I took another cab. The D'Orsay was a dinky little place, and except for the room clerk the lobby was empty. On the register was: K.W. Dickson & Wife, Paloma City.
"They're out for breakfast. Want to wait?"
I waited outside, walking back and forth and keeping my gun warm. I hadn't intended it this way, but now I'd get them both. Dickson first. I wouldn't shoot through my coat-pocket because I wanted him to know what was happening to him. Suddenly, there they were! I'd been watching up and down the street and hadn't expected them to come around the corner right beside me. There was Dickson, big and good-looking, in spite of being away past fifty, with his diamonds flashing and wearing that hat with the wide, flat brim like the one you see in photographs of Jack London. I was slow in getting the gun out and he grabbed me.
I was slow because the woman with him was tall, slender and about forty years old. It wasn't Judy. While I was being manhandled she stood there smiling and I thought she would clap her hands. Just glowing with admiration for the brave sheriff who was demonstrating what he could do to a husky young man just half his age. He was powerful, and I'd been too surprised to fight. He'd twisted the pistol from my hand and now he had me on the sidewalk with his knee on my chest. My mind was as flattened as my body because I was remembering something I'd heard years ago, a story that Dickson had a wife who was dying, or was dead, in a tb. sanitarium down south. I knew that here she was, and that she'd saved Dickson's life.
I was crying and cussing his guts at the same time. "All right, I've been playing around with your wife, Mac, and so what," he said, and he split my lip with the fist that was holding the pistol. But a crowd was gathering, and he calmed down. When a cop pushed through he said something to him and showed his badge. At the same time he yanked me to my feet and told me to shut up. "Come on into the hotel. We'll talk this over."
It was a funny thing, that talk. Dickson got out a fifth of rye and poured shots for both of us while he told me that as far as Judy was concerned, sure, he'd only been human but that was past and why didn't I go back to her. I was shaking, and I said I never wanted to see or hear from that little bitch again. The woman listened to everything, not smiling now, and I could notice her make-up more and more as she got whiter beneath it. All at once she reached out and splashed a whole water-tumbler full of whiskey. She gagged on the first swallow, then drank it fast, before Dickson could get to her.
"What the hell, Stella!" he roared out. "The doctors told you, didn't they? What are you trying to do?"
"Celebrating my return to life," she said, and I never saw anybody getting drunk in such a hurry. "Celebrating. You always liked them young, didn't you Kurt? Even twenty years ago you did. Old Faithful Kurt." I didn't know whether she was crying or laughing.
"I'm leaving here," I said, when Dickson grabbed her and began steering her out of the little parlor into the bedroom.
"Damned right you are."
I was halfway down the hall when I heard him calling me. He sounded like a wild man. "Help me for God's sakes, kid! She's having a hemorrhage from the lungs! Get somebody!"
I went back, and on into the bedroom. The sheriff had forgotten all about the phone. I picked it up and called the desk. There wasn't any house physician, the clerk said, so I told him to get an ambulance, a police ambulance if that was faster. But to me it didn't seem to be of much use.
In my mind's eye I could see that bullet, traveling slowly and taking lots and lots of time.
The room was pretty awful. A chair with nylons hanging over the back of it was tipped over, and Dickson was sitting on the ruined bed, holding Stella. He still had that fool Jack London hat on and he was crooning to her like he was out of his mind. I don't know if she heard or not, but I did.
"I wouldn't lie to you now, Stella. Not at a time like this. It's only you and it's only been you, and there was nothing that happened between me and that girl. There couldn't be, and after last night you should know it, too, but I wanted the whole town to think I was as good as ever and a devil of a fellow, and that's how it was, I swear."
There was a coffee shop just around the corner from the hotel and I went in and drank two cups, black, because whiskey on an empty stomach never agrees with me and I was woozy. The waitress had heard the sirens and was curious. I told her there had been a killing, a kind of accident, and a woman had got in the line of fire. Then I went back to the phone booth.
"Helen, I want to talk to Judy," I said. "Please let me talk to Judy. Please ... please."
Paul S. Powers (1905-1971) was a writer who crossed many genres including western, horror, noir, romance, and memoir. He began his career in 1925, writing horror stories for Weird Tales. From 1928 to 1943, he wrote over 400 stories for Street & Smith's Wild West Weekly magazine, many under the pseudonym of Ward M. Stevens. He also wrote for many other pulp magazines, including Western Story Magazine, Thrilling Western, and Thrilling Wonder Stories. Powers was also the author of Doc Dillahay, a western novel based on the life of his father, which was published in 1949 by Macmillan. In 1943, Powers wrote a memoir, Pulp Writer: Twenty Years in the American Grub Street, but it was stored unpublished in an attic until 1999, when it was found in his personal papers by his granddaughter, Laurie. Pulp Writer was published in 2007 by the University of Nebraska Press.
Laurie recently discovered over two dozen unpublished short stories written by her grandfather in the years between1940 and 1952, "A Killing on Sutter Street" being one of them. She is now compiling a collection of Paul Powers short stories for publication. She keeps a blog on pulp fiction, westerns, and other interests at http://lauriepowerswildwest.blogspot.com.
DOWN, DOWN, DOWN, BURNS, BURNS, BURNS
Jedidiah Ayres
Obed slumped against the wall and gazed out the observation slot in the hull to watch the landing. The planet's manufactured glow looked good if not exactly welcoming. Three months of rim work, out in the black, with the degenerates drilling foundation—and anything with an atmosphere looked good.
He felt the effects of the toxic fumes he'd been breathing dissipate and his head beginning to clear. It was awful, but it was nothing compared to the itch quickly building to burn deep inside him. He shook a pill out of his pocket pack and popped it in his mouth. It wouldn't be enough. He needed another hit, so he slunk back to the pit where Jurst and Gimmee were still in a stupor.
Gimmee's peculiar stream of giggles turned from mirth to malice and back again without ever breaking rhythm when he saw Obed. "Ey, shiny, boy, I knew you hadn't had no enough, like." He picked up a hand drill and shook it next to his ear. "Empty gone. We pop more 'fore leave. One oi."
Obed sat down with them his posture resigned and he waited without patience, chewing the capsule he'd popped into paste and trying to manufacture enough saliva to swallow it. He drew his lips back across his teeth leaving a dull, orange film to be collected by passing his tongue over them—it felt like sandpaper. As he tried to distract himself from the need building up in his body, a thought occurred to him, not for the first time. This furlough was going to mean proximity to dangerous habits and people. Coming home for the first time since his father had .... He was going to burn up all his will power resisting the urge to do something stupid ... er.
Gimmee fumbled with the valve on a new one-eighth drill. Obed screwed up his features still trying to dry swallow the Soothie-Q. He couldn't bear the thought of taking another three-month shift with these cretins who'd certainly gamble away their whole wage in the first forty-eight hours of leave. They'd wake up withdrawing from Toxi beneath three dirty gress with dubious cards or none at all and get the brig or an extended tour of the rim for their pleasures.
"I'm better than you," he said. There was a hiss of decompression from the hand tool. Gimmee had given up on the valve and Jurst had used a soldering-pick to make a hole. The two of them giggled while they sucked down the noxious fumes.
Jurst put his whole mouth over the puncture and held it until he vomited a foamy orange mixture out hi
s nostrils. There was a dull smack as his head hit the floor. "Oh, fist!" chuckled Gimmee. "He might be dead see?"
Obed reached over and took the tool from the limp hand of Jurst. He wiped the bubbling puncture with his sleeve then took a huff. The burning stopped, his head became weightless, the pit lurched and spun away beneath him, and, from somewhere above, Gimmee cackled away.
"Yeah, you better than all us durty."
* * *
They'd been docked for an hour and most of the crew had vacated when the pit chief discovered Obed passed out on the floor surrounded by ruined hand tools and a puddle of coolant fluid. He kicked Obed in the gut, causing him to wretch his own stream of orange bile. "Congratulations, fisthead, you just spent your whole wage like on new chuck-chuck."
Obed found his feet and brained the pit chief with a wedge of heavy aluminum as soon as his back was turned. There was that impulse control issue again. Looking at the crumpled heap of his bossman on the deck, he considered his situation. Best case scenario, he was tossed and would be stranded on the surface without means, the vig still climbing, while he waited the week or two or three until the next transport came through and he could maybe hire on if they didn't care much about regulations. Worst case, the pit chief was brain damaged and the company bonded him to fill the position and extended his term. Fuck that. He hurried to the bath and unfastened the deep suit that covered him from under his chin to the tips of his toes. It was like peeling a bandage. A layer of skin came off with it. Beneath the suit he was a deeply creased white prune. If his thick, leathery derma could feel anything, it would itch.
He removed his catheter not gingerly enough and the pain brought his senses roaring back. His first clear thought was how fisting bad he smelled. He reached for and released the overhead water to do something about it. Standing under the overly-recycled shower, he pissed an orange torrent across the dingy, yellow floor, cursing at the top of his lungs while forcing the stream through his raw urethra, the exertion muting the pain some. Then he shat a bright pumpkin pie where he stood. He opened his mouth beneath the faucet and drank from the sulfurous tap. Needed to rehydrate, needed to cleanse his system.
Dressed like a person again and carrying his every possession in his pockets, he strode down the long ramp toward the docks. He popped another Soothie-Q and rattled his bottle. Just enough to get through the week if he slowed down. The pumped-in atmosphere was thin near the edges of the dome and his first breaths off the ship made him dizzy, so he walked slowly while waiting for acclimation.
Obed stood inside the tepid climosphere, ran his fingers over his face, and recoiled at the clammy feel of his skin. He found a fast-moving line for agro-fats and was standing in it when his throat spasmed and he coughed. Before he could catch himself, he'd spit on the ground—a mistake. The glob slid damningly orange and brightly toward the gutter. Fist, he thought. so much for blending in. It took weeks to work the dust out of your system. Food would turn orange in his mouth, even his eyes would be a dull, metallic citrus color until the dust was gone. In the interim, he would flush his body constantly to wash out the signs of outer-rim work, but the stinking site he'd spent months digging would live with him for weeks.
"Whatcha ya durty nulf wantin, oi?" the vendor asked.
"Your mother's card, quick-like," said Obed. "I seem to have lost it."
"Get your pretty fister outta." The vendor flashed his light stick at him. "And don't come back."
Obed leaned over the barrier and spit another colorful, gooey payload onto the vendor's window. "Keep her card. I still got your father's see?" He turned around and kicked a cab that was pulling up to the dock. The hard plastic hull sounded a thud against the steel in his boot that made him feel a little better as he trudged down the pier. Behind him a hobo in a ratty tuxish suit laughed and kicked the same cab Obed had and called out for him to wait up.
He hadn't had fresh food in three months and the thought of a breathing meal free of tammin had him ducking down a new alley hoping to find another live vendor. The streetdurt continued to hound him loudly for fraternal recognition, which, if granted, would only lead to an appeal for fats, then toxi, then a gress for the two of them, hey. Obed stopped in front of a vendor with noodle dishes, their smells stirring something close to sexual hunger in him.
The durty slowed up a few paces from Obed who still hadn't acknowledged him. "Ey, brat, just arrived like no?" He smiled revealing a randomly toothed grin and wild spiral eyes before continuing in an even louder voice. "The luck you in stumbling crost a brat like me, ey?" The vendor and other customers were taking notice of the uncouth toxed-out durty and his pal with the after-wave jacket and hair slicked back in the fashion offworlders mistook for cosmopolitan. But Obed continued to pretend that the bum didn't exist and fixed his eyes on the fluttery menu floating over the vendor's head. The woman in front of him turned to look at the durty and Obed, made a face like she'd smelled a turd, and quickly turned forward again. A moment later, she stepped out of line and walked away without ordering, leaving Obed to deal with the vendor.
"Six."
The vendor didn't make to fill the order. "You got bead? You'd better cause just you being here has already cost me and I got quota to make." Obed pulled up his sleeve and offered the vendor a swab. The man swiped his patch and sneered. "Chock fulla company credits, fisten worthless here, this is a respectable enterprise, all accredited like." He indicated the license imprinted under his logo. "Go find a company suck-suck."
Seeing an opportunity to show his commitment to Obed, the durty stepped up and spit on the ground in protest. "Lousy, fisten confederate bitch. Take my brat's bead or fist your uncle."
The vendor looked at Obed. "Outta now or I'll summon—"
"The what? Tin? Go ahead. I'm legal," he bluffed.
The vendor sneered. "Nah see, I'm bonded with the Nans. You know Cleo?" He smiled triumphantly. The Nans trumped all. "Outta."
Obed turned to leave and the durty fell into step with him, like they were butthole brats. He muttered for the both of them. "The Nans, I'd like to see the cunt just try." Obed clapped his unwanted compadre on the back in what looked like a companionable gesture, but he used the purchase to steer the bum head first into a low-hanging arch. The streetdurt dropped without ceremony and Obed walked on, fixing for a company suck-suck.
He was vaguely aware of the attention his minor confrontations had brought him and picked up his pace ever so slightly hoping to avoid any professional Tin. A left turn toward the city center presented him the cold glow of a vending machine and he stepped up, presented his arm to the eye, and hoped to god that whatever he got back didn't contain tammin.
The machine whirred and dropped a plastic sock into the receptacle. He slit the seal and squeezed gently from the bottom of the tube, gagged on the overpowering coppery flavor of the spice, and hurled the meal against a wall. Fuck. He'd rather go hungry than suck down a tammin-contaminated nutri-pack ever again.
A tap on his shoulder sent him spinning around, get fisted on his lips, but the sight of the pretty, sophisticated woman studying him without contempt caught him off guard. He had no hat, but tipped an imaginary brim at her. Gress or not, he didn't get smiled at much. He started to give her one of his own, but remembering his orange teeth at the last moment, pursed his lips into a grimace.
"Just touched down?" she asked rhetorically. "Looking for a real meal?"
Obed glanced around, but didn't spot anyone escorting her. "Where's your pimp?"
"Not here," she said. "I'd like to talk to you. I'll buy you a meal."
Obed wondered, Do I even care what she wants to talk about?
* * *
She bought their meals from the same vendor he'd just seen. She must have witnessed the whole transaction because she ordered exactly what he'd been wanting and one for herself without ever asking. They took their fats across the street, and she gave him a moment to enjoy his food before speaking. "Well?" the gress prompted.
Obed savored a
fatty noodle between his lips. "You want my thanks? Where's the bank?"
"You're welcome, then. Come with me unless you like eating in this din." She indicated the crowded pier, then turned on her well-rounded heel and led him to a waiting cab. Obed hesitated a second for show and then jumped inside with her.
The seal hissed and he was aware of his own smell again. He realized that the jilo he'd doused himself with was overpowering as the neutralizer kicked on, misting delicately. The gress leaned over the console and waved her wrist. The cab rocked gently and hummed away on the magnetic track. "Now, why is it offworlders always hold the tammin?"
"Look, just because you lubed the meal, doesn't oblige me to entertain you."
She sat back and slurped delicately on a noodle. "I didn't think you'd be so sensitive, sorry."
He studied her face for hints of disingenuousness, but found none. "All the vacuum packed meals are loaded with it. Preservative. Get sick of it after a day."
"And how long was your last stretch?"
"Three months."
She let out an appreciative whistle. "How long have you worked offworld?"
He shrugged. "Two years." He wasn't going back. At least not with the same crew, but if he hired on again quick like somewhere else. "Two more to go."
"Till what?"
"Till I quit. Till I'm all paid off. Same story as most." He took an angry mouthful. It was savory and creamy without a hint of tammin and took the edge off his mood. "Of course, I'm always open to new opportunities. Where we go now?"
"Continental."
"A hotel? Look, you wanna have an unlicensed tristyfuck, my experience is cabs do fine. I'm not lubing any hotel."
She smiled broadly. "I am."
BEAT to a PULP: Hardboiled 2 Page 5
