The Edge of Madness Cafe (The Sea and the Wasteland Book 2)

by Mark Reynolds

  Avatars?!? Jack, you have gone completely insane!

  He huddled below the windowsill, hugging his chest tightly and holding his breath like a child hiding from imaginary monsters in the dark. He could feel the Garbageman’s probing stare. It burned its way up his back like holy fire, the walls of brick and sheet rock become silk and paper. And in some secret part of his mind, Gusman Kreiger found himself praying. To God, the Devil, Jesus and the Saints, the Holy Virgin, and a host of pagan deities with which he was once familiar. Just because you can free the cork from the bottle, Caretaker, doesn’t mean you can command the djinni within.

  There was grumbling from the alley, plaintive and indecipherable, and Kreiger heard the clomping of boots, the creak and slam of the hauler’s door, the truck roaring back to life.

  Kreiger was already up and running. I hope you know what you’re doing, Jack. But you’ll excuse me if I don’t stick around to find out what happens if you don’t.

  He bolted into the hallway, crashing against the stair’s rail, the newel post punching hard against his hip and nearly tumbling him down the steps. Instead, Kreiger twisted, allowing the momentum to carry him down half the flight in a single bound. The rest he took in leaps of four and five, each one pounding badly knit bones. His staff flared like a raw bolt of lightning.

  He had to find Ellen Monroe, stay close to her, be her shadow. Jack was on a reckless path now, and there was no predicting the outcome. The only thing he was certain of—fairly certain; one could never rely upon lunatics, and if Jack was playing with avatars then he was quite mad—was that the Caretaker still loved Ellen Monroe, and that he would save her. As for the rest of this reality, well, Jack might just hang it out to dry along with everyone in it.

  But Jack would save Ellen. Of that, Kreiger had no doubt.

  Everyone else was lost. Everyone else might, in fact, meet the Garbageman. Endgame. That’s all she wrote, folks.

  “Fuck you, Jack! Fuck you!”

  He exploded out the front door like a whirlwind, turned towards the bookstore where Ellen Monroe worked, and instantly vanished into forgotten memory like a piece of windblown paper, gone just as Arnold Prosser’s hauler nosed out of the alleyway.

  That was how Gusman Kreiger spent his morning: running from the Garbageman.

  * * *

  Arnold Prosser did not spend his time chasing Gusman Kreiger, not knowing who the man was or that he even existed at all. Had he known, he might have settled matters then and there.

  For lack of a nail, the kingdom fell.

  MAKING THE ROUNDS

  Nicholas Dabble was watching Ellen Monroe very closely that morning; his little secret had a secret of her own.

  She was five minutes late coming in, which was uncharacteristic of her. And she did not apologize for it, which was similarly uncharacteristic. There was no smell of coffee in the shop this morning, no stop off at Serena’s for her morning cup. But she seemed awake and alert, which, for his little Ellen, his lost soul, his walking dreamer, was very unusual. But there was nothing to betray her secret, nothing to give away the thing that was hiding away behind her clear gaze, her wistful look, her wholesome façade.

  It was the part about not knowing that was eating his heart—such as it was—alive!

  Nicholas Dabble watched Ellen much as he always did: sidelong glances, long stares at her reflection in the glass, stolen glimpses, chance looks. But amusement had been replaced with disquiet, his enchantment lost to an insatiable need.

  Something was going on.

  He smelled it in the air the other day, tasted it in the book she carried like a Bible, heard it scraping and creaking with every turn of reality’s clockwork. Something was happening, Ellen Monroe was the key, and she was beginning to realize her role.

  But strangely, Nicholas Dabble still did not know. He had only the disquieting sense of foreboding like the electrically charged winds that portend a storm. Something was happening and he had the key to it all in his store, as neat as a book on a shelf. Only now it was slipping away as if to suggest that he, Nicholas Dabble, were nothing more than a bit player, a know-nothing artisan strutting the stage at another’s behest, someone to be dismissed and forgotten.

  The notion made him want to laugh. The possibility it might be true made him want to shred the world and burn the pieces, raze all life and start over again with reptiles.

  He turned away from Ellen, looking out the window and across the street. Did Serena know?

  Nicholas felt his mouth start to open, felt a question start to form in his mind, unfocussed, ill-conceived, unrehearsed. He was absurdly aware of the air he was breathing in as he prepared to ask his question, how it smelled faintly of dust and dry paper and the lingering remnants of coffee from days before, of Serena’s meddlesome blend of tea, and a pleasant May smell that was Ellen Monroe. All this he knew in that frightening, irrevocable moment of ill-considered ramifications to a question he could not help but ask, a curiosity he could no longer stand, a desire he could no longer quell.

  He would have his answer or he would slit her throat and lap her blood from the shop floor; Nicholas Dabble saw his options dwindling.

  But all these notions scattered suddenly, driven away by an unexpectedly shrill droning, the sound of a semi backing down the alleyway beside the store, a sound recognized, though sorely out of place, out of time, out of context. An insistent tolling demanding—practically screaming for—his attention.

  It was a garbage truck!

  Ellen lifted her gaze too quickly and caught Nicholas Dabble unaware, his confused expression and devoted stare; she chose to dismiss both. “They don’t pick up garbage today,” she remarked.

  “No, they don’t,” Nicholas Dabble said softly, which was the truth. “I’ll go ask, though I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  And that was a lie.

  * * *

  Clad in simple workingman’s coveralls, leather boots pounding a hard, flat note upon the pavement as he leaped down from the cab, the Garbageman stared at Nicholas Dabble as he barred the doorway to the rear of the bookshop, and smiled.

  Dabble’s fingers tightened on the doorframe, nails cutting into the wood as he found himself confronted by another question without an answer

  “‘Ello Nicky,” Arnold Prosser said. “Been up to any mischief lately, you ol’ devil?”

  “Good morning, Arnold,” Dabble replied, incensed by the mounting questions Prosser raised with his presence and his too-familiar tone. “Things have been quiet around here,” he lied. “And what about you?”

  “Wish I could say the same,” Prosser replied, offering his I-Know-A-Secret smile as he moved slowly across the pavement, a predator cornering its prey. “Five unscheduled pick-ups today.”

  “Really?” Dabble remarked with disinterest. “I imagine that would put you considerably behind in your usual rounds.”

  “Well, not so’s a body would notice, if you catch my meanin’.” Again the smile, the slow pacing and circling, the unbroken gaze. “A bit o’ schleppin’ around earlier than usual was all, but I’m always right on time. A time for all things is what I always say.”

  “Really? Is that what you always say?”

  Prosser’s smile dropped abruptly. “Yeah, Nicky. That’s what I always say. A time for all things: a time to be born and a time to die, a time to reap and a time to sew. It’s the order of the universe, the way things are supposed to be. The grand scheme. So you can imagine my concern when I have a day that starts out with five unscheduled pick-ups. Especially when those five pick-ups all have something in common with something in common, layers o’ connections that most don’t see. But I see it, Nicky.” He pointed a finger sharply towards his eye, glittering like a black jewel. “Don’t think I’m a fool. I see it.”

  Nicholas Dabble drew himself a little tighter, feet bracing in the doorway, hands tightening their grip anew. “And why exactly are you telling me this, Arnold?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry Nicky. Am I wastin’ your
time? Am I keepin’ you from somethin’?” Arnold Prosser stepped forward, hands curling into thick fists, the pleasantness of his tone reaching the breaking strain. “What might that something be, eh Nicky?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Arnold, but I have things to do, and, by your own admission, so do you. Good morning.”

  “We already said good morning, dabbler, or were you trying to dismiss me? Was that it? Do you want me to go away?”

  “I believe it was you just now spouting about the order of the universe and a time for all things. Well, this is neither the time nor the place. Now good morning, Arnold.”

  “Good morning again, dissembler. And since when have you ever cared about the order of the universe, eh? I told you there was something what connects all those unscheduled pick-ups. That somethin’ happens to be associated with you. I don’t know how or why or even what, but I can smell you on ‘em, and I want to know what you know.”

  “For someone who doesn’t know very much, you presume to know quite a bit.”

  “Don’t lie to me, salt-licker!” the Garbageman screamed. “You’re hidin’ somethin’ from me, and it’s affectin’ things. My things. Now tell me what you know about it.”

  Arnold Prosser took another step towards the doorway, and Nicholas Dabble abandoned his play at etiquette, voice dropping to a low, terrible whisper. “You may be king of the land, but I rule here. You want to turn your precious universe upside-down and shake it like a loose sack of trash then cross my doorway and brace me in my house. Nothing will ever be the same again, I promise you that. Nothing.”

  Arnold Prosser’s lip curled in a snarl. “Are you threatenin’ me, Dabble? Is that what you’re doing? You get it in your fancy-schmancy head that you got the balls the likes what can take on me? Is that what you’re thinkin’? What on this earth or any other would make a simpering shit like you grow a spine?”

  Nicholas Dabble stood his ground, unfazed.

  “Right then, ‘ave it your way. But I will find out what you’re up to. And if you’re not careful, the only thing you’ll ever rule again is your puny, little house. It makes no difference to me what kind of games you want to play, but when it crosses with me, it crosses the line, and I take it down. Do you get me, Dabble? I take it down.”

  “Good morning, Arnold,” Nicholas Dabble said in the same low, warning tone.

  “Good morning, Nicholas,” Prosser replied with exaggerated pleasantness, then turned about and climbed back into the garbage hauler’s cab. He added from the window, “It makes no difference to me either way. You win; I win. You lose; I still win.” Prosser’s smile widened until it creased his face like a Jack o’ Lantern. “See ya ‘round, Nicky.”

  Only after the truck was gone did Nicholas Dabble allow his hands to let go of the doorframe. When he did, they were shaking.

  * * *

  Serena was not surprised to see the garbage hauler grumble and rock its way down the alley beside the coffee shop; inconvenienced, but not surprised. There was no hiding what was going on here from Arnold Prosser.

  But expected or not, it was still a matter of no small concern.

  She waited quietly in the empty shop, listening to the tea kettles and coffeepots whisper away. She knew Arnold would knock on her backdoor; it was his way. So she waited. She would not meet him at the door, would not stand waiting like some sorry whore in a two-bit brothel on the edge of the desert. This was Arnold Prosser’s move, but he was by no means in charge. There was an order to these things.

  And so she waited, patiently listening to the sounds of the universe turning.

  A soft knock at her door. Not loud or disruptive; three simple raps against the wood to announce his presence and nothing more. Never presumptuous, Arnold Prosser. Never with her. And he always came to the backdoor.

  Serena waited a moment longer, gathering her thoughts. So many strands weaving all at once, a complicated design in a complex pattern full of meddling and deception and a few things that did not quite belong, as if matters weren’t complicated enough already. Yes, she supposed, it was only a matter of time before Arnold Prosser sniffed out the problem and came calling. She had hoped he would come to her first. It would have made matters simpler, the fewer parties involved.

  She rose, straightening the folds in her dress then lightly touched her hair, assuring herself everything was in place. A single lock hung loose near her temple. That was good; Arnold would like that.

  Then she walked back to the rear of the store and opened the door.

  Arnold Prosser stood on her back step, wringing his hat with both hands and shifting from one foot to the other like a nervous schoolboy. He had been staring about distractedly when she opened the door, as though self-consciously looking for others, a gaggle of school chums watching him and snickering. His head snapped about as she opened the door, his eyes lighting up.

  “Good morning, Serena,” he said. “You’re looking lovely this day.”

  “That’s very kind of you to say, Arnold,” and she tilted her head in a respectful nod of appreciation. “And a good morning to you as well. Tell me, what brings you around this fine summery day?”

  “Special pick-up,” Arnold said, some of the pleasantness draining from his voice.

  Serena did not care for the tone at all. It carried a willful potential, and that could be a very dangerous thing. “Really?”

  “Yeah. Unscheduled,” he added, his clarification holding a special, mutually shared understanding.

  “Arnold, I have just finished brewing a fresh pot of tea. Could I offer you some? You can stay a moment, can’t you?”

  Arnold looked about nervously. Serena knew he would accept her invitation, just as she knew he wished he could decline for duty’s sake. She offered an expectant stare, a tilted smile, a shift of her feet that made Arnold notice the alabaster flesh of her ankles. Color rose unbidden in his cheeks. “Well, I s’pose I could stay for a few minutes. I’m not really dressed for tea, mind you, but I could stay a moment, I think. Yeah, a moment.”

  “That would be splendid, Arnold. And I think you look fine. Please, come inside.”

  She turned and glided back towards the front of her shop, and Arnold followed behind her like an obedient puppy, his boots clopping awkwardly in her wake.

  “Please have a seat,” she directed, then went behind the counter and poured two cups of tea. “How do you take your tea, Arnold?”

  “Um, cream … please.”

  “Of course,” she replied, paying no attention as she moved nimbly about behind the counter, reaching for a small carton of cream and pouring some into one of the cups. She did this even as she reached for a small wedge of lemon, drifting it down into her own. She placed two spoons on the edges of the saucers beside the tea, and brought both back around to where Arnold Prosser waited, fidgeting nervously.

  “I believe you started to say something about unscheduled pick-ups,” Serena offered, drawing Arnold’s stare away from her ceiling fixtures. She stirred her tea with great care and attention, as though the cup held the very raw material that worlds were made of. It gave her something to do with her eyes besides look at Arnold Prosser, something that would eventually betray her secrets to him—she was not as bewitching as he might let on. “Is that unusual?”

  Prosser’s eyes shifted suddenly away from the teacup in his hand, flashing sideways at the proprietor of Serena’s Coffee Shoppe. His stare tightened, closing down upon her like a hand, the glare of a cuckold who has caught his faithless mistress in the earliest parts of a lie. “Well, you might say it is a bit unusual, yeah. I’m not saying it don’t happen, mind you. It happens all the time, what with the random nature of the universe and all. The point is these unscheduled pickups ain’t all random; they’re tied together somehow. Five unscheduled pick-ups in one day and they all share something in common. I’m sure you can appreciate how that kind o’ thing is … rare.”

  “Yes. Your schedule is fairly routine otherwise, or so I imagine.
”

  “Yeah, I guess you could say that. Routine. But vital. The orderly disposal o’ all things is a necessity without which the universe would collapse. And the basis of order is the removal of the junk that is no longer a part of that perfection. You know what I’m sayin’?”

  “Absolutely. Order is a more difficult state to achieve than most credit it.” Serena took a polite sip of tea, furrowing her brow as if giving the matter a great deal of thought. In truth, it was basic sensibility, the harmony of the universe, the balance of fate. To say it was second nature was an understatement akin to suggesting that breathing was second nature. It was ingrained into the very fabric of her existence. But Arnold Prosser did not know her that well. “Order is art in its own right. Most don’t appreciate that.”

  Prosser brightened visibly at her remark. “Yer right. Yer exactly right. It is an art. It takes a supreme architect, an artisan o’ the highest caliber ta maintain order in chaos, creating a sense o’ harmony in a state o’ perpetual decay. Any asshole can make a mess…” His voice faltered, forehead and neck reddening. “I beg ya pardon, Serena. I didn’t mean to offend.”

  “You didn’t,” she said, smiling politely. “I like a person with a passion for their vocation.”

  Arnold beamed. He looked as if he were about to comment, but instead said nothing.

  “I imagine, given your proclivity for realism and order, that you are no fan of Jackson Pollock.”

  “Pollock? He still alive?”

  “No, he’s dead.” Serena smiled politely, not surprised by his query. “He was a modern impressionistic painter who used large canvases and splatters of paint to impart emotion without form or structure.”

  “Oh, him. Don’t much like his stuff. Like a flock o’ pigeons took a shit on his canvas.”