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The elevator indicator showed the cage was climbing up towards the kitchen.
It seemed to take forever.
"... five..."
"Welcome, Arizona. Say, isn't that where..."
"... three... two... "
The elevator was outside. It pinged like a microwave, and the down arrow lit
up.
"... one..."
"... that Swiss woman went?"
"It's here."
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The elevator doors didn't open.
Finney asked, "Has anything changed?"
Younger stabbed some buttons.
"I don't think so," said Rintoon. "It must be a monitor error."
The elevator doors wouldn't open.
"Cat," said Rintoon, dripping relief. "Don't ever do that to us again. I just
shat the World Trade Centre."
Younger turned back to his screen. Rintoon was smiling, but Finney had deep
lines between her brow and was punching buttons.
"It doesn't make sense, colonel. It's not registering, but it's here. I've a
bad feeling. This is one smart bug."
Behind him, in his perfect kitchen, a rack of electric carving knives buzzed
into life.
Younger barely felt the first blade vibrate its way through him.
VIII
It must be MOR night down at The Silver Byte. Liberace's version of "Glad to
Be Gay" was burbling on the jukebox, and an imbecilic old man in a bathchair
was nodding along to it while playing dominoes with a nine-year-old hispanic
girl. Stack walked the length of the bar, laid one of his shotguns down, and
asked Armindariz if the chilli was still on.
"Sure theeng, Trooper. Commeeng right op. Hey, Pauncho, rustle op a cheellee
dog for thee nice man."
A seriously fat individual with a cook's hat perched on his head agreed with
Armindariz and spooned out a bowlful of meat stew with beans and peppers.
There was a sign over the bar. "WARNINGmdashCHILLI HOT." Stock crumbled his
crackers, and stirred them in with his spoon. He hesitated.
"Say, Pedro, just how hot is this chilli?"
Armindariz showed his teeth. His gold fang shone.
"Yiu remember thee A-Bomb tests een thee feefties?"
"Not personally, but I've heard of them?"
"Well, there ees a place op in Nevada where they let off too manee beeg ones,
an' now no one can ever leeve there again."
"Yeah?"
"Well, Pauncho's cheellee ees hotter man that."
"Which is cheaper here, whisky or water?"
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"Whisky, Trooper."
"I'll have that then."
Armindariz poured him a shot. Stack lifted the spoon to his mouth...
"Before yiu eet, thee government eet say wee have to geeve yiu thees card."
Armindariz shrugged and handed over a much-battered oblong the size of a
cashplastic.
"The Surgeon General has determined that coronary heart disease is the major
cause of death in this country, and you are strongly advised against
consumption of foods containing red meat, saturated animal fats, irradiated
salts and growth-enhanced vegetables. Have a nice day."
Stack gave Armindariz back his card. They shrugged at each other. Stack
shoved a spoonful of chilli into his mouth, then took a drink. He swallowed
the combination, and gripped the bar as his entire oesophagus took fire.
Armindariz and Pauncho laughed.
"That's freakin' hot chilli, Pedro."
"Wee got a reputation to ophold, Trooper."
Stack finished his chilli, taking sips of the rotgut between mouthfuls. His
teeth were heating up, and his tastebuds would probably be burned clean away,
but it felt good to have something in his stomach again. A little more of this
treatment, and he would probably feel like a human being.
The chilli over, he ordered himself a treat. "Water."
"That ees expenseeve."
"I don't mind. I've had a bad day."
Armindariz pulled a plastic carton out from under the bar, and filled Stack's
glass. He sipped it.
"Why, you cheating sonofabitch," he shouted. "You've been doctorin' this
water with your lousy whisky!"
Armindariz cringed. "No, no, Senor Trooper, yiu jost dreenk both from thee
same glass. Eet ees natural meestake."
Stack laughed, and finished the water.
"Tell me, Pedro, you got a phone?"
"Si."
"Where is it?"
"Out on thee garbage domp. Eet don' work so good seence thee Gaschoggers reep
eet off thee wall and jomp on eet."
"Shame. Radio?"
"AM or FM?"
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"Two-way. I need to call in."
"There's a... what yiu call eet? There's a germeenal een thee chorch."
"Terminal."
"Si, a termeenal. Eet may be broke. Thee ronaway car smash eet op a leetle."
"That's just great. Thanks, anyway."
"No trouble, Senor Trooper."
Stack would have to go back to Tiger Behr's, and light out in the morning. He
wasn't sure what the nearest real town where he could make a call was, but
he'd find it before his borrowed cyke ran out of gas. Meanwhile, he had best
look after himself.
"Another whisky?"
"Sure theeng, Senor." Armindariz poured again.
Stack sipped his drink. He held it up to the light, and gave a silent toast.
To Leona Tyree...
Leona. She had been a hell of a woman. Cav all the way.
"Senor?" Armindariz butted into his reverie.
"What is it?"
"Would yiu mind payeeng for your cheellee and dreenks now?"
"No, why?"
Stack realized he wasn't alone at the bar.
Armindariz leaned forwards confidentially. "I theenk maybee thee Gaschoggers
keell yiu later on thees evening, then I no get my monee for thee goods I
geeve yiu, and that ees bad for beesneess."
A hairy hand fell on his arm, forcing it to the bar. His drink spilled.
"Plenty sloppy, ain't ya?" sneered a tattooed heavy. His breath stank of
gasoline.
The Gaschuggers got their name because of their drinking habits. They had all
had their bladders souped up so they could drink gas and whisky and piss
high-grade fuel into their cykes' tanks. None of the gangcultists the Cav had
ever brought in had been able to explain the appeal of the practice, but there
you were...
"Maybe the yellowbellied yellowlegs needs some lessons in etiquette, Exxon,"
somebody said.
"Yeah," said the tattooed guy, Exxon. "Maybe he does. Maybe his yeller streak
runs up the side of his legs and goes all the way up his back too."
"Stand down," Stack said. "I've got no quarrel with you."
Armindariz was down the other end of the bar, paying close attention to some
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stains he was wiping up. The game of dominoes was heating up, and Pauncho was
kibbitzing. Stack was on his own. He judged there were five or six 'chuggers.
Exxon would be the big chief. That was the tag the leader of the pack always
drew.
Slowly, be turned round on his stool. He had guessed right. Five guys,
counting Exxon, and one girl. All stinking of gas.
"You're Cav, ain't ya?" asked Exxon.
Stack nodded, his hand resting on the butt of the pumpgun. It would be
awkward to prime and fire it from the stool. He'd never drop them all before
they got him. Maybe they would all explode. With their lifestyle, spontaneous
combustion must be a a regular health hazard.
"Well, the Cav is always always always down on the 'chuggers for no reason.
And you represent the Cav, so we're mixing it with you."
Shit, he was going to die.
And he hadn't figured out what the buzz was with the mad cruiser and Leona
and the impaled priest yet.
"Mobil," Exxon said, "get the man a drink. Not that piss-poor firewater he's
been abusing himself with all evenin'. A real drink."
Shit, shit, shit. He was going to die, but first he was going to have to
drink gasoline.
Mobil was the runt of the litter. He jumped up and sat on the bar. He took
Stack's glass and threw the whisky onto the floor.
"Sorry, Pedro," said Exxon.
"That's okay, boys," replied the bartender. "Jost clean op after."
Mobil took a canteen and poured pink liquid into the glass. Paraffin. He
sniffed the bouquet, said "a very good year," and knocked it back.
"After a good drink," he said, "what better than a relaxing cigarette?"
He produced a pack and a fliptop lighter.
"Me, I prefer the cool, mellow taste of Sandino's, the cigarette with a
longer-lasting tang and that macho muchaco whiff."
He lit the lighter, and beamed across the flame.
Stack flinched backwards as his eyebrows were singed by the fiery cloud Mobil [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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