The fat man noticed him and said, "What'll it be?"
"I… that is, brandy."
"How d'you want it?"
"How-?"
"You all right, buddy?"
"I think so."
"Want me to call someone?"
"No. Just let me sit down."
"Sure. Sit down. Maybe you shouldn't have anything right now."
"Maybe you're right."
"You driving?"
"What?"
"You got car keys?"
"Car… keys? I don't think so."
"Good. Just sit there for a while and I'll call you a cab. You got any money?"
"Well, I-I don't know." He put his hands in his pockets and began removing things; An oddly formed lump of heavy grey metal, the key to room fourteen of some hotel somewhere, an empty bottle for sixtyfive milligram pills of Darvon, a nickel and three pennies, He stared at this collection, wondering if it had any significance. The pill bottle; he remembered something about that-he had just been trying to get more pills, when-what happened? He shook his head, frustrated.
The fat man said, "Shit. Never mind, now. What's your name?"
"Ummm, Chuck-Charles, I think."
"Yeah, you look like a Charles. Okay, just sit tight. No one here will hurt you. You'll feel better in awhile. I'm Tony, by the way."
"Thank you. Tony. Do not write the letter."
"What?"
"Do not write the letter. It will bounce three times and bite three times and leaving you kissing dust."
"Is that a poem or something?"
"It is for you."
"What letter are you talking about?"
"I don't know."
The man with the scar looked up. "He some kind of nut. Tony?"
"Hell if I know."
"Did you write a letter?"
The bartender paused, glanced at Charles, then back at the patron. He cleared his throat. "I just told you about my daughter."
"The dyke?"
"Shut the fuck up."
"Hey, you said it first."
The bartender stared at a soapy glass in his hand."I was gonna write and tell her not to bother coming home for winter break, but…"
"This guy gives me the creeps. Tony."
"So go to the other end of the bar. He ain't bugging nobody."
"I guess not."
But Charles, after replacing his possessions in his pocket, decided he should be the one to move to the other end of the bar, as a result of which he spotted the policemen before they spotted him. His throat tightened. They can't be looking for me. They can't be looking for me. Can they? One was very young and made Charles think of the phrase, "One hand grabs for the reins while one foot runs for the ditch." Who had said that, and in what language? The other policeman was like an old wolf-leader, whose eyes miss nothing even if they appear closed.
Charles turned away, hoping to be missed in the blue fog, but he felt the old policeman's eyes seize the back of his neck. This was pursuit, and pursuit led to capture, and capture led to-
No, there was no time for that, now, either.
The room was heavy with tobacco smoke; it could become heavier, he knew that. He could hide himself in it, although there would be a price to pay.
He did what was necessary, vaguely aware that he was losing something as he did.
There was a back way, and he found it, and he was gone. His headache returned, bringing with it the memory that it had been an almost constant companion for a long time. He felt pursuit, and it frightened him, but at least now he knew it was not an irrational fear which had gripped him since-
–Since-
Blind man's night is music to the deaf, and everyone has two paths, not one, whence comes tragedy and comedy, forsooth and damn straight, son.
He stood just within the flap of the tent and the old woman saw him and he saw her and the statuette,and it would be hard to guess who was more surprised of these two strangers who somehow knew. And, oh, the things they said without speaking or moving; the anger, the pain, the justifications, all silent, perhaps all imagined, until he ran, once more,never stopping until he reached the river, which agreed to carry him, once more, away from one set of troubles into another. Out of pangs of the heart and into torments of the flesh.Hell of a way to run a coach service.
–Since-
After all, they had entered the bar, and, more importantly, he must trust his instincts, which had gotten him out of as many fixes as they'd gotten him into. The same could be said of his knife, and perhaps there's a moral there.
Was this time going to be any different? Of course.They all are. He was breathing heavily but not painfully, his strides were long and even, though he was tired. He stopped and rested for a moment beside a high wrought-iron fence, with a lower chain-link fence outside it, then he walked on, looking back frequently.
There was a gate in the fence, and someone stood beside it. His first thought was. It is Luci; I am caught.But no. He could make out little of her form in the gloom, but her face had the stamp of beauty with suffering etched into the lines over her brows and next to her eyes. A squirrel at her feet chittered loudly as he approached, started to run, then relaxed. The woman turned at his footstep. He looked into her eyes and she into his. He felt a slight tingle at the base of his skull. Her eyes glittered. She said, "You are hereto replace me, that I may rest?"
"I don't understand."
"Why are you here?"
"I am merely walking. Running, in fact. You?"
"I guard this place, so none may pass who should not. You should not, I think, unless you are to replace me."
He looked past her, through the high wrought-iron fence, and understood. "No, I still live. You must wait for the next to die to take your place."
"How then can you see me?"
"Because I am who I am."
"Who are you?"
"I'm not certain. Who are you, and how did you come to die, so young?"
"Leukemia," she said dreamily, as if it made no difference to her at all, and perhaps it didn't. "My name is Karen."
"How long have you stood vigil here?"
"I'm not certain. Only a few days, I think. I relieved a tired old man who had been here four days."
The squirrel jumped closer to him, then back again.
"You will not have to wait long, I think. Then you may rest."
"Yes," she said. "Will you see to my man? We lived together for three years, and he was very kind when I was dying, but it was hard for him. Harder than for me, I think."
"What is his name?"
"Brian MacWurthier. We lived at three twenty-seven Roosevelt, upstairs."
He repeated the name and address to himself, so he wouldn't forget it. "Very well," he said. "I will-"
"A light fell upon him. He turned and his heart jumped as he saw the police car. He began to run, knowing already that it was too late."
"I'm sorry," he heard her say. The squirrel bolted between the bars of the cemetery as if escaping from a cage.
"It is nothing," said Charles softly as the two policemen took his arms and threw him against the chain-link fence. Their hands were rough and thorough as they searched him. What are their feelings at such times, he wondered. Boredom? Professional pride?
"My head hurts," he said softly. They didn't seem to hear him.
The older one found his knife and let it fall with a gesture half careless and half deliberate. Charles winced as he heard it strike the sidewalk. The younger one held his upper arms in a grip like steel. It was painful- He thought about resisting then and there,but he couldn't decide, and soon it was too late, for they wrenched his arms behind him and put handcuffs on him.
This felt familiar. Why? A piece of the Sight, or the shards of real memory? The policemen pushed him into the back of the car. He had to sit sideways because of the cuffs. He tested them, and found that they were connected by a rigid bar, rather than a mere chain. They knew him then. He frowned, his shoulder pressed uncomfortably against the seat back.There was a time when it would have pleased him that they showed such fear. There was a time,…