we put it in memory?”

“You guys do that later; it’s too complicated for me.” I made the call, and Libby’s face appeared on the screen.

“Cowboy Feng’s, this is Libby, can I help you?”

I turned on the local camera. “Hi, there, sex goddess.”

“Billy! You all right?”

“Yeah, fine. We just got a phone installed.”

“Oh. Well, you guys coming in for breakfast?”

“Give us an hour or so.”

“That’s fine, we won’t be open for a couple of hours, at least, so we can have the place to ourselves.”

“Sounds good. See you in a bit.”

“Later.”

There followed one of the few arguments we ever had over use of the shower. We normally avoided these arguments by getting up at different times. This one I won because it was my apartment. But then I felt guilty so I hurried. After several minutes of hot running water we were all prepared to be civil to each other, and agreed that breakfast at Feng’s would be a good thing. Tom even seemed a little happier. I think the phone cheered him up in some strange, unfathomable way.

On the way over, I thought about trying to figure out an alternative route, that didn’t take us past Le Bureau. It wouldn’t be all that hard, just an extra block down LeDuc to Pompidou, then up Valois. But it would be annoying. Maybe it was silly. And then it came to me that Souci had helped me find the apartment, so perhaps it wasn’t a coincidence that we had to walk past the place every day. I kept these thoughts to myself, but they were disturbing.

In spite of all the wasted time, it still lacked half an hour of Feng’s eleven o’clock opening when we arrived at the door. Fred greeted us with, “Good morning, gentlemen,” as he let us in. “We have presents for you.”

We stopped and looked at each other.

“Presents?” ventured Jamie.

“Courtesy of Mr. Feng himself,” said Fred.

We trooped in hesitantly and saw Rich, Eve, and Libby staring solemnly back at us. On a table behind them was the largest collection of firearms I’d ever seen in one place at one time.

Jamie spoke for all of us. “Holy shit,” he said.

The mirror was dirty.

Tom stared into it as if to see something deep and significant in the hollow-cheeked face that stared back at him—maybe a
Picture of Dorian Gray
effect, where he could identify rot that lay somewhere behind his eyes—or
something
to give him some clue as to why he was in this fucked-up trash-heap of a life. If he could only be sure he deserved it, it might be easier to take. Probably not, though.

And, in any case, the mirror was dirty, so that was about it for significance.

He had a sudden urge to smash his fist into it, and, for once, didn’t. He wondered where Sara was, and almost smashed his fist into the mirror yet once again. He thought about having a drink, and made himself look into the mirror again, just to think about something else. By now, he knew better than to have the first one. But then, by now, Sara should know better than to be gone all night and all day like that. Didn’t she care about him?

And the answer to that was: Yes, too fucking much.

It was almost as if she were doing everything she could to make him drink, as if she were trying to—

But she wasn’t. Everything she did, she had a reason for doing that made sense while she was doing it. And that was pretty much as far as it needed to go. She was who she was, and he was who he was, and if they were going to spend a few months or years sticking knives into each other, then that’s just how it would be.

He didn’t decide to go into the kitchen, but somehow there he was, standing in front of the refrigerator wishing there were some beer. He dug around in the pockets of a few old jackets until he found enough money for a six-pack. He stared at it for a long time, then checked the clock above the sink. It was late, he’d have to settle for the sort of beer convenience stores sold. He shrugged.

Before he left the apartment, he put a few things in his old duffel bag, not even half filling it. When he walked out, he noticed that his hand was trembling as he locked the door. That was funny, in a detached sort of way.

Then it was down three flights of stairs to the bus stop, and a timeless time until the bus came. Someone on the bus spoke to him, but it wasn’t until several minutes later that he realized it, and then he wondered how he’d responded.

When it let him off, he walked straight into the treatment center. He didn’t look at the name above it, and he didn’t pause dramatically to have second thoughts or wonder if he could take it, or if it was a good idea; he just walked through the door and checked himself in.

What really stands out in my memory from that moment was not, in fact, the collection of firearms that was getting grease on three of Fred’s nice clean tables; but rather the instant split, as with an axe, between those who were waiting inside and those of us who were just arriving, between those who, as Jamie had suggested, worked for Feng and those who were just along for the ride. Between those who might in some way be responsible for all of this and those who were inarguably innocent. We were no longer simply a group of eight friends, we were now Feng’s people and the band, and we stared at each other as we looked at the piles of weapons occupying the tables.

Jamie, Tom, Rose, and I looked at each other. Then Jamie said, “
Yeah
,” and charged forward to get his hands on the gear. Rose slunk back. Tom and I walked slowly up to the table, and Tom picked up what looked like a service .45, ejected the clip—excuse me, the “magazine”—and did things like he knew what he was doing. I just stared. You want a description? There were lots of guns, most of them brown or black or blue.

Rose came up behind me and put her arms around me. She said very softly, “Billy?”

“Yeah, sis?”

“Do I have to have one of those?”

“No, because you have your fiddle.”

“That’s good. Those things scare me.”

“Me, too.”

“Are you going to take one?”

“No. I don’t need one, either, because I have a banjo.”

As we stood around the table, Fred cleared his throat and began speaking in a distinctly professorial tone. “We have,” he said, “managed to procure a good variety of firearms. Each of you should be able to find a weapon or weapons suitable to your own needs. You may note that most or all of these were in use when we left the Earth. This is because there has not been, so far as I can tell, a great deal of advance in firearms technology, and because I picked out weapons with which I was familiar. Some of these were purchased here, although many were brought from home in anticipation of just such a requirement.”

He paused, during which I exchanged looks with Rose.
Just such a requirement
. I shuddered.

“For myself,” Fred continued, “I have selected an H&K MP5 machine pistol for area control, and a Winchester .30-06 with a 6X scope for distance work. For a handgun, I have my own U.S. Government-issue Beretta nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistol.

“Tom, you seem familiar with the Colt Government Model .45. Is that correct?”

Tom closed his mouth, opened it, and said, “I used one in the Navy.”

“Very good. I suggest you stick with it.”

“No, you stick with a knife. You shoot with a gun.”

Fred continued, “For you, Jamie, with your size, I would recommend a large handgun.” He picked one up. “This is the Smith & Wesson .357 revolver with the eight-inch barrel. It is highly accurate, has good stopping power, and is extremely reliable. I’ll check you out on the quick-loader later.”

Jamie took it like he knew how to handle it, then said, “Do we have an Ithaca pump-action shotgun, like Hawk has?”

“Hawk?”

“In the Spenser books.”

“Oh.” Fred took him seriously. “We have a Remington pump. But I would recommend the Ithaca side-by-side double-barreled twelve-gauge, since it can be sawed off, which a pump-action cannot.”

“Uh, okay.”

“For you, Eve, I would—”

“I don’t want one,” she said almost inaudibly.

“Very well. Rose?”

“No, thank you.”

“Rich?”

“I know how to use a revolver.”

“You’re also pretty big. Do you want the same thing Jamie has? We have a Colt model—”

“I’d rather have something smaller. Like that, say.”

Fred nodded and handed it to him. “This is a Ruger .38-caliber revolver with a four-inch barrel. There is also a quick-loader that will work with it.”

“Check,” said Rich.

“Billy?”

“No, thanks.”

“Libby?”

“That one.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep.”

“All right.”

He gave it to her. She held it up and said, “This is a .44-caliber automag, the most powerful handgun in the—”

“Clint Eastwood,” said Tom. “
Dirty Harry
.”

“Even I knew that,” said Jamie.

There followed a few minutes of picking out boxes of ammunition, extra magazines, holsters, shoulder harnesses, and that sort of thing. I said, “Boy, we’re really having fun now.”

Rich caught my eye. “Is something wrong?”

“Yeah, but it isn’t your fault.”

Eve said, “Do they have to enjoy it so much?” But she said it so softly only I heard her.

Libby said, “We should all get together and talk, but we have to open the place up right now. How about after close tonight?”

No one disagreed. We helped get all of the firearms out of the way and clean up the tables. As I was wiping one of them off, Fred approached me. “I don’t like the idea of you being unarmed,” he said. “Libby told me they tried to kill you.”

“Yes, they did. I wish I knew why, and what it meant, and like that.”

He shrugged. “I’m sure you do. But, in the meantime, you should—”

“Look, Fred, if I take one of those things, and I get in trouble, I might be tempted to use it, and I’d just hurt myself.”

“I talked Rose into taking a derringer. It seems to me that you can—”

“How did you do that?”

“It was pearl-handled and had an engraved dragon’s head.”

“Ah. She likes monsters.”

“In any case, why don’t you—”

“No. I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

He licked his lips. “Just a minute.” He disappeared into the back for a moment. I continued cleaning the table. When he came back there was something in his hand. “How about this, then?” I stared at it. “It’s a British commando knife. Don’t try to throw it or you’ll snap the blade. You can cut with it, but it’s best used straight into your target.”

“Target,” I repeated softly.

He nodded, his eyes locked with mine. Our eyes were very communicative, that day. I took the knife.

After the tables had been cleaned up and Feng’s opened, I pulled Rich and Eve aside and gave them the details of what had happened yesterday.

“I heard most of it from Libby,” Rich said, taking off his jacket in order to put on the shoulder rig for his pistol. I helped him with this. Eve did not.

I said, “It scares me how natural you look in that thing. Do you know how to shoot?”

“You point it and squeeze the trigger.”

“I—”

He held up his hand. “I know. Yes, I’ve had gun safety courses and I’ve done target shooting.”

I nodded. “I’m just freaked, I guess. For one thing, the notion of putting a loaded weapon into Jamie’s hands frightens me.”

“Me, too. But he told me his father used to take him hunting, so he knows how to use them, at least.”

“Yeah. And he really isn’t as irresponsible as he pretends to be. At least, not all the time.”

Eve shuddered and squashed herself against Rich. Her hand came in contact with his holster and she jerked back like she was burned. She stared at him for a moment, then turned and fled toward the pantry. I looked at Rich and he stared back, as if daring me to make a comment.

I said, “Do you know if she found out anything about Monsieur Rudd?”

I saw him mentally shift gears. “Yes. The Rudd family is mentioned in the Russian book. They’ve been in New Quebec for forty years, as far as we can tell. She’s still trying to track down what they—and Harold especially—have been up to. These people don’t leave many tracks.”

“I think ‘spoor’ is the appropriate term. Or maybe ‘fewmets.’”

“Right.”

“Keep at it. I want to know why he tried to kill me. Hell, maybe we can convince him not to.”

“Right,” said Rich ironically, and headed out into the street.

I sat down at a table that had recently held about a hundred pounds of weaponry and drank more coffee than was good for me. I thought about having a cigarette. I spent a great deal of time thinking about having a cigarette, although not as much time as I had six months before. Stupid way to spend your time, not smoking. “Hi there, whatcha been up to?” “Oh, I’ve been not smoking. You?” “Not drinking. Whatcha gonna do tomorrow?” “Oh, I thought I’d not drink coffee, without cream and sugar, you know. Maybe in the evening I’ll not gamble for a while.” Crap. I was wearing my jacket indoors now. I was wearing a shoulder rig, from which a very sharp, black dagger hung upside down, so I could get at it quickly. I felt the weight of the thing and hated it a lot.

I sighed, and mused, and drank coffee, and presently Tom showed up next to the table. “How are things, Billy?”

“Okay,” I said. There was a slight bulge in his jacket about belt level, where he had the .45 stashed, and his pockets were heavy with extra magazines. He sat down across from me.

“What’s up with you?”

“I’m going to have a talk with Carrie.”

“That’s good, I guess.”

“Yeah. And she has a message for you.”

“Oh?”

“She said to tell you that Souci’s back in town.”

“Great,” I said. “That’s all I need.”

Just about then we were joined by Christian, who put his feet up on the booth and lit a cigarette. “So, how are you gentlemen today?”

“Getting by,” I said. Tom nodded.

Christian said, “Has there been something happening lately?”

“Why do you ask?”

“From the looks on your faces, I’d say you were upset about something.”

“We’re both pinheads,” explained Tom.

“I see.”

There was silence, then Christian cleared his throat. “So, what’s a pinhead?”

“Ask Libby,” I suggested.

“Who?”

“The bartender.”

“Oh. Bartender. Beer. Now, there’s an idea. See you gents later.” He strode into the taproom and sat at the bar. Tom and I continued our commiserating, the details of which I will spare you. But an hour or so later, as I got up to leave, I noticed that Christian was still sitting at the bar, presumably learning what a pinhead was, according to the wisdom of Libby Sangretti. I made a mental note to ask one or the other of them what she’d said, but, with one thing and another, I never got around to it.

I found Jamie looking out the window of our apartment. Leaning against the wall next to him was an Ithaca 12-gauge side-by-side double-barreled shotgun. I said, “Is it loaded?”

“Huh?” He snapped his head around. “Oh. You startled me.”

“And you didn’t go for your gun?”

“Should I have?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Yeah, it’s loaded. But the safety’s on.” He indicated the big black .357 lying on the counter as if it were just another kitchen utensil. “That’s loaded, too, but there’s no round under the hammer.”

“That’s a great comfort to me. What were you thinking about?”

“Guns.”

“What about them?”

He shrugged. “I was shot once, you know.”

“No, I hadn’t known that. What happened?”

“Nothing. Never mind.”

“You seemed to enjoy picking out your toys.”

“I did. You would have, too.”

“Maybe.”

“But I was standing here thinking that I might actually have to use one of these. I mean, point it at someone and pull the trigger.”

“Think you can?”

“Yes.”

“I couldn’t.”

“You sure?”

“Not completely, I guess.”

He stood there a moment longer, then turned to me. “Libby once told me she was afraid of guns, because it would be too easy for her to shoot someone. Now I know what she means.”

“I understand.”

He nodded and turned back to the window. I came over and stood next to him. “Like, for instance,” he said, “wouldn’t you kind of like to just open up the window and blow that little motherfucker away?”

I followed his gaze. Short, curly-haired Claude was leaning against a tree, watching our apartment from just across the street, arms folded, as calm as you please. I didn’t answer Jamie, in part because I found myself agreeing with him.

“Souci?”

“Yes.”

“This is Billy.”

“I can see that.”

“Oh, right. You don’t have your camera on.”

“Mmmm.”

“Umm, welcome back.”

“Thanks.”

One…two…three…four…

“So, should we, um, get together or something?”

“What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know. Have lunch? Some drinks?”

“I’m on a diet.”

“Take a walk?”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Want to talk?”

“What about?”

“Ummm. Never mind. Look, I’ll, uh, call you again, all right?”

“Sure.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

Fred told me that there are many imitations of the British commando knife of World War II, because in spite of the brittleness of the blade it is one of the best antipersonnel knives ever invented. He also said that it is easy to identify the real thing by the imprint on the guard. I couldn’t read the tiny writing of the imprint, so I don’t know what the real one said or why a fake one couldn’t say something equally illegible which would fool me.

He called it “a very sexy weapon,” which may give you some idea of what he’s like. The phrase made me shudder, in part because I could almost see what he meant. The knife, all twelve inches or so of it, was painted with nonreflective black paint. The hilt was cigar-shaped and fit my hand better than I’d have thought just looking at it, and better than I sort of wished it did. There was a little nob at the end, which I guess was a screw or a nut that held it together.

The guard was small, because, according to Fred, this was not primarily a knife-fighter’s weapon, but one intended for sticking in the backs of one’s enemies. Certainly the blade had that look; it was very slim, and had a flattened-out diamond shape. It really did have a good edge, and as I ran the point along my inside forearm directly above the artery and watched the impression the blade made, I realized how incredibly easy it would be to just exert a little more pressure there. It would take hardly any effort.

Hardly any effort at all.

Eventually I put the knife in its sheath, took the harness off, and set it on the floor, and I went over to my futon and lay on my back, staring at the big, beige, soundproofing tiles on my ceiling.