by Frank Rich
He released a long, vindictive howl and began pounding again. He'd been meek as a lamb for the first eight hours, cracking jokes from behind the door, offering to beat me at a couple hands of gin rummy. Around midnight his speech patterns began to derange, and fifteen minutes later he wanted to beat me with something more than a deck of cards. I was trying to decipher the second sentence of the book when I heard footsteps on the stairwell three yards down the hall.
The turbanned head of the innkeeper poked up over the railing and regarded me with a troubled stare. "Is that a wild animal you have locked in your room?"
"No," I said. "It's my friend."
"The large bald man with a face like a demon's?"
The sound of furniture being smashed against a wall reverberated through the building. "That's the one. Seems you forgot to leave clean towels in the bathroom. He's a little upset about it. He'll calm down, though." I went back to my book. "As long as he doesn't catch sight of you."
He crept back down the stairs.
I never got past the first page. Eventually the moans and cries became so much background noise and I went under.
I awoke with a start and jumped out of the chair. I peered down empty halls, unable to get a grip on what had yanked me awake. Then I got it. It was the silence, the sheer ugly silence that woke me. I checked my chrono. It was 6:30 a.m. I knocked lightly on the door. Silence. I moved the chair, turned the knob and peeked inside.
Smashed furniture littered the floor, and the walls were pockmarked with holes, fist and head sized. George was nowhere in sight. I slipped into the room quietly, uneasily stepping over bits of furniture. I moved to the bedroom and looked inside. The bed was overturned, the nightstand crushed, both the Koran and Bible ripped to confetti. The maid would have a coronary.
A moan drifted into the room. I froze and listened. The only rooms left were the bedroom closet and the bathroom. The doors faced each other, the closet door closed, the bathroom door slightly ajar. I picked up a two-foot length of splintered bedpost and crept toward the bathroom. The faucet slowly dripped. Outside the bathroom door, I held my breath and listened. On the bare edge of audible there was a tiny scratching sound, the sound a rat might make creeping across a hardwood floor. I readied my club and took the last step. "George?" I whispered.
The closet door burst open, and a huge naked behemoth lunged at me, roaring like an enraged bull elephant. With an adrenal surge I dodged to the right and swung wildly with the club. The wood splintered against his skull with a mighty crack! and he plunged headlong into the bathroom. I leapt in after him, ready to pin him to the tiles with a knee-drop to the spine. I found him sprawled in the bathtub, the shower curtain wrapped around him like a strange gown.
"That'll teach you to try and waylay a professional," I said.
He rubbed the big welt on his head. "I was only joking around."
"Yeah?" I said, turning on the shower. The shower head had been wrenched off during the night's revelry, and the freezing-cold water shot out in a wild torrent. "How do you feel now?"
"Cold!" he shouted, pulling the curtain around him. "Fine. I'm going down to settle with the desk. Clean yourself up and get dressed. I'll meet you in the lobby in fifteen minutes." I went downstairs.
"How is your friend?" the innkeeper asked from behind the front desk.
I gave him a troubled look then shrugged. I passed over three hundred creds.
"What is this?" he asked.
"I'm afraid the room suffered some damage."
"You left a damage deposit last night. Fifty credits."
"I don't think fifty is going to cover it."
George came down the staircase with slow, dramatic steps, dripping water and naked except for the shower curtain he wore as a toga. The innkeeper crouched slightly behind the counter.
I nodded knowingly to the innkeeper. "No towels."
George stopped beside me, his huge head gleaming with moisture.
"Shall we go, then?" he asked. "I feel a bit of breakfast would just hit the spot."
"Right you are."
We went to Bernie's Soy Burger Bonanza around the corner and sat in a booth facing each other.
"How long do you plan on doing that?" I asked through a mouthful of soy.
"Doing what?"
"Wearing a shower curtain."
"Until the act loses meaning."
"Which meaning is that?"
"The shedding of old skin. This magenta-and-ocher shower curtain represents my rebirth into the living. This is my new skin."
I nodded. "A fine choice of hues. Welcome back."
"Thank you. What happens now?"
"We get wheels."
"What's my destination?"
"Denver."
"Denver you say? What's my cargo?"
"Me."
"Why Denver?"
"I'm going to overthrow it. Topple the Party." I stuffed a handful of algae squares into my mouth. "But don't tell anybody."
He stared at me. "Wouldn't think of it," he said. "I, uh, don't have to help you, do I?"
"Help me what?"
"Overthrow Denver."
I finished my burger and leaned back. "Naw, I can handle it."
He smiled with relief. "Thank the merciful Lord."
5
I walked beside the salesman through the gravel of the huge car lot, admiring the models we passed. George trailed three paces behind.
"I need something big and fast, for a distance run,"
I said.
The salesman nodded, glancing over his shoulder. "Something rugged and heavy," I continued. "Something you could drive through a barricade and live to laugh about it. Armored maybe."
"Yeah?" He shot another nervous look rearward.
"Yeah," I said. "Something from the corporate era. Big, brutal and mean, yet easy to handle. Supercharged, yet fuel efficient."
"Really?" He didn't seem to be paying much attention to me. He shot another look behind us. "Say, buddy, is that guy with you?"
"Who?"
"The glandular problem wearing the shower curtain."
I looked back at George. He was concentrating on the ground, trying to discern some wisdom from the gravel.
"Never saw him before," I said. "I thought he was with you."
"Jesus!" the salesman whispered, quickening his stride. "What the hell could he want?"
"The Devil knows." I cast an uneasy look behind us. "Don't worry, though, I know his kind. Whatever you do, don't let him catch you looking at him. It'll drive him into a murderous kill frenzy. If you ignore them, they usually won't attack."
"How am I supposed to ignore him?" the salesman cried. "The big bastard's practically breathing down my neck!"
I jerked fearful eyes over my shoulder. "Christ! He heard you! He's moving in! Whatever you do, don't look at him!"
"What am I supposed to do?" the salesman croaked nervously.
"Hit the bastard across the snout with a blunt instrument. It's the only thing they understand."
"Blunt instrument?" He searched the ground frantically to see if any were lying about.
"Look out!" I shouted. "He's going for your neck!"
The salesman broke into a deranged sprint.
I stopped and George came abreast of me.
"What's with him?" George asked.
"He claimed to be the fastest gravel runner in the business. I made the mistake of scoffing. I guess he feels he has something to prove."
Fifty yards distant the salesman hit a deep patch of loose gravel and went down in a great cloud of dust. George began clapping. "Good run!" he congratulated loudly.
"Yes," I agreed, scanning the lot. "What do you think?"
"Armored, fast, big, comfortable?" George recounted. He climbed onto the hood of a station wagon and pivoted in a slow circle. "Rugged, yet easy to handle?"
"That's my number."
George jumped off the hood. "Follow me."
We wended through row after row of hulking metal, pau
sing briefly to examine several machines. After fifteen minutes he halted before a terrible monster, circled slowly, touching and probing here and there, nodding his head. "There's potential for greatness here."
I took a step back and squinted at it. "This creature? It's fifty years old."
"Seventy." He squeezed under the chassis to peer at the underbody. "But there's not a spot of rust or any major structural damage." He got to his feet, popped the hood and scrutinized the engine.
I scowled at the impossibly long body, the immense fins that rose from the rear like twin sharks. "It's a mechanical freak. A vicious slap in the face of all things wise and practical. Sinister and ignoble in its gaudy red skin."
George dropped the hood and began pacing around the machine, making sounds of admiration. "I never thought I'd meet one of these. This is nothing less than a 1959 Cadillac Series 62 Four Window Sedan, the most radical and bizarre production design Cadillac ever laid on the public. The original powerplant has been replaced with an M224 military alcohol turbine, capable of efficiently cranking out four hundred and eighty horsepower. The sound system is state-of-the-art and a heavy-duty suspension holds this two-and-a-half-ton monster off the asphalt. And, as you can see by the spaced rivets, some sort of internal armor has been installed."
"An inch of Kevlar," the salesman said. We looked over at him. He stood fifteen yards away, wild-eyed and covered in a thick layer of dust. He had a weapon.
I smiled. "I was only kidding about George here."
"I knew that," he snarled, the club in his hand calling him a liar.
George climbed inside the Caddy. "Where's the key?"
"In the ashtray," the salesman said, moving closer. "It also has self-sealing tires and bulletproof Plexiglas windows, not to mention a titanium-reinforced superstructure. It belonged to a crime lord."
"What happened to him?" I asked.
"He got shot."
"Where?"
"In the back seat." The salesman shrugged. "He had the window rolled down. The idiot."
The engine clamored to life then settled into the low whine characteristic of a turbine. George backed the Caddy out of the space and gunned down the aisle, spraying gravel.
"What's that bastard doing?" the salesman wanted to know.
"Test-driving it."
George did three laps around the lot at daring speeds, then came to an abrupt halt, raising an immense cloud of dust. He killed the engine.
"Well?" I asked.
"Needs a tune-up. The intake filter sounds clogged. The right rear tire is fifteen pounds low."
I gave him a secret look. "What else?"
George looked around the interior. "The seat cover's worn. The ashtray is filthy." He looked around some more. "The rearview mirror is smudged."
"Ah-ha!" I accused, turning on the salesman. "Just what are you trying to pull, mister?"
The salesman deflected my reproach with a yawn, then brightened up. "It's twelve thousand creds," he said.
I feigned disbelief. "Didn't you hear a thing my driver said? We practically have to rebuild this thing from the ground up."
"Take it or leave it."
I was hearing that too much lately. With time running against me, every turn I made led into a corner.
"I'll give you six thousand creds and not turn you in to the spifs."
"For what?"
"Stolen-vehicle charges. You don't have a title for this vehicle."
He laughed. "This ain't the burbs, baby. Titles and license plates go out of fashion once you cross city limits."
"Seven thousand."
He shook his head. I could tell he was still vindictive about the gravel run.
"Know what?" I said. "This is your lucky day. Because I am going to pay you ten thousand creds for this hunk of tin. But only under one condition."
"And what could that be?"
"You throw in a motorcycle."
He eyed me. "What kind of motorcycle?"
"Nothing special. That black enduro model near the gate."
He gave me a strange look. "Okay. But no free gas."
"Fine. Is a personal check okay?"
"Fat chance!" he snarled.
"Cash it is." I peeled ten squares from my wad and handed it to him. He scrutinized them closely, looking for counterfeits.
I climbed in the passenger side. "We'll load the bike ourselves."
"I wasn't going to help you!" he shouted as we pulled away.
We stopped at the gate and put the bike onto the back bumper, lashing it down with rope from the trunk.
"What's the bike for?" George asked.
"It's my insurance policy in case you screw up."
"I see."
"You really think this beast will get us there?"
"In style."
I looked down its length, from the grille to the fins. There was a rude sort of confidence in its huge girth, its total lack of compromise to common sense. It possessed the twisted sort of beauty sometimes associated with absolute adherence to an ideal, no matter the cost or controversy.
"Maybe you're right," I said. "I'd like you to spend the rest of the day making sure it's in absolutely top shape, spare no expense." I handed him four thousand creds. "Keep what's left as the first installment of your driver's fee."
"How much am I getting, anyway?"
"How much do you want?"
He shrugged. "I haven't really thought about it."
"Tell you what. You get me to Denver in one piece, and you get ten thousand."
"Ten thousand? Can you afford that much?"
"Sure. The price of heroes is justifiably high."
"I can start a new life with ten grand." A faraway look came to his eyes. "In the west somewhere."
I looked at my chrono. It was two in the afternoon. "Do you know where the old Shell lift field is?"
"The abandoned one above Rulison?"
"Yes. Be at the north end, near the hangars, at six o'clock sharp tomorrow morning."
"You don't want me to pick you up?"
"I'm not sure where I'm going to be. I'll meet you there. Oh-six hundred, fueled up and ready to roll."
"Gotcha." He waved, and the Caddy rolled into traffic.
I watched him go, trying not to remember George was a junkie and junkies couldn't be trusted, especially with a lot of money.
6
I parked four blocks from my apartment, then waited for darkness. When night fell I took the tire iron from the trunk and snaked along back alleys to the fire escape of my building, then crept up the iron stairs to my fourth-floor apartment.
I doubted anyone had figured out where I lived yet, but I believed in erring on the side of caution. After peeping through the glass, I jimmied my window with the tire iron and let myself in.
Digging a duffel bag from the closet, I quickly packed a change of clothes, weapons and toilet articles. I was almost done when the doorbell rang.
I drew the gyrapistol and put my back to the wall next to the door. If a shooter was on the other side, he'd have his eye glued to the peephole, waiting for a change of light. Then he'd put an armor-piercing slug through the door and the peeper. I reached out and passed a hand over the peephole. Nothing happened.
I craned my neck and peeped outside, then threw the bolts and jerked open the door. "What are you doing here?"
Marlene smiled. "I wanted to brief you."
I grabbed her by the arm and jerked her inside. I checked the hallway, then slammed and bolted the door. "Do you realize how dangerous this neighborhood is?"
"Jake. You care."
"I just don't like feeding the animals."
"Well, don't worry." She dropped a thick manila folder on the coffee table. "I had my skim pilot land on the roof. What's that awful smell?"
"My apartment."
"Oh." She removed her overcoat, draped it on the couch, then surveyed the room with approval. "Very campy. Who does your decorating?"
"It just fell together," I said, unsure if she was
insulting me.
She moved around the room as if shopping for knick-knacks in an antique store. She paused to lift an empty beer can from a shelf, examined it carefully, then replaced it. She put her hands on her hips and struck a pose. She wore knee-high jump boots, fishnet stockings, a black rubber miniskirt, a combat blouse and a camouflaged forage cap, forming a synthesis of harlot and soldier. Beneath the hat, her hair lay in a calculated disarray. She smelled of expensive perfume.
"Like my outfit?"
I smiled. "You look like a Hayward whore gone to war."
She smiled. "Are you making fun of me?"
"Why would you think that?"
"You are making fun of me. But since you're poor, I guess you have the right." She finished her tour at the window that overlooked the street. "The ghetto," she said.
I joined her at the window. The sun had already sunk behind the surrounding towers, and a cool autumn breeze crept in. A distant wail carried up from the street.
"Listen," she whispered. "The cry for freedom."
"The wail of a junkie," I corrected.
"Look," she said, pointing at a street gang lurking on a corner, passing a pipe and laughing. "Look at those youths, the sons of the ghetto. The condemned masses, full of wolflike hunger for equality and liberation. I look at those children and see the future of mankind." She sighed. "What do you see, Jake?"
"I see dangerous scum hungry for drugs and money."
She drew away. "How can you say that?"
"It's easy. I know them. I live in the same neighborhood."
"Listen to them laugh! They laugh at the establishment, they laugh because they don't want to cry."
"They laugh because they're smoking whack."
"Oh, can't you see beyond their rough exterior, the turtlelike shell they grow to protect themselves from the greed of their oppressors? It's so obvious."
I looked to see if she was joking. She wasn't. "You lived inside the warm safe circle too long," I said. "You sit so close to the fire you're blinded."
"And you've lived in the cold darkness so long you've become cold and dark," she retorted.
I lit another vitacig. "Maybe you're right"