Succubi Part 16

Chapter 13.

The sign blazed tackily in blue neon: Crossroads. The writer in Martin mused over the name's allegorical possibilities. Dust eddied up from the wood floor's seams; the door creaked closed behind him. Yes, here was a real "slice of life" sort of bar: a dump. Its frowziness-its rough woodslat walls, old linoleum floor, and wearworn pool table-its overall vacuus spiritum- vacuus spiritum-piqued him. This was not exactly the bar at the HyattRegency.

But a beer would go good now, as long as it was a decent beer.

Martin walked up. Only three other patrons graced these eloquent confines, roughened workingcla.s.s types, dusty from a day in the fields. No women could be found. An ancient black-andwhite TV sported a ball game with the sound low. Martin was glad to see that the Yankees were showing the Orioles it was a long way back to Baltimore.

He waited at the bar. No one seemed to notice him. An inveterate beer sn.o.b, he doubted that the Crossroads stocked anything more refined than Carling. The giant barkeep was ignoring him, sipping a mug of draft as he watched the game.

"Excuse me," Martin interjected.

The keep frowned, and without taking his eyes off the game, said, "You want somethin'?"

An odd reply. "Well, yeah. I'd like a beer."

"No beer tonight," the keep replied. "Just blew the last keg."

Talk about the b.u.m's rush, Martin thought. "What's that you and those guys are drinking? Kickapoo Joy Juice?" Martin thought. "What's that you and those guys are drinking? Kickapoo Joy Juice?"

"Yeah, home. That's what it is."

"Fine. I'll take one."

"Sorry. Just ran out of that too."

Just leave, Martin thought. That would be the wise thing to do. But when he wanted a beer, he Martin thought. That would be the wise thing to do. But when he wanted a beer, he wanted wanted a beer. Why were these guys giving him the business? "What is this? I gotta dress blacktie to get served in this pit?" a beer. Why were these guys giving him the business? "What is this? I gotta dress blacktie to get served in this pit?"

Now the keep looked at him. He set down his beer and came over.

The three other guys at the bar stood up.

"Listen, home, and listen good. You want trouble, you'll get more'n you can handle."

"I don't want trouble," Martin groaned. "I just want a beer." "I just want a beer."

"We don't serve to outsiders here. If ya don't live in Lockwood, ya don't drink at the 'Roads."

"This has been one pleasant visit," Martin said. "You guys want to kick my a.s.s because I walk into a bar and order a beer. If I want to fill my car at the gas station, they gonna kick my a.s.s too?"

The keep gave him a high look. "You're visiting Lockwood, huh? And just who might you be visiting?"

"The Slaviks," Martin began, but then he thought, To h.e.l.l with it. To h.e.l.l with it. He got up to leave. He got up to leave.

"Hold up there, buddy," one of the guys at the bar said.

And the keep: "You're that writer fella. Gonna marry Ann, Josh and Kath Slavik's girl."

"That's right," Martin told him. "How the h.e.l.l do you know-"

"Come on back, home," the keep invited. "Just that we've had some trouble with outsiders. This here's Wally Bitner, Bill Eberhart, and Dave Kromer."

Martin didn't quite know how to gauge this sudden change of att.i.tude. What the h.e.l.l's going on? What the h.e.l.l's going on? "I'm Martin-" "I'm Martin-"

"Martin White, that right?" Dave Kromer said.

"You're some kind of writer, huh?" Bill Whateverhisnamewas added.

First they're practically booting me out the door now they know my name, Martin pondered. Martin pondered.

"Yeah, we've heard about ya," the keep said. "From Kath and Josh. You kind of help Ann out with Melanie, on account of Ann's lawyer job, right?"

"Uh, yeah," Martin said. He wondered what else Ann's mother had said about him. Probably nothing good. "We came up from the city today, to see Ann's dad."

They all nodded glumly. "d.a.m.n shame, it is," Wally Whoever bid. "Josh is a great guy."

"And Doc Heyd," added the keep, "he says there's not much hope. Poor guy. We'll all sure miss the h.e.l.l out of him."

This was not cheerful talk. Before Martin could s.h.i.+ft subjects, they did it for him. "Name's Andre, by the way. Any friend of the Slaviks' is a friend of ours. You drinking beer or hard stuff?'

"Uh, beer," Martin faltered. Now came the dreaded question of any beer sn.o.b in a place like this. "Do you have any imports?"

"Nope. No imports. No domestics either."

What else is there? Martin thought. Martin thought.

"We got LL," the keep said.

"That's one even I've never heard of."

"Lockwood Lager. Can't get any fresher-I make it right here, right in back."

A local microbrew, Martin thought. This was unique. In a place like this he'd have expected the cheapest, and worst. "Pour me one," he said. Martin thought. This was unique. In a place like this he'd have expected the cheapest, and worst. "Pour me one," he said.

"No bulls.h.i.+t here either," Andre said. "I grow my own hops and barley. Age each keg about sixty days. And I won't sell to the other towns-let 'em have their p.i.s.s. I make our own vodka, scotch, and gin too."

Andre set the mug down. Martin reached for his wallet, but Andre put his big hand up. "No way, friend. That there's a tin roof."

"A tin roof?"

"Yeah, man. It's on the house."

Andre and his three locals broke out laughing.

Martin took a sniff and a sip. A full, robust taste, very malty without being sweet or overpowering. "My compliments to the brewmaster. This is great. You ought to bottle it, you'd make a killing."

"Not my speed," Andre said. "Ann's mom, Kath, you probably know she's kinda like the mayor here, and none too keen on alcohol. That's why there's no package store in town. I been brewin' fifteen kegs a month for the last fifteen years. That does us just fine."

This beer really was good; Martin was amazed. A brewmaster of Andre's skill could become a millionaire in today's U.S. microbrew market. In the back, Martin noticed wooden, not aluminum, kegs, and an ice line instead of a keg cooler. When it came to authenticity, Andre didn't fool around.

"Yeah, Ann, she's a great gal," Andre went on. "I knowed her kind of when she was growing up. Real smart."

Wally Whatever offered, "She's a real legend around here. Most Lockwood gals, they stick home. We're all rootin' for Ann out there in the big city."

"We truly hope that things work out for yawl," added Bill Whateverhisf.u.c.kingnamewas.

"Thanks," Martin said. He continued to survey the bar as he drank. There was no falseness here: this was a place where the working cla.s.s came to drink when they were done in the fields. There were no Bud Light clocks, no Beefeater coasters, and none of the phony bar eclecticism found in the city. The Crossroads was real. real. Just a roof, some stools, and a bar. Martin didn't even notice a cash register in the place. Just a roof, some stools, and a bar. Martin didn't even notice a cash register in the place.

Andre looked about fifty but in good shape; in fact, all of them did-physicalities and demeanors honed by lifetimes of hard, honest work. Andre wore jeans, a black Ts.h.i.+rt, and a buck on his belt. He had wiry hair and a big friendly face, but a hardness hardness about him too, like you could sock a 20sledge right into his barrel chest, and all it would do was p.i.s.s him off. Martin set aside his first impression. He liked this place, and he liked these people. about him too, like you could sock a 20sledge right into his barrel chest, and all it would do was p.i.s.s him off. Martin set aside his first impression. He liked this place, and he liked these people.

"You guys all from around here?" he asked.

"Aw, no," Andre answered. "We all just kind of found our ways here, and Kath, she gave us a break. Me, I had a little trouble down South"-he chuckled-"so Kath, bless her, she gives me the job right off, and a place to live to boot. Same story for all of us pretty much. Bill here, he does engine work, and Wally runs a thresher."

This was odd, though. Martin couldn't figure it. If they'd been local, that would be different-localities were adhesive. But why would men like this, with serviceable skills, come to a town like Lockwood? The farmland was small, and Martin doubted that Bill Whateverhisnamewas was fixing more tractors here than he could in a big farm belt.

"I work for Micah Crimm," the guy named Dave said. He laughed. "He's the fire chief, and I'm the fire department. Hang around awhile, the rest of the boys'll be in shortly. We've all been wantin' to meet ya."

"I will," Martin accepted. He finished his LL, and Andre poured him another. "I haven't even been here a day, and already I'm starting to really like this town of yours."

Melanie strolled the outer residential streets. This was so different from the city. Quiet, peaceful. The woods ran opposite Hastings Street; she could hear crickets, a sound like waves. Small, neat houses stood off the road; a few even sat up in the woods. There was no traffic, no commotion, just tranquil twilight.

Melanie couldn't picture herself ever living here; it was too far away from things. But she liked visiting, she liked the change. Melanie never really understood why her mother didn't like to bring her here. Lockwood was almost like a different world.

"Hi. You're Melanie, right?"

Melanie stopped. At first she didn't even see who'd said it. What were they doing there, standing in the dark?

"Yeah. How did you know?"

"We've heard all about you," came another, younger voice. "You're the Slaviks' granddaughter."

The darkness at the edge of the woods seemed misty. The two girls looked like slowly forming ghosts. "My name's Wendlyn," one of the shapes said. "And this is Rena."

Melanie squinted.

Rena looked younger. She was willowy, slim, and nearly breastless, while Wendlyn had a bosom that made Melanie slightly jealous. They wore plain pastel-ish sundresses and sandals. Both had hair the same light brown as Melanie's, but Wendlyn's was short, and Rena's hung perfectly straight down past her waist.

"Your mom's a lawyer, right?"

"Yeah, she just made partner," Melanie responded, though she still didn't quite understand that. It sounded to her that partners made more money but did less work.

"Rena's mom's a nurse. She's staying at your house to look after your grandpop," Wendlyn informed. "My mom runs the general store on Pickman Avenue."

"What do your dads do?" Melanie asked.

"Mine died," Wendlyn said.

"Mine ran off," Rena said.

"So did mine, but my mom's going to marry-"

"Martin," Wendlyn cut in. "He's a novelist or something, isn't he?"

"Poet," Melanie replied. But who were these girls? She'd never met them before-yet they knew all about her. They seemed nice, though. In the city, people never went out of their way to be nice.

They began walking down the street. "What grades are you in?" Melanie inquired.

"I'm in eleventh, like you. Rena's in ninth. There aren't many girls our age in Lockwood."

"What about boys?" Melanie asked.

Both girls laughed.

"What's so funny?"

"Come on," Wendlyn cut in. She took Melanie by the hand and led her into an opening in the trees. Melanie was too startled to object. The darkness cloaked her yet somehow she could see the path's outline quite well in the starlight. Soon they led her into a cramped, moonlit grove.

"This is our place," Rena said.

"No one knows about it," Wendlyn added.

Melanie still didn't know what was going on. The two girls sat down on a log.

"Sit down. We don't bite."

Again, both girls laughed.

Melanie sat down on a log opposite them. "How come you laughed when I asked about guys?"

"There really aren't any," Wendlyn said. Rena bent over, digging at something. "Most of the men are old, married, or they just work their jobs. No one our age."

"Except Zack," Rena said.

For the third time, both girls, inexplicably, laughed.

"Come on, what's so funny?"

"Zack's nineteen. He's the janitor for the church."

"He lives there," Rena added.

What was she digging at?

"He lives lives at the church?" Melanie questioned. "What about his parents?" at the church?" Melanie questioned. "What about his parents?"

"He doesn't have any. He's, like, an orphan or something. Your grandmother sort of adopted him, took him in. She's done that with a lot of the guys in Lockwood. Likes to help people in need."