[I started listening to a Terry Pratchett book today. I don't know how it happened, but he got better than his earlier books. Lots better. In fact, it was somewhat distressing how good he is. But, as my wife said, his success doesn't take away from my success.
[It sure is intimidating, though.]
"Think it will snow?" asked Rae as they walked.
Luther looked around. "Eventually, yes. Why do you ask?"
"To make conversation. We haven't said anything for the last block."
"There was traffic," said Luther.
"So?"
"It was loud. Hard to talk over it."
"No more excuses. You have to talk to me."
Luther looked over at her. She was younger than he was--most everyone was--but they'd been friends so long it was hard to remember a time when he hadn't known her. So, he supposed, he owed her. And she looked concerned. Sure, she looked cheerful, but there was concern under that, about as well hidden as noodles in lasagna.
"Okay," he said. "What do we talk about."
"Anything. Whatever you want to talk about. Just start talking, and I'll answer, and we'll go back and forth. It'll be like a conversation."
"I've heard about those," said Luther. "Want to talk about shoes?"
"No."
"How's your job with the Twins?"
Rae wrinkled her nose. "Some days I can't figure out how those two ever became goddesses. Honestly, last week they come back from the hair dresser, and--hang on. No. You're not getting me talking. It's your turn to talk."
"Can't I ask you questions?" asked Luther.
"Possibly, but not before you say five things about your own life."
"What would I say?"
"Nope, you can't ask me that. I'm waiting for those five things."
Luther smiled. "You're working really hard at this."
"Yes, I am. You spent so many years listening to me, it's about time I shut up and did some listening. So talk."
"Okay."
"Start now."
"Give me a minute."
"Fine. Your minute starts now."
"I didn't mean that literally."
"Don't care. I'll expect you to be talking in...fifty seconds."
Luther rubbed at the scruff on his cheek--he'd forgotten to shave--and looked around at the world. Lunch traffic, people walking here and there. Luther noticed their shoes, as he probably always would. Why did women insist on wearing such terrible torture devices? Luther could appreciate attractive calves, but he wasn't sure they were worth the pain some women went through every day. If he'd had his way, Heartbreak Hal's shoe store would never have carried high heels--not for men back in the day, not for women now.
But Rae had said he couldn't talk about shoes. What else would he talk about? Luther assumed that Forgotten Zed's murder was out of the question. He supposed they could talk about Atty, but no--she'd said he had to talk about himself. What was there to say?
"Time's up," said Rae. "Talk."
"I'm not ready."
"Talk now."
Her voice was hard, harder than he remembered hearing it, and it surprised him. Luther found his mouth moving.
"I'm thinking about taking up cooking."
"Really?"
"I guess so. I joked about that with Atty, but I think I might actually mean it."
"You told Atty you're going to cook? Wonderful. Anything in particular?"
"Scouring pads."
"Excuse me?"
"I don't know. I have no idea what I want to cook. Atty had these magazines and books covered in pictures of beautiful food. Do you think all that food is real?"
"Probably."
"But I heard somewhere that the food in those pictures is sculpted from other food. Like the ice cream in chocolate syrup commercials."
"What about it?"
"I heard they carved it out of potatoes."
"But wouldn't the potatoes go brown?"
"Sure, because they're pouring chocolate syrup over them."
"Come on. The potatoes would start to oxidize, unless they covered them with spray paint or something. Maybe they use white on them. But I bet most of the food is real." Rae tucked some stray hair behind her ear. "Like asparagus. What's the point of trying to carve asparagus? Easier just to cook a dozen batches than to get all those little leaves on there."
"You have a point," said Luther. "There's the restaurant."
"Maybe you could cook some Thai food," Rae suggested. "Get some inspiration from our lunch here. Why did you stop walking?"
Luther hadn’t realized that he had stopped, but he had. He’d been distracted by the cluster of broguts hanging from the restaurant sign. “Up there,” he said, pointing.
“Ew,” said Rae. “Broguts.”
“Don’t like them?”
“Not at all. I think it’s the legs. Anything over five and I get the willies.”
“Five doesn’t bother you?”
Rae shrugged. “I’m not sure. I’ve never seen anything with five.”
“I don’t think anything has five legs. So why not just say ‘anything over four?’”
“I don’t want to be prejudiced.”
Luther raised his eyebrows. “That’s...generous of you. I think.”
Rae smiled at him. “It’s how I was raised. Shall we go in?”
“Hold on a moment,” said Luther. “I’m trying to think. Why would broguts be out? You hardly ever see them, even at night.”
“Really?” said Rae. “Did we discover your one hobby, Luther? You’re a brogut watcher?”
The angel shook his head. “I saw a documentary last week. They’re really reclusive creatures, easily spooked. And look at those.” Luther pointed up to the roof. “See the noses sticking out over the edge there? Long-nosed rupplers. Also entropic creatures, and you never see them in cities.”
Rae scrunched up her face. “Are those the things that look like roadkill? They pretty much just lie around and sniff at stuff, right?”
Luther nodded.
“Then I hate those, too,” said Rae, and she grabbed his sleeve, pulling. “Let’s hurry and go inside.”
“Give me just a minute,” Luther protested. “When did you even get a chance to hate long-nosed rupplers? The camera crews had to hang from tree branches for a month to get shots of them.”
“A month?”
“It was a long time. When did you see them?”
“If we go inside, I’ll tell you.”
“If you tell me, I’ll go inside.”
Rae looked at him and sighed. “Fine. You remember when Lorenzo was a brand new god and I got a job with him?”
“With Lorenzo de Medici? Sure. You looked good in Renaissance clothing.”
“I did not, but thank you. Back then, he had entropic creatures around him all the time. Broguts, and the long-nosed whatevers, and chickens, and potatoes were growing everywhere, and it was a mess. I hated it.”
Luther scratched at his neck, and his skin was rough against his fingers. How had he forgotten to shave? “So,” he said, “entropic creatures were hanging around a new god. Of course. That makes sense. New gods haven’t fully bonded with their power, so they shed it everywhere and attract entropic creatures like moths.”
“Ugh,” said Rae. “You had to remind me. Night was terrible with all the moths. I would’t walk with him. I refused.”
Luther continued chasing after his train of thought. It seemed important. “But why are they at this restaurant? And why was one following that boy?”
“What boy?” asked Rae.
“Boy at the bagel shop this morning. Tall, skinny kid. He said a brogut was following him around town--but he couldn’t be a new god.” Luther stopped as the weight of what he said started to sink in. “Could he?”
Rae was staring at him. Luther couldn’t quite figure out what he was saying. That boy couldn’t have been a killer. He had been so innocent. Maybe a bit of a schmuck, but that was what kids were supposed to be.
Rae thought out loud for him. “Zed dies, and suddenly a boy has broguts following him around? Doesn’t seem likely it’s coincidence.”
“But the boy seemed nice. I don’t think he was the guy.”
“I can think of one way we might find out,” said Rae. “Let’s go.” She turned and walked purposefully toward the restaurant and Luther hurried to catch up.
“This might be a bad idea,” he said. “If he is a god killer, confronting him is one of the worse ways I can think of approaching this.”
Rae glanced at him sideways. “Give me some credit, Luther. Are you going to get the door for me?”
“Of course.” He jogged ahead and pulled the door open. “After you.”
“Your courtesy sweeps me off my feet.”
Then Rae was past him and in the restaurant, looking around. Luther looked, too. No tall, skinny kid. He started breathing again, then realized how silly it was he had been holding his breath. That kid wasn’t the killer. He was sure of it.
“We’re checking the kitchen,” said Rae, but before they could make it halfway across the room, a young woman in an apron intercepted them.
“Can I help you?” she asked, smiling. “Table for two?”
“Probably not,” said Rae. “I mean, probably no table. I’m hoping you actually can help us. We’re looking for a tall young man, skinny. He might be a customer here, or on the kitchen staff.”
The young woman glanced back at the kitchen, a little nervously, Luther thought. “You might mean Bradley, but he doesn’t work here anymore. What is this for, anyway?”
Oh dear, thought Luther. He should have had a lie ready for this.
Rae sailed on without hesitation. “I work at Twin Goddess Art Gallery, and a patron left some things there. We didn’t know how to find him, but he had mentioned this restaurant, so, since I was on the way by, I thought I’d ask. And possible have lunch.”
“Art gallery?” said the young woman. “That was probably Bradley, then. He was always drawing. What things did he leave?”
“A sketch book,” said Rae, and the server cocked her head, looking suddenly skeptical.
“If you can call it that,” said Luther. “A bunch of loose papers, all folded up and tied together.” Was that right? It was a guess, but a good one, he hoped.
The young woman chuckled. “That sounds like Bradley. I wish I could keep them here for him, but he quit last night.”
“Did something happen?” asked Rae, all friendly curiosity.
The server glanced back at the kitchen. Was there someone to worry about in there? She hesitated longer, looked at Rae’s smiling-yet-concerned face, then let out her breath. “There was an accident. A patron had an allergic reaction to the food. Peanuts, or something. The chef said it was Bradley’s fault, but I don’t believe it. He was smart. Too smart. He wouldn’t forget to mention something like that.”
Luther didn’t want to ask the question that came to mind, but he felt he had to. He cleared his throat and the girl looked at him. “Is it possible that,” he cleared his throat again--why did this make him nervous?--“that the young man would have done something like that on purpose?”
The girl’s mouth tightened and her nose wrinkled, which would have been cute if she hadn’t so clearly been angry. “How dare you,” she said. “How dare you. You should have seen his face. He was white as a ghost, looking at her. You might have thought he was the one who died. How dare you!”
“I’m sorry,” said Luther, but he had to school his features to keep the smile off his face. He was so glad. The boy wasn’t a god killer. He glanced at the server’s name tag. “I didn’t mean any offense, Denise. I truly am sorry.”
“Please do forgive my friend,” said Rae, pulling Denise’s eyes back to her. “He means well, but sometimes he walks around with his feet in his mouth.”
“That was a terrible thing to say,” said Denise, throwing her glare back at Luther. “I wouldn’t even say that about the chef.”
“Of course not,” said Rae. “I think we should go, then. Maybe I’ll come back later.”
“Without him,” said Denise. It wasn’t a question.
“Thank you for your help,” said Rae, and they left the restaurant. They paused on the sidewalk while Rae readjusted her scarf. Luther didn’t bother trying to hide his smile anymore. Bradley, the boy, wasn’t the killer. He wasn’t sure entirely why that made him so happy, but it did. Perhaps it was because he liked the boy, which he did, even after a total of perhaps two minutes together. Bradley had seemed sincere, like he cared about things more than the average person. And perhaps Luther was pleased because his judgment of the kid had been right. It was a frightening thing to doubt your judgment of people after more than a millennium of living. Either way, he smiled.
“That was tactless,” said Rae, “but probably necessary. So now we know that our killer is the woman who died from a peanut allergy. Should that be possible?”
Luther shrugged. “If the power hadn’t had a chance to bind to her, then sure, and giving the timing, I can’t imagine any real binding going on. She was almost as vulnerable as a normal human. And now Bradley has all that power.”
“We need to find him,” said Rae. “I’m going back in.”
“I think the girl would have mentioned it if she knew his address.”
“Which is why I’m not going to talk to Denise. I’m going to work the manager, but you stay here. No need to antagonize the poor girl.”
“I never antagonize anyone,” Luther protested.
“Except when you think there’s something good that needs to be done. Then you get a little bullish.”
“I’m gentle as a lamb.”
“I’m leaving now.”
“I’ll wait here.”
“Luther.”
“Yes?”
“It’s good to see you smile again.”
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Accidental God 2.0 -- Section 18
[This is just a short section. There's more about Rae and Luther written, but it's not done yet and I need to go help bed time along. Anyway, more than six-hundred words are written, but that'll have to happen tomorrow. Sorry for the creeping pace, but I'll try to be steady.]
Luther’s doorbell rang.
“It’s open!” he yelled. He felt confident it was Rae. He didn’t remember anyone ever ringing his doorbell in this apartment--Atty had pounded on the door. In fact, he’d forgotten what the bell sounded like. It was bland. A bland bell. Maybe he should get it changed. What did someone have to do to get a new doorbell? Was there a doorbell store out there?
He looked up from his desk to see Rae standing in the door of his study.
“Hey, Rae.”
She looked around the room. “Oh my,” she said.
“What is it?” asked Luther, looking around. “Is there something wrong?”
“Your stuff.”
Luther looked at her questioningly, so she went on.
“You don’t have anything new in here.”
“New isn’t always better.”
“True, but you also don’t have anything old. No antiques, nothing quality. When did you get all this stuff?”
“The fifties?”
Rae poked at his recliner and sighed. “Not this. This is screaming at me that it came from the seventies. When we go shopping, we’re also getting you new furniture.”
“But I just lost my job.”
“Seriously, Luther? You’re short on money?”
“Well...no. But it feels wrong to buy stuff when I’m unemployed.”
“You’ll have to compromise your standards, just this once.” Rae looked at the phone in Luther’s hand. “What are you up to?”
“Making calls. You heard the news?”
“Nope. I’m taking a break from the media, trying to catch up on some reading. Some books have been on my list for over three-hundred years, and I decided it was time to get serious. Did something happen?”
Luther picked up a newspaper and spun it so it landed on his desk, facing Rae. She walked over and put her finger under the headline: Zed is dead.
“Is this some kind of joke?”
Luther shrugged one shoulder. “Seems like it should be, doesn’t it. Some assassin got him in his home. Forgotten Zed is done.”
“That’s insane.”
Luther nodded.
“Also insensitive.”
Luther snorted. “Yeah, killing someone has to be the pinnacle of insensitivity.”
Rae rolled her eyes. “I meant the headline.”
“Oh. Yeah, that, too. But it was probably inevitable. I mean, it does rhyme.”
Rae was ignoring him, skimming over the article with her finger. He waited while she finished, then they just looked at each other.
“Wow,” she said, finally.
“Yep.”
“So you’ve been calling people?”
“Yeah. Reaching out to some old friends, trying to find out what’s going on.”
“You think this is the start of a divine war?”
Luther shook his head. “None of my friends have heard anything, and another article in the paper says TCD doesn’t think so, either. They think it’s an isolated thing.”
Rae walked backwards and sat down in the recliner. “That’s a relief. Last thing we need is another World War.”
Luther leaned back in his chair. “Absolutely not. I’ve got a few more people I can call to make sure. Should we skip lunch today?”
“No!” Rae almost jumped to her feet. “We are going to lunch. We didn’t get you this far just to let you slip back again. Stand up.”
“Hang on,” said Luther. “‘We?’ What do you mean by ‘we didn’t get you this far?’”
Rae walked around Luther’s desk and grabbed his arm, pulling him to his feet. “I mean Atty and me, of course. Didn’t I tell you? You’re all that we talk about.”
“Stop that.”
“Get up, get up.”
“I don’t have shoes on.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t wear them at home. I prefer stocking feet.”
“That’s weird.”
“Why is that?”
“You’ve only been making shoes for the last thousand years.”
“Eight-hundred.”
“And you go around in socks when you have the chance.”
“All right, I guess that is a little weird. Maybe I am in denial about shoes.”
“Among other things,” said Rae. “Get yours on.”
Luther’s doorbell rang.
“It’s open!” he yelled. He felt confident it was Rae. He didn’t remember anyone ever ringing his doorbell in this apartment--Atty had pounded on the door. In fact, he’d forgotten what the bell sounded like. It was bland. A bland bell. Maybe he should get it changed. What did someone have to do to get a new doorbell? Was there a doorbell store out there?
He looked up from his desk to see Rae standing in the door of his study.
“Hey, Rae.”
She looked around the room. “Oh my,” she said.
“What is it?” asked Luther, looking around. “Is there something wrong?”
“Your stuff.”
Luther looked at her questioningly, so she went on.
“You don’t have anything new in here.”
“New isn’t always better.”
“True, but you also don’t have anything old. No antiques, nothing quality. When did you get all this stuff?”
“The fifties?”
Rae poked at his recliner and sighed. “Not this. This is screaming at me that it came from the seventies. When we go shopping, we’re also getting you new furniture.”
“But I just lost my job.”
“Seriously, Luther? You’re short on money?”
“Well...no. But it feels wrong to buy stuff when I’m unemployed.”
“You’ll have to compromise your standards, just this once.” Rae looked at the phone in Luther’s hand. “What are you up to?”
“Making calls. You heard the news?”
“Nope. I’m taking a break from the media, trying to catch up on some reading. Some books have been on my list for over three-hundred years, and I decided it was time to get serious. Did something happen?”
Luther picked up a newspaper and spun it so it landed on his desk, facing Rae. She walked over and put her finger under the headline: Zed is dead.
“Is this some kind of joke?”
Luther shrugged one shoulder. “Seems like it should be, doesn’t it. Some assassin got him in his home. Forgotten Zed is done.”
“That’s insane.”
Luther nodded.
“Also insensitive.”
Luther snorted. “Yeah, killing someone has to be the pinnacle of insensitivity.”
Rae rolled her eyes. “I meant the headline.”
“Oh. Yeah, that, too. But it was probably inevitable. I mean, it does rhyme.”
Rae was ignoring him, skimming over the article with her finger. He waited while she finished, then they just looked at each other.
“Wow,” she said, finally.
“Yep.”
“So you’ve been calling people?”
“Yeah. Reaching out to some old friends, trying to find out what’s going on.”
“You think this is the start of a divine war?”
Luther shook his head. “None of my friends have heard anything, and another article in the paper says TCD doesn’t think so, either. They think it’s an isolated thing.”
Rae walked backwards and sat down in the recliner. “That’s a relief. Last thing we need is another World War.”
Luther leaned back in his chair. “Absolutely not. I’ve got a few more people I can call to make sure. Should we skip lunch today?”
“No!” Rae almost jumped to her feet. “We are going to lunch. We didn’t get you this far just to let you slip back again. Stand up.”
“Hang on,” said Luther. “‘We?’ What do you mean by ‘we didn’t get you this far?’”
Rae walked around Luther’s desk and grabbed his arm, pulling him to his feet. “I mean Atty and me, of course. Didn’t I tell you? You’re all that we talk about.”
“Stop that.”
“Get up, get up.”
“I don’t have shoes on.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t wear them at home. I prefer stocking feet.”
“That’s weird.”
“Why is that?”
“You’ve only been making shoes for the last thousand years.”
“Eight-hundred.”
“And you go around in socks when you have the chance.”
“All right, I guess that is a little weird. Maybe I am in denial about shoes.”
“Among other things,” said Rae. “Get yours on.”
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Accidental God 2.0 -- Section 17
[I had it backwards in yesterdays comments. That was mostly old with a little new. Today's is all new, though. Oddly humorous, too. Sunshine was conceived as just a bit part, but I like him--in a slightly repulsed kind of way. See, I know what he's like when he's not being charming.]
Will Mako had to pound for a solid five minutes before Sunshine opened the little window in the door.
“Mako,” said the man, glaring through the little bars. “Go away. My bar is closed. And you woke me up. I hate you.”
The sergeant held up a stack of twenties in front of the bartender’s face.
“Mako,” said the man again, “why don’t you come in? My bar is always open to you, and you’re like a brother to me.”
Will chuckled and stepped back as the two deadbolts slid open and the thick steel door swung into the alley. Sunshine’s wasn’t a gentle kind of bar, and it showed in the furnishings: solid and all bolted to the floor. It showed in the owner, too. Sunshine had a strangely unattractive combination of thick muscles and thick scars, and he had never bothered to hire a bouncer. He took care of that work on his own, and from what Will had seen of the man, Sunshine enjoyed it.
“What can I get you, Sergeant Mako? You on the clock? Or does that even matter?”
Will smiled. “Sure it matters. Drink on the clock and I might get caught, and right now I’m on the clock.”
“So,” said Sunshine, looking as thoughtful as he ever looked as he considered, “scotch then?”
“You read my mind,” said Will.
As Sunshine stepped behind the bar, he looked sideways at the police sergeant. “It bothers me,” he said.
“What does?” Will sat on a stool, set down the stack of twenties, and rested his elbows on the bar.
“When you look like that. Times like these, your smile really does look like a shark.”
Will cocked his head. “What do you mean, like a shark?”
“I mean you look like a shark.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Your name,” said the bartender, pulling a block of ice out of a little freezer. “Mako. It’s like the shark, right?”
“I don’t think so,” said Will. “Is it? I thought it was spelled differently.”
“So what? You still say them the same, right?”
“Yeah, but I think mine comes from Japanese or something like that.”
“No kidding,” said Sunshine. “Is the shark Japanese?”
“Why would a shark be Japanese? Animals aren’t anything. They’re just animals.”
“But pandas are Chinese, right? I mean, we have to give the Chinese a statue of gold every time we want a panda for our zoos, so I figure that means pandas are definitely Chinese.”
Will stared while Sunshine started chipping at the block of ice with a pick.
“I hesitate to say this while you’re holding a weapon, Sunshine, but you are an idiot.”
“I am not.”
“No, sometimes you are. We never gave anybody a gold statue for anything. What would America be doing with gold statues?”
“Then tell me how they got a panda in the zoo down at DC? ‘Cause they’ve got one.”
“I don’t know how they got a panda, but it wasn’t with any golden statues.”
“Had a baby, too,” said Sunshine.
“Who did?”
“The panda.”
“Why are we talking about pandas?”
The bartender shrugged and grabbed a bottle from the shelf behind him. “How should I know? You brought it up.”
Will rubbed at his face, wishing he’d had an hour or two more of sleep. “Pandas are not why I came.”
“Figured as much.” Sunshine poured and set the drink in front of the sergeant. “You here about the drug deal on the south side?”
“What? No.”
“Then the Lewiston burglary.”
“There was a burglary?”
“You didn’t hear about that?”
“When did it happen?”
Sunshine shrugged. “They were going to do it this morning. You’re not here about that?”
“I don’t think anyone on the force knows about that.” Will laughed. “Heck, I bet the Lewiston’s don’t even know about it yet. Don’t they have good security?”
The bartender sniffed. “I hear it’s fair. Not much against these guys, though. This money isn’t for that?”
“Not even a little. I’m in homicide now.”
“Never mind, then. I don’t know a thing about the burglary. What are you here about?”
“Bjorn Baernson.”
“The Bear killed someone? Oh, right. I heard somebody else got him last night. What about it?”
Will picked up the stack of money, bound with rubber bands, and tossed it closer to Sunshine. “He got killed, but thing is, he killed someone else first. It was a job, and I need to find out who hired him.”
“What about the person who killed him?”
“I need to know that, too.” Will stopped and thought. “Actually, that’s even more important, but I’m thinking that the person who hired him is the person who killed him.”
“Sounds nasty,” said Sunshine.
“Tell me about it. Also, I need to find this guy fast.”
“You sure it’s a guy?”
“Why do you say that? You think it’s a woman?”
Sunshine shrugged again. “Not particularly.”
“Then why did you bring it up?”
“I’ve just noticed that you’re a bit of a masochist.”
“I am not.”
“Sure you are. You look down on women.”
“That’s not being a masochist. That’s a misogynist.”
“I thought that was when a black guy married a white woman.”
Will shook his head. “I have no idea what they call that, but that’s not misogyny. Misogyny is when you hate women.”
“Okay then.”
“Okay then what?”
“You’re a misogynist.”
“I am not--forget it. Take that stack. Use what you need to find out about Bjorn, the rest is yours to keep.”
“Thanks. What’s the stack in your pocket for?”
The sergeant chuckled and reached into his coat pocket, pulling out another, larger stack of twenties. “This is for another little job I’ve got for you. You know my employers?”
“The NLPD?”
“No. Different employers.”
“You quit your job?”
“This is an extra job.”
“The best kind,” said Sunshine, putting on his wise face. It wasn’t very.
“Whatever,” said Will. “Thing is, there are two people in town who have me doing a bit of something on the side and on the low-down, if you know what I mean. Never mind. Don’t answer that. The point is that I’m thinking it might be smart to get a little insurance on these two. See, I’m starting to think they may think of me as usable and disposable.”
“Like a Kleenex,” said Sunshine.
“Sure, I guess. Like a Kleenex.”
“Or one of those cleaning wipes.”
“So,” said Will, talking over the bartender, “I’m thinking it might be smart to find out a little more about my employers.”
Sunshine’s eyes narrowed. “So this is dangerous?”
Will remembered the two, standing in his room, and he shivered. Actually shivered. He’d heard about people doing that--I mean people say that something made them shiver, but he’d never actually experienced it before--but now, there it was. Will had shivered, and it was because of those two.
“Yeah, I’d say it’s definitely dangerous.”
“Ergo, the bigger stack.”
Will stared.
“What?” asked Sunshine.
“Did you just pull out Greek on me?”
“Why would I know Greek?”
“You were just using it.”
“What? ‘Ergo?’ That’s not Greek. That’s like, French, or something.”
“It’s not French.”
“How do you know? Do you speak French?”
Will took a swallow. “I don’t have to speak French to know if something isn’t French. Maybe it’s Latin.”
“Can’t be Latin.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t speak Latin.”
“You don’t speak French either.”
“Sure I do. Ergo. See? I’m French, like Francois Truffaut and that skunk on Looney Tunes.”
“You’re a nut.”
“Does a nut know about French New Wave film?”
Will looked at Sunshine. “Yes,” he said finally.
The bartender rolled his eyes. “You’re right. This girl keeps making me watch the stuff. It’s like they filmed a good movie, then cut it into lots of tiny pieces, then taped it all back together into the longest waste of time ever invented.”
“That was almost poetic of you,” said Will. “I’m impressed.”
“Probably because I’ve said that exact same thing to this girl more than twenty times.”
“Really?”
“In my head.”
“Sunshine, you need a new girl.”
“No I don’t.”
“Sure you do.”
“Mako, have you seen her?”
“Which one is she?”
“Jackie.”
“Skinny Jackie?”
Sunshine jerked back, wrinkling his nose. “Don’t say that, Sergeant. Not even nice to think about.”
Will thought for a second. “Oh! You mean the Jackie with the--”
“Yep.”
“That’s the Jackie who--”
“That’s the one.”
“Whoa.” Will took another drink. “Okay, she might be worth a French film or two.”
The two sat in silence for a moment out of respect for high art--Jackie, of course. Will hated foreign films.
“So you’ll take it?” he asked after an appropriate time had passed.
“Dangerous,” said Sunshine.
“Yep.”
“Big stack, though.”
“Yep.”
“What else do you know about them?”
“I think they might be demons.”
Sunshine bent one eyebrow down. “Two demons, new in town, man and woman? I think I might have heard something. But why aren’t you looking into this yourself?”
“Not a chance,” said Will. “I can guarantee you, they hear I’m poking around, I won’t last the day. I need to get this information on the sly.”
“Ergo, you’re giving it to me.”
“Would you cut that out?”
“Ask me nicely.”
“Please?”
“Ask me in French.”
“I’m out of here.” Will stood up. “You’ll do the jobs?”
Sunshine shrugged again. “I don’t see why not. Which one is more important?”
“Definitely Bjorn. Wait. Hang on. The demons.” Will took a deep breath and let it out. “Both. They’re both important.”
Will Mako had to pound for a solid five minutes before Sunshine opened the little window in the door.
“Mako,” said the man, glaring through the little bars. “Go away. My bar is closed. And you woke me up. I hate you.”
The sergeant held up a stack of twenties in front of the bartender’s face.
“Mako,” said the man again, “why don’t you come in? My bar is always open to you, and you’re like a brother to me.”
Will chuckled and stepped back as the two deadbolts slid open and the thick steel door swung into the alley. Sunshine’s wasn’t a gentle kind of bar, and it showed in the furnishings: solid and all bolted to the floor. It showed in the owner, too. Sunshine had a strangely unattractive combination of thick muscles and thick scars, and he had never bothered to hire a bouncer. He took care of that work on his own, and from what Will had seen of the man, Sunshine enjoyed it.
“What can I get you, Sergeant Mako? You on the clock? Or does that even matter?”
Will smiled. “Sure it matters. Drink on the clock and I might get caught, and right now I’m on the clock.”
“So,” said Sunshine, looking as thoughtful as he ever looked as he considered, “scotch then?”
“You read my mind,” said Will.
As Sunshine stepped behind the bar, he looked sideways at the police sergeant. “It bothers me,” he said.
“What does?” Will sat on a stool, set down the stack of twenties, and rested his elbows on the bar.
“When you look like that. Times like these, your smile really does look like a shark.”
Will cocked his head. “What do you mean, like a shark?”
“I mean you look like a shark.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Your name,” said the bartender, pulling a block of ice out of a little freezer. “Mako. It’s like the shark, right?”
“I don’t think so,” said Will. “Is it? I thought it was spelled differently.”
“So what? You still say them the same, right?”
“Yeah, but I think mine comes from Japanese or something like that.”
“No kidding,” said Sunshine. “Is the shark Japanese?”
“Why would a shark be Japanese? Animals aren’t anything. They’re just animals.”
“But pandas are Chinese, right? I mean, we have to give the Chinese a statue of gold every time we want a panda for our zoos, so I figure that means pandas are definitely Chinese.”
Will stared while Sunshine started chipping at the block of ice with a pick.
“I hesitate to say this while you’re holding a weapon, Sunshine, but you are an idiot.”
“I am not.”
“No, sometimes you are. We never gave anybody a gold statue for anything. What would America be doing with gold statues?”
“Then tell me how they got a panda in the zoo down at DC? ‘Cause they’ve got one.”
“I don’t know how they got a panda, but it wasn’t with any golden statues.”
“Had a baby, too,” said Sunshine.
“Who did?”
“The panda.”
“Why are we talking about pandas?”
The bartender shrugged and grabbed a bottle from the shelf behind him. “How should I know? You brought it up.”
Will rubbed at his face, wishing he’d had an hour or two more of sleep. “Pandas are not why I came.”
“Figured as much.” Sunshine poured and set the drink in front of the sergeant. “You here about the drug deal on the south side?”
“What? No.”
“Then the Lewiston burglary.”
“There was a burglary?”
“You didn’t hear about that?”
“When did it happen?”
Sunshine shrugged. “They were going to do it this morning. You’re not here about that?”
“I don’t think anyone on the force knows about that.” Will laughed. “Heck, I bet the Lewiston’s don’t even know about it yet. Don’t they have good security?”
The bartender sniffed. “I hear it’s fair. Not much against these guys, though. This money isn’t for that?”
“Not even a little. I’m in homicide now.”
“Never mind, then. I don’t know a thing about the burglary. What are you here about?”
“Bjorn Baernson.”
“The Bear killed someone? Oh, right. I heard somebody else got him last night. What about it?”
Will picked up the stack of money, bound with rubber bands, and tossed it closer to Sunshine. “He got killed, but thing is, he killed someone else first. It was a job, and I need to find out who hired him.”
“What about the person who killed him?”
“I need to know that, too.” Will stopped and thought. “Actually, that’s even more important, but I’m thinking that the person who hired him is the person who killed him.”
“Sounds nasty,” said Sunshine.
“Tell me about it. Also, I need to find this guy fast.”
“You sure it’s a guy?”
“Why do you say that? You think it’s a woman?”
Sunshine shrugged again. “Not particularly.”
“Then why did you bring it up?”
“I’ve just noticed that you’re a bit of a masochist.”
“I am not.”
“Sure you are. You look down on women.”
“That’s not being a masochist. That’s a misogynist.”
“I thought that was when a black guy married a white woman.”
Will shook his head. “I have no idea what they call that, but that’s not misogyny. Misogyny is when you hate women.”
“Okay then.”
“Okay then what?”
“You’re a misogynist.”
“I am not--forget it. Take that stack. Use what you need to find out about Bjorn, the rest is yours to keep.”
“Thanks. What’s the stack in your pocket for?”
The sergeant chuckled and reached into his coat pocket, pulling out another, larger stack of twenties. “This is for another little job I’ve got for you. You know my employers?”
“The NLPD?”
“No. Different employers.”
“You quit your job?”
“This is an extra job.”
“The best kind,” said Sunshine, putting on his wise face. It wasn’t very.
“Whatever,” said Will. “Thing is, there are two people in town who have me doing a bit of something on the side and on the low-down, if you know what I mean. Never mind. Don’t answer that. The point is that I’m thinking it might be smart to get a little insurance on these two. See, I’m starting to think they may think of me as usable and disposable.”
“Like a Kleenex,” said Sunshine.
“Sure, I guess. Like a Kleenex.”
“Or one of those cleaning wipes.”
“So,” said Will, talking over the bartender, “I’m thinking it might be smart to find out a little more about my employers.”
Sunshine’s eyes narrowed. “So this is dangerous?”
Will remembered the two, standing in his room, and he shivered. Actually shivered. He’d heard about people doing that--I mean people say that something made them shiver, but he’d never actually experienced it before--but now, there it was. Will had shivered, and it was because of those two.
“Yeah, I’d say it’s definitely dangerous.”
“Ergo, the bigger stack.”
Will stared.
“What?” asked Sunshine.
“Did you just pull out Greek on me?”
“Why would I know Greek?”
“You were just using it.”
“What? ‘Ergo?’ That’s not Greek. That’s like, French, or something.”
“It’s not French.”
“How do you know? Do you speak French?”
Will took a swallow. “I don’t have to speak French to know if something isn’t French. Maybe it’s Latin.”
“Can’t be Latin.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t speak Latin.”
“You don’t speak French either.”
“Sure I do. Ergo. See? I’m French, like Francois Truffaut and that skunk on Looney Tunes.”
“You’re a nut.”
“Does a nut know about French New Wave film?”
Will looked at Sunshine. “Yes,” he said finally.
The bartender rolled his eyes. “You’re right. This girl keeps making me watch the stuff. It’s like they filmed a good movie, then cut it into lots of tiny pieces, then taped it all back together into the longest waste of time ever invented.”
“That was almost poetic of you,” said Will. “I’m impressed.”
“Probably because I’ve said that exact same thing to this girl more than twenty times.”
“Really?”
“In my head.”
“Sunshine, you need a new girl.”
“No I don’t.”
“Sure you do.”
“Mako, have you seen her?”
“Which one is she?”
“Jackie.”
“Skinny Jackie?”
Sunshine jerked back, wrinkling his nose. “Don’t say that, Sergeant. Not even nice to think about.”
Will thought for a second. “Oh! You mean the Jackie with the--”
“Yep.”
“That’s the Jackie who--”
“That’s the one.”
“Whoa.” Will took another drink. “Okay, she might be worth a French film or two.”
The two sat in silence for a moment out of respect for high art--Jackie, of course. Will hated foreign films.
“So you’ll take it?” he asked after an appropriate time had passed.
“Dangerous,” said Sunshine.
“Yep.”
“Big stack, though.”
“Yep.”
“What else do you know about them?”
“I think they might be demons.”
Sunshine bent one eyebrow down. “Two demons, new in town, man and woman? I think I might have heard something. But why aren’t you looking into this yourself?”
“Not a chance,” said Will. “I can guarantee you, they hear I’m poking around, I won’t last the day. I need to get this information on the sly.”
“Ergo, you’re giving it to me.”
“Would you cut that out?”
“Ask me nicely.”
“Please?”
“Ask me in French.”
“I’m out of here.” Will stood up. “You’ll do the jobs?”
Sunshine shrugged again. “I don’t see why not. Which one is more important?”
“Definitely Bjorn. Wait. Hang on. The demons.” Will took a deep breath and let it out. “Both. They’re both important.”
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Accidental God 2.0 -- Section 16
[A little old, quite a bit of new. Trying to write when I can, but a job is a job is a job. Anyway, I'm pretty pleased with the old stuff, and I think it fits in right here in the story. Enjoy.]
As Bradley walked out of the bagel shop, he looked up. Yep, there it was, clinging to a tree branch, that little brogut. It looked at him with wide, lizard eyes and its tongue flickered out. Bradley couldn't decide if it was disturbing or cute.
Speaking of disturbing and cute, what was it about that girl in the bagel shop? She wasn't the kind of woman Bradley usually thought of when he thought 'beautiful'--she was a little too skinny, not that Bradley was one to talk--but she was sticking in his head. Yep, there she was in his head, standing and smiling. She was doing a lot of smiling. Bradley put in his earbuds and walked and thought.
Happiness, he decided. That girl looked like she actually enjoyed life. How strange. Not to say that Bradley didn't like his life, but he also wasn't starting any parades in honor of how great the world was. The world WAS great. It just didn't always feel that great. But he liked it. Just not all the time.
Bradley shook his heads, realizing that he was thinking in circles, and all those circles were around that smiling girl. Should he have asked her name? But he had Olivia. Sort of. So he actually hadn't ever asked Olivia out, but he was going to. Soon. Whenever it felt right. He didn't want to rush things, because then she might think he was coming on too strong. And that's not what he wanted. And besides, that girl from the bagel shop was smiling at him. She probably smiled at everyone, though. She was a smiley kind of girl, and then she'd looked disappointed somehow when he'd picked the multigrain bagel. He'd asked for cream cheese to try to make up for it--he wasn't sure if it would--and it hadn't looked like it had done any good. Why was he still thinking about this?
And where was he going? Bradley still felt lost in the morning, with the sunlight slanting across the world so low it looked like it would trip over something. He knew where to go in the evening and at night, but morning was a foreign country.
Bradley wandered. It wasn’t a new feeling—it was kind of a default activity, something to do after losing a job or a girlfriend or a sense of purpose. In fact, a lost sense of purpose was probably the one he was most familiar with. He made his way toward his usual wandering spots, but none of them appealed. The D’Arte Board Gallery, always a good place to kill an hour (or at least maim a few minutes), was surprisingly unappealing--and closed--and Fifth City Park was too far.
That was when Bradley realized he hadn’t, in fact, lost a sense of purpose. Inexplicably, he was walking somewhere with a hint of determination. More than a hint. He had the full-on flavor of determination in his mouth, the scent of usefulness leading him onward.
Fifteen minutes and a few turns later, and Bradley was in front of the apartment building that held his sister, her husband, and their two children. On second thought, probably not the husband, since he had a job with early hours, but Clara was almost certainly there. And, from the faint sound of screaming coming through the ground floor windows, at least the smaller of the children definitely was there.
And not sounding good. Bradley walked faster, jogged up the five steps to the front door, and buzzed. It was a few seconds before his sister’s voice crackled through the speaker—along with a heavy dose of crying baby.
“Yes?”
“It’s Bradley.”
“Thank goodness! Get in here.”
There was an angry buzz at the door, and Bradley bumped it open with his hip. By the time he was in the hall, the door to Clara’s apartment was already opening, letting out the crying and a hefty dose of three-year-old shouting as well.
Clara was dressed for the day, but her brown hair had been abandoned somewhere between shower and brush. JoBeth, the ten-month-old, was clinging to her shoulder, and the t-shirt that must have been clean when she started wearing it was now smeared with baby-snot and some variety of pureed food. Bradley’s sister looked frazzled.
“Poopy diaper or crying baby?” she asked.
“Do I have to choose?”
“Please, Bradley?”
That purpose inside Bradley swelled up, moved his mouth, and made the decision for him. “Crying baby.”
“Really?” said his sister. “Thank you! As bad as she is right now, when I tried to put her down to change Erica, JoBeth freaked.”
“Worse than this?”
“Way worse. I don’t know what’s wrong. After I get this diaper changed, we’re calling the doctor. Please take her? Maybe a change of scenery will help her.”
“So I’m scenery now?”
“The best kind of scenery. Scenery that loves her.” Clara leaned her side toward Bradley. “Here, JB. It’s Uncle Brad. You like Uncle Brad.”
Bradley held out his hands to take his niece, and the purpose that had been building in him shot down his arms like a cat after yarn, not that Bradley had ever owned a cat. Down his arms, through his hands, and through the air to JoBeth. By the time Bradley’s hands took her weight under the arm, she had stopped crying. Before he had his niece against his shoulder, she was asleep.
Except for the whir of the stove fan in the kitchen, everything was quiet. Erica had stopped shouting and was staring up at Bradley. Clara’s mouth was open. Somewhere upstairs a dog barked.
Bradley tucked his chin and looked down at the sleeping baby.
“Guess I make for good scenery,” he said.
“Guess so,” agreed Clara. “Want to come in? Not much else is clean, but there’s enough empty couch to sit on.”
“You always do that,” said Bradley.
“Do what?”
“Say your place is messy, when it’s practically clean enough for a furniture photo-op.” He walked in, past the kitchen, and looked at the living room. “Oh.”
“I told you it was messy,” said Clara. “I didn’t finish laundry day, we still haven’t weeded out all the unnecessary toys Mom gave Erica for Christmas, and Ted has decided to start doing weight lifting.”
“So those free weights in the corner are his?”
“‘Free weights.’ Why do men call them ‘free weights?’ They cost enough, and they certainly don’t free up any space in the apartment.”
“Come on,” said Bradley, sitting on the one corner of the couch that wasn’t covered in unfolded—yet fresh scented—clothing. “You know you’ll like how he looks after a month or two with those.”
“I like how my husband looks just fine right now,” said Clara, grabbing an unusually silent Erica and laying her down on a diaper changing pad. “Besides, the last thing I need right now is the temptation to get another one of these. I don’t know how people handle three children at once. Sure, it’s a fair fight for the moment, but as soon as they outnumber us, I think the battle will be over.”
“Didn’t you want more kids?”
“Absolutely. Just not yet. Quit moving your legs, squirt—don’t touch! Yucky. This is a two wiper, at least. It’s dried on.”
“Ah, family,” said Bradley. “It’s all about sharing.” JoBeth was warm against his chest, and he could feel something…off inside her. Wrong. If she were a rose, her thorns would be too large—but they were shrinking. The wrong inside her was fading, and she felt peaceful against his shoulder. “Looks like this one is doing better.”
“I don’t know what you did,” said Clara, strapping on the new diaper and sealing up the old one with a grimace. “Whatever it was, thank you.”
“Not sure I did anything. She’s just a good kid.”
“She is,” agreed his sister, picking up her older child and setting her on her feet. “Go find Boobles, squirt.”
“Oh!” said Erica, her eyes bright. “I put Boobles in the big little blanket.” Then she was gone, her diaper waggling behind her.
“That’s a good kid, too,” said Bradley.
“She is. Easier to think that when they’re not shouting at me, though, I’ll admit that. Seriously, thanks for coming Brad. I don’t know how you knew, but thank you.”
Bradley shrugged but then froze when JoBeth stirred on his shoulder. “It just seemed,” he said in a quieter voice, “just seemed like I needed to be here.”
Clara smiled at him. “Mom never understood that about you. She keeps wanting you to be Dad, but Dad never listens to his heart the way you do.”
“He does, too.”
“When?”
“That time with the thing, when we were at that place.”
Clara laughed. “Exactly.”
“Of course, Dad has had a lot more steady jobs than I’ve ever had.”
Clara raised her eyebrows and nodded in agreement. “If by ‘a lot more’ you mean ‘one job that he'll have until he dies,’ then yes, he did. Can't keep a man away from his archives. And now I’m off to seal this thing in five layers of plastic before I send it to a landfill to store its stink for future generations.”
“That is a powerful one,” Bradley agreed.
Clara walked into the kitchen. “You see the phone?” she called back. “I think it’s on the couch somewhere. I’d rather not use any cell minutes wading my way through the doctor’s automated menu just so they can send me to urgent care.”
Bradley glanced down at JoBeth again. The wrong was almost entirely faded. “Not sure you need to,” he called back. “I think she’s doing better.”
“Here it is,” said Clara, showing up at the door to the living room, phone in hand. “You think so? I should probably check in just to be sure. How’s her forehead?”
Bradley felt it with the inside of his wrist. “Warm.”
“How warm?”
“Normal warm. Babies are a little hotter than grownups, right?”
His sister walked over and felt with her own wrist. “No fever.”
“Nice,” said Bradley. Then he noticed Clara was staring at him. “What’s up?” he asked.
“I think that’s my question. You look different.”
“It’s because I lost my job.”
“That’s not it, though I find that slightly amusing. What happened?”
“I fed peanuts to a lady with a peanut allergy.”
“Really?”
“Not exactly, but that’s how it ended up. Anaphylactic shock isn’t pretty.”
“She okay?”
“No idea. Off to the hospital she went, but she didn’t look good.”
“Eek.” Clara sat down on the floor and started folding clothes. “But that’s not it. That’s not why you look different.”
“I had a bagel this morning. Never underestimate the power of a good bagel.”
“Oh, believe me, I don’t, but that’s still not it either.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Maybe I’m in love.”
“Are you?”
“No. Well, maybe. No.” Olivia, he thought. Bagel girl, he thought back.
Clara wrinkled her nose. “Darn it. It would be good for you.”
Erica ran back into the room holding a stuffed dog tightly by the neck. “Boobles wants food,” she said, leaning in earnestly to announce this two inches from her mother’s face.
“What kind of food does Boobles want?” asked Clara with weighted tones.
“Chocolate.”
“Not chocolate.”
“Cereal.”
“What kind of cereal?”
“Ummm…red.”
“Red cereal?”
“Red cereal.”
“Did you mean oatmeal with raspberries?”
Erica nodded solemnly.
“We’re out of raspberries,” said Clara. “What about blue cereal? With blueberries?”
The three-year-old’s eyes got wide and she nodded even wider.
Clara pushed up to her feet, leaving a small pile of folded laundry and an even larger pile of the unfolded variety. “I’ll make that right away. You want any?” she asked, looking at Bradley.
“I had a bagel.”
“Of course,” said his sister. “This is me, not underestimating its power. Heck, you probably won’t even be hungry by tomorrow, which is good, because Ted doesn’t like to share my lasagna.”
“Were you going to invite me?” asked Bradley.
“Momma’s making zanya!” said Erica, excited.
“We were,” said Clara.
“Keep in mind,” said Bradley, “even bagels have their limits. What time?”
“Ted thinks he’ll be back by six, so any time after five-thirty would be perfect. Earlier and you can help cook, later and I yell at you for not setting the table.”
“Got it. Five-thirty.”
Clara disappeared into the kitchen again, leaving Erica staring intently at her uncle.
“What’s up, Eri-berry?”
“You look funny.”
“Is that what Boobles thinks?”
Erica and Boobles nodded together.
“Maybe you’ve just never seen me in the morning before.”
She looked puzzled. “What?” she asked, her voice rising to a squeak.
“Morning light is different than evening light.”
“What?”
Bradley tried a different approach. “Do you like Boobles?”
That got a nod.
“Does he eat his own vomit?”
“Bradley!” Clara’s voice prodded at him from the kitchen.
“What’s a vomit?” asked his niece.
“Ask your mother.”
A blueberry flew out of the kitchen and smacked Bradley on the cheek. He picked it up off the dish towel where it landed and popped it into his mouth. “It’s a kind of dog food. Very nutritious.”
“Come to the table!” called Clara. Boobles and Erica scampered away, and Bradley settled back into the couch, resting. Not that he was tired. He wasn’t, even waking up when he did. He just felt…content. This was a good home.
“Someday,” he sighed to himself and looked out the windows. Sunlight painted a pile of sheets with squares of light so bright they hurt to look at. JoBeth, dense and warm on his shoulder, made him think of sleep. The wrong inside her was entirely gone, leaving a rich red of rose petals. Clara and Erica talked in the kitchen, and for a moment Bradley could feel the world spinning beneath him.
It was perfect.
As Bradley walked out of the bagel shop, he looked up. Yep, there it was, clinging to a tree branch, that little brogut. It looked at him with wide, lizard eyes and its tongue flickered out. Bradley couldn't decide if it was disturbing or cute.
Speaking of disturbing and cute, what was it about that girl in the bagel shop? She wasn't the kind of woman Bradley usually thought of when he thought 'beautiful'--she was a little too skinny, not that Bradley was one to talk--but she was sticking in his head. Yep, there she was in his head, standing and smiling. She was doing a lot of smiling. Bradley put in his earbuds and walked and thought.
Happiness, he decided. That girl looked like she actually enjoyed life. How strange. Not to say that Bradley didn't like his life, but he also wasn't starting any parades in honor of how great the world was. The world WAS great. It just didn't always feel that great. But he liked it. Just not all the time.
Bradley shook his heads, realizing that he was thinking in circles, and all those circles were around that smiling girl. Should he have asked her name? But he had Olivia. Sort of. So he actually hadn't ever asked Olivia out, but he was going to. Soon. Whenever it felt right. He didn't want to rush things, because then she might think he was coming on too strong. And that's not what he wanted. And besides, that girl from the bagel shop was smiling at him. She probably smiled at everyone, though. She was a smiley kind of girl, and then she'd looked disappointed somehow when he'd picked the multigrain bagel. He'd asked for cream cheese to try to make up for it--he wasn't sure if it would--and it hadn't looked like it had done any good. Why was he still thinking about this?
And where was he going? Bradley still felt lost in the morning, with the sunlight slanting across the world so low it looked like it would trip over something. He knew where to go in the evening and at night, but morning was a foreign country.
Bradley wandered. It wasn’t a new feeling—it was kind of a default activity, something to do after losing a job or a girlfriend or a sense of purpose. In fact, a lost sense of purpose was probably the one he was most familiar with. He made his way toward his usual wandering spots, but none of them appealed. The D’Arte Board Gallery, always a good place to kill an hour (or at least maim a few minutes), was surprisingly unappealing--and closed--and Fifth City Park was too far.
That was when Bradley realized he hadn’t, in fact, lost a sense of purpose. Inexplicably, he was walking somewhere with a hint of determination. More than a hint. He had the full-on flavor of determination in his mouth, the scent of usefulness leading him onward.
Fifteen minutes and a few turns later, and Bradley was in front of the apartment building that held his sister, her husband, and their two children. On second thought, probably not the husband, since he had a job with early hours, but Clara was almost certainly there. And, from the faint sound of screaming coming through the ground floor windows, at least the smaller of the children definitely was there.
And not sounding good. Bradley walked faster, jogged up the five steps to the front door, and buzzed. It was a few seconds before his sister’s voice crackled through the speaker—along with a heavy dose of crying baby.
“Yes?”
“It’s Bradley.”
“Thank goodness! Get in here.”
There was an angry buzz at the door, and Bradley bumped it open with his hip. By the time he was in the hall, the door to Clara’s apartment was already opening, letting out the crying and a hefty dose of three-year-old shouting as well.
Clara was dressed for the day, but her brown hair had been abandoned somewhere between shower and brush. JoBeth, the ten-month-old, was clinging to her shoulder, and the t-shirt that must have been clean when she started wearing it was now smeared with baby-snot and some variety of pureed food. Bradley’s sister looked frazzled.
“Poopy diaper or crying baby?” she asked.
“Do I have to choose?”
“Please, Bradley?”
That purpose inside Bradley swelled up, moved his mouth, and made the decision for him. “Crying baby.”
“Really?” said his sister. “Thank you! As bad as she is right now, when I tried to put her down to change Erica, JoBeth freaked.”
“Worse than this?”
“Way worse. I don’t know what’s wrong. After I get this diaper changed, we’re calling the doctor. Please take her? Maybe a change of scenery will help her.”
“So I’m scenery now?”
“The best kind of scenery. Scenery that loves her.” Clara leaned her side toward Bradley. “Here, JB. It’s Uncle Brad. You like Uncle Brad.”
Bradley held out his hands to take his niece, and the purpose that had been building in him shot down his arms like a cat after yarn, not that Bradley had ever owned a cat. Down his arms, through his hands, and through the air to JoBeth. By the time Bradley’s hands took her weight under the arm, she had stopped crying. Before he had his niece against his shoulder, she was asleep.
Except for the whir of the stove fan in the kitchen, everything was quiet. Erica had stopped shouting and was staring up at Bradley. Clara’s mouth was open. Somewhere upstairs a dog barked.
Bradley tucked his chin and looked down at the sleeping baby.
“Guess I make for good scenery,” he said.
“Guess so,” agreed Clara. “Want to come in? Not much else is clean, but there’s enough empty couch to sit on.”
“You always do that,” said Bradley.
“Do what?”
“Say your place is messy, when it’s practically clean enough for a furniture photo-op.” He walked in, past the kitchen, and looked at the living room. “Oh.”
“I told you it was messy,” said Clara. “I didn’t finish laundry day, we still haven’t weeded out all the unnecessary toys Mom gave Erica for Christmas, and Ted has decided to start doing weight lifting.”
“So those free weights in the corner are his?”
“‘Free weights.’ Why do men call them ‘free weights?’ They cost enough, and they certainly don’t free up any space in the apartment.”
“Come on,” said Bradley, sitting on the one corner of the couch that wasn’t covered in unfolded—yet fresh scented—clothing. “You know you’ll like how he looks after a month or two with those.”
“I like how my husband looks just fine right now,” said Clara, grabbing an unusually silent Erica and laying her down on a diaper changing pad. “Besides, the last thing I need right now is the temptation to get another one of these. I don’t know how people handle three children at once. Sure, it’s a fair fight for the moment, but as soon as they outnumber us, I think the battle will be over.”
“Didn’t you want more kids?”
“Absolutely. Just not yet. Quit moving your legs, squirt—don’t touch! Yucky. This is a two wiper, at least. It’s dried on.”
“Ah, family,” said Bradley. “It’s all about sharing.” JoBeth was warm against his chest, and he could feel something…off inside her. Wrong. If she were a rose, her thorns would be too large—but they were shrinking. The wrong inside her was fading, and she felt peaceful against his shoulder. “Looks like this one is doing better.”
“I don’t know what you did,” said Clara, strapping on the new diaper and sealing up the old one with a grimace. “Whatever it was, thank you.”
“Not sure I did anything. She’s just a good kid.”
“She is,” agreed his sister, picking up her older child and setting her on her feet. “Go find Boobles, squirt.”
“Oh!” said Erica, her eyes bright. “I put Boobles in the big little blanket.” Then she was gone, her diaper waggling behind her.
“That’s a good kid, too,” said Bradley.
“She is. Easier to think that when they’re not shouting at me, though, I’ll admit that. Seriously, thanks for coming Brad. I don’t know how you knew, but thank you.”
Bradley shrugged but then froze when JoBeth stirred on his shoulder. “It just seemed,” he said in a quieter voice, “just seemed like I needed to be here.”
Clara smiled at him. “Mom never understood that about you. She keeps wanting you to be Dad, but Dad never listens to his heart the way you do.”
“He does, too.”
“When?”
“That time with the thing, when we were at that place.”
Clara laughed. “Exactly.”
“Of course, Dad has had a lot more steady jobs than I’ve ever had.”
Clara raised her eyebrows and nodded in agreement. “If by ‘a lot more’ you mean ‘one job that he'll have until he dies,’ then yes, he did. Can't keep a man away from his archives. And now I’m off to seal this thing in five layers of plastic before I send it to a landfill to store its stink for future generations.”
“That is a powerful one,” Bradley agreed.
Clara walked into the kitchen. “You see the phone?” she called back. “I think it’s on the couch somewhere. I’d rather not use any cell minutes wading my way through the doctor’s automated menu just so they can send me to urgent care.”
Bradley glanced down at JoBeth again. The wrong was almost entirely faded. “Not sure you need to,” he called back. “I think she’s doing better.”
“Here it is,” said Clara, showing up at the door to the living room, phone in hand. “You think so? I should probably check in just to be sure. How’s her forehead?”
Bradley felt it with the inside of his wrist. “Warm.”
“How warm?”
“Normal warm. Babies are a little hotter than grownups, right?”
His sister walked over and felt with her own wrist. “No fever.”
“Nice,” said Bradley. Then he noticed Clara was staring at him. “What’s up?” he asked.
“I think that’s my question. You look different.”
“It’s because I lost my job.”
“That’s not it, though I find that slightly amusing. What happened?”
“I fed peanuts to a lady with a peanut allergy.”
“Really?”
“Not exactly, but that’s how it ended up. Anaphylactic shock isn’t pretty.”
“She okay?”
“No idea. Off to the hospital she went, but she didn’t look good.”
“Eek.” Clara sat down on the floor and started folding clothes. “But that’s not it. That’s not why you look different.”
“I had a bagel this morning. Never underestimate the power of a good bagel.”
“Oh, believe me, I don’t, but that’s still not it either.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Maybe I’m in love.”
“Are you?”
“No. Well, maybe. No.” Olivia, he thought. Bagel girl, he thought back.
Clara wrinkled her nose. “Darn it. It would be good for you.”
Erica ran back into the room holding a stuffed dog tightly by the neck. “Boobles wants food,” she said, leaning in earnestly to announce this two inches from her mother’s face.
“What kind of food does Boobles want?” asked Clara with weighted tones.
“Chocolate.”
“Not chocolate.”
“Cereal.”
“What kind of cereal?”
“Ummm…red.”
“Red cereal?”
“Red cereal.”
“Did you mean oatmeal with raspberries?”
Erica nodded solemnly.
“We’re out of raspberries,” said Clara. “What about blue cereal? With blueberries?”
The three-year-old’s eyes got wide and she nodded even wider.
Clara pushed up to her feet, leaving a small pile of folded laundry and an even larger pile of the unfolded variety. “I’ll make that right away. You want any?” she asked, looking at Bradley.
“I had a bagel.”
“Of course,” said his sister. “This is me, not underestimating its power. Heck, you probably won’t even be hungry by tomorrow, which is good, because Ted doesn’t like to share my lasagna.”
“Were you going to invite me?” asked Bradley.
“Momma’s making zanya!” said Erica, excited.
“We were,” said Clara.
“Keep in mind,” said Bradley, “even bagels have their limits. What time?”
“Ted thinks he’ll be back by six, so any time after five-thirty would be perfect. Earlier and you can help cook, later and I yell at you for not setting the table.”
“Got it. Five-thirty.”
Clara disappeared into the kitchen again, leaving Erica staring intently at her uncle.
“What’s up, Eri-berry?”
“You look funny.”
“Is that what Boobles thinks?”
Erica and Boobles nodded together.
“Maybe you’ve just never seen me in the morning before.”
She looked puzzled. “What?” she asked, her voice rising to a squeak.
“Morning light is different than evening light.”
“What?”
Bradley tried a different approach. “Do you like Boobles?”
That got a nod.
“Does he eat his own vomit?”
“Bradley!” Clara’s voice prodded at him from the kitchen.
“What’s a vomit?” asked his niece.
“Ask your mother.”
A blueberry flew out of the kitchen and smacked Bradley on the cheek. He picked it up off the dish towel where it landed and popped it into his mouth. “It’s a kind of dog food. Very nutritious.”
“Come to the table!” called Clara. Boobles and Erica scampered away, and Bradley settled back into the couch, resting. Not that he was tired. He wasn’t, even waking up when he did. He just felt…content. This was a good home.
“Someday,” he sighed to himself and looked out the windows. Sunlight painted a pile of sheets with squares of light so bright they hurt to look at. JoBeth, dense and warm on his shoulder, made him think of sleep. The wrong inside her was entirely gone, leaving a rich red of rose petals. Clara and Erica talked in the kitchen, and for a moment Bradley could feel the world spinning beneath him.
It was perfect.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Accidental God 2.0 -- Section 15
[Work makes me tired. But I think the new job is a good thing. I'm sure it's a good thing, but it's making me fit writing in around the edges, and it's making me tired. Maybe I'm tired right now. That could be why I'm talking about tired. Anyway, small section today, more as I can get it out to you. Or out of me. Or both.]
"This is Proust, and you better have a fabulous reason for waking me up, or I'm crawling through this phone, down your throat, and pulling your pancreas out to throw at the paper boy."
"Good morning to you, too, Proust," said Tuck.
"You got him?" asked Paul. "Put him on speaker phone."
Tuck nodded. "Hey, Proust? I'm putting you on speaker."
"And I'm putting you on 'hang up' unless you tell me who this is in five seconds."
Tuck pushed the 'Speaker' button and set down the headset. "It's Tuck, in Northern Lights."
"And Paul," chimed in his partner.
There was silence on the other end, then a grunt. "Okay, so I'm not going to kill you. But only for old-time's sake, and after this you owe me."
"Actually," said Tuck, "if you can answer my questions, I'll owe you double. Why were you asleep, anyway? I thought you were always up at five?"
"Not today. Hamurabi had me out until the ungodly hour of one investigating an illegal creature breeding operation."
"Entropic or preservative creatures?"
"Preservative. Cute ones, too, so they're making good money. They're also messing around with local ecology. Too much divine energy in one place, and it's all out of balance."
"You get the guys?"
"Not yet, but that's not why you called me. Thanks for asking, though."
"No problem."
Silence.
"So why did you call me?"
"Forgotten Zed is dead."
Paul snorted. "It kills me how that rhymes. 'Zed is dead.' There's a limerick in there somewhere."
"Shut up, Paul," said Tuck and Proust together. Paul zipped his lips.
"How'd it happen?" asked Proust.
"Professional job. One shot, long range. They guy was a genius, or a psychopath."
"Not mutually exclusive," said Paul, then zipped his mouth again as Tuck glared.
"I assume you're calling because there's more to the story than this."
"There is. The guy is dead."
"You know who killed him?"
"We think so. She's dead, too. Or he. We don't know the order."
Proust sighed through the phone. "This is sounding familiar. Let me tell you the rest: after the second body, the trail goes dead, and you've got nothing. Am I right?"
Tuck and Paul looked at each other. "Not quite," said Tuck. "We've got another body."
"Hello!" said Proust, energy in his voice for the first time. "That's new. The body count usually stops at two. Well, three, including the unfortunate god. A third body...is interesting."
"But," said Tuck, "other than that, this matches a pattern you've seen before, right?"
"Definitely. It's like the killings at the Olympics, and the K Street shooting before that, and the Prohibition Killings, and the Suffragette Bombing, and three others that I can think of stretching back two- or three-hundred years. Killer does the job, is bumped off, and the bumper turns up a day or two later. Dead, of course. But I hadn't heard about Zed going down. This is recent?"
"Last night," said Paul. "So are we seeing the same process on fast forward?"
"Seems like it," said Proust. "Sounds like you're getting a few bonuses, too."
Tuck spoke up again, leaning in toward the phone. "Proust, did you ever get anywhere on the Olympic Killings?"
"Suspects, sure. Possibilities, but Tuck, they were all the longest of long shots. I couldn't find any connection between those people and any of the other assassinations we have records for."
"Could you send me what you've got anyway?"
"Sure, sure, of course. Let me get into the office, and I'll email you everything. I've got the stuff from K Street and Prohibition, too, if you want it."
"Anything you've got would be great. We're flying blind, here, but you may have just given us radar."
There was silence. "That's a lousy metaphor," said Proust finally.
"I'd say it's average," said Paul. "Not exactly original, but not the worst he's ever come up with."
"We should be careful teasing Tuck, though," said Proust. "After all, he is a demon."
"But I carry more guns," said Paul. "And bigger ones."
"You a gun buff, Paul? I didn't know that."
"If it goes bang, it's my friend."
"But you're an angel."
"What's your point?"
"Nothing, I guess. You need anything else from me, or do I go shower in coffee and get you your files?"
Tuck opened his mouth, closed it again, then finally spoke. "Can I answer without the two of you mocking me?"
"Maybe," said Proust.
"Definitely not," said Paul.
"Fine. Whatever. Please send it as soon as possible and now I'm hanging up. Later, Proust."
"Love to the missus, Tuck."
Tuck cut the connection and Paul stared at him.
"What is it?"
"You're married?"
"No."
"Then what's with the 'love to the missus?'"
"Old joke. Before your time."
"That again? You're only what, sixty years older than I am?"
"Sure, but I'm a demon. That means my years are like dog years. They count for more."
Paul snorted. "Right. Demons are such fleeting things. Your life is but a moment--a THOUSAND YEAR LONG moment."
"Will you come to my funeral, Paul?"
"Can it, Tuck. I'm going to see if Alice conned Draper into bringing in doughnuts."
His partner left, and Tuck smiled. Driving Paul away was a small moment and a small victory, but he enjoyed it anyway.
Damastes waited as the phone rang. A perky and obscenely young voice answered and identified herself as the university travel office.
“This is Professor Troy.”
“Of course, Dr. Troy. What can I help you with?”
“I won’t be able to make my flight today.”
“Are you ill?”
“No.”
“Did something happen?”
“Not particularly.”
“It’s just...I mean, I can look up your travel information--I mean that I have your travel information, and I can call the airline, but I’ll need to list why you were unable to--I’m sorry, but isn’t your flight in just an hour or two?”
“Correct,” said Damastes, wondering if he had ever had patience for humans this young. He couldn’t remember a time.
“If you had called earlier we might have been able to arrange something. I’m sure the airlines aren’t going to--”
“Young lady,” interrupted the angel, “I called you the first moment your office opened, and now I have something for you to do: cancel my flight. I will make my own arrangements for returning home. That is all.”
He hung up over whatever pathetic attempt at intelligence her small brain could muster, and he took a deep breath. She didn’t deserve his anger. He would save that for the worm of a police sergeant if he didn’t turn up some useful information soon. He would save it for whoever had interfered with his planning. He would save it for the people who were keeping him from making the world better.
Then he would destroy them.
"This is Proust, and you better have a fabulous reason for waking me up, or I'm crawling through this phone, down your throat, and pulling your pancreas out to throw at the paper boy."
"Good morning to you, too, Proust," said Tuck.
"You got him?" asked Paul. "Put him on speaker phone."
Tuck nodded. "Hey, Proust? I'm putting you on speaker."
"And I'm putting you on 'hang up' unless you tell me who this is in five seconds."
Tuck pushed the 'Speaker' button and set down the headset. "It's Tuck, in Northern Lights."
"And Paul," chimed in his partner.
There was silence on the other end, then a grunt. "Okay, so I'm not going to kill you. But only for old-time's sake, and after this you owe me."
"Actually," said Tuck, "if you can answer my questions, I'll owe you double. Why were you asleep, anyway? I thought you were always up at five?"
"Not today. Hamurabi had me out until the ungodly hour of one investigating an illegal creature breeding operation."
"Entropic or preservative creatures?"
"Preservative. Cute ones, too, so they're making good money. They're also messing around with local ecology. Too much divine energy in one place, and it's all out of balance."
"You get the guys?"
"Not yet, but that's not why you called me. Thanks for asking, though."
"No problem."
Silence.
"So why did you call me?"
"Forgotten Zed is dead."
Paul snorted. "It kills me how that rhymes. 'Zed is dead.' There's a limerick in there somewhere."
"Shut up, Paul," said Tuck and Proust together. Paul zipped his lips.
"How'd it happen?" asked Proust.
"Professional job. One shot, long range. They guy was a genius, or a psychopath."
"Not mutually exclusive," said Paul, then zipped his mouth again as Tuck glared.
"I assume you're calling because there's more to the story than this."
"There is. The guy is dead."
"You know who killed him?"
"We think so. She's dead, too. Or he. We don't know the order."
Proust sighed through the phone. "This is sounding familiar. Let me tell you the rest: after the second body, the trail goes dead, and you've got nothing. Am I right?"
Tuck and Paul looked at each other. "Not quite," said Tuck. "We've got another body."
"Hello!" said Proust, energy in his voice for the first time. "That's new. The body count usually stops at two. Well, three, including the unfortunate god. A third body...is interesting."
"But," said Tuck, "other than that, this matches a pattern you've seen before, right?"
"Definitely. It's like the killings at the Olympics, and the K Street shooting before that, and the Prohibition Killings, and the Suffragette Bombing, and three others that I can think of stretching back two- or three-hundred years. Killer does the job, is bumped off, and the bumper turns up a day or two later. Dead, of course. But I hadn't heard about Zed going down. This is recent?"
"Last night," said Paul. "So are we seeing the same process on fast forward?"
"Seems like it," said Proust. "Sounds like you're getting a few bonuses, too."
Tuck spoke up again, leaning in toward the phone. "Proust, did you ever get anywhere on the Olympic Killings?"
"Suspects, sure. Possibilities, but Tuck, they were all the longest of long shots. I couldn't find any connection between those people and any of the other assassinations we have records for."
"Could you send me what you've got anyway?"
"Sure, sure, of course. Let me get into the office, and I'll email you everything. I've got the stuff from K Street and Prohibition, too, if you want it."
"Anything you've got would be great. We're flying blind, here, but you may have just given us radar."
There was silence. "That's a lousy metaphor," said Proust finally.
"I'd say it's average," said Paul. "Not exactly original, but not the worst he's ever come up with."
"We should be careful teasing Tuck, though," said Proust. "After all, he is a demon."
"But I carry more guns," said Paul. "And bigger ones."
"You a gun buff, Paul? I didn't know that."
"If it goes bang, it's my friend."
"But you're an angel."
"What's your point?"
"Nothing, I guess. You need anything else from me, or do I go shower in coffee and get you your files?"
Tuck opened his mouth, closed it again, then finally spoke. "Can I answer without the two of you mocking me?"
"Maybe," said Proust.
"Definitely not," said Paul.
"Fine. Whatever. Please send it as soon as possible and now I'm hanging up. Later, Proust."
"Love to the missus, Tuck."
Tuck cut the connection and Paul stared at him.
"What is it?"
"You're married?"
"No."
"Then what's with the 'love to the missus?'"
"Old joke. Before your time."
"That again? You're only what, sixty years older than I am?"
"Sure, but I'm a demon. That means my years are like dog years. They count for more."
Paul snorted. "Right. Demons are such fleeting things. Your life is but a moment--a THOUSAND YEAR LONG moment."
"Will you come to my funeral, Paul?"
"Can it, Tuck. I'm going to see if Alice conned Draper into bringing in doughnuts."
His partner left, and Tuck smiled. Driving Paul away was a small moment and a small victory, but he enjoyed it anyway.
Damastes waited as the phone rang. A perky and obscenely young voice answered and identified herself as the university travel office.
“This is Professor Troy.”
“Of course, Dr. Troy. What can I help you with?”
“I won’t be able to make my flight today.”
“Are you ill?”
“No.”
“Did something happen?”
“Not particularly.”
“It’s just...I mean, I can look up your travel information--I mean that I have your travel information, and I can call the airline, but I’ll need to list why you were unable to--I’m sorry, but isn’t your flight in just an hour or two?”
“Correct,” said Damastes, wondering if he had ever had patience for humans this young. He couldn’t remember a time.
“If you had called earlier we might have been able to arrange something. I’m sure the airlines aren’t going to--”
“Young lady,” interrupted the angel, “I called you the first moment your office opened, and now I have something for you to do: cancel my flight. I will make my own arrangements for returning home. That is all.”
He hung up over whatever pathetic attempt at intelligence her small brain could muster, and he took a deep breath. She didn’t deserve his anger. He would save that for the worm of a police sergeant if he didn’t turn up some useful information soon. He would save it for whoever had interfered with his planning. He would save it for the people who were keeping him from making the world better.
Then he would destroy them.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Accidental God 2.0 -- Section 14
[On the good news front, I just accepted a job at a disability law firm across the valley. It means a small commute every day, but it also means health benefits. Go, disabilities! ...is something that Atty would cheer. But not me. I would never give a cheer like that.]
Stacy Longmore took great pride in the fact that she had never had a multigrain bagel. She knew, as far as lifetime accomplishments went, this was a very small one, but she didn’t let that bother her. Even the little things add up to something big, she figured.
“Never?” asked Beau. He looked down at her, black and massive and slightly ridiculous in the undersized apron he had somehow tied around his waist.
“Tell me again how you forgot your apron,” said Stacy, grinning. “I like this story.”
“There is no story,” said Beau, “I just forgot it, and stop changing the subject. You’ve never tried one of our multigrain bagels?”
“So your apron is at home.”
“Cut that out.”
“And you’re wearing Tamara’s.”
“I said stop it. This is serious.”
“And Tamara is about the size of your left bicep.”
“I mean it, Stacy. You need to eat a multigrain bagel.”
“Why?”
“It’s...it’s because…” Beau blinked furiously. “It’s tradition. Bagels are a pinnacle of health-food consciousness. Kinda. I bet you the very first bagel was multigrain. See that? So if you don’t eat one, it’s like you’re spitting on the tradition of bagels.”
“Not true,” said Stacy.
“How do you know?”
“I looked it up. Bagels were invented in the late 1500’s in Poland. Are you saying the Poles of sixteenth-century Europe were four-hundred years ahead of the health food craze?”
“Huh,” said Beau. “I thought Jews invented them. In New York.”
“They are traditionally Jewish,” said Stacy, pulling another tray of bagels out of the oven and sliding them off into a basket, ready to go out front. “Jews lived in Poland.”
“Jews have lived everywhere,” said Beau, turning to wash his hands. “Even Africa. I have Jewish ancestors.”
“You’re Jewish?”
“Something like one-twenty-fifth. Not much of me.”
“That’s impossible,” said Stacy, picking up the basket and walking out of the kitchen. It was five minutes to open, and one of the regulars was already outside, stamping his feet. She always thought of him as Ernest Borgnine, even though his name was Gustavo and he didn’t look anything like the actor. Stacy just liked the name ‘Ernest Borgnine,’ and she figured everyone ought to have one of those in her life. Gustavo happened to be her Ernest Borgnine, that was all.
Beau followed her out front. “Why do you say it’s impossible? You don’t think a black guy can be Jewish? I’ll find my family history and show it to you.”
Stacy dropped the basket into its slot. “‘Sun-dried tomato,’” she read out loud. “What’s so special about drying something in the sun? Might as well call them ‘tomatoes someone accidentally left out, but we’re using them anyway.’ I believe a black guy can be Jewish, Beau. I just don’t believe that you’re one-twenty-fifth Jewish. It has to come in doubles.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know: one-half, one-fourth, one-eighth, one-sixteenth. Like that. Doubles.”
“So maybe I’m one-thirty-second Jewish.”
“I’ll take that,” said Stacy, smiling and typing her code into the register. “But for a Jew, you know bupkis about bagels.”
“Don’t pull out your Yiddish on me, you putz. I know bagels have been to space. Some Canadian guy took a bunch of sesame seed bagels up to the International Space Station.”
“Was he Jewish?”
“Pretty sure he was.”
“Then you’re right,” said Stacy. “Those Jews really are everywhere. You going to open up the door and let Mr. Borgnine in? He looks cold.”
“I still don’t get why you call him that,” said Beau, making his way around the counter.
Stacy just smiled. Gustavo didn’t mind being her Ernest. He was old and had a wrinkly smile and he seemed to understand: everyone needs an Ernest Borgnine in her life.
She had sold a half-dozen of the multigrain--not to mention several coffees, a mixed bucket, seven cinnamon-raisin, and a poor, sad, sun-dried tomato--before the skinny guy walked in.
"Check him out, Stacy," said Beau, leaning in behind her. "He's just your type."
"Go be Jewish somewhere else, Beau. I am not going to meet my new boyfriend at work."
"Why not?"
"I could never be with someone who would eat a multigrain bagel. Now go away. Good morning. What can I get you?"
The skinny guy shrugged in his jacket, looking cold. His knit cap was pulled down over his ears, but it didn't look like it was doing its job very well.
"What's good?" he asked, his voice shaking slightly.
"The multigrain," called Beau as he stepped back into the kitchen.
"Ignore him," said Stacy. "Chilly, isn't it."
"Sorry?"
"The weather. It's cold out."
"Yeah, no kidding. I thought my jacket would be enough. Guess I'm just not used to the mornings. I usually work nights."
"Isn't it cold at night?" asked Stacy.
The skinny guy blinked and smiled. "It is. Can you believe that? I somehow assumed it would be warmer in the morning than it is at night. I've always thought that. It's not true at all, is it?"
Stacy smiled back. "Don't think so. So coffee to warm you up?"
The skinny guy shuddered, and it took Stacy a second to realize it wasn't from the cold. "The only kind of coffee I've ever liked was the kind that doesn't actually have any coffee in it. Aren't there coffees like that?"
"We have hot chocolate."
"I'll take that. And a bagel."
"Any particular kind?"
The skinny guy glanced over the baskets holding five more kinds of bagels than should exist in the world, at least by Stacy's count. "I have no idea," he said. "I'm terrible at decisions like this."
"Like what food you should eat?"
"Kinda. Yeah. That makes me sound completely pathetic, doesn't it?"
Stacy laughed. "Just slightly. But that's okay. I'm sure there are other things you're good at."
The guy shrugged. "Maybe." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, folded into quarters. "I drew this on the way over. The thing followed me. You ever seen anything like it? I don't think it's a bird."
Stacy leaned over to see it. The sketch was quick, rough, but the lines were clear and he'd put in enough detail at the right places that the creature looked alive to her. Real.
"I have no idea what it is," she said, and she didn't. "Does it have six legs? Is it one of those chaotic creatures?"
"Not chaotic," said a baritone voice. "Entropic. Good morning, Stacy."
"Luther! I didn't notice you come in. How are you?"
"Unemployed," said the angel. "I have come to you for consolation. Your bagels are the only thing standing between me and despair."
Stacy cocked her head, not sure whether he was joking or not. Luther was smiling, but there was an edge under it, rough like cracked concrete. The angel had already turned back to the picture.
"Where did you see that creature, young man? They don't usually come out in the daylight. Well," he glanced outside, "in the almost daylight. We're definitely into the Fall, aren't we? So he followed you here?"
The skinny guy looked down at the angel--skinny was pretty tall, wasn't he? Stacy did like tall men--and nodded. "I kept seeing it skitter along the walls, so I drew it. It's entropic? Like demons are?"
Luther nodded. "Exactly. Well, not entirely exactly, but close enough. It's called a 'brogut,' and it's one of the creatures in the world that devours divine energy, breaking it down from perfect preservation into chaos and change. Part of the balance." Luther smiled. "But I'm getting pedantic. You're right. The same way that angels and owls and portellains are naturally sensitive to the energy of preservation, demons and broguts and chickens are sensitive to entropy and destruction."
"Chickens are?" asked Stacy.
"Absolutely," said Luther.
"That's weird."
"I've never liked eggs," said the angel.
"Huh," said skinny. "So they don't come out much?"
"Not much at all. I wonder what brought him out of his nest?"
"Could be the god that was killed," called Beau from the back.
"Eavesdropping is rude," yelled Stacy.
"And hereditary," yelled the big man. "Blame my mother."
"I've met your mother. I'm not blaming her for anything."
"That makes you a smart girl," called Beau. "I'm going out for a smoke."
"Already? That stuff will kill you."
"Yes, it will, but I'm not giving it up until Lent."
"I thought you were Jewish."
"Then I'll give it up for Rosh Hashanah."
"Isn't that over already?"
"That's okay. I'm not in a rush." The back door banged open and closed again, and Stacy sighed. Then she looked at Luther. The angel looked pale. "Didn't you know about the god?" she asked.
"Which one was it?"
"Forgotten...something...I think."
"Zed?"
"Yeah. Him. Oh dear. Did you work for him? You said you lost your job--no, you didn't know, so it wasn't him, was it? I mean, the god you worked for."
Luther shook his head. "No, I didn't work for Zed. I'm...just surprised. Shocked. You don't expect that someone like Forgotten Zed would ever die."
"Who killed him?" asked skinny.
"News said they didn't know. It was murder, though. Bullet through the window."
"Crazy. I thought only gods could kill other gods. Had to be wars, like Ragnarok and World War II."
Luther nodded. "Usually. That's usually the case. I think I may have to skip my bagel this morning, Stacy. I'm not sure I'm hungry anymore."
"No problem, Luther. Take care." The angel left and Stacy watched him go. "You know," she said, "I couldn't tell if he was joking or not."
"About what?" asked skinny.
"About losing his job."
"Nope," said skinny. "He wasn't joking."
"How can you tell?"
Skinny pulled his hat off and scratched at his head. "You can tell. I'll take a multigrain."
Stacy Longmore took great pride in the fact that she had never had a multigrain bagel. She knew, as far as lifetime accomplishments went, this was a very small one, but she didn’t let that bother her. Even the little things add up to something big, she figured.
“Never?” asked Beau. He looked down at her, black and massive and slightly ridiculous in the undersized apron he had somehow tied around his waist.
“Tell me again how you forgot your apron,” said Stacy, grinning. “I like this story.”
“There is no story,” said Beau, “I just forgot it, and stop changing the subject. You’ve never tried one of our multigrain bagels?”
“So your apron is at home.”
“Cut that out.”
“And you’re wearing Tamara’s.”
“I said stop it. This is serious.”
“And Tamara is about the size of your left bicep.”
“I mean it, Stacy. You need to eat a multigrain bagel.”
“Why?”
“It’s...it’s because…” Beau blinked furiously. “It’s tradition. Bagels are a pinnacle of health-food consciousness. Kinda. I bet you the very first bagel was multigrain. See that? So if you don’t eat one, it’s like you’re spitting on the tradition of bagels.”
“Not true,” said Stacy.
“How do you know?”
“I looked it up. Bagels were invented in the late 1500’s in Poland. Are you saying the Poles of sixteenth-century Europe were four-hundred years ahead of the health food craze?”
“Huh,” said Beau. “I thought Jews invented them. In New York.”
“They are traditionally Jewish,” said Stacy, pulling another tray of bagels out of the oven and sliding them off into a basket, ready to go out front. “Jews lived in Poland.”
“Jews have lived everywhere,” said Beau, turning to wash his hands. “Even Africa. I have Jewish ancestors.”
“You’re Jewish?”
“Something like one-twenty-fifth. Not much of me.”
“That’s impossible,” said Stacy, picking up the basket and walking out of the kitchen. It was five minutes to open, and one of the regulars was already outside, stamping his feet. She always thought of him as Ernest Borgnine, even though his name was Gustavo and he didn’t look anything like the actor. Stacy just liked the name ‘Ernest Borgnine,’ and she figured everyone ought to have one of those in her life. Gustavo happened to be her Ernest Borgnine, that was all.
Beau followed her out front. “Why do you say it’s impossible? You don’t think a black guy can be Jewish? I’ll find my family history and show it to you.”
Stacy dropped the basket into its slot. “‘Sun-dried tomato,’” she read out loud. “What’s so special about drying something in the sun? Might as well call them ‘tomatoes someone accidentally left out, but we’re using them anyway.’ I believe a black guy can be Jewish, Beau. I just don’t believe that you’re one-twenty-fifth Jewish. It has to come in doubles.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know: one-half, one-fourth, one-eighth, one-sixteenth. Like that. Doubles.”
“So maybe I’m one-thirty-second Jewish.”
“I’ll take that,” said Stacy, smiling and typing her code into the register. “But for a Jew, you know bupkis about bagels.”
“Don’t pull out your Yiddish on me, you putz. I know bagels have been to space. Some Canadian guy took a bunch of sesame seed bagels up to the International Space Station.”
“Was he Jewish?”
“Pretty sure he was.”
“Then you’re right,” said Stacy. “Those Jews really are everywhere. You going to open up the door and let Mr. Borgnine in? He looks cold.”
“I still don’t get why you call him that,” said Beau, making his way around the counter.
Stacy just smiled. Gustavo didn’t mind being her Ernest. He was old and had a wrinkly smile and he seemed to understand: everyone needs an Ernest Borgnine in her life.
She had sold a half-dozen of the multigrain--not to mention several coffees, a mixed bucket, seven cinnamon-raisin, and a poor, sad, sun-dried tomato--before the skinny guy walked in.
"Check him out, Stacy," said Beau, leaning in behind her. "He's just your type."
"Go be Jewish somewhere else, Beau. I am not going to meet my new boyfriend at work."
"Why not?"
"I could never be with someone who would eat a multigrain bagel. Now go away. Good morning. What can I get you?"
The skinny guy shrugged in his jacket, looking cold. His knit cap was pulled down over his ears, but it didn't look like it was doing its job very well.
"What's good?" he asked, his voice shaking slightly.
"The multigrain," called Beau as he stepped back into the kitchen.
"Ignore him," said Stacy. "Chilly, isn't it."
"Sorry?"
"The weather. It's cold out."
"Yeah, no kidding. I thought my jacket would be enough. Guess I'm just not used to the mornings. I usually work nights."
"Isn't it cold at night?" asked Stacy.
The skinny guy blinked and smiled. "It is. Can you believe that? I somehow assumed it would be warmer in the morning than it is at night. I've always thought that. It's not true at all, is it?"
Stacy smiled back. "Don't think so. So coffee to warm you up?"
The skinny guy shuddered, and it took Stacy a second to realize it wasn't from the cold. "The only kind of coffee I've ever liked was the kind that doesn't actually have any coffee in it. Aren't there coffees like that?"
"We have hot chocolate."
"I'll take that. And a bagel."
"Any particular kind?"
The skinny guy glanced over the baskets holding five more kinds of bagels than should exist in the world, at least by Stacy's count. "I have no idea," he said. "I'm terrible at decisions like this."
"Like what food you should eat?"
"Kinda. Yeah. That makes me sound completely pathetic, doesn't it?"
Stacy laughed. "Just slightly. But that's okay. I'm sure there are other things you're good at."
The guy shrugged. "Maybe." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, folded into quarters. "I drew this on the way over. The thing followed me. You ever seen anything like it? I don't think it's a bird."
Stacy leaned over to see it. The sketch was quick, rough, but the lines were clear and he'd put in enough detail at the right places that the creature looked alive to her. Real.
"I have no idea what it is," she said, and she didn't. "Does it have six legs? Is it one of those chaotic creatures?"
"Not chaotic," said a baritone voice. "Entropic. Good morning, Stacy."
"Luther! I didn't notice you come in. How are you?"
"Unemployed," said the angel. "I have come to you for consolation. Your bagels are the only thing standing between me and despair."
Stacy cocked her head, not sure whether he was joking or not. Luther was smiling, but there was an edge under it, rough like cracked concrete. The angel had already turned back to the picture.
"Where did you see that creature, young man? They don't usually come out in the daylight. Well," he glanced outside, "in the almost daylight. We're definitely into the Fall, aren't we? So he followed you here?"
The skinny guy looked down at the angel--skinny was pretty tall, wasn't he? Stacy did like tall men--and nodded. "I kept seeing it skitter along the walls, so I drew it. It's entropic? Like demons are?"
Luther nodded. "Exactly. Well, not entirely exactly, but close enough. It's called a 'brogut,' and it's one of the creatures in the world that devours divine energy, breaking it down from perfect preservation into chaos and change. Part of the balance." Luther smiled. "But I'm getting pedantic. You're right. The same way that angels and owls and portellains are naturally sensitive to the energy of preservation, demons and broguts and chickens are sensitive to entropy and destruction."
"Chickens are?" asked Stacy.
"Absolutely," said Luther.
"That's weird."
"I've never liked eggs," said the angel.
"Huh," said skinny. "So they don't come out much?"
"Not much at all. I wonder what brought him out of his nest?"
"Could be the god that was killed," called Beau from the back.
"Eavesdropping is rude," yelled Stacy.
"And hereditary," yelled the big man. "Blame my mother."
"I've met your mother. I'm not blaming her for anything."
"That makes you a smart girl," called Beau. "I'm going out for a smoke."
"Already? That stuff will kill you."
"Yes, it will, but I'm not giving it up until Lent."
"I thought you were Jewish."
"Then I'll give it up for Rosh Hashanah."
"Isn't that over already?"
"That's okay. I'm not in a rush." The back door banged open and closed again, and Stacy sighed. Then she looked at Luther. The angel looked pale. "Didn't you know about the god?" she asked.
"Which one was it?"
"Forgotten...something...I think."
"Zed?"
"Yeah. Him. Oh dear. Did you work for him? You said you lost your job--no, you didn't know, so it wasn't him, was it? I mean, the god you worked for."
Luther shook his head. "No, I didn't work for Zed. I'm...just surprised. Shocked. You don't expect that someone like Forgotten Zed would ever die."
"Who killed him?" asked skinny.
"News said they didn't know. It was murder, though. Bullet through the window."
"Crazy. I thought only gods could kill other gods. Had to be wars, like Ragnarok and World War II."
Luther nodded. "Usually. That's usually the case. I think I may have to skip my bagel this morning, Stacy. I'm not sure I'm hungry anymore."
"No problem, Luther. Take care." The angel left and Stacy watched him go. "You know," she said, "I couldn't tell if he was joking or not."
"About what?" asked skinny.
"About losing his job."
"Nope," said skinny. "He wasn't joking."
"How can you tell?"
Skinny pulled his hat off and scratched at his head. "You can tell. I'll take a multigrain."
A small correction
It was pointed out to me by Liz that there's a character already in play that I'd forgotten to mention. It was so clear in my head that, while Ninny and Damastes were talking, Hugh was in other room watching TV. See, Hugh is Ninny's partner. They do everything together. So imagine that at the end of Section 07, the story goes something like this:
"He heard Ninny's quiet footsteps and the sound of the door closing. She said something to Hugh, her partner, and Hugh laughed. It didn’t matter. Damastes sat without opening his eyes, just breathing. Death was not what Forgotten Zed deserved, but it would have to do."
And then, at our corrupt detective's home, it's Hugh and Ninny paying him a visit. Also, bonus points to anyone who figures out where the names 'Hugh' and 'Ninny' come from, but you probably won't. It's obscure, fits with my love of mythology, and honestly, you have no clues to work from yet. So...lots of bonus points.
"He heard Ninny's quiet footsteps and the sound of the door closing. She said something to Hugh, her partner, and Hugh laughed. It didn’t matter. Damastes sat without opening his eyes, just breathing. Death was not what Forgotten Zed deserved, but it would have to do."
And then, at our corrupt detective's home, it's Hugh and Ninny paying him a visit. Also, bonus points to anyone who figures out where the names 'Hugh' and 'Ninny' come from, but you probably won't. It's obscure, fits with my love of mythology, and honestly, you have no clues to work from yet. So...lots of bonus points.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
I hear my watch ticking.
And the ticking of my watch indicates to me that I actually have one. It was a gift from my sister via my brother-in-law. It's a Mickey Mouse watch--classic, 'Steamboat Willie' Mickey--before he became the symbol of copyright law gone awry--which may be why I like him so much. My brother-in-law had it in his drawer for a year, unopened, so my sister asked if she could re-gift it to me. I'm not offended. I'm delighted.
I also have on contacts. This means that I blink almost as often as my watch ticks. It's my first time ever wearing contacts, and I dread the moment tonight when I have to grab my eyes and pull these lenses off of them. Perhaps I'll just lie backwards over a bucket and pour another bucket of water over my face. Then I'll carefully fish around in the first bucket until I find them...and I'll hope I get them back in the correct eyes in the morning. I think it's a pretty bad plan, but it sounds better than the alternative.
In the third bit of news, I just met two new characters. Only one of them is major, but yes, I just met another major character in this book. I like her. She is a voice to my ridiculous and optimistic observations. I have plenty of other characters to speak for my general depression and malaise, but Stacy is happy. It's nice to find her inside me.
So why am I telling you and not posting? Because I'm out of time to write today, and the section she's in has barely started. She has many bagels to sell and a few familiar characters to meet before I can put her on the blog. Sorry. If it's any consolation, I'll be weeping before the night is done. Trying desperately to pull these flimsy pieces of something out of my eyes.
While my watch ticks on.
I also have on contacts. This means that I blink almost as often as my watch ticks. It's my first time ever wearing contacts, and I dread the moment tonight when I have to grab my eyes and pull these lenses off of them. Perhaps I'll just lie backwards over a bucket and pour another bucket of water over my face. Then I'll carefully fish around in the first bucket until I find them...and I'll hope I get them back in the correct eyes in the morning. I think it's a pretty bad plan, but it sounds better than the alternative.
In the third bit of news, I just met two new characters. Only one of them is major, but yes, I just met another major character in this book. I like her. She is a voice to my ridiculous and optimistic observations. I have plenty of other characters to speak for my general depression and malaise, but Stacy is happy. It's nice to find her inside me.
So why am I telling you and not posting? Because I'm out of time to write today, and the section she's in has barely started. She has many bagels to sell and a few familiar characters to meet before I can put her on the blog. Sorry. If it's any consolation, I'll be weeping before the night is done. Trying desperately to pull these flimsy pieces of something out of my eyes.
While my watch ticks on.
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