Cowboy Feng's Space Bar and Grille (15 page)

When we got there, Jamie stepped in ahead of me, though he wasn’t armed, either. I stood inside and looked around. There was still the faint smell of gunpowder, but the blue smoke had dispersed. There was a fair amount of broken glass, chipped woodwork, and smashed crockery, and I could see it would take some clean up, but it was home. We sat down at a table, and I said to Christian, “Well, when are the police going to show up?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “You weren’t supposed to live through today, so no one made any contingency plans.”

“Sugar Bear really does own the police department, don’t they?”

“Pretty much the whole city,” said Christian.

“Damn.”

Jamie nodded thoughtfully, then suddenly turned to Libby. “By the way,” he said, “why did you charge out there like that? That was crazy. You could have—”

“Fuck off,” said Libby, acid in her voice.

“Well, shit,” said Jamie, but didn’t push it.

To change the subject, I asked her, “How is Fred doing? We should tell him what—”

“The bullet hit an artery in his leg,” said Libby. “He’s dead.”

He lived in a single room, sharing bathroom and kitchen with the junkie to the right and the prostitute across the hall. The mattress took up one corner of the room, his hollow-body electric and acoustic took up one corner, his antique, honest-to-God, real, two-hundred-year-old Fender Stratocaster got the guitar stand. Next to them was his shotgun, two pistols, and ammo boxes. On the other side of the room were his piles of clothes (one dirty, one clean; he could usually tell them apart). Next to them books: Flaubert, Dickens, Hugo, Hawthorne, Dumas, a few contemporary novels, some current works of political studies, music theory.

Just at the moment, he was working on soloing over thirteenth formations, playing with the mixolydian scale, emphasizing the seventh in the lower octave and sixth in higher. He was lost, as he always was. The rest of the world did not exist, music was all there was: the music in his head, and the music from the guitar, as he concentrated on making every note speak, on phrasing and dynamics, and the creation of beauty.

There was a sharp rap at the door. He stopped playing. What the hell?

“Who is it?”

“Municipal Police Force.”

He frowned, set the guitar down, opened the door. The big one, in front, said, “Sir, we’ve had a complaint about noise—”

“From who?”

“I’m afraid we can’t say. Someone in the building.” Here the cop sniffed.

“Jesus Christ, it’s not even ten o’clock. What’s the problem?”

The cop’s face changed then, and he said, “Look, punk, I don’t give a—”

“Hold it,” said his partner, a shorter guy he almost recognized.

“What?”

The partner said, “Aren’t you Christian Drewry?”

“Yeah. So?”

The two of them had a hasty, whispered conference, then the short one said, “Excuse us. Never mind.”

Another one who took orders from Rudd, Christian decided, which made him a friend of Iverness’. Christian smiled to himself. He mostly helped Rudd out because he liked Ivy and because it was fun to test his nerve from time to time, to get out some of his frustrations, but every once in a while, it paid off in unexpected ways. He said, “Before you go—”

“Yeah?”

“Who was it?”

“Huh? Oh.” The cop pointed straight down.

“Thanks.”

“Forget it.”

When they’d left, Christian went back into his room and picked up his .38, replaced one live round with a blank load, and cocked the pistol with the blank under the hammer. He walked down the stairs and kicked open the door to the guy’s room. He didn’t know the guy, who had just moved in, but he didn’t really care. He was fat and balding and very surprised as he sat watching the TV. Christian stuck the barrel practically up the guy’s nose and said, “You got a complaint, motherfucker?”

“Huh, wha—?”

“I said you got some noise complaint to make? Am I interfering with your peaceful enjoyment of the evening?”

“N-no.”

“Good. You’re interfering with mine.”

Christian smacked him across the face with the gun while simultaneously firing it. Then he put a round into the TV and left without looking back. He went up to his room, set the pistol down, and picked up his guitar again, began laying down melodic phrases on top of chord progressions in his mind.

“He’s dead,” said Libby, toneless, even, distant.

Leave it there, just for a minute.

Why? Perhaps as a gesture of sympathy made out to whoever needs it at the moment. We’ll find out soon enough, I suppose, and cash it then. Fill in the amount with your chosen investment, in the coin of love, hate, excitement, disgust, intrigue, boredom, or however you spend your life. Leave it there; we’ll come back to it.

When Rich died, scenes had returned to me—incidents which had captured who he was, to me, and this had brought his death home, and yet kept it at a distance and begun the healing process.

But I guess I never really knew Fred. There was a distance about him at all times, a formality that was not cold, but didn’t invite closeness. He was good at what he did, and he was dependable, but he was almost more of an automaton than a real person. Jamie, I guess, was closer to him than anyone except Libby, and that was perhaps because they were so different. Jamie was loud where Fred was quiet, Jamie was warm and emotional where Fred was cold and rational. But now Jamie was alive, and Fred was not, and I wished I’d known him better, that I might mourn him as he deserved.

Those were thoughts at the time, in that first instant after Libby’s announcement. I don’t know what thoughts the others had, but there was silence for a long, long moment, broken suddenly by Tom’s arrival. He walked in the door so cautiously that it would have been comical if it weren’t so reasonable.

Then he looked around and said, “What is it?”

We told him. He went up to Libby and held her. It looked like she was about to start crying, then she caught herself and said, “I’m all right. What happened to you?”

Tom opened and closed his mouth, still holding Libby, then he said, “Justin outran me, which was just as well, since I realized that my gun is empty and I left all my spare magazines back here.” He shook his head like it was a joke, but I couldn’t help shuddering. “What happened with you guys?” he said.

I said, “Did you go by Le Bureau?”

“No.”

“Well, if you do, you’ll find a few bodies in the area.”

“Oh?”

“Claude, for one.”

“Good work. Who got him?”

“Jamie and Libby.”

“Good,” said Tom, like he meant it.

“Claude’s the one who killed Fred,” said Jamie.

“Oh,” said Tom. “Who else?”

“Would you believe, the cop, Iverness?”

“Really? We’re going to have the whole city on our asses. Who shot him?”

Jamie gestured with his head toward Christian, who was sitting in a far corner. Tom stared at him. “I thought you were on their side.”

“I was.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I was just standing there, about to shoot Libby, and I couldn’t. I had to shoot Ivy instead. I don’t—”

“Ivy?” said Rose.

Christian shrugged. “I’ve known him for a long time.”

“You
are
with Sugar Bear,” said Jamie softly.

“I was. I don’t think I am anymore.”

“But I don’t get it. Why did you do all that stuff?”

“What stuff?”

“Why were you with them?”

He lit a cigarette and turned away. I thought he wasn’t going to answer us, but he finally said, “That’s a hard one. I never thought about it much, I just did it. I was brought up that way, like we were special because we were still going to be around when all the sickies killed themselves.”

I said, “You mean, when you guys wiped out—”

“I didn’t know about that until you guys told me.”

“Oh. What did you do?”

“Pretty much what I was told. Security stuff, making sure people didn’t find out about us, helping to keep the organization safe. It didn’t come together until just now, when I had to kill Libby and couldn’t. Even when Ivy and I charged in the back door, if Fred hadn’t been there, we’d have gone through and shot you down.”

“You sure kill easy,” I said.

He said, “Yes, I do,” looking me in the eye. After a moment I looked away.

Jamie said, “Well, I believe you.”

“Me, too,” I said.

“I guess you’re with us now,” said Tom.

“I guess so.”

“I don’t suppose,” I said, “you could tell us where the home world is?”

“No. I hadn’t even realized there was one until you mentioned it. I’ve never been very high in the organization.”

“Hmmm. So we still have to figure out how to find it.”

“The Physician would know.”

“Who’s the Physician? Rudd mentioned him.”

“The big boss. I don’t even know if he’s on Laurier or somewhere else.”

“Oh. How do we find him?”

“Souci would know.”

“Oh, wonderful,” I said. “I have real doubts that she’d tell us.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

“We could ask her, though,” I said. “I know where she lives—”

“She’s moved,” said Christian.

“To where?”

“I don’t know.”

“Wonderful.”

“But I think her friend Carrie would.”

Tom shook his head. “This just keeps getting better, doesn’t it?”

“At least we know what we have to do,” I said. “If the cops don’t show up and drag us all in.”

“I think we’re going to be safe for a while,” said Christian. “Only those at the top really know what happened, and it’ll take them a while to figure out what to do.”

“Good,” I said.

“Tell me something,” said Jamie to Christian. “How did Sugar Bear find out about us?”

“I don’t know, exactly. I got word of you from Monsieur Rudd, and was told to keep track of you, and—”

“What were you told about us?”

“That people here were on the side of the sickies, and might have to be stopped.”

“I see,” I said. “That’s worth knowing.”

“But,” said Jamie, “why were you after Billy in particular?”

Christian shrugged. “I don’t know. Word came down. If you want to believe it, there’s a rumor that the Physician has means of communicating with the future.”

“I believe that,” I said.

“Me, too,” said Jamie. He looked over at Libby, who still hadn’t spoken. She was trying very hard not to be upset. Jamie went over to her. I started to, but found I couldn’t. Rose did.

I caught Tom’s eyes, and we went upstairs, where the body lay. She had folded his hands on his stomach, and a silver ring I thought I recognized as Libby’s was on the little finger of his left hand. I thought about her slipping it onto his finger and folding his hands like that, and I couldn’t see for a little while.

Tom and I finished wrapping him in one of the spare blankets and took him outside. It had gotten quite dark, and there was no one in sight. I wondered about the customers who had been trapped inside for several minutes, and what happened when they’d called the police.

But one thing at a time. We took care of Fred’s remains as well as we could, which wasn’t very, and I’ll spare you the details. When we got back to Feng’s we were both in pretty ragged shape. Libby hadn’t moved, except that she and Rose had their arms around each other and Jamie was next to her. Christian, to my surprise, was also talking to her.

Tom and I sat in the far corner. I said, “Well, are you going to get hold of Carrie so I can get hold of Souci so we can maybe get this over with?”

“I suppose,” he said. “But, Billy, is this ever going to be over? I mean, are we going to be able to just live someday?”

“Maybe. Why ask me?”

Tom shrugged and watched the clump around Libby. It was impossible to read his expression. I checked the clock, but a bullet had stopped it at 6:22. I went into the bar and read nine o’clock. It was amazing that no more time than that had passed. I looked out one of the windows, but the rest of the block was still silent, like everyone was huddling inside his house for fear of being caught up in something dangerous. Pretty reasonable, when you thought of it.

“I can’t believe the police haven’t shown up,” said Tom.

“I know. We need to decide what to do, though.”

“Go back home?”

“Maybe. Want to call Carrie?”

“No. I will, though.”

He walked back to the bar to do this. Jamie got up and went into the back, carrying his shotgun. I resisted asking him what he was doing, and a bit later I heard sawing noises and didn’t need to. Tom came back and said he couldn’t reach Carrie.

Rose and Libby got up and disappeared into the back. Libby’s eyes were red and she looked tired. Christian joined Tom and me.

“How’s she doing?” I asked.

“As well as you can expect,” said Christian. “I think she’ll be okay. She says she could have saved him if she’d gotten to him sooner, but from hearing her describe the wound, I don’t think she could have, and I think she really knows that. Give her time; she’ll be all right.”

“We don’t have time,” I said, but only under my breath.

The sawing sounds stopped, to be replaced by filing noises that were just as loud.

“I hope she can sleep over the racket,” I said.

Tom said, “Do you think any of us will have a full night’s sleep tonight?”

I shrugged and looked at Christian. He said, “I don’t know. If they haven’t shown up yet, they might not, but there’s no way we can be certain.”

“You keep saying we,” I said.

“They speak French here,” said Tom.

“If I go back home they’ll kill me,” said Christian.

“I understand,” I said. “I was just checking.”

A little while later Jamie emerged. His shotgun was now about a foot shorter and looked very nasty. Christian said, “Twelve-gauge?”

“Yes.”

“Good. We can share ammo. I’m getting low.”

“We’re gonna kick some ass,” said Jamie, more grimly than enthusiastically.

“We’re going to sleep first,” I said.

Jamie said, “Someone should stay awake in case something happens.”

I sighed. “Yeah, you’re right. I’ll take the first watch.”

“Wake me in an hour and a half?” said Jamie.

“Right.”

“I’ll be next,” said Christian.

I looked at him for a long time, then said, “All right. Then Rose, then Tom. We’ll let Libby sleep. If she can. If we all can.”

But, for whatever reason, we could.

My first thought upon waking was,
We actually made it through the night without trouble
. Then I began to wonder what would happen today, and started to realize just how big a fix we were in. A depressing way to wake up, but there was something satisfyingly familiar about lying in the pantry of Feng’s on a pile of coats and spare blankets. It reminded me of happier times, lying there with Rose and Jamie and Tom and everyone, with nothing to worry about except our next night’s set list and when the next bomb would hit. Hah.

I got up and found Tom sitting in a booth with his arms folded and his legs stretched out in front of him. He was wrapped in a blanket. He turned around and said, “There’s coffee.”

“Good.”

“I made a ‘Closed’ sign and hung it on the door.”

I nodded. “I notice someone also put plywood over the broken windows.”

“Jamie did that.”

I said, “I’ve never seen the place closed during business hours before.”

“Neither have I. Libby’s going to have to have some words with Feng.” Then, “She’s the only one of them left, isn’t she?”

“Yeah, I guess she is, with Eve being in the hospital. I’m getting myself some coffee. Want some?”

“Yeah. Thanks. Speaking of Eve, as soon as things settle down even a little, we need to go see her.”

“Yeah.”

I got the coffee, came back. “Maybe I’ll make us some breakfast. I enjoy working in a professional kitchen.”

“I like your cooking.”

“Thanks. Should we wait until everyone else is up?”

“Maybe. But then you can’t use mushrooms because Rose and Libby don’t like them, and you can’t use onions because Jamie doesn’t like them, and God knows who doesn’t like whatever else you’d want to cook with.”

“What don’t you like, Tom?”

“Being a pinhead. Being stuck in here. Worrying about whether we’re going to be killed. Worrying about nuclear war. Not being able to just relax and play music. Should I keep going?”

“We might be able to do something about the last. We all have our instruments.”

“That would be good, if we can find the time.”

There was a knock. Tom picked up his .45 from where it was sitting on the table and walked over to the door. He looked out, carefully keeping his body to the side. He yelled, “Sorry, we’re closed.” He came back and sat down, setting the gun back on the table. “Yeah, I’d like to play a few songs. It’s been a while. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s just that you—nothing.” Presently Jamie and Rose got up, and shortly after, Christian joined us. We drank coffee until Libby got up. She nodded hello to us and there was an anger in her walk and the tilt of her head. I retired to the kitchen.

I turned the big grill on low. I found a large cast-iron skillet and melted some goose fat over one of the gas flames while I took the medium French chef’s knife and sliced half a dozen onions and two big green peppers and crushed some garlic cloves. When the fat was sizzling I threw the garlic in along with a little salt. I cleaned some mushrooms, put the onions and peppers in the hot fat, then sliced the mushrooms to the happy sizzling sounds.

I took out two dozen eggs and beat them, then put the mushrooms in the skillet. I added milk to the eggs, whipped them a bit more, and dumped them into the skillet when the onions looked almost right. I turned down the heat, buttered twelve pieces of sourdough bread, and put them on the grill. Then I added some chives, salt, and pepper to the eggs as well as a little cayenne, and, just before they were done, I added a tablespoon of half-hot Szeged Noble Rose paprika, which would never exist again. I buttered the other side of the bread and turned it on the grill, then dished the eggs onto six plates along with the sourdough bread and brought them out three at a time. Fred could have carried all six without a tray.

Rose and Christian complained about the mushrooms, Jamie complained about the onions. Libby didn’t say anything. Tom said he liked it. After we’d eaten, Rose said, “I’ll wash the dishes since you made the bref-tist.”

“Bref-tist,” that’s what she said.