Cowboy Feng's Space Bar and Grille (8 page)

Back home I brought Jamie up-to-date about Souci’s possible connection with Sugar Bear. Since Rose and Tom were there, and I couldn’t think of anything else to do, I suggested we practice.

We tried to reconstruct a couple of verses to “The Work of the Wavers,” failed, and ended up learning “Chesterfields,” with three-part harmonies (four, if you count the fiddle). We slapped a typical (for us) opening on it: about one-quarter speed, drawn out, overdone, and very silly. That was fun, and we got it worked out pretty well kicking into the fast part until Rose announced that she didn’t want to play fiddle on it.

“Why not?” I asked, trying not to sound irritated.

“It doesn’t need it.”

“I think it sounds great,” said Jamie. Tom was smoking a cigarette and staring at the ceiling.

I said, “What would you rather do?”

“How about bodhran?”

I said, “I think the fiddle is better.” I almost said, “Why don’t you learn to play the fucking bodhran before you go wanting to play it on every song?” but I didn’t.

Jamie said, “I agree with Billy,” but he looked uncomfortable.

Tom got up to take a walk. I don’t know why that annoyed me, but it did. I decided I was developing another attitude problem. I said, “Let’s can this until tomorrow, all right?”

“Good idea,” said Rose.

Jamie shrugged and nodded, but looked unhappy. It was pretty late by then, and I was very tired, so I had no trouble falling asleep in spite of everything.

Christian showed up at half past noon the next day. I made some egg salad with onions and celery and peppers and stuff and he seemed to like it. Everyone else was out somewhere or another.

Seeing Christian in a well-lit room made me realize that he was younger than I’d first thought. His hair looked like he really honest-to-God never combed it, as opposed to those who spend hours every day making it look like they never comb it. His walk went with the hair: a relaxed shuffle accompanied by a bobbing, head-turning movement as if he were checking out the area to see what fun could be had, the whole overlaid with a more or less permanent smile. He swore frequently and well in French and English.

I got out my banjo, and he turned out, to my amazement, to know “Cumberland Blues.” Well, if he knew that, he must know “Stealin’,” right? And “Mama Tried”? We had a grand old time teaching each other songs and discovering which ones we both knew. I almost got him broken of the habit of running through blues progressions when he didn’t have anything else to do. Not that I inherently object to blues progressions, you understand, but I’m fairly limited in how much blues I want to play on the banjo.

Later we sat and talked, and I asked him questions about Souci, and he either evaded them or didn’t know the answers. We got hungry, so I cooked something while he went out for beer. Tom and Carrie showed up, so I added some water and onions to the soup. After we ate, Tom and Christian and I played some more. When we’d exhausted all the music in the world, Christian crashed in the living room, right where the couch would have been if the place had been furnished.

The next morning I woke up to a knock at my bedroom door. I yelled, “Come in,” and it turned out, to my surprise, to be Rich, looking worried.

“I’m worried,” said Rich.

“I can see that,” I said.

“What?”

“Never mind.” I got up and threw some clothes on, trying to wake up. I stretched and said, “What is it?”

“This whole business, I don’t know. It’s—”

“Got you worried?”

“Yeah.”

I rolled my eyes and gestured aimlessly around me. “I can’t, for the life of me, imagine why. We have reason to believe there’s a conspiracy which probably succeeded in wiping out all life on Earth, from which disaster we were only saved by being in a restaurant that goes shooting around the galaxy, and in which someone was murdered and which someone has just tried to blow up, which even if it didn’t kill us outright would leave us stranded here when the bombs come down, as they probably will within another month. That’s all. Why should you be worried?”

When I turned back to him, he was shaking his head sadly. “For one thing,” he said, “because someone had been following me.”

“Oh, great. That just figures, doesn’t it?”

“And for another, because you’ve just told everything about us to whoever it is who’s been sitting there in the next room during your whole speech.”

“Did I hear myself referred to?” asked Christian from the door.

“It’s going to be another great day,” I said. “I can see that already.”

I said, “Would you believe we were just kidding?”

“Ummm.”

“Right,” I said.

“Let’s find some breakfast,” said Christian.

“I’ll go along with that,” said Rich. “And we can keep an eye out for whoever was following me.”

Right. I’d forgotten about that. “Are you sure someone was?”

“Yes.”

“Then he wasn’t very good.”

“Should I be insulted?”

“No.”

“All right. Where’s Eve?”

“The library.”

“Of course.”

I finished my morning business and we went out in search of adventure and breakfast, not necessarily in that order. We walked, or rather strolled, along LeDuc, with its wide bicycle paths and dwarf maple trees, toward Feng’s. Christian was in the middle between Rich and me. Christian said, “So, is all that really true?”

“Is what true?” I said.

“Heh.”

“Well,” I said after a moment, “I guess you can believe as much of it as you want to.”

“That’s some shit,” said Christian.

I sighed. “Look, I’m sorry you overheard what you did, but it wasn’t any part of my plan. I was tired. Forget it, believe it, or think we’re nuts, but don’t expect me to answer questions about it.”

He said, “Just tell me this: Does it have anything to do with why Souci left town?”

I winced. “Probably. Or maybe only indirectly. I don’t know.”

Half a block before we reached Feng’s, we stopped. Rich pointed to a low brick building. I stopped, and the others stopped, and we studied it for a moment. The lettering on the small, hand-painted sign said, “Le Bureau Théâtral du Nouveau Québec” in stylized script. It was an interesting building, all of an odd blue brick, and only waist-high above the ground. The roof formed a gentle arc, and the stairway down to the doorway had the same arc, smaller and in reverse. I guess it was an earth-sheltered building that was not embedded into a hill, and it gave the impression of a sort of quiet efficiency.

“So that’s the place,” I said.

“What place?” asked Rich.

“Souci’s modeling agency,” said Christian before I could.

“Ah.”

The door opened and two women I didn’t recognize came out, unlocked a pair of bicycles, and rode off up the street. I watched them carefully in case I might need to identify some portion of them in a police lineup later.

“The one on the left,” said Rich.

“What about her?”

“She’s very tall.”

“That’s true,” I said.

“Tall,” repeated Christian. “Is that what you call it?”

“Yeah, I—wait a minute.”

The door opened again, and a short, pinch-faced fellow came out, looked at us, turned, went back inside. I said, “Is that—”

“Yes,” said Rich. “That was the guy who was following me.”

“Oh,” I said. “Actually, I’d been about to ask if he was one of the guys in the pictures Fred has. I’ve seen him before, I think with
her
.”

“I haven’t seen the pictures,” said Rich.

“Neither have I. I guess we both ought to look at them, huh?”

“What pictures?” said Christian.

“Never mind,” I said.

“Asshole,” suggested Christian sweetly.

When we got to Feng’s, which was just opening and already had a few people waiting for lunch, we left Christian at a table, grabbed Fred, and took him into the pantry.

“Hurry up, gentlemen,” he said. “There are customers.”

“Right,” I said. “Pictures.”

He took a plain number ten envelope from his back pocket, handed it to me, and was gone. We rejoined Christian and opened it. There were two snapshots in it, both taken, I think, from a distance with a good telephoto lens.

“This guy,” I said, “I’ve met. His name is Justin and he’s a friend of Carrie’s.”

“He’s the one who was following me,” said Rich.

“Great. And I’m sure you recognize this guy, right?”

“Yeah. We just saw him coming out of Le Bureau whatever it was.”

“His name is Claude,” said Christian. “I don’t know his last name.”

I said, “Why didn’t you tell us before?”

“You didn’t ask.”

“Don’t make me kill you.”

He shrugged and smiled. I continued to look at him, considering. “What is it?” he said.

I cleared my throat. “I guess it isn’t surprising that you know all of those people, I mean, if you hang around with S—, with her, you’d know the same people. It’s just that—you know.”

“What?”

That this guy who knew so much about us might be on the side of whoever had tried to blow up the place. “Nothing,” I said. “Let’s eat.”

After breakfast, which in my case involved scrambled eggs and hash browns, both including green pepper and onions, the eggs also involving participation by mushrooms, sausage, and paprika, Christian said, “So, you guys are, like, aliens from another planet, right?”

I said, “I’ve never really thought of it that way before. It might be more accurate to say another
time
, though. Or maybe dimension. I like that: William Kevely, traveler through dimensions.”

“Can I come along?” asked Christian.

“Why?” I asked.

“Well, if we’re about to be nuked…”

“That’s right, you heard that, too, eh?”

“Yeah.”

“We could be lying, you know.”

“I don’t think so.”

I shrugged. “Always room at Cowboy Feng’s.”

A few cups of coffee later, Christian took off to get a few extra sets of strings—or so he claimed.

“Should we follow him?” said Rich.

“If he’s with them, he’ll expect us to. Do you know how to avoid being spotted? I don’t.”

“I guess not.”

Rich and I put our feet up on the seats and drank coffee. I stared out the window. A head of red hair floated past above the far booth and my heart leapt, but it wasn’t her. I thought about having a drink and decided it would be a bad idea just then.

“Something wrong, Billy?”

“Nothing important.”

“What’s important and what isn’t? If it’s important to you—”

“Yeah. I know. Never mind. I think I’ll go back home and play some banjo.”

“Suit yourself. Let me know if I can do anything.”

“I will.”

Since it was only half an hour out of the way, I walked by Souci’s place and rang the bell, but no one answered.

That night I went back to Feng’s to catch Pan’s Dream, and I thought they were good; the flute player was especially hot. Between sets, I talked to the skinny guy, whose name was Luc. He suggested that I get together with his band sometime to jam, and I complimented him on his band, and he explained how badly they were doing that night, and later I found myself in a back corner booth drinking soda and listening until the music was over. The guy running the sound board for them was a large, bearded man with long hair, a bald spot, and a potbelly. He was pretty good, too; surprisingly good for how much cheap whiskey he consumed.

When they were done, I remained in back drinking orange juice and charged water while they packed up and left. Libby saw me, correctly deduced that I didn’t want company, and left me alone. When the place finally closed, she turned the lights out without saying a word. The room became very quiet. The stage creaked occasionally as it recovered from the abuse suffered earlier. The ventilation system softly hummed the D below middle C (we’ve checked). From time to time, my glass thunked on the table. I decided I should probably have been drinking scotch to get the full dramatic effect from the moment, but it was better that I didn’t.

After about forty-five minutes of feeling good and sorry for myself, I got up, walked outside, and found myself face-to-face with the short guy named Claude whom I had seen earlier that day at Le Bureau. He was dressed in dark clothes and had something in his hand. After a moment, it resolved itself into a large canister. We stared at each other for a moment, then he dropped it and ran. I smelled kerosene.

I don’t remember deciding to chase him, but I must have because I did. It was a foolish idea. He knew the city, I didn’t, he was probably in better shape than I was, and I had no idea what I was going to do if I caught him, but chase him I did, down the middle of the street, then around a building where he hid hoping I’d pass him, but I didn’t, so around another corner, smack into blinding lights, a car? no, security light, and he’s running
that
way, toward the door to a bar, I think, past it, a wind catches in my throat and I can’t breathe for just a moment, tears in my eyes, someone opened a door, but no, not that way, around to the left, and was that him going through that window? good thing this place is empty, feet echoing slap slap up a flight of stairs I can hear him glass breaking out the window down to land rollingrollingrolling broken glass on my shoulder makes me happy from an alley looks like fucking New York City he must be out of breath by now, good, I wish I could get more air into my lungs and my legs are so heavy, so heavy, where did he go now, can’t see the runner for the tears, and he’s turned down this—

He stopped. Why?

Ah! He thinks he’s lost me.

“Shit,” I said aloud, and leaned against a building for a while, breathing in gasps. I could practically feel him on the other side of a garbage Dumpster, maybe twenty feet away from me. I pushed away from the wall after a while and started walking, trying very hard to walk quietly so he wouldn’t think it odd when he could no longer hear my footsteps after about thirty paces, when I stopped, listened, and heard his.

I set out after him once more, carefully this time. I mostly stayed hidden, and once I caught him looking back over his shoulder, but I was pretty well concealed in the shadow of a church of some sort. Appropriate, if you like. I never saw him look back after that, so I assumed he never saw me.

Eventually he left the city proper, and I fell even further back as we walked along a dirt road. I could just barely see him as he came to a very tall house all done up in Victorian clothes, from which light came streaming out to collect in puddles on the road. The house was very big, and formed a nice silhouette against the sunset. I decided it would have made someone a very fine haunted house, from what I could see of the towers. Perhaps it had gables; I don’t know what a gable is. It had funny things that looked decorative built up around the towers, and if they weren’t gables they should have been, because it was that sort of house.

There was an iron fence, the fence set into a low wall. It made me wonder, suddenly and perhaps irrelevantly, what this indicated about the economics of the person or the colony. But I had no idea if skilled craftsmen were plentiful, or iron was rare, so it really told me nothing. I hid behind the wall and watched as Claude knocked on the door and was admitted. I got no glimpse of the person on the inside. I made a note of the house number and the name of the road, and I left.

It took me a long time to find my way home, and I might still be looking if I hadn’t found the river and correctly guessed that we were downstream from my apartment. The walk home helped settle nerves that badly needed settling. I stopped by Feng’s and removed the canister that did, in fact, contain kerosene. I held it for a while, thinking. A killing, a bomb, and this. The killing was successful, the bombing prevented by Rich’s alertness and by luck, the burning by luck alone.

I opened the place up and stored the kerosene inside Feng’s for lack of anywhere else to bring it, and because one never knows when one might need two or three gallons of kerosene to burn down a Victorian mansion or something.

When I woke up, it was early afternoon of a beautiful Sunday tra-la tra-la. Out the window of my bedroom, past lacy curtains left by Mr. and Mrs. Previous Occupant, a monster elm, Earth variety, held the ground together and the sky up and neatly bisected the unkempt green terraced and dirty-pine-fenced backside of a New Quebec residential district. The tree had to be damn near the full sixty years old that it could be. Can you imagine that? Land on a planet and start planting elms. Every once in a while I think the human race is worth saving, after all.

As I lay there that afternoon making deep, melancholy, and philosophical reflections, it came to me that this last bit—the one about saving the human race—wasn’t totally out of the question. That is, whoever had blown up Earth could have had that in mind. A frightening thought, if an unlikely one. It would certainly explain the way the wars followed people around.

“But who,” I subvocalized, “would want to destroy the human race, anyway?” I considered this carefully, in part because it took my mind off wondering about Souci. The more I thought about it, the odder it seemed. I did not consider myself any sort of expert on the human animal, and I’d never made a study of psychology, or maybe I’d have been able to make some sort of intelligent guess. I tried to build a picture in my mind of the sort of maniac who would be seriously trying to destroy humanity, and what his motives could be. Religious? Maybe. But what religion? I could suggest the idea to Eve, who enjoyed looking things up in libraries, maybe she’d learn something, and then I could—

—what?

I sighed and studied a knot in the elm. In wood it’s called a knot; in metal it’s called a flaw, because somewhere we decided that man is fallible and nature is not. This first proposition seems intuitively obvious; the second is dubious. As I studied this knot and made cynical observations about humanity and myself, I faced the fact that I had no idea what to do about any of the dilemmas I found myself amid.

But I had to know.

Maybe—probably—because the alternative was to wonder about
her
, but the reason didn’t matter. There it was, and I was going to act on it, because I needed to act.

But first, I would deal with those aspects of reality that rudely forced themselves upon my consciousness; that is, I got out of bed and used the bathroom.

An hour later, showered, shaved, with notes left behind me to who may be concerned, I set out walking toward a large mansion. The notes detailed what I had discovered, gave the location of the mansion, and what I planned to do. I mailed it to Libby care of Cowboy Feng, figuring I could get to them before it was opened and tell them all of this in person if I survived.