Amnesia Moon (14 page)

Chaos ordered a ham sandwich. Fault studied the menu, keeping the girl waiting, then giggled to himself. “I don't know,” he said, looking up, “I don't see it here . . .”

“Yes?” said the waitress impatiently. She was young and had a natural pout.

“Could you bring me Palmer O'Brien's Head on a Platter?”

It got so quiet in the room that Chaos could hear people shifting in their seats as they turned to look at Fault. The waitress stood back on her heels and scowled.

“Just kidding,” said Fault, still giggling. “I'll have what he had . . .”

But she was walking away, and it wasn't clear that she'd heard him. She certainly hadn't jotted anything down; her pencil was back behind her ear.

Fault sank into the booth and screwed up his face sarcastically. Very gradually the conversations around them resumed.

“Fucking sheep,” said Fault quietly. “I wouldn't live in this place if you paid me. Everybody in love with their little tin god soap opera stars . . .”

His voice wasn't low enough. Conversation died as people stopped to listen.

Fault's response was to bleat like a sheep, quite loudly.

“Billy,” said Chaos softly, “maybe we should go somewhere else to eat—”

“No way,” said Fault. “I'm hungry.”

Now they were the center of attention. When the waitress came back out with a plate, the whole restaurant watched to see if she would go to their table. When she put a single ham sandwich in front of Chaos, there was a roar of whispers.

Chaos tried to defuse things by pushing the plate to a spot midway between them; the sandwich was cut in half, after all. But Fault pushed it back. “Where's mine?” he said loudly.

The waitress swiveled away.

“Shit,” said Fault. He turned around and made faces at the people behind him. Chaos chewed the corner off a triangle of sandwich hopelessly, his hunger draining away.

Fault made the bleating sound again, then ostentatiously emptied the pocket of his leather jacket onto the table. Out tumbled a hypodermic syringe and a stoppered glass vial. Fault plunged the needle into the vial, drew the contents up into the syringe, and began rolling up his sleeve.

A man across from them rustled in the pocket of his coat, took out a ticket book and pen, and began scribbling, like a parody of the waitress taking their order. Then, as though the ice only had to be broken, five or six other people flipped open identical books and began racing to fill out the ticket. Fault just stared. The first man and a fat woman with her chubby son in tow jumped up at the same time and held finished tickets out to Fault.

“I was first,” said the woman quickly, edging in front of the man.

“No. I saw them first,” said the man tensely.

“We
all
saw them,” said the woman. “That doesn't count for anything. We all saw them the moment they walked in here.” She thrust her ticket at Fault, who was slapping at his arm to raise a vein.

“You'd better take it,” she said. “I can write you another one for resisting citation.”

“Stuff it, lady.” He injected himself.

“Stop that,” said a man who'd fallen too far behind in writing his ticket and given up. “You can't do that in here.”

“You'd better take the ticket and leave,” advised the woman.

“I don't think it matters,” said Fault. He put the needle back onto the table. “I'm not from around here, see? And where I'm from, people don't go around giving each other tickets.”

“Give it to
him
,” said a man at the booth behind Fault. He pointed at Chaos. “He lives here. And he brought him here. He should know better.”

“Fair enough,” said the fat woman cheerily. “You take it.” She handed the ticket to Chaos, who took it and put it in his pocket. He wanted to go, but felt paralyzed.

At that moment the waitress reappeared with a grease-smeared cook, his hair in a net, who stood glowering behind her.

“Get out,” she said.

“Fuck you,” said Fault.

“I called the government,” she said. “They're on their way. You'll be very sorry if you don't go. Now.”

“I'm not leaving until I get my sandwich. Or until you make Palmer O'Brien come here himself.”

“That can probably be arranged,” growled the cook. “But you won't be laughing long, if it comes to that.”

“In fact, I want Palmer O'Fucking Brien to bring me my sandwich and serenade me while I eat,” jeered Fault. “That would do the trick.”

“Okay, you jackass,” said the cook, pushing past the waitress and grabbing Fault by the collar. He jerked him up out of the booth and pushed him towards the door. Chaos took Fault's motorcycle helmet, leaving the vial and needle on the table, and followed the cook and Fault out the front door of the restaurant. The man who'd written the first ticket, the waitress, and several others followed. Outside, a crowd from the mall was already gathering around Fault and the cook.

“Pay up,” said the cook, shoving Fault backwards.

“I didn't get anything,” said Fault. He spat on the ground between them and straightened his collar defiantly.

Several of the people around them were busily writing up tickets. “He won't take it,” someone warned. Someone else said: “That one's staying with Gerald Bitter's ex-wife. If he won't take it, you can send it to her.”

Chaos pushed forward past the cook and handed Fault his helmet. “Let's go,” he said. Fault spat again, but the cook didn't notice; he was distracted by someone's trying to give
him a
ticket, for leaving his post in the restaurant. “—thinks he's on TV,” said a woman disdainfully.

The event degenerated into squabbles between the Palmer O'Brien loyalists who'd been in the restaurant and others who'd only seen the cook roughing up Fault outside. The crowd buzzed with the news that the government had been summoned: who would appear? Someone claimed she'd seen President Kentman himself. Chaos and Fault slipped away to the parking lot.

 

Fault, it turned out, didn't know the way back to Edie's house. He'd only gotten there the first time by following Chaos's dreams, he explained again. They found the house by taking the highway all the way out of town, to the east, then doubling back, until Chaos spotted the right overpass. His pink-splattered car was gone from where they had abandoned it—a loose end the government didn't permit, apparently. It made Chaos think of Melinda, their trip together. He felt a pang of guilt.

As Fault slowed in front of the house, Chaos could see that something wasn't right. Edie's car was gone, and another was parked in its place. There was a spotted black-and-white dog leashed to the front porch, and it barked at them as they dismounted.

“Shit,” said Chaos.

“What?”

“Moving Day.”

“Oh man, I'm sorry.”

Chaos went up the porch steps, let the dog sniff his hand, and knocked on the door. The woman who answered was middle-aged and black. “Sorry to bother you,” said Chaos. “The people who were here before . . .”

“Yes?”

“Did you see them?”

“They were a little late getting out, as a matter of fact. How can I help you?”

“Was there a little girl with, uh, fur all over her body?”

“Yes. Her and an older woman.” The black woman peered out past Chaos at Fault and his motorcycle. “But who's asking?”

“You don't know where they went, do you? They didn't leave any word?”

“No. I'm sorry.” She shut the door.

As Chaos walked back down the porch steps, Cooley drove up and parked behind Fault's motorcycle, then got out and strolled over to where Fault was standing. Chaos hurried to intercept him.

“Hello, Chaos,” said Cooley. “Looking for Edie?”

“Well actually—”

“I know. I just saw her. She's all worried, says you went off with some old friend. I told her to relax. Said I'd go back and find you. This your pal?”

“Yeah, Billy—”

“Ian. Pleased to meet you.”

“Yeah.” Fault shook his hand.

“Where you from?”

“San Francisco.” Billy sounded nervous.

“Really. I haven't been to the city for a while. What brings you this way?”

Fault jerked his thumb, indicating Chaos. It should have looked casual, defiant, but Fault's expression made it come off as tongue-tied.

“Old pals, eh?” Cooley's tone was insinuating. “Heard you got into a little bit of a fuss up at the mall.”

Fault took a step backwards. He seemed cowed. Chaos wondered if Fault was sensitized to Cooley's status as a government star, tuned into the ideology like everyone else around here. It didn't make sense otherwise: Cooley wasn't any more imposing than the cook at the mall, and he wasn't backed by a crowd.

“A bit of one,” said Chaos, answering for Fault.

There was a moment of tense silence, then Cooley laughed, loudly. Fault stared, then tittered too, sycophantically. He suddenly reminded Chaos of Edge.

“Bit of one,” Cooley repeated. “They give you a ticket?” He held out his hand.

Chaos dug it out of his pocket, and Cooley examined it. “Well, well.” He tore it in half and then into quarters, and let the pieces flutter into the mud of the road. “Edie doesn't need any more of those at the moment. This one wasn't her fault, anyway. For once. Or your fault, for that matter. Except it was your bad luck that brought this little shithead into town.”

“What?” said Fault.

“You heard me,” said Cooley. “You used a fake card in that cash machine. Stole money from the folks that live here. We don't need that fancy San Francisco crap around here. Give me the card.”

Fault handed Cooley the bootleg cash card, and Cooley pocketed it. “Okay, Motorboy. Basically I want you out of town. Except you can give your pal Chaos a lift to Edie's new place. So go sit over there on the porch while Chaos and I have a word or two.”

Fault walked over to the porch without a murmur.

“You and Edie are a real magical combination, Chaos. Bad luck is exponential, you know. If you're going to add that much bad luck to your life, you better upgrade your radar and quick. Learn to spot trouble like this one a mile off.” He jutted his chin at Fault.

“Where's Edie?” asked Chaos.

“I'll give you her new address, Chaos. But I want something in exchange. I want you to say you'll come in Monday morning and take the test.”

“I could find Gerald's building,” Chaos pointed out. “Wait there until she comes to pick up the boys. I don't need your help.”

“You don't understand. You think I'm jerking your chain. But I'm trying to help. I'm saying take the test, get squared away with us, get on the rolls. We'll sign you up for a work shift, too. I'm saying welcome aboard, stick around a while. The test is just the way we do things around here. Not everybody's all hounded and paranoid all the time, Chaos. Not everyone's like Edie. You'll find that out if you give it a chance.”

“You want me away from Edie.”

“Okay, Chaos.” Cooley grinned his wide grin. “Whatever. Here I am about to give you her address, and trying to help you get lined up for a test, which if you're going to stick around here, with Edie or not, is a must, and you're suggesting you might prefer to spend the night with Gerald instead. Your choice.”

Chaos didn't say anything.

“Edie's due for a work shift Monday. She can drop you off at my office on her way to punch in. Test takes about an hour and a half.”

“I'll think about it.” Saying this, he felt defeated.

“Good enough.”

Cooley gave him directions, and Chaos immediately felt cheated; Edie had moved just a few blocks away. “And I don't mean to be harsh—” Cooley continued.

“Yes?”

“But after that sonofabitch takes you to her place, I want him gone.”

They drove off, Chaos and Fault towards Edie's new apartment and Cooley in the opposite direction. Fault began muttering oaths the minute Cooley's car was out of sight; Chaos didn't ask him why he'd waited so long.

“I've got to get some sleep,” Fault said absently when they pulled up in front of the three-story apartment building. Edie was at the top. “Otherwise I'd stick around.”

“That's all right,” said Chaos. He wanted to go upstairs. He needed to think.

“So you get things settled,” continued Fault. “I'll be back to pick you up tomorrow, okay?”

“What?”

“Bright and early, while this town's still asleep, so we won't run into any of your fascist friends, you know? Just slip out while they're fixing their morning coffee.”

“Well . . .”

“You're coming to the city, right? Cale's expecting you.”

“I don't know. I don't know what I'm doing.” He didn't want to leave Edie. But he didn't want to take the luck test, either. It couldn't hurt to have Fault come back, he decided. He wouldn't go if he didn't want to.

“Here,” said Fault. He dug in his satchel and pulled out a black plastic cartridge. “Cale wanted me to give you this. You need a VCR to watch it.”

“VCR?”

“Ask Edie. They're built into most of the televisions around here, I think. She'll know.”

Chaos took the cartridge.

Fault lit a cigarette and struck a pose on his motorcycle, as though reconstituting his image as a rebel after Cooley's dismantling. He strapped on his helmet and revved the engine. “See you tomorrow, Everett.”

Everett. Chaos had momentarily forgotten.

He took the name, and the cartridge, upstairs.

 

 

 

 

The tape was about three minutes long. The first two and a half were Cale—Cale Hotchkiss—talking at the camera, a tight headshot. The first thing he said was, “Listen, Everett: do you remember when we were twelve or thirteen, and we broke into the train yard?”