«Right. I don't know. Holding the bow shouldn't be too hard, and as for plucking the strings, I never used the missing fingers much anyway. I guess it depends on how the two I'm left with heal up.»
«Huh. Mashing your hand have to do with finding this person?»
«Yes.»
«Anybody going to come looking for you? In rough ways?»
«No. This,» he said, waving his bandaged hand, «was an accident. Nobody did it to me.»
«Okay.» For a while they trudged along in silence, then she said, «You know, it was a shock to hear your name after all this time. I was with a guy there in the Lancing, and I hear this commotion by the front door, like a bum's trying to get in, and then I hear the bum say he's you. And then I ditch this guy and walk outside and it is you, sitting in the dirt and soaking your beard with cheap whiskey! You're lucky I even still recognized you.»
«Reckon I am,» said Rivas shortly, not relishing this conversation.
«Are you in, like, disguise, or are you really this low?»
«I'm in goddamn disguise, okay?»
«You're as grouchy as ever, that's for sure.»
«I just lost twofingers, do you mind? I'm never at my most charming right after amputations.»
«Not a drop of change, Rivas. Not the price of a cup of beer.» Her tone was amiable but obviously sincere.
She lived in a narrow one-story house that fronted on the canal, with its own tiny pier and a flock of ducks hanging around in case anybody might throw bread crusts. She had obviously prospered, for on the roof he could see a maintained-looking water tank and the pole-mounted propeller of a windmill. She led him in and showed him where the bath was, and when he emerged twenty minutes later she had men's clothes right in the house that fit him well enough. She'd cooked up scrambled eggs with some canal shrimps and onions and garlic while he was in the tub, and he cheered up immensely when he smelled it.
He sat down at her kitchen table, picked up his fork, and then didn't speak for fifteen minutes. «God,» he said finally as he sat back after the last swallow, «thanks. I believe I was about to expire.»
«You're welcome. Want a drink?»
«Oh no, I'd better not, I—well—maybe it'll help me sleep.»
«Look at it as medicine,» she agreed drily. «What, beer, whiskey, tequila? No Currency.»
«To hell with Currency. Uh . . . tequila.»
«Coming up.»
She brought him a big shot with beer and salt and a quartered lemon on the side. He ignored the salt and lemon, bolted the tequila and chased it with the beer.
He looked up at her helplessly. «Somehow I'm still not sleepy.»
Her smile was becoming tired, but she refilled the glasses.
When he'd downed the third set he had to admit that, despite how dead for sleep he ought to be, the alcohol was giving him some kind of spurious energy and restlessness. «Maybe a walk,» he said, and though it was hard to speak he felt entirely sober, «would relax me a bit.»
«Okay, Greg. Can you find your way back here?»
«Sure. Okay if I borrow a couple of jiggers? Just pocket change.»
«Of course. I may be out myself when you get back, but if you yank on the fern by the front door—it's plastic, the fern, I mean—it opens the latch. Got that?»
«Yank the fern, right.»
«And I'll leave out the stuff you want—a shoulder pouch and a fifth of something, right?»
«That's it. Tequila will be fine.»
She cocked her head and gave him a troubled look. «Am I going to have to worry about you, Greg?»
Even with shock, liquor and exhaustion working on him he could see that she wasn't concerned that he might rob her or bring rowdy drunks back to her place; touched, he told her, «Nah, Lisa, I'm okay. Just going to have a drink at the old Bom Sheltr.»
«Do be careful. Here's half a pint, which will buy you more than you ought to have, probably. And I can get you more tomorrow, if you need it.»
«Thanks, Lisa. I'll pay it all back as soon as—»
»No ,» she said. «No. Pay me back and you've put a bit of tilt on the scales again. Do it my way and we'll be all square, with no reason to even speak to each other if we pass in the street.» Her smile had not faltered or become strained.
He knew he wasn't understanding this, so he didn't pretend to be hurt or angry. «Okay.» He got up, pocketed the half-pint card and walked, pretty steadily, to the door, and opened it. Somehow the sky had already gone molten in the west behind the tall palm trees, and the long shadows were purple. He turned back to her and said, «But thanks.»
She waved. «Por nada .»
The air had cooled outside, and though at noon it had smelled only of dust and baking pavement, now at twilight it was elusively scented with jasmine and gardenia and the not so distant sea. He scuffed thoughtfully down the canalside path, kicking an occasional pebble into the water, pondering the fact that he'd become a different man since leaving Venice five or six years ago. . . . No, Greg, he told himself, be honest, since leaving Ellay five days ago. Was it an improvement? It didn't feel like it.
The flavors of the breeze changed as he walked toward the sea; now there was smoke in the air, the smoke from a hundred basement Mexican and Chinese kitchens, and though he knew he was probably imagining it he thought he detected tobacco and marijuana and perfume and the quiver of distant music. He remembered having whimsically wondered today whether the ghost of young Rivas might still haunt these bars and bridges and canals. Let's go see, he thought, whether I can catch him out of the corner of my eye.
He smiled almost sadly when he rounded the last corner and saw, in the still vacant paved yard, the dozens of pieces of plexiglass set flush with the old concrete, for they reminded him of his very first days of working here, washing cups and pitchers in the yellow afternoon light that filtered down through the translucent plexiglass skylight. The upright, wedge-shaped shed which was the top of the entry stairs was a little flimsier-looking now, and the lettering on the sign over the doorway had been repainted carelessly at least once; but several more tall poles had been planted in the dirt or nailed to the sides of the shed, and the many lengths of wire and string draped from one to another were lavishly flagged with bits of cloth and colored plastic and tinfoil; and through the soles of his feet he fancied he could feel the bass beat of subterranean music. He pushed his disordered hair back from his forehead, straightened his borrowed coat and crossed the yard to the descending stairs.
The band was noisy and only just competent, but the place had so many tunnels and burrows that it wasn't difficult to find a table from which the music was just a remote crashing. Candles behind colored glass threw tinted shadows, reminding him of one of the worlds he'd seen in Jaybush's memory, the world where the orange spider-things had each cast two shadows, a red and a blue.
A waitress arrived. He'd never seen her before, and she obviously wasn't interested in who he was. He ordered a tequila with water on the side, and she strolled away to get it.
All at once it came to him what it was that he'd been reminded of by the sensation of falling this afternoon, when the Blood dealer had dumped him and the far-gone boy onto the trash pile; for an instant it had taken him back to the at rest-in-free-fall sensation of being in the long wait between planets. But that wasn't a memory of his own—that was Jaybush's. It didn't please him to find himself sharing the Messiah's recollections.
During his third tequila, just as he was getting ready to leave and walk back to the Lady bug Canal, a lean, grinning middle-aged man walked up to him hesitantly, pointing at him. Rivas couldn't remember ever having seen him before.
«Greg?» the man said. «It's Greg, right? Rivas!»
He could have denied it, but the man at REALIGNMENT AND BALANCING having doubted him and called him Chucko, and the irresponsibility induced by the tequila, made him smile and say, «Right.»