And yet, he found himself keeping his seat on the tram when it pulled up to his stop. The doors slid open, the little cutie he’d got a giggle from slung a huge canvas messenger bag over her tiny shoulder and scurried off, and he just sat still. He was riding to the end of the line- down to the low town.
-
Melody’s little neighborhood, a few blocks of Britter Way tucked away between where uptown ended and Dream Street began, had changed since Ezra was down here last. Some developer must have bought up most of the street, aiming for gentrification and a surge of boutique-shopping clientele: all of the storefronts had the same faux stone facing and frost-edged display windows, with cursive gold letters spelling out the names of the shops on green doors and awnings; the sidewalk was cobbles now for a space of two blocks, with wrought iron benches along a matching fence with wire baskets full of mulched beds of colorful flowers every few steps; lamp posts, of the same black iron as the fence and the benches, marched off into the distance- the glass globes inside their fancy cages were lit even now, in the middle of the afternoon. The tiny shop where Sarandra Trueleaf had lived and plied her trade for a handful of kwic a reading was gone, replaced with a natural medicinal shop called Spirit of Gaia, full of essential oils, augment balancing shockra strips and magnetic jewelry, crystals, and non-modified, “gently harvested” teas and coffees that sold for somewhere around the price of a new vidscreen a pound. Ezra shook his head. Some things never changed…and it seemed to him that the more advanced the world got, the dumber the folks inhabiting it- but hey, if it made them feel better about themselves to shell out that kind of cred for the same coffee they could get at any conshop for a couple kwic, more power to them.
Not everything had changed- at least not yet. Right there in the middle of the new boutiques and trendshops was Shattered Spines, the brick front dusty brown and the display window streaked with dirt and grime that he could barely see through. The canopy over the front door was tattered by wind and weather but still there, black canvas with the name of the shop picked out in ivory-colored letters like polished bone. Melody Carmikel was clearly thumbing her nose at the rest of the street, pretentious, stick-up-the-ass snobs that they were; Ezra loved it. He took a seat on one of the iron benches along the cobbled sidewalk, bordered by a hanging basket of big purple flowers that he didn’t have a name for on one end and a redwood and stone (but probably just synthed junk) waste can on the other, and lit a Chesterfield. He crossed his legs, plucked at his pantleg to keep the crease, and smiled and smoked and watched the passersby. The neighbor was busier; he had to concede that. Maybe the new developer had the right idea…as long as he left the bookshop alone, that was. Maybe if this process had begun earlier Sarandra Trueleaf could have lived, Ezra mused, turning his cigarette this way and that in his fingers as young people in expensive clothes, their bodies fit and toned and golden, browsed the shops and gave him, the older man smoking and skinny but not in any healthy way and dressed in a wrinkled black suit, the occasional dirty look. He wondered if he might see young Strider Connor, who used to patrol Britter Way so vigilantly in his pursuit of the lady fair, pass by in his prowler- not knowing that soon he would encounter the young man, and that the reunion would be a tragic one.
A cat jumped up onto the pile of cushions on the built-in reading nook inside the shop window of Shattered Spines. The cat was a big guy, with wild black fur, and it had a pissy look on its face like it was just looking for an excuse to claw someone’s eyes out. Ezra watched it as it stared out into the street with narrowed green eyes, tail twitching to and fro in the air, and smiled. Every bookshop ought to have a cat, in his opinion. Even old Herb, who had run the Farley branch of the d’Haventh Public Library when Ezra was a kid, had kept one that ran between the sad stacks of the basement building and spit at whoever crossed its path. Bunch was the fat old tiger’s name; because, as Herb had put it, he wasn’t good for much, but he sure was a whole bunch of trouble.
The bell above the bookshop’s door jangled as two kids come out onto the sidewalk. The kids looked like they were on a junkshop date; both of them had huge packs on their backs, heavy with vintage treasures. Both of them had long, multicolored hair, tight leggings, and huge coats with buttons all over the backs and the sleeves cut off to show their skinny white arms. Ezra couldn’t tell if the couple was two girls, two boys, one of each, or what, and didn’t care. The kids were free, they could be whoever and whatever they wanted to be without trouble (for the most part- the world was no utopia, not by a long chalk, but it was better than it used to be). Ezra was part of that better world; he was one figure of thousands making up an order that protected the Law and the people, and he suddenly felt, sitting there on that bench in the sun on a quiet street, proud of himself…and he felt a deep, cutting sorrow that his folks hadn’t been around to see it when he finally made something out of himself. No, his parents had only been around for the parts of his life when he got into trouble at school for being a smartass; for when he’d quit a job with no notice just because someone pissed him off; for when he moved off to Hatis City without a plan or a kwic to his name, and bounced around from job to job just like he’d done back home. They never got to see him make High Guard, or get promoted to First Class- or become the Guard that people called the Champion of Arcadia. His folks only ever got to see him muck things up.
Ezra shivered in the sunshine, dropping his Chesterfield. The half-smoked cigarette rolled away between his boots and fell into a storm drain, gone with an audible hiss. Suddenly he wished that he could call his mom, just to see what was happening- or better yet, just stop by to say hello and then get stuck there helping her with some project; cleaning out the kitchen drawers and listening to her talk about her family while she flipped through some old recipe cards in a plastic file box, or something. He wanted to take his dad to the Ace for a beer, shoot the shit and watch a ball game on the vidscreen; take him to see the house, tell him about the various work Ezra planned on doing himself when he had the time. He couldn’t do any of these things. His parents were gone. The homeplace was gone; well, it was still there- but the last time he went to Farley it had been turned into a rental property owned by one of the families up on the hill. He’d driven by, looking at the broken toys in the crab grass and dog turd-infested yard, the rusted swing set, the screen windows on the porch torn and flapping in the wind, and got his ass back to Hatis City fast as he could. A tear slipped from Ezra’s eye now, scalding. Sitting on that bench, the young couple he’d been looking at long gone, he felt old; he felt old and alone, in a world that didn’t give half a shit for him.
“C’mon now,” Ezra muttered. He had to clear his throat. “Wugga-wugga, heavy stuff.”
He had to wonder again, what was he doing here in the first place? He should be on his vidscreen, in his tiny cubicle of an office, pouring through everything he could find on the lives of Beverly and Leon Jensen- plus whatever children there might between the two of them, and any former spouses on both sides. He should be knee-deep in that shit, with all the intensity of a kid surfing the screen for that one skinvid that was just what he wanted to see. But digging through people’s personal lives, especially on the vidscreen, was the part of his job that Ezra liked the least. That part of the work always felt dirty, like he was one of those greasy daily rate private eyes going through the garbage for motel receipts and snapping picks of some husband taking it to his secretary or the girl from the mail room through the window blinds with his handy palmscreen. Ezra hated it. He liked being out on the street, doing something…even if the something in this case was talking with a punky pixie bookshop owner about mythology. Did it have anything to do with the case? Seriously doubtful- but it beat trying to track down Leon Jensen…or stumbling on some leaked amateur vid that Beverly Jensen made with her first husband when they were both young and hot to trot that some slimy vidscreen entrepreneur got hold of and sold off to every questionable adult site across the interwebs.
“Yeah, anything beat
s that,” Ezra said.
-
Melody looked up, a quick jerk of her head, when the bell above her door jangled as Ezra walked in. For just an instant he thought the young woman’s eyes looked frightened- then recognition came, and made her entire face light up. “Hey there, Silver Star!” she said. She let the heavy book she’d been pricing flop down open on the counter and came around to give him a big hug; big for her anyway- the kid probably weighed around ninety pounds, boots included. Ezra squeezed her back hard and then held her at arm’s length, looking her over. She looked about the same as ever. Her hair was different: mowed down to a blonde stubble except for a big curl hanging down beside each ear that was day-glo green and one lock of bangs, orange, spiked straight up from her forehead like a unicorn’s horn. “Haven’t see you in forever!” Melody said, smiling up at him. It felt good, to be welcome; to have someone smile at him and be glad to see him. “Now where’s that buxom beauty of yours?”
That didn’t feel as good. Ezra hadn’t been inside Melody Carmikel’s little bookshop since he and Robin split up, but they used to come in here together; her looking for lurid fantasy paperbacks with painted covers where huge, bronzed men in loincloths defended cowering, voluptuous maidens dressed in wisps of silk and bands of gold from hulking monsters; him old hard-boiled private eye stuff that he could read in a couple hours on a rainy afternoon and then bring back in for credit so he could get something else. Usually they would come back to her place or his loaded down with mountains of pulp in cheap plastic shopping bags threatening to rip apart, dropping them somewhere before heading into the bedroom for a while. That felt like a long time ago already. “We went our separate ways,” he said, letting Melody go and taking a step back. “One of those things, you know.”
“Oh, I see how it is,” Melody said. She danced back to her counter, leaning on her elbows from among the treasures of her paper and ink kingdom and tilting her head as she looked on him. Her eyes sparkled with glee. “Well, don’t think you can just waltz back in here now and scoop me up. You had your chance. I’m taken now- isn’t that right, Maximillian?”
Maximillian, the big black cat, jumped down from his nest of cushions and stared at the two humans for a second before turning to slip soundlessly between the stacks. The cat turned back once, eyes flashing green in the dim lighting, opened his mouth in a silent hiss, and then scuttled away into the back where, if memory served him, Melody had an office/apartment.
“Just my luck,” Ezra said. He noticed then that more than Melody’s hair had changed. Despite the heat of the day she was dressed in a huge sweater, red and green stripes, with the sleeves hanging down over the ends of her fingers and the high collar covering her throat. Somewhere in the bowels of the shop an AC unit was rattling and humming; Shattered Spines was like an icebox. But he thought hey, nothing to do with me, and let it go. “Actually,” he said, and then stopped. “Hey, do you mind if we sit and talk outside? I could use a smoke. I don’t know if you’ve ever looked out your window to notice, but there’s some nice benches out there.”
“Ugh,” Melody said, wrinkling up her tiny nose. “Don’t remind me.”
“What?”
“Whaddya mean, what?” Melody said. “You walked down here from the tram, didn’t ya? Damn street looks like the lawn and garden department at All-Mart- backyard patio barbeque décor all the way. Makes me wanna puke. Britter Way used to have some character, Beckitt. Now everything’s about as interesting as a trophy wife’s plastic face.”
“Used to be a lot more Streeters, too,” Ezra said.
“Yeah, well,” Melody said. “I’d rather deal with some Hobo Hank takin a leak against the side of the building than these white legging Karens strutting around with their sweaters tied over their shoulders and their tits not even bouncing when they walk, chattering away out there about their husband’s new sports car or how awesome Junior’s doing in college at Wuster while they sip their pumpkin lattes and eat scones- whatever the fuck scones are.”
Ezra shook his head, chuckling. “Britter Way still has you for character, anyway. You’re colorful enough to compensate for a flock of Karens, Melody. Now c’mon- walk an old man outside to soak up some sun, yeah?”
Plopped down on the bench just outside her bookshop, Melody’s skinny thigh touched against Ezra’s. It didn’t mean anything other than she was comfortable enough with the man to be close to him. Ezra fished the pack of Chesterfield’s from his jacket pocket and lit one, offering her the pack. Melody considered, shrugged, and took one. Ezra lit it for her and then the pair only sat for a bit, staring at her storefront.
“Don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to keep this up, Beckitt,” Melody said.
“What, smoking?” Ezra said. “Hell, it’s not even a problem anymore…unless you have a massive heart attack and can’t get hold of anyone. Anything else, they can patch right up. Wonders of modern medicine.”
Melody took a long drag on her cigarette and blew out a streamer of bluish smoke, almost invisible in the sunlight. “Not that, you dummy,” she said. “Jesus, I thought High Guards had to be wicked sharp.”
“Nah,” Ezra said, leaning back against the bench and stretching his legs straight out. One of Melody’s “Karens” passed them by, heels clicking on the cobbles and her nose wrinkled up in disgust as she was forced to walk through the pair’s cloud of poison. “Just gotta be able to memorize a bunch of stuff an parrot it back, mostly. Donkey could do it.”
“Well, that explains you,” Melody said. She rammed into his shoulder with hers, then sat back. “You’d have to be a jackass to break up with a woman like Robin Drake.”
Ezra cleared his throat. “We were talkin about something,” he said.
“Yeah,” Melody said. “My untimely but not unexpected demise as an indie bookshop owner.”
“Why do you say that?”
Melody held her hands out, to encompass Britter Way. “Like I said, just take a look around,” she said. “The old neighborhood is gone. You know why they called it capitalism, Beckitt? It’s right in the name- someone who has the money and the opportunity figures out a way to capitalize on someone else’s misfortune or disadvantage. After Sarandra got killed, people were spooked about coming down here. Business fell off to nothing. The Harris brothers- they had a vintage clothes store two doors down from Sarandra, don’t know if you met them or not- went belly up; Miss Haveshir closed her teashop; the used record store, the retro arcade, Burgers Up…all of ‘em dead. The only reason I made it? A handful of loyal patrons who made a point of coming down here to dump an inordinate amount of creds on some first editions I never thought I’d unload, and the fact that I live in the back room.”
“And someone found a way to capitalize on the indies dying out,” Ezra said.
“Bingo,” Melody said, shooting Ezra with a finger gun. “Some hotshot speculator from out of Gileon, name of Gazarra. Bought up the whole street at dirt basement prices, sat on it until the killer got caught, and then boom! In come the wrecking balls. Gutted everything, threw up these godawful facades and his iron lamp posts and cobbles, and here we are.”
Ezra grunted. “Bought up the whole street- except for you,” he said. “You’re still here.”
“Yeah, for now,” Melody said. “Guys like Gazarra don’t get where they are by taking no for an answer- especially when they’re only one volume short of owning the entire collection. But enough about me, Beckitt. Whaddya need? Cute as I am, I know you didn’t just drop by because you happened to be in the neighborhood and just had to see me.”
“Actually,” Ezra said, “it’s almost kinda like that. I’ve been workin on this case, and something about it made me think of you and I decided to come by. Pick your brain a little.”
“Ooh,” Melody said. Chesterfield pincered between the first two fingers of her left hand, she clapped. “I’m intrigued. Continue.”
Ezra rolled his head along his neck. Sure you really want to go down this road, he asked himself. H
e didn’t see what harm it could do. Gave him a reason to sit and pass the time with a lovely girl in the sunshine, if nothing else; and if what Melody said was true her bookshop wouldn’t be here to enjoy for much longer- just another gunshot victim of progress, hallelujah and amen. “I was wondering what you might know about the ancient mythology of Ashigul.”
Melody looked at him for a second, bright eyes almost clear as the sunshine fell into them, and then she laughed. “That’s so rando,” she said. “Of all the things I expected to fall outta your mouth, that was never even on my list of possibles. The answer to your query is, more than your average white Vondellian. A few years back a comics writer did a short run series about a group of old gods brought over here by their devoted faithful and how they got stranded here, in a country where no one believes in them. Fun stuff. A bunch of them were from Ashigul. They were interesting enough for me to research them some more.”
“Ever heard of some guy named Wal- uh, the Weeping Man?” Ezra said, giving up on the name he just couldn’t seem to keep hold of.
“Wal Ah’rukar?” Melody said. “Absolutely! Shit, man- he’s more well-known over there than the devil is here. Tragic story. Honestly, I’m surprised more writers haven’t tapped him for their fantasy or horror stuff. Big time potential.”
“So tell me about him.”
“Okay,” Melody said. Ezra could see it on her face, how she was trying to gear down and keep from just spurting stuff out in random bursts. She pitched her smoke and held a tiny hand out, making the universal “gimme” gesture at him with her fingers until Ezra pulled another Chesterfield out for her. “Okay, so Wal Ah’rukar is a yarim-erkek- that means he’s half man, half god…sort of a demon. His mother is Sh’iri Ahraahlaal, the goddess of death. His father is some mortal dude she got all squishy over and came up from the underworld to grind on.”
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