Cowboy Feng's Space Bar and Grille (9 page)

It is certainly the case that I am a coward, but there was an air of unreality about this threat that made it easy to deny it; to just go do what I wanted to without really thinking about it. Whatever happened, I expected it to be interesting.

The place was more impressive in the daylight. It was big and white with red trim around the windows that should have made it look more garish than it did. All the paint was new. All the edges and corners were sharp. The door was big and wood and had an ornate brass knocker that belonged there. I used it, and waited more than a minute. The door opened with a thoughtful creaking and a slowness that would have been more appropriate in a Mel Brooks parody of a horror movie than in the real thing. When it opened and I was able to get a look at the man who opened it, I knew at once that this was not the butler I’d more than half expected, though I cannot point to precisely how I knew.

He stood half a head taller than I. His face was heavily jowled, heavily browed, and quite ruddy. His hair was curly and completely grey. He wore black and white, including a very long, black dinner jacket with, apparently, velvet lapels. Jamie would have looked great wearing it on stage. Other than his white shoes, I thought him fairly well dressed. I hate people who wear white shoes. Sorry if I’m stepping on any toes, so to speak, but it’s a prejudice. Don’t let me get started on Trans Ams. He studied me with an expression of mild curiosity; if I were selling encyclopedias, he would ask me to leave politely but without room for argument.

I tried to forget the white shoes. He said, “
Oui, monsieur?
” His voice was very rich and full, the sort of voice one enjoys listening to.

“
Parlez-vous
English?” I managed, with some work.

“Indeed,” he said. “How may I help you?” Clipped, yet distinctly more American than, say, British. East Coast, perhaps. Perhaps not.

“I am looking for the master or mistress of the house. My name is Kevely.”

As I said my name, his brow went up and my heart dropped approximately the same distance. “William Francis Kevely, is it not?” he said. “Or Billy, as your friends call you?”

My voice was dry, but fortunately did not crack. “That is correct.”

“Please come in, Mr. Kevely. This is my home. My name is Harold Peter Rudd. You will understand if I do not offer to shake hands.”

“A pleasure, Monsieur Rudd.”

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Kevely.”

I crossed the threshold into an L-shaped entryway, with coat closets on either side and a mirror straight ahead. He helped me with my leather jacket, where it found a home between something white and furry and something long and tweedy. I think it was supposed to feel honored.

Out of the L and into the land of high ceilings and a fireplace in a big sitting room where we were surrounded by books that didn’t look read, a fireplace that did look used, and light-colored wood paneling. I didn’t see any speakers, but they could have been concealed. Two chairs sat in the middle looking lost, facing each other at an oblique angle. They were probably Louis the something or other. When he gestured me into one, I was surprised that it was comfortable.

“Brandy, Mr. Kevely?” he said. Of course. I wondered how much he was playing a role. Silly question, phrased that way. The room echoed as he spoke. The whole thing was pretty spooky, and rather surreal at the same time.

“No, thanks. I’m fine.” I wasn’t really; I was wearing jeans and a black tee-shirt that said, “The Flying Karamazov Brothers. There’s more to to the theatre than than repetition.” Such things don’t usually bother me, but on that occasion I really wanted to be wearing my nice white-on-white shirt with French cuffs and the jeans with the holes in the knees. Oh, well.

He sat facing me at that oblique angle I mentioned earlier. My left eye could watch him while my right eye could look at the cold fireplace. He relaxed, his feet stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles, and his hands in the pockets of his jacket. His eyebrows were as grey as his hair. He noticed me looking at the fireplace and said, “Should I start a fire, Mr. Kevely?”

“I don’t think that will be necessary, Monsieur Rudd.”

“Very well.” He cleared his throat. “I must say, I didn’t expect to run into you.”

“I came chasing bears,” I said.

“Ah. Of course.” He smiled. In another context, I would not have taken it for an evil smile. “Any particular bear?”

“We could start with the one who tried to burn down Cowboy Feng’s last night. Claude, isn’t it?”

“So it
was
you, and he
didn’t
lose you.”

“It was and he didn’t.”

“He was afraid of that.”

“And we can go from there to whoever tried to blow it up earlier. Claude again, I think. And, perhaps, Justin?”

“You know a great deal.”

I waited for him to say, “More than is good for you,” or something like that. When he didn’t, I said, “I don’t know as much as you do, or as much as I’d like to.” I decided to make what I thought was a reasonable guess at this point. “For example,” I said, “I don’t know why you had someone shot at the restaurant, or who he was to begin with. Or, in fact, exactly who shot him.”

Rudd nodded, his mouth twitching. A very expressive mouth, it was, too. “You must understand, Mr. Kevely, that we are far from perfect.”

We? Sugar Bear? “Well, yes.”

“We are dedicated people, but we are not killers, save by necessity.”

“This was necessary?”

“You misunderstand. I am explaining that we bungled. More particularly, I bungled. I should have had a photograph, but, well—” He spread his hands. “I didn’t. I relied on a verbal description, and there was an unfortunate man who matched the description. I
do
feel bad, although no doubt he was diseased as well, so there is no real loss.”

“Oh.” I cleared my throat. This raised more questions than I could handle at one time. I started with, “If it was a stranger who was shot, why did he die saying, ‘Sugar Bear’?”

This time, Rudd’s whole face twitched. “I told you we are not professionals. The gunman told him. I don’t know exactly how, I suspect he said, ‘Sugar Bear has found you, you scoundrel, prepare to die,’ or words to that effect.”

“Oh. In English?”

“It is still our native tongue, even though we have come a long way in space, and through many generations.”

“I see. Well, in that case, who was he
supposed
to have killed?”

“Oh, come now, Mr. Kevely.”

I blinked, and as I did the photographer in my mind reconstructed the dead man, and the stenographer who works in the same department rattled off a verbal description from the photo, which came out something like, “About five-seven or five-eight, big nose, long, black hair, black drooping mustache.” I knew at once who else that fit, and I realized, at a quite visceral level, just how stupid it had been for me to walk into this place, unarmed and alone.

She took another hit off her cigarette and blew out the smoke in a long, thoughtful stream, watched it swirl across the booth toward the empty table next to her, and remembered the night before. She tried to form it into words for herself, failed. How can happiness be put into words? Problems she didn’t even know she had were whisked away, vanished, gone. It was better than anything she’d tried before: acid, coke, anything.

Love?

A joke, that. Love was the problem, not the solution. Being hit by a car was better than love.

She took another sip of coffee. Tony had promised to have more tonight if she wanted it, and Tony could usually be relied on. Well, if you’re going to break skin, there’s no point in not enjoying it.

Snatches of songs came to her, dancing in the ear of her mind, making melodic suggestions to counterpoint the smoke swirls. She suddenly wished she had her fiddle and that she knew how to play it. Maybe she’d start practicing again. She took another sip of coffee, another hit off her cigarette, exhaled, and watched the smoke. Spooky. Scary. She liked that.

She stubbed out her cigarette and refilled her coffee cup from the tacky green pitcher the all-night restaurant served coffee in. She played with cream containers she didn’t use and thought about it.
Doesn’t it bother me that I’m shooting heroin?

And,
Yes, it does
.

She lit another smoke and stared at nothing.

It’s me, Rose. Not some junkie. It’s me
.

She saw it then. This was to be her life. She’d watch Tony burn his brain out and turn into a vegetable, and Julie would get quieter and quieter, until she shut down altogether, and Margaret would lose touch with reality until everything became so Significant that nothing mattered, and she, Rose, would join them, and that’s how it would be.

They’re all losers. They’re going nowhere. I’ve got my music. That makes it different
.

She could stop. Stay away from needles, and fill in the void with music. She shook her head. No. She could, maybe, stay away from the needles, but she’d still be around Julie, and Margaret, and Tony, and that meant being around the candy, and that meant using it.

The sickly pale sun was coming through the restaurant windows. Morning already? She paid her bill and walked through snapping winter winds, deciding that she was beginning to feel the effects of a whole night spent drinking coffee.

She walked up the two flights to her apartment and let herself in. Margaret was sitting on the floor on sofa cushions. She smiled dreamily, her head on Tony’s shoulder. “How did you like it, Rose?” Margaret asked.

“It’s great,” she said honestly. “It’s better than coke, it’s—excuse me a minute.”

She used the bathroom. It was small and the sink and mirror were cracked. She splashed water on her face, then went out and picked up her fiddle case. Rose walked to the door and opened it again. Julie, who had rejoined them in the living room, said, “Where ya going, hon?”

Rose took a deep breath and looked at the three of them. She said, “I love you guys more than anyone or anything in the world, but I can’t see you anymore. Good-bye.”

She shut the door quickly so they wouldn’t see her tears, and walked down the two flights of stairs to the street, clutching her fiddle case like salvation. It was very cold.

Startled, surprised, and shocked do not mean quite the same things. Startled is when you walk around a corner and almost bump into someone. Surprised is when you look down the block and see someone you thought was out of town. Shocked is when you walk around the corner and bump into a dead man. It is impossible to control what your face does when you’re shocked, it is difficult when startled, but, actually, fairly easy when surprised, if you try.

I realized that I’d just placed myself into the hands of a man who had tried to kill me. I was surprised, not startled or shocked. My mind raced, tried to come up with some means of escape, failed. I was going to have to just play it by ear, and hope my mouth could think clearer than my brain. So, where were we? Ah, yes: He assumed I knew he was trying to kill me. “Of course,” I said.

“You do not,” continued M. Rudd, “have a listening or recording device upon your person, or it would have been detected when you entered my home. Similarly, you do not have a weapon. Thus I conclude that you are here neither to trick me into saying something that you will record to use against me in some way”—here he smiled as if the notion was amusing—“nor to attempt violence against my person. I am curious. Why are you here?”

“I’m afraid you will have to remain curious, for the moment.”

He frowned, the disapproving look of the stern parent. “Come now, Mr. Kevely. I’ve answered all of your questions. You could at least tell me why you have come.”

“To get the answers to those questions you’ve just answered.”

“Rubbish,” he said. “I haven’t told you anything you didn’t already know, or couldn’t have discovered, or even guessed.”

“All right, if you really haven’t told me anything, why should I tell you anything in exchange?”

He laughed, and it seemed quite genuine. “Very good, Mr. Kevely.” He shifted in the chair, crossing his ankles the other way. “Well, then, is there something I can tell you that you didn’t already know?”

“Sure. Who exactly do you work for, and what are your goals?”

His eyebrows climbed once more. “I work for the Physician, as I’m certain you are aware, and we are attempting to cure the patient. You should know that; you are part of the disease.”

“I am?”

“You are. It is why it is necessary to surgically remove you.”

“Ah. As I am certain
you
realize, I don’t look at it quite that way.”

“That is irrelevant.”

“No doubt. Can you be more specific about this disease, or what the cure for it might be?”

He stared at me speculatively. “No, I don’t think so,” he said. “But that does bring something to mind. Perhaps you could tell me something.” He pulled his right hand from his jacket pocket. “Why in the world should I not simply kill you now and have done with it?”

I’d never had a gun pointed at me before. The novelty of the experience impressed me more than the particulars of the weapons, so, if you are one of those who are curious about such things, you’ll have to be content with my impression that it was a small, blue automatic. My unease notwithstanding, I’d been more or less expecting this ever since I realized who the dead man looked like. I’m proud to say I didn’t bat an eyelash or miss a beat. I held his gaze and said, “What would
you
have done before walking in here?”

He stared at me, his eyes narrowing, and I’d bet he would have traded several weeks out of his future allotment of paradise to know what I was thinking. Then his eyes widened, and his face broke into a smile. “Ah,” he said. “I see. Very good. A stalemate.”

“I think so.”

“You are a brave man, Mr. Kevely.”

“You are a clever man, Monsieur Rudd.”

He bowed his head and stood, still pointing the gun at my stomach. “Under the circumstances, I’m afraid I must ask you to leave.”

“As you wish,” I said. “It has been a pleasure meeting you.”

“And you as well.” He conducted me to the door and opened it. I looked out at a piece of rural New Quebec. Except for the smell of livestock, it was not materially different from my piece of residential New Quebec. It smelled of freedom and safety out there, as well as of horses and goats, and I badly wanted to bolt. M. Rudd still had the gun in his hand, though it no longer pointed at me, so I held myself still and tried to act calm. “No doubt,” he said, “we shall meet again before everything is settled.”

“I expect we shall. My compliments to the Physician.”

“And mine to Mr. Feng.”

“Indeed.”

I walked out onto the street at last. My legs, bless their souls (sorry), held me steady until I was a good mile away from Rudd’s. I didn’t stop there, but I did allow myself the twin luxuries of letting my knees shake and looking over my shoulder once or twice a minute from there until I reached the door of Cowboy Feng’s.

As I walked, amazed and delighted that I continued to breathe and that my heart continued to beat—which it did, and made sure I knew about it, too—I wondered what in the world he thought I had on him that had prevented him from killing me. If I could figure it out, it might do so again.

Feng’s was almost empty, it being between the lunch and supper rushes. Before supper? It was still before supper? Amazing how time stands still when your life is in danger. I sat where I could watch the door and I ordered some coffee in order to calm down. It didn’t work, but I don’t think Valium would have either, right then.

Rich showed up a bit later. He took one look at me and said, “What happened?”

“It’s a long story,” I said. “Is Eve still at the library?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, here’s some current stuff for her to look into, if she wants: Harold Peter Rudd. He lives at sixteen Saint Marguerite Road. Here’s another one: the Physician.”

“Sounds like you’ve had an interesting day.”

“To paraphrase Dalkey: You damn betcha, ratface.”

“Who? Never mind. Tell me about it.”

“Not now; I want to relax for a while.”

“Okay. I’ll go talk to Eve.”

“All right. And, Rich, keep looking over your shoulder. Be very careful. These people really would kill us.”

He stared at me. “You’re going to have to tell me about this.”

“I will, Rich, just not right now, okay? And be careful.”

Jamie and Rose showed up an hour or so later and sat down next to me. “Where have you been?” said Rose. “We misseded you.” I didn’t know anyone else who could get away with saying
We misseded you
.

“Oh, I was sort of busy,” I said. “Wandering around, telling everyone I met about who we are, getting shot at, that sort of thing.”

“Are you serious?” said Jamie.

“Well, I’m exaggerating a bit. Where have you been?”

“Exploring the city,” said Rose. “They have this big park that’s full of rocks. Big rocks. You can climb all over them, and slide down the—”

“Wait a minute,” said Jamie. “I want to know what happened to you.”

I shrugged. For some reason, I felt a reluctance to tell them about it, perhaps because I’d been so stupid in walking into it. “Never mind. How’s Tom?”

“Depressed,” said Jamie, as if the word tasted bad.

“Huh? About what?”

“What do you think?”

“I have no idea.”

“Carrie.”

“What about her? I thought the two of them were twin songbirds upon the tree of mutual rapture, winging their way, together, through the forest of true love, to find the—”

“Billaaahhh,” said Jamie.

“I thought that was pretty good, for a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

“You should be a performer,” said Rose.

“No, I just play banjo.”

“
Man
,” said Jamie.

“What’s the deal with Tom and Carrie?”

“Oh, they spend half their time being cute at each other and the other half tearing each other to shreds.”

“Ah. I hadn’t noticed that other half. But, then, I guess I’ve been pretty much involved in my own world lately.”

“Shit happens,” said Jamie.

“You’ve been hanging around with Libby, haven’t you?”

“Yeah. And speaking of Libby…”

“Yes?”

“There’s something that’s been on my mind for a while.”

“Talk to me.”

“Do you have any skills to speak of, other than music?”

“That’s a weird question.”

“Just answer it.”

“All right.” I considered the question carefully, answered more or less honestly. “As far as I can tell, I don’t even have music. If I could sing—”

“I think you sing real good, for a boy,” said Rose, blinking.

“Thanks.”

“I’m serious,” said Jamie. “Do you really do much of anything except play banjo and sing?”

I decided that he didn’t really intend to be insulting. I said, “Well, not really well. I sort of write songs, sometimes, but not well enough that I’d list it as a skill if I was going to apply for a job.”

“Right. Same with me, and Tom, and Rose. Music is all we know, as far as marketable skills go.”

“So, what about it? It’s kept us eating so far.”

“Did you know that Libby was hired as a paramedic and as a bartender?”

“Yeah. I was there when she mentioned it. What about it?”

“Did you know that Fred is a marksman, and was in a Marine Corps Special Forces unit?”

“Really? He seems too thin for that.”

“It’s true. He mentioned it one night when he was drunk and coked up. It was part of the job description he applied for. He and Libby didn’t get together until after they were both here.”

“Okay, I believe you. What about it?”

“Did you know that Rich isn’t just hanging around, he’s employed by Feng’s as the maintenance man?”

“I think he mentioned that, yeah.”

“And his girlfriend happens to speak about six million languages, as well as cooking as well as Fred?”

“Okay. I don’t see what you’re getting at.”

“Check this out: The people here at Feng’s consist of the four of us, who ended up here by accident, really, and four others, who might have been handpicked to go trucking through the galaxy doing whatever it is they’ve been doing.”

I chewed this over, looking at it from several different angles. Then I said, “You
have
been thinking, haven’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“So you believe the four of us have stumbled into something the four of them know about, and they aren’t letting us in on it because we can’t be trusted, but they let us hang around because they like us?”

“Or maybe they just haven’t told us yet, but they’re going to. Or maybe they aren’t, but they think we’ll be useful. I don’t know. But think about it, isn’t it a little weird? And wouldn’t that explain it?”

I nodded slowly. “Yes, it would.” Then I smiled. “You like the idea of charging through time and space battling evildoers, don’t you?”

“Well, um, yeah. Don’t you?”

“Not particularly,” I said, with complete honesty. “How about you, Rose?”

“I want whiskey,” she explained.

“Don’t you think it’s possible?” said Jamie, sounding excited.

“Maybe. If so, what do we do about it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe we should ask Rich to his face.”

“Or Libby. She wouldn’t lie to me.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Yes. Well, no. But what the hell?”

“Do you want to ask her, or should I?”

“I will. You talk to Rich.”

“Good enough. We’ll compare notes later.”

“Want to eat?”

“Yeah.”

“Food,” said Rose.

I wasn’t especially hungry, so I settled for deep-fried mushrooms and a glass of mango juice. Then we sat at the table for a while, saying little. Jamie didn’t seem inclined to pick today to talk to Libby, and Rich didn’t show up. At one point I went back to talk to Libby, but I didn’t mention any of Jamie’s ideas to her because that was his job.

“Having a good day?” she said.

“In a way. I’m alive.”

“That’s always good.”

“It was a close thing, today.”

She stopped moving, looked at me. “Go on,” she said.

“Last night, someone tried to burn the place down.”

“Keep talking.”

And I did, leaving out nothing. She crossed her arms and listened with an intensity I could almost feel. When I finished, we spoke a little more, until at last she said, “What a mess. Well, look, don’t worry. Fred and I will take care of things.”

“What do you mean, take care of things?”

“Don’t worry about it, all right?”

“How can I help worrying about it?”

“Yeah, okay. Go ahead and worry. I have to figure this out.”

“Okay. Let me know when you have something.”

I rejoined Rose and Jamie. I said, “I think you’re right.”

“What just happened?”

“Never mind.”

We drank coffee until the evening rush started, then we walked home slowly. As we went past Le Bureau, I felt my back muscles tense. I had actually wanted to leave a couple of hours before, but I didn’t want to walk home alone. Based on the day’s experiences, I felt this was honest cowardice, rather than paranoia. I resisted the impulse to keep looking over my shoulder, because I didn’t want to have to explain it to Rose and Jamie. It was a very long walk, but we got there and Tom was lying on a mattress in the living room, his arm over his face. He didn’t look up when we walked in.

I said, “Hey, buddy.”

He moved his arm. “Hello.”

“What’s new?”

“I’m tired,” he said.

I nodded. “Where did the mattress come from?”

“Carrie.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good.”

“Yeah.”

That was all I could get out of him, but it was enough to make a point of some sort. Jamie, Rose and I exchanged glances, then we went into Jamie’s room. Jamie and Rose both slept there, but it was emphatically Jamie’s room. It was interesting how it had become more and more his own as the days went by. First, there was nothing but carefully folded clothing and a guitar in the corner. Then a cavalry saber, one that had been an antique when we left Earth, appeared on a wall. A few days later he acquired a model of the spaceship in the New Quebec television serial
Star Trek: 3100
. I wasn’t sure where he’d been watching it.

Candles began to appear, most of them in ornate iron holders, and then a small but elegant mahogany bookcase showed up. Rich gave him a toy car (1953 Dodge) to set on top of the bookcase, and Fred found him a leather-bound collector’s copy of
Conan of Cimmeria
. Libby gave him an eight-by-ten topless photo of her, which took a place of honor at the head of the bed. I wondered how he explained it to his visitors. He probably didn’t.