For the life of him he couldn't bring himself to get out of the car. It was broad daylight, the sun so bright it hurt his eyes, and he sat there frozen behind the wheel, early afternoon traffic edging by on his left, pedestrians passing on his right; sat there, scared.
At length he realized that he wasn't going to get out, that he wasn't going to go near whoever it was who was lurking in the shadows of that long, dimly lit bar, waiting to pounce on him the second he stepped inside. He started the engine, eased into the traffic flow and drove across town to Anthony's. After a chef salad that he barely touched, he returned to the office.
That afternoon when he arrived home the phone began ringing the moment he opened the door. He started to shout to Adeline not to answer it when he saw that she already had.
She gave one of those exasperated little sighs she was so good at these days, and handed him the receiver. He accepted it with outer equanimity, managing somehow to control the trembling of his hands. "Hello."
"Zip? Gosh, partner, it's good to hear your voish!"
His ersatz equanimity went down the drain in a sudden surge of anger followed by fear. "Get off my back, you drunken bum! If you don't stop harassing me, I'll call the police!"
"Aw, Zip—don't be like that. You've no reason to be mad at me. All I want is for us to get together so we can talk over old times. I've missed you like sixty all these years."
"Don't give me that! If you'd missed me, you'd have gotten in touch long ago!"
"I wanted to get in touch, Zip—gosh, how I wanted to! But you had kids growing up, and I knew there'd be no room in your life for me, and before that you were busy getting educated. Now it's a different story. You're all alone now, Zip, like me. I know you're all alone, wife or no wife—otherwise I wouldn't've been able to get through."
"I won't listen to such nonsense!"
"Sorry, Zip. I didn't mean to upset you."
Squires relented a little. Maybe the absurd association his subconscious had come up with was getting the best of him. Maybe Guy, whoever he might be, really was lonely. "If you don't like being alone, why don't you get married and have kids?"
Hoarse laughter. "That's a good one, Zip! That's the best one I ever heard. Me have kids? How in hell could I? You shortchanged me, old buddy—you shortchanged me all the way down the line. A racetrack driver who'd never seen under the hood of a car, who didn't know a piston from a fan belt, who didn't know first from second, neutral from reverse! . . . Well, I could do something about those things, and I did—as much, anyway, as a guy without an ounce of mechanical aptitude could. But this other thing—there wasn't a damned thing I could do about that! Oh, you shortchanged me all right—you shortchanged me but good! Sure, I know you were just a kid then, and didn't know beans about the birds and the bees, but just the same you did me wrong, old buddy, and sooner or later you're going to have to pay. So don't try to give me the bum's rush—it won't do you any good. If I have to, I'll—"
Squires hung up. He removed the receiver from the cradle and laid it on the hall table. Adeline, who was standing in the living-room doorway, opened her mouth to object, then closed it when she saw his face.
They ate dinner in silence. "Are you going to work in the yard tonight?" Adeline asked after they finished their dessert.
"No."
They sat watching TV. When darkness fell, Squires locked all the doors and drew all the blinds. He kept listening for the front-door chimes to sound, but they didn't—not till he and Adeline were in bed. "Who is it?" Adeline whispered. "Aren't you going to go down and see?"
"What difference does it make who it is? For God's sake, go back to sleep!"
The chimes sounded again. Then there was a silence. Presently someone began to knock. Squires lay in the darkness, trying to control the trembling of his limbs. The knocking grew louder. Should he call the police? He'd have to replace the hall-phone receiver first. He started to get out of bed. Just as his feet touched the floor, the knocking stopped.
He sat there poised, waiting for it to begin again. It didn't. At length there was the sound of someone stumbling down the front steps. Then silence.
He eased himself back into bed. Beside him, Adeline's breathing became deep, even. He lay sleepless almost till dawn, waiting for Guy to come back. But Guy didn't. The three harassment-free weeks that followed were sufficient to bring Squires back to his senses, and by the end of that time he had Guy safely filed away in a neat mental folder labeled "Crank, harmless." Then, two days before Memorial Day, he received another postcard.
This one was postmarked Indianapolis, Indiana:
Hiya Partner!
Well here I am at the good old Indy again. Same old hoopla, same old faces, but I just can't stay away.
Wish you were here—we'd show these dudes a thing or two. See you soon.
Yours forever,—Guy
* * *
An international collaboration from William Gibson (Canada) and John Shirley (United States); the former a relatively new writer whose material has appeared in Universe and New Worlds. The latter a sf veteran whose new novel, City Come A-Walking, has just been released from Dell. This story isn't a rules-breaker; it's Shadows, pure and simple.
* * *
THE BELONGING KIND by John Shirley and William Gibson
It might have been in Club Justine, or Jimbo's, or Sad Jack's, or The Rafters; Coretti could never be sure where he'd first seen her. At any time, she might have been in any one of those bars. She swam through the submarine half-life of bottles and glassware and the slow swirl of cigarette smoke . . . she moved through her natural element, one bar after another.
Now, Coretti remembered their first meeting as if he saw it through the wrong end of a powerful telescope, small and clear and very far away.
He had noticed her first in The Backdoor Lounge. It was called The Backdoor because you entered through a narrow back alley. The alley's walls crawled with graffiti, its caged lights ticked with moths. Flakes from its white-painted bricks crunched underfoot. And then you pushed through into a dim space inhabited by a faintly confusing sense of the half-dozen other bars that had tried and failed in the same room under different managements. Coretti sometimes went there because he liked the weary smile of the black bartender, and because the few customers rarely tried to get chummy.
He wasn't very good at conversation with strangers, not at parties and not at bars.
He was fine at the community college where he lectured in introductory linguistics; he could talk with the head of his department about sequencing and options in conversational openings. But he could never talk to strangers in bars or at parties. He didn't go to many parties. He went to a lot of bars.
Coretti didn't know how to dress. Clothing was a language and Coretti a kind of sartorial stutterer, unable to make the kind of basic coherent fashion statement that would put strangers at their ease. His ex-wife told him he dressed like a Martian; that he didn't look as though he belonged anywhere in the city. He hadn't liked her saying that, because it was true.
He hadn't ever had a girl like the one who sat with her back arched slightly in the undersea light that splashed along the bar in The Backdoor. The same light was screwed into the lenses of the bartender's glasses, wound into the necks of the rows of bottles, splashed dully across the mirror. In that light her dress was the green of young corn, like a husk half stripped away, showing back and cleavage and lots of thigh through the slits up the side. Her hair was coppery that night. And, that night, her eyes were green.
He pushed resolutely between the empty chrome-and-formica tables until he reached the bar, where he ordered a straight bourbon. He took off his duffelcoat, and wound up holding it on his lap when he sat down one stool away from her. Great, he screamed to himself, she'll think you're hiding an erection. And he was startled to realize that he had one to hide. He studied himself in the mirror behind the bar, a thirtyish man with thinning dark hair and a pale, narrow face bobbling on a long neck, too long for the open c
ollar of the nylon shirt printed with engravings of 1910 automobiles in three vivid colors. He wore a tie with broad maroon and black diagonals, too narrow, he supposed, for what he now saw as the grotesquely long points of his collar. Or it was the wrong color. Something.
Beside him, in the dark clarity of the mirror, the green-eyed woman looked like Irma La Douce. But looking closer, studying her face, he shivered. A face like an animal's. A beautiful face, but simple, cunning, two-dimensional. When she senses you're looking at her, Coretti thought, she'll give you the smile, disdainful amusement—or whatever you'd expect.
Coretti blurted, "May I, um, buy you a drink?"
At moments like these, Coretti was possessed by an agonizingly stiff, schoolmasterish linguistic tic. Um. He winced. Um.
"You would, um, like to buy me a drink? Why, how kind of you," she said, astonishing him. "That would be very nice." Distantly, he noticed that her reply was as stilted and insecure as his own. She added, "A tom collins, on this occasion, would be lovely."
On this occasion? Lovely? Rattled, Coretti ordered two drinks and paid.
A big woman in jeans and an embroidered cowboy shirt bellied up to the bar beside him and asked the bartender for change. "Well hey," she said. Then she strutted to the jukebox and punched for Conway and Loretta's, "You're the Reason Our Kids Are Ugly." Coretti turned to the woman in green, and murmured haltingly:
"Do you enjoy country and western music?" Do you enjoy . . .? He groaned secretly at his phrasing, and tried to smile.
"Yes indeed," she answered, the faintest twang edging her voice, "I sure do."
The cowgirl sat down beside him and asked her, winking, "This li'l terror here givin' you a hard time?"
And the animal-eyed lady in green replied, "Oh hell no, honey, I got my eye on 'im." And laughed. Just the right amount of laugh. The part of Coretti that was dialectologist stirred uneasily; too perfect a shift in phrasing and inflection. An actress? A talented mimic? The word "mimetic" rose suddenly in his mind, but he pushed it aside to study her reflection in the mirror; the rows of bottles occluded her breasts like a gown of glass.
"The name's Coretti," he said, his verbal poltergeist shifting abruptly to a totally unconvincing tough-guy mode, "Michael Coretti."
"A pleasure," she said, too softly for the other woman to hear, and again she had slipped into the lame parody of Emily Post.
"Conway and Loretta," said the cowgirl, to no one in particular.
"Antoinette," said the woman in green, and inclined her head. She finished her drink, pretended to glance at a watch, said thank-you-for-the-drink too damn politely, and left.
Ten minutes later Coretti was following her down Third Avenue. He had never followed anyone in his life and it both frightened and excited him. Forty feet seemed a discreet distance, but what should he do if she happened to glance over her shoulder?
Third Avenue isn't a dark street, and it was there, in the light of a streetlamp, like a stage light, that she began to change. The street was deserted.
She was crossing the street. She stepped off the curb and it began. It began with tints in her hair—at first he thought they were reflections. But there was no neon there to cast the blobs of color that appeared, color sliding and merging like oil slicks. Then the colors bled away and in three seconds she was white-blond. He was sure it was a trick of the light until her dress began to writhe, twisting across her body like shrink-wrap plastic. Part of it fell away entirely and lay in curling shreds on the pavement, shed like the skin of some fabulous animal. When Coretti passed, it was green foam, fizzing, dissolving, gone. He looked back up at her and the dress was another dress, green satin, shifting with reflections. Her shoes had changed too. Her shoulders were bare except for thin straps that crossed at the small of her back. Her hair had become short, spiky.
He found that he was leaning against a jeweler's plate-glass window, his breath coming ragged and harsh with the damp of the autumn evening. He heard the disco's heartbeat from two blocks away. As she neared it, her movements began subtly to take on a new rhythm—a shift in emphasis in the sway of her hips, in the way she put her heels down on the sidewalk. The doorman let her pass with a vague nod. He stopped Coretti and stared at his driver's license and frowned at his duffelcoat. Coretti anxiously scanned the wash of lights at the top of a milky plastic stairway beyond the doorman. She had vanished there, into robotic flashing and redundant thunder.
Grudgingly the man let him pass, and he pounded up the stairs, his haste disturbing the lights beneath the translucent plastic steps.
Coretti had never been in a disco before; he found himself in an environment designed for complete satisfaction-in-distraction. He waded nervously through the motion and the fashions and the mechanical urban chants booming from the huge speakers. He sought her almost blindly on the pose-clotted dance floor, amid strobe lightning.
And found her at the bar, drinking a tall, lurid cooler and listening to a young man who wore a loose shirt of pale silk and very tight black pants. She nodded at what Coretti took to be appropriate intervals. Coretti ordered by pointing at a bottle of bourbon. She drank five of the tall drinks and then followed the young man to the dance floor.
She moved in perfect accord with the music striking a series of poses; she went through the entire prescribed sequence, gracefully but not artfully, fitting in perfectly. Always, always fitting in perfectly. Her companion danced mechanically, moving through the ritual with effort.
When the dance ended, she turned abruptly and dived into the thick of the crowd. The shifting throng closed about her like something molten.
Coretti plunged in after her, his eyes never leaving her—and he was the only one to follow her change. By the time she reached the stair she was auburn-haired and wore a long blue dress. A white flower blossomed in her hair, behind her right ear; her hair was longer and straighter now. Her breasts had become slightly larger, and her hips a shade heavier. She took the stairs two at a time, and he was afraid for her then. All those drinks.
But the alcohol seemed to have had no effect on her at all.
Never taking his eyes from her, Coretti followed, his heartbeat outspeeding the disco-throb at his back, sure that at any moment she would turn, glare at him, call for help.
Two blocks down Third she turned in at Lothario's. There was something different in her step now. Lothario's was a quiet complex of rooms hung with ferns and Art Deco mirrors. There were fake Tiffany lamps hanging from the ceiling, alternating with wooden-bladed fans that rotated too slowly to stir the wisps of smoke drifting through the consciously mellow drone of conversation. After the disco, Lothario's was familiar and comforting. A jazz pianist in pinstriped shirt sleeves and loosely knotted tie competed softly with talk and laughter from a dozen tables.
She was at the bar; the stools were only half taken, but Coretti chose a wall table, in the shadow of a miniature palm, and ordered bourbon.
He drank the bourbon and ordered another. He couldn't feel the alcohol much, tonight.
She sat beside a young man, yet another young man with the usual set of bland, regular features. He wore a yellow golf shirt and pressed jeans. Her hip was touching his, just a little. They didn't seem to be speaking, but Coretti felt they were somehow communing. They were leaning toward one another slightly, silent. Coretti felt odd. He went to the rest room and splashed his face with water. Coming back, he managed to pass within three feet of them. Their lips didn't move till he was within earshot. They took turns murmuring realistic palaver:
"—saw his earlier films, but—"
"But he's rather self-indulgent, don't you think?"
"Sure, but in the sense that—"
And, for the first time, Coretti knew what they were, what they must be. They were the kind you see in bars who seem to have grown there, who seem genuinely at home there. Not drunks, but human fixtures. Functions of the bar. The belonging kind.
Something in him yearned for a confrontation. He reached his table, but found
himself unable to sit down. He turned, took a deep breath, and walked woodenly toward the bar. He wanted to tap her on her smooth shoulder and ask who she was, and exactly what she was, and point out the cold irony of the fact that it was he, Coretti, the Martian dresser, the eavesdropper, the outsider, the one whose clothes and conversation never fit, who had at last guessed their secret.
But his nerve broke and he merely took a seat beside her and ordered bourbon.
"But don't you think," she asked her companion, "that it's all relative?"
The two seats beyond her companion were quickly taken by a couple who were talking politics. Antoinette and Golf Shirt took up the political theme seamlessly, recycling, speaking just loudly enough to be overheard. Her face, as she spoke, was expressionless. A bird trilling on a limb.
She sat so easily on her stool, as if it were a nest. Golf Shirt paid for the drinks. He always had the exact change, unless he wanted to leave a tip. Coretti watched them work their way methodically through six cocktails each, like insects feeding on nectar. But their voices never grew louder, their cheeks didn't redden, and when at last they stood, they moved without a trace of drunkenness—a weakness, thought Coretti, a gap in their camouflage.
They paid him absolutely no attention while he followed them through three successive bars.
As they entered Waylon's, they metamorphosed so quickly that Coretti had trouble following the stages of the change. It was one of those places with toilet doors marked Pointers and Setters, and a little imitation pine plaque over the jars of beef jerky and pickled sausages: We've got a deal with the bank. They don't serve beer and we don't cash checks.
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