Water Lily looked up at him, startled and beautiful, and drew back a little. Her eves seemed to search him for something and he wondered what it was. What do you look for, Water Lily? he thought, as tiny droplets of moisture began to bead on her smooth, cool skin.
The raw nerve endings from his severed foot screamed white-hot into his mind. It was even worse than his death pain, which, after months of living with it, he could now manage to keep humming along in the back of his mind. Until he needed it. Luckily, Spector had stopped bleeding almost immediately. He hoped that damned fucking animal choked on it. Pain lanced through his leg every time the truck hit a bump or pothole. He shoved the notebooks into the front of his pants. They were his now. He could name his own price. He hurt too much to read them, even if the light was good, which it wasn't. Maybe it was just as well he couldn't though. He'd had more trouble than he could handle in a single day.
The truck slowed to a stop. Spector tried to crawl through the garbage toward the edge. No good. His stump hurt like hell every time he so much as twitched. He heard the hydraulic arms start, and looked up. The dumpster went up and over, dropping several hundred pounds of refuse on him. Spector took a deep breath before he was completely covered. Something heavy landed on his raw ankle. He tried to ignore the pain and claw his way up to the top, but suddenly felt himself moving backward. Bottles, cartons, paper, chicken bones, half-eaten TV dinners, all being compacted together and into him. He folded up with the garbage and tried to tuck his stump under his other leg. The pressure stopped. He heard the crash of the dumpster being set back down. The truck lurched and began moving again.
"Fuck," he said, and was rewarded with a mouthful of soggy coffee grounds. He dug frantically through the garbage toward the open air, trying to ignore the pain. He hoped the truck didn't have any more stops before heading to the dump.
Chapter Sixteen
9:00 p.m.
He was too exhausted to try crawling out of the truck; regenerating was taking all his energy. Spector lay atop the garbage as the vehicle bounced down the street. He looked down at his bad foot. Flesh was sticking out several inches beyond the ragged edge of his pants leg. He was growing a new foot. Nothing like this had ever happened before and he'd been figuring he'd have to get some kind of prosthetic foot. His regenerating ability was even more powerful than he'd dreamed. His system was taking tissue fi-om the rest of his body to build the new foot. No wonder he was so exhausted. It itched like hell. He shoved his hands in his pockets to keep from scratching it. He watched the buildings roll by and tried to figure out where he was. Dock area, maybe. There was some traffic, but the truck was still making pretty good time.
He pulled the plastic-wrapped notebooks out of his pants. He couldn't see much while the truck was moving; the illumination-from the streetlights was too irregular. Lucky he'd heard the girl talking about them. They'd better be the right ones after all the grief they'd cost him. No way he could have figured on a guy turning into an alligator. All the aces were supposed to be at Fatman's for the evening.
The truck slowed and he couldn't see buildings anymore. This was probably the end of the line. He tucked the books away and grabbed the rim of the steel wall with both hands.
Spector pulled and kicked with his good leg. His muscles trembled for a moment, then failed him entirely. He settled back into the garbage, completely drained.
The truck stopped. Spector heard a metal chain being undone and the creak of a gate. He couldn't even manage to sit up. The truck moved slowly forward for a few moments, then stopped again. He knew what was coming next.
"Stop," he said. His voice was too weak for the driver to hear.
Hydraulic arms lifted the steel box of garbage off the truck and into the air. It began to tilt down. Spector covered his face and rolled into a ball. He caught his breath as he began to fall and pulled the notebooks to his chest. He landed on his head and shoulders and blacked out.
When the dessert carts started making their stately rounds, Hiram's table was, of course, served first.
He was feeling so relaxed and pleased with himself by then that his appetite had quite returned. He accepted a piece of the amaretto cheesecake from one of the new waiters, a wizened little man with a large head and thick glasses. He added a slice of chocolate mango pie for good measure. The cheesecake was up to the lofty Aces High standards, and the pie was exquisite, its top covered with thin shavings of bittersweet chocolate.
Peregrine had chosen the pie as well. Chocolate, she had explained to Water Lily with that famous smile, was the third best thing there was.
Jane was staring at the waiter with a strange blank look on her face. "Is something wrcng, dear?" the old man asked her. She blinked slowly, and shook her head, like someone waking from a dream. "No. I mean… I don't remember." She shivered suddenly. "I feel funny."
"Chocolate cures all ills," Peregrine suggested.
But Jane selected the cherries jubilee. "Because," she told Hiram and Peregrine with a smile of her own, "I've heard that when choosing between two evils, you should pick the one you've never tried before." Hiram found himself laughing out loud at her unexpected Mae West intonations. The wizened little waiter laughed too, a shrill thin giggle that went on too long, as if he was amused by some private jest as he wheeled the dessert cart around the table.
All around them, attentive waiters were pouring freshbrewed coffee from slender silver pots, and setting down little pitchers of heavy cream. Bottles of a delightful sweet wine were opened at tableside for who those who cared to imbibe.
After dessert, the seats would begin to empty, as the guests accepted brandy snifters and tiny glasses of liqueur and began the annual ritual of table-hopping. Modular Man had already gotten a head start; the android had bypassed dessert and was field-testing some Courvoisier.
Hiram dispatched his desserts in short order, washed them down with just the quickest taste of wine, and pushed back his chair. "Pardon my haste," he said to his dinner companions, who were eating more slowly, savoring every bite. "As the host, I have certain duties, though I hate to leave such delightful company even for an instant." He, smiled. "Please don't rush off, the evening is just beginning."
Hiram drifted from table to table, smiling at the guests, inquiring about their dinners, accepting the compliments with a gracious smile.
Mistral, holding court at her table near the balcony doors, said her father would undoubtedly be pleased to know he'd been one of the ice sculptures. "We could hardly leave out Cyclone," Hiram told her, "even if he does miss far too many of these affairs. Living in San Francisco is really no excuse, and you can tell him I said so."
Hiram hardly recognized Croyd, who was looking around anxiously for the dessert cart, still two tables away. Next to him, Fortunato sat like a man in a dark shroud, and seemed to take no part in the dinner conversation that swirled about him. Hiram considered stopping by the table and giving him a reassuring word, but the look in those dark eyes beneath his massively swollen forehead seemed to forbid it.
Cap'n Trips had spilled a cup of herbal tea in the lap of Frank Beaumont's date, and was mopping 'at it ineffectually with a napkin, apologizing profusely, so Hiram was spared the necessity of learning about the dangers of processed sugar.