The Grand Ballast (32 page)

“
Who?” Valen
demanded.

Finley waved him off.
“You’ll see, you’ll see.”

Horse Leg brought two
drinks over. Slammed one each in front of Valen and Bode and
whapped Finley across the back of the head. “You gonna rent these
gentlemen a room or what?”

Finley rubbed the spot.
“After my drink.”

“
We gotta introduce them to
Skullprute. Is he in the casino?”

Finley paused with his
mouth open. “By the grace of my dribbling butt milk, Horse Leg,
give them a chance to
drink
before we sic Skully on them.” He turned to Valen
and Bode. “Okay, you two
deliciously
disheveled gentlemen.
Upstairs, downstairs, or under the stairs?”

Valen still wasn’t
speaking, so Bode said, “Upstairs, please.”

Horse Leg’s mouth fell open
suddenly as he stared at the saloon entrance. “Here’s
trouble.”

They all turned. Bode
caught sight of pair of large snakeskin boots under the saloon
doors. A tall, plump woman entered, dressed in a dingy white bra
and jeans. Her long dark hair spilled over her shoulders, the ends
coiling in two neat spirals that were plastered to the tops of her
breasts.

“
Hedda,” Finley called,
nearly falling off his stool. “C’mere and meet some
guests.”

Hedda gave the group a cool
glance. “I’m looking for Skullprute.”

Finley made a face. “And
he’s out looking for trouble. C’mere.”

Bode continued to stare as
Hedda approached—he couldn’t help himself
.
Hedda’s bare midsection was missing sections of skin. And in place
of the skin was a clear, flexible material. Bode could see through
to the dark mess of her insides.

“
Boys,” Horse Leg said.
“This is Hedda.”

Bode forced his gaze up, away from her
middle. “Hello,” he mumbled.

“
Like whatcha see?” She
smiled down at him. “My husband stabbed me. And oh, you’re gonna
think I’m twisted as a whore’s tit, but I stayed with him. Better
to have a man that stabs than one that gawks at walls, I
figured.”

“
He stabbed you?” Bode
repeated.

“
Opened up a big gash,
right here.” She angled herself and pointed to a long transparent
scar along his lower back. “So I got the glass put in that one.
It’s not really glass, but I like to call it that—like windows.
Every time we had sex, I’d push his face right here, make him look
right inside me. ‘Do you see my kidneys, motherfucker? That’s where
you
opened me up
.’
Did wonders for our sex life. Now he’s dead, poor dear.” She traced
the wound, tapping it with one finger. “And I liked the look of
this so much I got a few more put on me.”

“
I think it’s fantastic,”
Finley announced. “I think everybody should make ghosts of their
skin where it’s been ruined.” He raised his glass.

Hedda wandered over to the bar to get a
drink, and Bode found himself looking around the saloon again.

In one corner, a short, thin woman with
breasts pushed damn near up to her neck was leaning over a blond,
mustached man. She looked up and caught Bode’s gaze. Smiled. Her
brown skin had a fine sheen of sweat on it, and her black hair was
up in a high bun. She was beautiful, but there was something in her
that went beyond beauty. She looked patient and happy and very
kind. Horse Leg seemed to notice Bode’s interest.

“
That’s Bettina. She’s been
in and out of love with every man in Harkville.” He looked at them
as though waiting for an answer then glanced back toward the bar.
“I mean that quite literally.”

Valen and Bode looked at him.

“
She can fall in love on
command. Her own command.” Horse Leg’s mechanical leg squeaked as
he adjusted himself on the stool. “She does it as an experiment.
She falls for ’em and most of ’em fall too. She broke Finley’s
heart the other day.”

“
It’s not broken, just been
knocked around a bit,” Finley said with what sounded like forced
lightness. “It’s sitting in a mud puddle, drinking gin from the
bottle.”

Bode glanced at Valen, who looked exhausted
enough to drift off. “I don’t mean to be rude,” Bode said. “But
could we see our room, please?”

“
Of course, of course,
of
course
.” Finley
stood. “Come with me.”

***

They were given the loft
apartment in a barn behind the saloon. “More privacy here,” Finley
explained. “And you’ll be close to the meetings, should you want to
join.”

“
The meetings?” Valen
inquired, but Finley was already chattering on about something
else.

The loft had a wide, low
mattress, a desk, and a small, musty bathroom walled off in one
corner. The room was surprisingly cozy, and the smell of leather
and straw was soothing.

“
We call
this place the shed,” Finley said at last. “The Liberators meet
down in the main part of the barn to discuss…plans.” He looked at
them meaningfully, eyes darting back and forth.
“
Anti-X-show
plans. I’ve told them to clear off for the night so you can
rest, but…but they’re here most nights, so…”

Bode and Valen didn’t
speak.

“
Anyway,” Finley said
cheerfully, adjusting his suspenders. “You’ll want to stay up here
during the day. Tourists might recognize you. You are, I suppose,
welcome to come into the back room of the saloon. It’s only a few
yards away. Just keep your heads down on the walk over.”

“
Are there any parts of the
town without tourists?” Bode asked. The idea of being shut up here
indefinitely was making him dizzy.

“
Well, that’s the bitch and
barker of it, huh? We want to do things our own way here, yet we
rely on the outsiders for our economy. But it’s not so bad. After
six, the tourists are relegated to the eastern part of town. Anyone
found wandering west past the saloon will be shot on sight.” He
laughed heartily. “I’m kidding.” His face sobered. “But seriously,
Zane and the Town Guard will scare the shit out of tourists if
they’re where they shouldn’t be. We rarely have
problems.”

“
And are you sure we can
trust the—the permanent residents of Harkville?”

Finley blinked rapidly.
“Yes. Yes, of course. We have so much experience hiding people;
looking out for them. You can trust Harkvillians. Just not the
tourists.”

Bode was too tired to
argue.

Finley fluffed a pillow.
“You let us know if you need anything, you hear?” His gaze met
Bode’s. “We really are here to help.”

“
Thank you,” Bode said,
wishing he could believe it.

Finley left, and Valen and
Bode lay in bed, silent and apart.

SOME WILL LOSE

Bode spent an uneasy first
day shut up in the loft with Valen. Eventually the tension between
them became so great that Valen left and went to the saloon, while
Bode stayed and gazed out the window. He watched the tourists
milling past. Saw Harkville’s entertainers in colorful costumes and
thick petticoats, dancing in the streets each time the town clock
struck a new hour.

He and Valen had been given
clothes—a huge bin of clothes that included everything from caps to
suspenders to synthetic facial hair. They’d been brought a
breakfast of cantaloupe bowls filled with berries, a hard dry
bread, and perfect squares of white meat chicken.

Free.
He kept repeating the word to himself over the coming days in
an attempt to make it feel truer.
You
won’t be hit. You won’t be fucked. You won’t be drugged.

By day, Harkville was loud.
It was silly and painted, dangerous and uncontained. It sprawled
across the desert like one of the fights that burst out the doors
of its saloon. It threw up dust and its people were foul mouthed
and spat often. People walked every conceivable way—on stilts with
bells on their ankles. On all fours with mitts over their hands.
Horse Leg’s hocked appendage was the strangest, but Bode saw other
limbs that could give it a run for its money. One woman walked with
her knees strapped to two magnetic blocks, her makeshift legs
picking up coins and nails and bullets as she walked.

Many of Harkville’s men
wore makeup and dresses. Many women wore suspenders. Nearly
everyone knew how to sing and dance. The tourist section of town
extended down Main Street east of the saloon. Tacky shops—Horse Leg
used the word “tacky,” which made Bode wonder what the man thought
the rest of Harkville was—a restaurant that served slop, and a
creaky bingo hall that offered square dance and banjo lessons. And
the casino—a long, low building with an unimpressive wooden
exterior. Inside, though, it was all chandeliers and
navy-and-silver carpet, and had a gracious waitstaff.

After six p.m., when the
saloon was closed to tourists, Harkville’s citizens piled in to
gamble among themselves and drink sloppily and dance. Bode watched
them the first two nights, feeling no inclination to participate.
He turned away when a woman in red trousers and purple suspenders
stopped at his table and offered her arm. The woman then offered
her arm to Valen with a pout. Valen smiled woodenly at her but
didn’t take the dance. Instead he went to the bar and got two more
beers.

Valen took in all of
Harkville’s strange sights with caution. Bode caught him checking
the temperature of his bathwater before getting in. Cutting his
food into very small bites and studying it before eating. Noted his
wariness when Finley poured him an unfamiliar drink, when men in
makeup and lingerie burst into the saloon, when a stray dog nuzzled
his knee. His reactions were subtle—a small jerk of his head, a
sideways shift to his gaze. A forced note in his laughter. Far from
rendering him indifferent, serene, the No Returns had left Valen
wired, overly cautious, and deeply unsure.

He managed well, though.
Evenings in the saloon, he gambled. Cards, dice. Little tricks
where he snatched people’s coins or made a queen of diamonds appear
in their drinks.

“
Where’d you learn that?”
Bode asked as he fished a joker out of his beer.

Valen smiled. “My mother
taught me.”

Valen fell under
Harkville’s Bacchanal spell more quickly than Bode. He stayed in
the saloon drinking and laughing long after Bode had gone out to
the barn. Bode would roll uncomfortably on the thin mattress and
imagine Valen with Horse Leg and Hedda and Darkenage—a young opera
singer with an eerily high voice who sang in the saloon. Around two
or three a.m., Valen would creak up the ladder, waking Bode from a
fitful doze, and Bode would lie still, hoping that Valen would
touch him.

Horse Leg worked with them
to develop disguises so they weren’t always confined to the barn
during the day. Since elaborate makeup was so common in Harkville,
with a little patience, Valen and Bode could be rendered
unrecognizable in forty-five minutes to an hour.

Valen was given permission
to gamble in a back portion of the casino—an area where only
Harkvillians were allowed. He began returning with large sums of
cash, which he hid in their tiny closet.

“
Wouldn’t have taken you
for a gambler,” Bode said one afternoon.

Valen continued trying to
stuff a roll of bills into a sock. “Why not?”

Bode didn’t have an
answer.

“
My luck has been
incredible.” Valen sounded elated. “Isn’t that something? Where I
grew up, there was no way to win. But now…”

“
Don’t get too cocky.” Bode
fiddled with the blanket on the bed. Watched the curve of Valen’s
spine as Valen bent and buried the sock under other clothes in
their closet.

“
I mostly win off
Darkenage,” Valen said. “He’s so easy.”

“
The singer?” Bode frowned.
“His voice freaks me out. And he looks like he’s
twelve.”

“
He’s trying to save money
to move out of Harkville and start a career. But he keeps gambling
everything.”

“
You take his
money?”

Valen glanced at Bode,
grinning. “I know, candy from a baby and all that.”

“
You have to give it back
to him.”

Valen’s grin slipped. “What
are you talking about?”

“
That’s for his—for his
future. For his music. You can’t take his money.”

“
Bode, he gambles it. When
you gamble, you have to understand you could lose.”

“
Give it back,” Bode
repeated.

“
Why?” Valen tried to smile
again, but it looked forced. “You really want to hear his voice on
the radio? I’d be doing the world a favor, keeping him off the
airwaves.”

“
Valen…” Bode was agitated
and not sure exactly why.

“
I’ll give him lots of
chances to win it back.” Valen tilted his head. “What’s wrong with
you?”

Bode didn’t
know.

He was disappointed with
himself for not thriving in this town that claimed to celebrate
real feelings, true innovation. What he saw was a performance. And
with each fitful night he passed dreaming of Kilroy and the fire,
of LJ’s blood pooling under his skin, he grew less and less
impressed with Harkville’s illusion. But he wasn’t sure where to go
from here. He couldn’t imagine staying in Harkville permanently.
But as long as Kilroy was searching for him, what were his
options?