“Welcome,” she breathed, and took Niko’s arm in hers as if they were old friends at a reunion. She was as tall as Niko. Or perhaps it was only the sandals that made her appear so. “Are you here to see someone special? Or can I be of service?”
She led him into a vast room with a wide bar at one end. On a large screen above the bar a movie was playing. There were men in uniform, guns, machines, a battle, the noise of war. Men sat at the bar watching the movie, drinking. Women surrounded them. Touched them. Fawned over them. Niko looked away.
“A drink?” the tall woman with red nails asked him. “Or a drug? I think you need something to relax you, no?” She smiled benevolently at him and squeezed his arm.
“You’ve been here before,” she said. “I think I remember you. But it has been a long time.” She maneuvered him toward the bar. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’m looking for someone.” Niko said it quietly so no one else could hear.
“What’s her name? I can look her up in the log book,” she offered.
Of course they would keep a record. I have to be careful, Niko reminded himself.
“No,” he said softly. “A man. A Protector.”
She stiffened, dropped his arm, and backed away.
“I can’t help with that,” she said. Her voice had lost its tempting lilt. She sounded cold, almost hostile.
“Who can?” Niko asked.
“I cannot.”
She walked away and disappeared down a dark hall. Niko was left alone. He decided to have a drink and find out what he wanted from the bartender, a stoop-shouldered, bald man wearing a rumpled shirt and a loose bow tie.
Niko chose a barstool at the end by himself. The bartender sidled over, wiping his hands with a small, stained bar towel. He stopped in front of Niko and raised his eyebrows for the order.
“Beer?” Niko asked.
The bartender grunted. “Big spender.”
Niko felt a flush of panic. He had no money. Nothing for bartering either.
The bartender pulled out a frosted mug (Niko marveled at this), filled it from a tap, and slid it over to Niko. A little foam sloshed over the edge of the mug.
“Um,” Niko started, motioning the bartender over with a tilt of his head. “I, um, I’m supposed to . . .” Niko stopped, and the bartender waited.
“Supposed to what, kid?” He leaned over the bar to look up closely at Niko with red, watery eyes. “You one of them? If you’re meeting anyone but a lady”—he voiced the word “lady” with disdain—“you shoulda said something at the door, cause you’re in the wrong room for that.” He held out his hand. “It’s two big ones for the beer, kid. Anything else is outta my hands.” He stared at Niko, who cleared his throat.
“No, no,” Niko said, and took a sip of the frosty beer. He couldn’t resist. It slid easily down his throat. Its sweet, musky flavor rested lightly on his tongue, and he thought for a fleeting second that he should have questioned it. But then, to have a Protector on your side . . .
“No, come closer, please,” Niko told him.
The bartender leaned in, his hand still out for the money.
“I’m looking for a certain Protector. I’m supposed to meet him here.”
“A Protector?” The bartender was obviously impressed. He stood up straight. “Which one? Because there happen to be three of them in the cardroom right now.” Everyone knew who the Protectors were. It was rumored they had more power behind the scenes than even the Overseers. He took a swipe at the bar with his cloth while eyeing Niko. “He gonna pay for your beer?”
Niko laughed nervously. Even though it had been two years ago, he’d taken a big gamble that the Protector would want to support the minor investment he’d made. Hadn’t he gotten word to Niko just today? If the Regime wanted to find you, they could. After all, he thought, at this point, the chances were fifty-fifty that he’d pay for a measly beer.
“Yeah.” Niko drank again, then carefully positioned the mug on the bar and slid his index finger along the top edge of the glass. “Yeah, he’ll pay.”
This was a world where things were never what they seemed. One day the loudspeakers told of a food surplus at the northeast corner of Central Row at quadrant ninety-eight, but when everyone rushed to get there, the food had run out—if it had ever been there at all. Heat baked the crumbling cement, and good shoes were as scarce as rain. People’s feet blistered and children wailed to be carried. The loudspeakers told of an air-conditioned theater giving out free seats, or a hydrant spurting fresh water. A few were allowed to take advantage, but most were turned away as having too many strikes on their ID cards. No one knew how to get the strikes removed. Periodically new cards were issued. Most were filled with strikes when handed out.
To be without your ID card was dangerous. You could be cleansed out if your card wasn’t produced when Watchers demanded it. People got cleansed all the time. And agreements, pledges, assurances, and promises could never be trusted.
So Niko knew not to rely on what this Protector may have intimated with a free entry to a whore on his sixteenth birthday and a frosty beer or a text on his tracker.
Inside the cardroom, dealers at round tables that were covered in what once must have been thick green felt (but was now a mottled mix of brown stains and dark splotches) whipped out cards to men seated ten to a table. A spotlight loomed over each table, but the room’s perimeter was so dark it took Niko a few minutes to pick out more than the tables. He stood at the door with an escort. He was a short, bald man who favored his left leg, which seemed a bit shorter than his right when he walked. He’d appeared from somewhere at the bar on some hidden signal, presumably from the bartender, but it could have been from an electronic detector somewhere in the recesses of the barroom. You could never tell who or what was watching at any time, from any place.
His escort nodded to the farthest table, and Niko made his way around the room, leaving the bald man to limp out the door.
The men at the tables played a game called “badger.” It went fast. Cards fairly flew by. In the center of each table a stack of hexagonal chips grew and shrank as hands were won and lost. At times there were shouts of glee; at others, moans of disappointment. The room smelled of something sweet, slightly intoxicating. Not bruyaha, but something stronger, Niko suspected. He fought the urge to succumb to it and headed for the table where his Protector sat with a stack of chips in front of him and a long, lit meskitta hanging from the corner of his mouth.
As Niko approached, the Protector looked up and squinted at him through a curl of smoke.
“Ah,” he cried, and raised a hand. “My rider arrives. Come, come.” He motioned to Niko and then threw down his cards as he won a round and yelled, “Badger!”
The dealer shoved the pile of chips to him, and he pushed back his chair.
“Cash me out. I have to speak with my young friend.” The Protector turned halfway around so he could reach up to squeeze Niko’s shoulder.
The dealer counted the winning chips, then stacked them up while the others at the table grumbled that he should give them another chance at the cards. The Protector waved a hand at them and smiled coyly.
“Place your bets on The Race, my friends. You’ll have your chance at big winnings there. You can sit in my box. All of you.” He waved at them again and, with an arm across Niko’s shoulder, led him away. He stopped briefly at the dealer’s chair and took his winning slip.
“So, you came to discuss The Race?” the Protector whispered to Niko as they made their way back to the bar.
Niko wasn’t sure what to call him. When he hesitated, the Protector said, “Call me Huston, now that we’re in business together.”
“Yessir,” breathed Niko.
They walked past the bartender, who waved Niko’s tab at them.
“Sir, uhhh, Huston,” Niko muttered, “this is embarrassing, but I ordered a beer before and I have no way to pay for it.” He motioned to the tab in the bartender’s stubby fingers.
“Here.” Huston pulled out the winning slip. “Cash this in.” He handed it to the bartender, who reached down behind the bar and pulled open a large drawer. He gave Huston a wad of bills. Huston peeled off the top one and slapped it on the bar.
“Thank you, sir.” The bartender’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.
Huston turned to Niko and handed him the wad. “The rest is for you.”
Niko was too stunned to say anything.
“Thank me later,” muttered Huston under his breath. “There’s a lot riding on your head. I suppose you’re ready,” Huston mused as they walked out the door.
“Yessir.” Niko was not sure what was expected of him. “As ready as I can be.”
“You know what a privilege it is to have been chosen. There were many others from your unit in contention.” Huston’s gait sped up a little, as if he realized he was late for an appointment. “The voting was close. But I rallied support for you.”
“Thank you, sir.” He wondered why Huston had supported him but was hesitant to ask.
Huston stopped to light a meskitta. He offered one to Niko, who accepted it and let Huston light it. They puffed hungrily, although Niko wasn’t used to smoking. The pungent aroma surrounded them as Huston exhaled a cloud that hung in the still air. “Do you want something stronger for tonight?” he asked Niko with narrowed eyes, sizing up the boy who was about to become a man.
Niko shook his head. The meskitta scent was heady enough for him. At least for now. And he was already feeling its effect.
“Why did you support me, sir? I mean then and now. And take me to the bar?”
“Hah.” Huston clapped Niko on the shoulder. “I gave you the very best that night, didn’t I? She was a beauty then. Osana was her name, wasn’t it? She didn’t last long. Drugs. Killers for a girl that fresh. Too bad, really. But I was watching you long before then.”
Huston puffed on his meskitta.
“I saw something in you. Who can say what? Early on, I saw you break up a Scrounger fight not far from here. You handled yourself well. Stood your ground and made a good deal that satisfied everyone involved. And took a good chunk for yourself. You put me in mind of myself as a boy. Life can be tough. Infinius . . .” He paused and looked around, then motioned with a slant of his head for Niko to follow his lead. They disappeared into a narrow alley lined, along a wall, by battered trash cans and a large half dumpster, its side missing. Huston leaned against the wall of the building and seemed to relax.
“Infinius . . .” he continued, “can be a hard place if you don’t have friends.”
If Huston was one of those men who liked other men, or if he liked both, Niko would have a problem. It wouldn’t be good to anger or reject him right before The Race.
Huston laughed again and nodded with approval. “Caution. That’s a good trait. I knew you were the one to win it all for me. Now let’s get down to it.” He motioned with his finger for Niko to come in closer. “You will win tonight. Take my word for it. And the world will open up for you like you can’t believe.”
“How can you be so sure I’ll win?” Niko asked. “I mean, I know fixes are made, but others make them too. How can you be sure yours will stick?”
“It’s not unlike that street fight. When we first met.”
“Sir,” he began, then hesitated and finally decided to go on. “Are you saying you set up that fight?”
“Call me Huston, please. We’re in business together now. That is, unless you want your life to end tonight. And yes, I set it up. To see how you’d act, what the others would do. Would they turn on you? Or follow you? These things are important to know before . . .” Huston dropped the stub of meskitta and squashed it under his toe, swiveling his foot back and forth more than was necessary to put out the ember.
“Well, then, Huston, you mean before The Race?” Niko asked with a slight tone of authority now. “Why me? I know you couldn’t go to The Hovels, but why pick me? There are hundreds of boys my age from The Ring. You could have chosen any one of them.”
“True, I could have. But you managed the trials I put in your path better than the rest. And remember, there are other Protectors who chose riders. Each of us had a limited field. Anyway, it’s done now.” Huston looked up and down the street.
As they left the alley, the wad of bills crushed tightly against Niko’s belt, were securely hidden from street hustlers and muggers. Even walking beside Huston he didn’t feel safe. So when they parted, Niko cautiously made his way back to The Ring, where he lived on the ground floor of Building Three in a tiny room he’d created between two hollow concrete pillars. The only light came from a single bulb hanging from an exposed sewage pipe on the ceiling. Beside one pillar, a hot plate sat on a wooden crate next to a toilet with no seat. Across the cramped space was a mattress covered by crumpled sheets. An ancient laptop computer lay open on the floor. Niko had managed to tap into the jury-rigged electrical system by splicing his own line into the main one stolen from the street. The putrid odors of garbage and raw sewage mingled, especially in strong westerly winds.
It wasn’t until he entered his own living quarters that he looked at the wad and counted it with a staggering sense of luck, followed by foreboding. He had never seen so much money, never held it in his hands, never imagined he would come upon such wealth. He wondered briefly what would be expected of him after The Race in exchange for this windfall. Would it cost him much more than the money in his hand?
Such thoughts led nowhere.
At an industrial-sized dumbwaiter that could move large items to the roof, Old Merrie waited beside her wobbly-wheeled grocery cart. With her calloused fingers, she had pulled the ropes of this dumbwaiter in years past. Big, heavy ropes with bristly sides. She leaned against a pillar, listening for footsteps, and sang softly to herself, an old song from deep in memory that hadn’t been completely cleansed.
On a night so beautiful
You came to my window, singing your song
About the dawn, about the dawn.
You were my love, so strong and true
And in your eyes I saw the blue
A summer sky.
Oh! Don’t be far from me, my love
Out there so dark I cannot see your smile
Nor hear your voice as a whispering wind.
I had a dream the other night, when everything was still;
I thought I saw you come to me, singing your sweet song
About the dawn, about the dawn.
Old Merrie wondered how she could remember all the words after so many years since The Cleanse. She hummed the song again and then heard footsteps clang on those unsteady stairs. She was still humming and swaying a little as a few dance steps came back to her in a foggy film. El appeared around the corner, with the sacks of bottles and food she’d carried up twenty-three flights. She lowered the bags down to the cement floor and leaned against a girder. The bottles clinked against each other.
“How many bottles you carried in them sacks?” she asked El.
“I don’t know, but this is my fourth trip so far.” She pointed to a far-off corner where she had dropped off more bags earlier. “I hope it’s enough. I don’t want to make that climb again until tonight. What do you have?”
Old Merrie didn’t answer right away. You never knew, really, who you might be talking to these days. Years ago, before The Collapse, when Merrie was still a young woman, she’d liked to meet new people, talk and laugh and sing and dance. In fact, she vaguely remembered a club she used to frequent with many friends. How they’d had fun and danced all night. Now all of them were gone, and she was left with memories like mists that passed across her mind and sprinkled droplets of images that dried up before she could catch them, hold them, examine them. She thought the girl looked harmless.
“What’s your name, girl?”
“El.”
“I heard of you from somewhere. Was you one of them foundlings the nuns took in, then?”
“Yes.” El looked around for others
, for hidden cameras, but saw nowhere they could be hooked up. “We alone up here?”
“Hmmm,” said Old Merrie. “Appears to be. And this big dumbwaiter here for us to haul our goods up to the roof. I guess we might’s well get started.”
They moved the bags and sacks and produce onto the cavernous dumbwaiter. Old Merrie pushed her wobbly-wheeled cart in and began to pull on the ropes. The thing creaked and rolled up and up. El moved next to Old Merrie, and together they raised the thing to the final landing.
On the vast open space, useless corroded metal vent cones dotted the surface like sprouts of some alien vegetation gone to seed. In one corner was a huge refrigeration machine that had been installed by a work force of Scavengers pulled for this once-a-year event from their otherwise rambling efforts at collecting street garbage and detritus. Inside it, ice and drinks and food were jammed together for the throngs that would gather later, after The Race. On the other roofs of The Ring, the vents had long ago been scrounged off to break down and repurpose the metal. People from those buildings would view from their own roofs and celebrate after the event ended.
The area designated for party prep was distinct from where The Race would be held, but it was a grim reminder to El about what would happen soon enough.
El stacked the bottles on a high shelf inside the huge refrigerator while Old Merrie hummed, moving the prepared foods onto a lower shelf. They worked together but apart. El’s stomach growled loudly, and Old Merrie glanced at her sideways.
“You hungry, girl?”
El nodded but didn’t speak. Even on this roof, surely the Watchers would have a camera or listening devices.
Old Merrie took out a hunk of freshly baked bread that had a sweet scent. El lifted her head at the unfamiliar smell as it wafted past her.
“Take this,” said Old Merrie. “They can’t see you with this big door open.”
El reached for the bread with one hand, cautiously like a wary cat. She devoured it and licked her fingers. She looked up at Old Merrie, wondering what this could mean. No one gave anyone anything in this city without expecting something in return. She waited, but Old Merrie only broke off another hunk and handed it to El. This time El took it without caution. It was too delicious to question the source a second time. Old Merrie broke off a smaller chunk for herself.
A Place Called Zamora Page 6