The Edge of Madness Cafe (The Sea and the Wasteland Book 2) (30 page)

He had to find Ellen
Monroe, stay close to her, be her shadow. Jack was on a reckless path now, and
there was no predicting the outcome. The only thing he was certain of—
fairly
certain; one could never rely upon lunatics, and if Jack was playing with
avatars then he was quite mad—was that the Caretaker still loved Ellen Monroe,
and that he would save her. As for the rest of this reality, well, Jack might
just hang it out to dry along with everyone in it.

But Jack would save Ellen.
Of that, Kreiger had no doubt.

Everyone else was lost. Everyone
else might, in fact, meet the Garbageman. Endgame. That’s all she wrote, folks.

“Fuck you, Jack! Fuck
you!”

He exploded out the front
door like a whirlwind, turned towards the bookstore where Ellen Monroe worked,
and instantly vanished into forgotten memory like a piece of windblown paper,
gone just as Arnold Prosser’s hauler nosed out of the alleyway.

That was how Gusman
Kreiger spent his morning: running from the Garbageman.

*     *     *

Arnold Prosser did not
spend his time chasing Gusman Kreiger, not knowing who the man was or that he
even existed at all. Had he known, he might have settled matters then and
there.

For lack of a nail, the
kingdom fell.

Nicholas Dabble was watching Ellen Monroe
very closely that morning; his little secret had a secret of her own.

She was five minutes late coming in,
which was uncharacteristic of her. And she did not apologize for it, which was
similarly uncharacteristic. There was no smell of coffee in the shop this
morning, no stop off at Serena’s for her morning cup. But she seemed awake and
alert, which, for his little Ellen, his lost soul, his walking dreamer, was
very unusual. But there was nothing to betray her secret, nothing to give away
the thing that was hiding away behind her clear gaze, her wistful look, her
wholesome façade.

It was the part about not knowing that
was eating his heart—such as it was—alive!

Nicholas Dabble watched
Ellen much as he always did: sidelong glances, long stares at her reflection in
the glass, stolen glimpses, chance looks. But amusement had been replaced with
disquiet, his enchantment lost to an insatiable need.

Something was going on.

He smelled it in the air
the other day, tasted it in the book she carried like a Bible, heard it
scraping and creaking with every turn of reality’s clockwork. Something was
happening, Ellen Monroe was the key, and she was beginning to realize her role.

But strangely, Nicholas
Dabble still did not know. He had only the disquieting sense of foreboding like
the electrically charged winds that portend a storm. Something was happening
and he had the key to it all in his store, as neat as a book on a shelf. Only
now it was slipping away as if to suggest that he, Nicholas Dabble, were
nothing more than a bit player, a know-nothing artisan strutting the stage at another’s
behest, someone to be dismissed and forgotten.

The notion made him want
to laugh. The possibility it might be true made him want to shred the world and
burn the pieces, raze all life and start over again with reptiles.

He turned away from
Ellen, looking out the window and across the street.
Did Serena know?

Nicholas felt his mouth
start to open, felt a question start to form in his mind, unfocussed,
ill-conceived, unrehearsed. He was absurdly aware of the air he was breathing
in as he prepared to ask his question, how it smelled faintly of dust and dry
paper and the lingering remnants of coffee from days before, of Serena’s
meddlesome blend of tea, and a pleasant May smell that was Ellen Monroe. All
this he knew in that frightening, irrevocable
moment of ill-considered ramifications to a question
he could not help but ask, a curiosity he could no longer stand, a desire he
could no longer quell.

He would have his answer
or he would slit her throat and lap her blood from the shop floor; Nicholas
Dabble saw his options dwindling.

But all these notions
scattered suddenly, driven away by an unexpectedly shrill droning, the sound of
a semi backing down the alleyway beside the store, a sound recognized, though
sorely out of place, out of time, out of context. An insistent tolling
demanding—practically screaming for—his attention.

It was a garbage truck!

Ellen lifted her gaze too
quickly
and caught Nicholas
Dabble unaware, his confused expression and devoted stare; she chose to dismiss
both. “They don’t pick up garbage today,” she remarked.

“No, they don’t,”
Nicholas Dabble said softly, which was the truth. “I’ll go ask, though I’m sure
it’s nothing.”

And that was a lie.

*     *     *

Clad in
simple workingman’s coveralls, leather boots pounding a hard, flat note upon
the pavement as he leaped down from the cab, the Garbageman stared at Nicholas
Dabble as he barred the doorway to the rear of the bookshop, and smiled.

Dabble’s
fingers tightened on the doorframe, nails cutting into the wood as he found
himself confronted by another question without an answer

“‘Ello Nicky,” Arnold
Prosser said. “Been up to any mischief lately, you ol’ devil?”

“Good morning,
Arnold
,” Dabble replied, incensed by the mounting questions Prosser raised with his
presence and his too-familiar tone. “Things have been quiet around here,” he
lied. “And what about you?”

“Wish I could say the
same,” Prosser replied, offering his I-Know-A-Secret smile as he moved slowly
across the pavement, a predator cornering its prey. “Five unscheduled pick-ups
today.”

“Really?” Dabble remarked
with disinterest. “I imagine that would put you considerably behind in your
usual rounds.”

“Well, not so’s a body
would notice, if you catch my meanin’.” Again the smile, the slow pacing and
circling, the unbroken gaze. “A bit o’ schleppin’ around earlier than usual was
all, but I’m always right on time. A time for all things is what I always say.”

“Really? Is that what you
always say?”

Prosser’s smile dropped
abruptly. “Yeah, Nicky. That’s what I always say. A time for all things: a time
to be born and a time to die, a time to reap and a time to sew. It’s the order
of the universe, the way things are supposed to be. The grand scheme. So you
can imagine my concern when I have a day that starts out with five unscheduled
pick-ups. Especially when those five pick-ups all have something in common with
something in common, layers o’ connections that most don’t see. But I see it,
Nicky.” He pointed a finger sharply towards his eye, glittering like a black
jewel. “Don’t think I’m a fool. I see it.”

Nicholas Dabble drew
himself a little tighter, feet bracing in the doorway, hands tightening their
grip anew. “And why exactly are you telling me this, Arnold?”

“Oh, I’m sorry Nicky. Am
I wastin’ your time? Am I keepin’ you from somethin’?” Arnold Prosser stepped
forward, hands curling into thick fists, the pleasantness of his tone reaching
the breaking strain. “What might that something be, eh Nicky?”

“I’m sure I don’t know
what you mean, Arnold, but I have things to do, and, by your own admission, so
do you. Good morning.”

“We already said good
morning, dabbler, or were you trying to dismiss me? Was that it? Do you want me
to go away?”

“I believe it was you
just now spouting about the order of the universe and a time for all things.
Well, this is neither the time nor the place. Now good morning, Arnold.”

“Good morning again,
dissembler. And since when have you ever cared about the order of the universe,
eh? I told you there was something what connects all those unscheduled
pick-ups. That somethin’ happens to be associated with you. I don’t know how or
why or even what, but I can smell you on ‘em, and I want to know what you know.”

“For someone who doesn’t
know very much, you presume to know quite a bit.”

“Don’t lie to me,
salt-licker!” the Garbageman screamed. “You’re hidin’ somethin’ from me, and
it’s affectin’ things.
My things
. Now tell me what you know about it.”

Arnold Prosser took
another step towards the doorway, and Nicholas Dabble abandoned his play at
etiquette, voice dropping to a low, terrible whisper. “You may be king of the
land, but I rule here. You want to turn your precious universe upside-down and
shake it like a loose sack of trash then cross my doorway and brace me in my
house. Nothing will ever be the same again, I promise you that. Nothing.”

Arnold Prosser’s lip curled in a snarl. “Are you threatenin’
me, Dabble? Is that what you’re doing? You get it in your fancy-schmancy head
that you got the balls the likes what can take on me? Is that what you’re
thinkin’? What on this earth or any other would make a simpering shit like you
grow a spine?”

Nicholas Dabble stood his ground, unfazed.

“Right then, ‘ave it your way. But I will find out what
you’re up to. And if you’re not careful, the only thing you’ll ever rule again
is your puny, little house. It makes no difference to me what kind of games you
want to play, but when it crosses with me, it crosses the line, and I take it
down. Do you get me, Dabble? I take it
down
.”

“Good
morning, Arnold,” Nicholas Dabble said in the same low, warning tone.

“Good morning, Nicholas,”
Prosser replied with exaggerated pleasantness, then turned about and climbed
back into the garbage hauler’s cab. He added from the window, “It makes no
difference to me either way. You win; I win. You lose; I still win.” Prosser’s
smile widened until it creased his face like a Jack o’ Lantern. “See ya ‘round,
Nicky.”

Only after the truck was
gone did Nicholas Dabble allow his hands to let go of the doorframe. When he
did, they were shaking.

*     *     *

Serena was not surprised
to see the garbage hauler grumble and rock its way down the alley beside the
coffee shop; inconvenienced, but not surprised. There was no hiding what was
going on here from Arnold Prosser.

But expected or not, it
was still a matter of no small concern.

She waited quietly in the empty shop, listening to the tea
kettles and coffeepots whisper away. She knew Arnold would knock on her
backdoor; it was his way. So she waited. She would not meet him at the door,
would not stand waiting like some sorry whore in a two-bit brothel on the edge
of the desert. This was Arnold Prosser’s move, but he was by no means in
charge. There was an order to these things.

And so she waited,
patiently listening to the sounds of the universe turning.

A soft knock at her door.
Not loud or disruptive; three simple raps against the wood to announce his
presence and nothing more. Never presumptuous, Arnold Prosser. Never with her.
And he always came to the backdoor.

Serena waited a moment
longer, gathering her thoughts. So many strands weaving all at once, a
complicated design in a complex pattern full of meddling and deception and a
few things that did not quite belong, as if matters weren’t complicated enough
already. Yes, she supposed, it was only a matter of time before Arnold Prosser
sniffed out the problem and came calling. She had hoped he would come to her
first. It would have made matters simpler, the fewer parties involved.

She rose, straightening
the folds in her dress then lightly touched her hair, assuring herself everything
was in place. A single lock hung loose near her temple. That was good; Arnold would like that.

Then she walked back to
the rear of the store and opened the door.

Arnold Prosser stood on
her back step, wringing his hat with both hands and shifting from one foot to
the other like a nervous schoolboy. He had been staring about distractedly when
she opened the door, as though self-consciously looking for others, a gaggle of
school chums watching him and snickering. His head snapped about as she opened
the door, his eyes lighting up.

“Good morning, Serena,”
he said. “You’re looking lovely this day.”

“That’s very kind of you
to say, Arnold,” and she tilted her head in a respectful nod of appreciation.
“And a good morning to you as well. Tell me, what brings you around this fine
summery day?”

“Special pick-up,” Arnold said, some of the pleasantness draining from his voice.

Serena did not care for
the tone at all. It carried a willful potential, and that could be a very
dangerous thing. “Really?”

“Yeah.
Unscheduled
,”
he added, his clarification holding a special, mutually shared understanding.

“Arnold, I have just
finished brewing a fresh pot of tea. Could I offer you some? You can stay a
moment, can’t you?”

Arnold
looked about nervously. Serena knew
he would accept her invitation, just as she knew he wished he could decline for
duty’s sake. She offered an expectant stare, a tilted smile, a shift of her
feet that made Arnold notice the alabaster flesh of her ankles. Color rose
unbidden in his cheeks. “Well, I s’pose I could stay for a few minutes. I’m not
really dressed for tea, mind you, but I could stay a moment, I think. Yeah, a
moment.”

“That would be splendid, Arnold. And I think you look fine. Please, come inside.”

She turned and glided
back towards the front of her shop, and Arnold followed behind her like an
obedient puppy, his boots clopping awkwardly in her wake.

“Please have a seat,” she
directed, then went behind the counter and poured two cups of tea. “How do you
take your tea, Arnold?”

“Um, cream … please.”

“Of course,” she replied,
paying no attention as she moved nimbly about behind the counter, reaching for
a small carton of cream and pouring some into one of the cups. She did this
even as she reached for a small wedge of lemon, drifting it down into her own.
She placed two spoons on the edges of the saucers beside the tea, and brought
both back around to where Arnold Prosser waited, fidgeting nervously.

“I believe you started to
say something about unscheduled pick-ups,” Serena offered, drawing Arnold’s stare away from her ceiling fixtures. She stirred her tea with great care and
attention, as though the cup held the very raw material that worlds were made
of. It gave her something to do with her eyes besides look at Arnold Prosser,
something that would eventually betray her secrets to him—she was not as
bewitching as he might let on. “Is that unusual?”