Riders In The Sky Part 10

A friend pa.s.sing the booth suggested the three ought to concern themselves more with North Korea's ma.s.sing troops a few miles north of the Demilitarized Zone. "We're gonna get sucked in," he said bitterly. "Just like the first time. You watch, we're gonna get sucked in."

From somewhere else: "You really going to sell?"

"h.e.l.l, I'm tired of having to do the causeway route every time I want to see a d.a.m.n movie."

"You get an offer?"

"Sort of, yeah."

"Don't tell me...Cutler."

"Eat your dessert, we're late the judge'll kill us."

"G.o.dd.a.m.n Freck says I shouldn't have been out so late. Jesus, it was only nine o' G.o.dd.a.m.n clock. Who thinks they're gonna get mugged at nine o'clock, for G.o.d's sake? Here, for G.o.d's sake."

"Dumba.s.s deputy couldn't arrest a jaywalker, the stupid son of a b.i.t.c.h. So ... what, he say you were asking for it?" "As much as."

"Stupid son of a b.i.t.c.h."

"Tell me about it. I swear to G.o.d, I can't wait to get out of here."

"... have to pry that boat out of my cold dead hands."

"So you're not selling?"

"You deaf, boy? I'd rather sell my wife."

Casey slid a month-old copy of the Weekly toward him, scanning the headlines and sighing without a sound. A fragmented Yugoslavia continued to tear itself apart; revolutions in Brazil, Chile, plus a half dozen more across Central and Southern Africa; India and Pakistan glared at each other across mountain pa.s.ses, exchanging random artillery fire, raising banners; j.a.pan altering its const.i.tution to allow for a full-blown, full-time army and navy.

All of this he had already seen on television, but seeing it in print, no matter how briefly covered, somehow made it worse.

He picked at his french fries, flipped over a page, and glanced through several articles that were, in essence, ill-disguised editorials, righteous rants against the growing number of households leaving the island because of "hooligan activity" and "bald political pressure," all not so vaguely attributed to an "unholy alliance" between Norville Cutler's various businesses and Mayor Cribbs's alleged greed, the purpose of which was neither hinted at nor explained. Casey had the feeling that were he a regular reader he'd already know. He also sensed an angry desperation here, a warning of some kind that time was running out for whatever the editor felt was on the way; and it didn't, he figured, have anything to do with the problems on the mainland.

I really ought to get out more, he thought, and ate, read, after a while frowned because there was something about the tabloid-size newspaper that didn't seem quite as it should be. Blatant editorializing in what were supposed to be ordinary news reports was one thing, the weekly newsmagazines did it all the time, but as he flipped the pages back and forth randomly, he suspected the answer was right there in front of him. Something to do with ... frowning deeper, he turned to the back page, then to the cla.s.sified section, the want ads, the garage sales. Another page or two at random, and he finally realized what it was-advertising. There were hardly any ads, display or otherwise, and while he was no expert, he was fairly certain that ad revenue was what kept a newspaper in business.

Especially this time of year. The Monday before Thanksgiving, a few weeks before Christmas, the paper should be bulging with holiday sale announcements, even if many of the seasonal shops had already shut down.

"You have to go to the office for a new one," Gloria said as she slid his bill toward him. Her hair, long and black, was caught in a hairnet, her face touched with lines drawn by the work she did. Large black eyes, watching him, not smiling.

"You don't sell it anymore?"

She shook her head. "Not worth it." A glance toward the door. "Not to no one hardly anymore."

He laid his money next to his plate, a gesture to indicate he didn't want the change.

"You work for him, don't you?" she asked as he pushed off the stool.

"Who?"

"Mr. Cutler."

He shrugged. "I guess so. Yes."

She nodded once. "Okay. So don't come back no more, okay? Go somewhere else."

He stared in disbelief, but she had already turned her back, fussing with coffee cups, fiddling with one of the urns. A deliberate, and fearful, dismissal that made him want to at least ask for an explanation. But the set of her back, the way her hands darted at doing nothing changed his mind.

Avoiding the gazes of the other customers, he left, stood on the sidewalk, squinting until he grew accustomed to the bright afternoon sun. Until the surge of anger that followed him outside subsided. Not enough, however, to completely quash the temptation to walk into another shop to check the owner's or clerk's reaction. He almost did it. He almost turned into the gift shop next to Betsy's on the right, or the photo shop on the left. Just to see. The problem was, even if he was asked to leave, or treated coldly, he still wouldn't know why. He was only a handyman, for crying out loud, and hadn't seen Cutler more than a handful of times since he'd taken the job. His pay was usually picked up at Cutler's downtown office-only twice had Cutler brought it out himself, and that was because the man wanted to check on his properties, not because he was the kindly employer who cared about his people.

What the h.e.l.l was the guy doing that for G.o.d's sake hired help should be tarred with the same brush?

It was, if he thought about it long enough, almost amusing. He had heard of people being barred from bars before, but never from a sandwich shop. Begone, you weirdo, and never darken my mayonnaise again.

With an imperceptible shake of his head, and a fleeting one-sided grin, he started up the street, hands in his pockets, telling himself that he was undoubtedly overreacting. Gloria had problems with Cutler, that much was obvious; no reason to believe that anyone else would treat him the same. h.e.l.l, most of Camoret didn't even know who he was, much less who he worked for. But each time he paused to enter another store, another shop, he changed his mind and moved on.

Halfway up the next block he reached a cedar-shake building no larger than a small bungalow set well back from the sidewalk, as if distancing itself from the businesses on either side. A white picket fence divided concrete from gra.s.s and two large cherry trees slowly and at last dropping their leaves. He knew there were only two rooms inside-a small waiting room, and a large office behind it. Norville Cutler Enterprises, and the only person he'd ever seen there was Mandy Poplin, the receptionist he a.s.sumed doubled as a secretary. He supposed he could always ask her what was going on; not that she would tell him. Each time he picked up his pay, an envelope filled with cash and a receipt, their conversation was little more than formally polite.

Here's your pay, Mr. Chisholm.

Thanks, Mandy. Nice weather we're having.

Yes, it is. We'll see you next month.

He walked on, annoyed less at his treatment now than at the deflation of his adventure. All that buildup, all the anxiety, all the reasons why he shouldn't get involved in town life again, all for nothing.

Abruptly he stopped and looked over his shoulder.

Gloria Nazario had already known he worked for Cutler. She had asked him several months ago, and it hadn't seemed to bother her then. So what had changed?

Go back, be polite, be deferential, ask.

He couldn't do it.

Instead, he crossed the street and walked another block, absently checking the Christmas decorations in some of the windows, Thanksgiving displays in others. What he would do, he decided, is pick up the latest Weekly edition, see if there was something in there, something new, that would give him more information. Maybe even ask the editor himself. a.s.suming, he thought with a quick sour grin, that the man didn't toss him out on his ear.

A quicker step, another block, and he hesitated only a second before entering the Camoret Weekly's office. The door had barely closed behind him before he wondered if he hadn't made a mistake.

4.

The outer room was empty, a stack of new papers on the counter, still bundled. A wall clock ticked loudly. A man's voice in back, raised in anger.

None of your business, Casey cautioned. He grabbed a paper, fumbled in his pocket to produce a dollar bill he dropped on the counter, and turned to leave.

None of your business; until he heard another man cry out and the sound of something large cras.h.i.+ng onto the floor, followed by the distinct sound of breaking gla.s.s.

Don't, he ordered as he lifted the flap; asking for trouble, he warned as he dropped the paper where he'd found it, crossed the room hurriedly and opened the door just enough to stick his head through.

An old man leaned heavily against the left-hand wall, panting, one hand over his heart. On the floor at his feet a scattering of folders and papers, and a computer monitor, its face shattered. A short man in jeans and brown leather jacket, heavy beard and tight curly hair, stood in the middle of the room, arms folded across a chest so large it made him seem deformed. A much taller man in denim coveralls, whip-lean and stringy dark hair, sideburns down to his jaw, had his hand on a printer as if ready to sweep it off its stand.

For an instant the three stared at Casey as if he'd dropped in through the ceiling.

Casey looked at the old man and said, "Trouble, Mr. Hull?"

"Who the h.e.l.l are you?" the short one demanded. "Get lost."

Casey ignored him. "Mr. Hull?"

The editor blinked rapidly, head trembling. Although his hair was mussed, his bow tie askew, he didn't look as if he'd been hurt, just scared half to death. His lips worked, but made no sound.

"d.a.m.nit, Cord, stuff this jerk somewhere, I ain't got time for this s.h.i.+t."

The tall one grinned. "Whatever you say, Stump." He sniffed loudly and shook his head. "Ought to know better," he said to Casey. "Ain't right, b.u.t.ting in."

A brief unanswered prayer to be somewhere else, and Casey nudged the door all the way open with his foot as he stepped onto the threshold, letting them see him all for the first time. Cord Teague stopped before he'd taken two steps, his fisted hands unsure what to do next.

"Aw, Christ," Stump said. "s.h.i.+t, I know you, you're that r.e.t.a.r.d at the houses,"

Casey didn't move; he just stood there.

He wasn't about to start anything himself, but he'd been in enough fights in his life to know the signs-the bl.u.s.ter, the doubt, the wonder just how tough this big man was. Sometimes there was good advantage to looking the way he did.

"Well, G.o.dd.a.m.nit, Cord, I got to do everything myself?" Stump reached to a nearby desk and picked up a length of pipe. He brandished it at Casey, one last warning. "Stupid r.e.t.a.r.d."

Deliberately, slowly, Casey let his face go blank. Nothing there but the eyes. Slightly narrowed. Watching.

"Stump," Cord whispered, backing slowly toward the alley door, unable to take his gaze from Casey's face.

Casey straightened, just enough, and filled the doorway side to side. Still no fists, no warning glare. He just stood there. Watching.

Cord grabbed the doork.n.o.b. "Stump." His hand slipped off, and he tried again. "Stump, let's ... come on, Stump, leave it be."

"I told you once, I told you a hundred times, you stupid son of a b.i.t.c.h, we can't let-"

"Just leave," Casey said, his voice quiet. Rumbling. The mutter of thunder on the far side of the horizon.

Stump blinked at him, frozen for a moment before he raised the pipe as if ready to club him, but he couldn't stop his hand from trembling just enough to betray his nerves.

"Leave," Casey repeated. "You've made your point Get out."

Cord yanked the back door open and stepped into the alley. "Come on, Stump. Jesus ... come on."

Stump was clearly torn between giving ground and losing face in front of his brother. A warning glare at Hull, and he kicked viciously at the papers by his feet, whirled, and made to take one last bash at the printer Cord was supposed to have tipped over.

Casey was faster.

He grabbed Teague's wrist and hauled up, nearly pulling the shorter man off his feet. Off-balance, Teague c.o.c.ked his free arm to throw a punch, teach this meddler a lesson, and stopped when he saw Casey's expression. Didn't resist when Casey wrenched the pipe from his grip. Said nothing when Casey dragged him to the door, dangling like a small child about to be punished, and shoved him gently outside.

Closed the door and locked it.

Hull sagged shakily into a wheeled leather chair, hand still on his chest, the other ineffectually swiping at his hair. His face was pale, eyes bright with either shock or tears. His left couldn't seem to stop jumping.

"You all right?" Casey asked again, gently, setting the pipe down on a desk behind him.

Hull nodded mutely, hesitantly.

"Okay." He started for the door, paused and said, "I'm taking a paper, okay? There's money on the counter."

The editor didn't respond save for a weak gesture of thanks, and Casey left, picked up his newspaper, and went outside. Across the street he saw Deputy Freck leaving the sheriff's office. He called out and waved, checking for traffic as he trotted to the other side.

Freck, hands on his hips, eyes hidden behind dark sungla.s.ses, waited impatiently.

"Might want to check over there, on Mr. Hull," Casey told him, pointing with the paper. "He had some trouble with Stump Teague and one of his brothers."

"Is that so?"

"Nearly wrecked his office."

"No kidding."

Casey didn't know what to say next. He glanced over at the Weekly office, muttered, "Just thought you ought to know," and started for the park, half expecting to be stopped. When he reached the bike stand, he fiddled unnecessarily with the combination lock, using the time to see what the deputy would do.

Instead of checking on Hull, the deputy watched him, hands still on hips, and what might have been a smirk on his lips.

A gust of anger, a temptation for confrontation, before he dropped the newspaper into the deep wire basket behind the seat and wheeled the bike to the curb. Once there he paused for a trio of cars to pa.s.s, then pushed off, waiting until he was steady before looking back again.

Freck hadn't moved.

The anger returned, and he pedaled hard, leaning over the handlebars, letting the wind nearly blind him. It wasn't Freck that bothered him, it was the shame he felt for not staying to make sure the old man was all right.

Not your business, he told himself harshly.

No, he answered, but it d.a.m.n well used to be.