"Trumpets and drumsticks?"
At this uncture, Bosley Cowhick appeared at Giodoski's front door, wanting to be included in the ranks. He'd heard about the gathering from his sister, who was a close friend of Alstead's wife Rebecca. None of the five were at ease with Bosley's brand of glassy-eyed fervor, but with their ranks so woefully thin it was impossible to say no. And to be fair, Bosley did his best to restrain his apocalyptic talk, limiting it to a few remarks about how they were all in danger of losing the town to forces, terrible forces, and he was willing to die in its defense.
Which remark brought them back to the business of the guns. It was not a difficult problem to solve. Gips's brotherin-law up on Coleman Street had been fixated on what he called "killing sticks" since he'd first got his tongue around the words, and when the six-man posse turned up on his doorstep a little before ten, practically requisitioning the damn things, he was pathetically happy to oblige. Giodoski felt it only polite to invite the brother-in-law along on the venture. The man declined. He was sick, he said, and would only slow things down. But if they needed more guns, they knew where to come.
Then it was off to Han-tfick's Bar (this at Bill Waits's suggestion) to toast the venture with a scotch. Reidlinger was against it. Couldn't they just get on with doing whatever they were going to do (there was still debate as to what that might be), then they could all go home and steep? He was outvoted. The posse headed down to Hanifick's, and even Bosley was talked into a shot of brandy.
"People just don't care," Bosley remarked, staring around the bar. It was about as full as the fire department would allow, and everyone seemed to be having a good time.
"Thing is, Bosley," Bill Waits said, "nobody's quite sure what they saw. I bet if you asked people what happened this afternoon, they'd all say something different."
"That's the way the Devil works, Mr. Waits," Bosley replied, without a trace of self-importance. "He wants us to argue among ourselves. And while we're arguing, he gets on with his work."
"And what work would that be?" Bill said. "Exactly?" "@ve it alone, Bill," Chas said. "Let's just get out there and-
"No," Bosley said, his words a little slurred. "It's a legitimate question."
"And what's the answer, Bosley?"
"It's the same work the Devil's been doing since the beginning of time." While Bosley talked, Alstead put a econd brandy into the man's hand, and Bosley, barely aware he was doing so, drank it in one, then went on, "He ants to take us from God."
"I left a long time ago," Waits said. He wasn't joking.
"I'm sure God misses you," Bosley replied, with equal sincerity.
The two men stared at each other for a long moment, saying nothing.
"Hey, Bosley, give it a rest," Alstead said. "You're creepin' me out. And have another brandy." iv The bullet in Buddenbaum's brain had done nothing to subdue his fury.
"they are the most ungrateful, hypocritical, petty, paltry, witless, chicken-brained sons of bitches it's ever been my misfortune to work for," he raged, his hand clamped to his hdaling head." Oh, lay on another show for us, Owen. A nice assassination. A little crime passionelle. Something with children. Something with Christians." He turned to Seth, who had been standing at the window overlooking the crossroads listening to this tirade for the better part of thirty minutes. "And did I ever say no?" He paused, waiting for an answer.
"Probably not," Seth said.
"Damn right! Nothing was too much trouble for them. they wanted to see a president die? No problem. they fancied a massacre or two? It could be arranged. There was nothing they asked for I didn't supply.
Nothing!"
He strode to the window now, casually fingering the wound. "But the moment I fumble-just a little, tiny mistake-then they're sniffing after that cunt Bombeck, and it's, 'See you later, Owen. We'll take her off and talk about the fucking story tree."'
He stared at Seth, who stared back.
"You've got a question on your face," Buddenbaum said.
"And you've got blood on yours," Seth said.
"Has something changed between us'?"
"Yes," Seth said simply. "The fact is, every hour, every minute, I think something different about you." is
"So how would you have it between us?"
Seth pondered a moment. "I wish we could start again," he said. "I wish you were just coming up to me under the stars and I was telling you about the angels." Another pause. "I wish I still had the angels."
"I took them away from you; is that what you're saying?"
"I let you do it," Seth replied.
"The question-"
"Hub?" "You had a question on your face."
"Yeah... I was just wondering about the story tree, that's all."
"There is no tree, if that's what you're asking," Buddenbaum said. Seth looked disappointed. "It's just a phrase some lousy poet came up with."
"What does it mean?"
Owen's voice had lost its venom now. He leaned back against the wall beside the window from which he'd fallen two days before. "What does it mean?" he said. "Well... it means that stories are seeds. Stories are blossoms. Stories are fruit, picked and pressed and eaten. Then we shit out the seeds-!"
"Back into the ground?"
"Back into the ground."
"On and on."
Buddenbaum sighed. "On and on," he said. "With or without us."
"You don't mean us," Seth said softly. There was no accusation in this, just a melancholy statement of fact. Buddenbaum started to speak, but Seth cut him off short. "I was down there, Owen," he said, nodding at the street. "You were going to go without me, wherever it was."
"I got distracted," Owen said, "that's all. I've waited so long for this; I couldn't afford to let it slip."
"It slipped anyway," Seth reminded him. "It won't happen again," Owen replied tersely. "By God it won't."
::How will you prevent it?"
I need your help, Seth," Buddenbaum said. "And I promise-"
"Don't promise me anything," Seth said. "It's better that way." Buddenbaum sighed. "It's taken us so little time to grow apart," he said to Seth. "It's as though we've had half a lifetime together in forty-eight hours."
Seth gazed out of the window. "What do you want me to do?" he said.
"Find Tesla Bombeck, and make peace with her. Tell her I need to see her. Say whatever you have to say to bring her here. No, not here.... He thought of Rita, hair piled high. "There's a little cafe I went to. I don't remember the name. It had a blue sign@'
"The Nook."
"That's it. Bring her there. And tell her to keep the avatars out of earshot, huh?" "How will she do that?" "She'll find a way." "Okay.
And you want me to bring her to the Nook?" "If she'll come." "And what if she won't?" "Then it will all have been for nothing," Owen said.
"And I'll be wishing I had your angels to listen for." v When Harry emerged from the trees the night had become completely still. There was not a murmur in the air, nor in the grass, nor in the cracks of the rocks. Once he'd climbed far enough to he able to see over the tops of the trees, he order to evacuate had gone out, and he would see the town deserted. But no. The lights still burned; there was still traffic in the streets. It was simply that the mist that covered the door at the top of the slope soaked up every sound, leaving the area so hushed he could hear his own heart, beating in his head.
"This is where it happened," Coker Ammiano said to Erwin as they followed D'Amour across the slope towards the mist.
"The hangings?"
"No. The great battle between the families of Summa Summamentis and Ezso Aetherium. A very terrible day brought about by a child."