Chariot - [Millennium Quartet 03]

by Charles L. Grant

T

  he moment Trey woke up, he knew the day was going to be a bad one. A disaster. The kind of disaster that strongly suggested he not bother to get up, just stay in bed and wait until tomorrow, when things had to get better, they sure couldn’t get any worse.

  It didn’t take much effort to run down the reasons.

  Sometime during the night, the air conditioner had evidently decided to take a few hours off. The unit hadn’t clicked on when the temperature rose above the thermostat setting, and the house bordered on being uncomfortably warm.

  Sometime during the night he had gotten up, undressed, and by the evidence of the bottles lined up on the floor beside the bed, he had finished all the beer in the fridge. He vaguely remembered heading for the bathroom a few times; he didn’t remember taking off his clothes at all.

  Sometime during the night, someone had exchanged his brain for a pile driver that pounded now in his head, a solid regular pounding that matched the rhythm of his heart. He groaned and rolled onto his side, pulling the thin blanket up over his shoulder, over his head, while he tried to find a way to burrow through the pillow so the agony of sunlight leaking around the blinds wouldn’t take his eyes out.

  Sometime during the night, the wind had come up, a hard steady blow that had moaned around the house, promising no one would be able to go outside without getting a mouthful of grit, eyes stinging with sand.

  Sometime during the night, nightmares had tried to edge their way into his dreams, succeeding just long enough that he didn’t get much real sleep and could still feel the breath-holding approach of terrors that were never quite made whole.

  He felt like hell, and he felt like a jerk.

  The last time he had lost such a battle with his drinking was the day he learned of his sister’s murder, and he had realized that he was, at last, without family. Alone. Too old, maybe, to be called an orphan, but he had suspected the awful empty feeling was pretty damn close.

  This time . . .

  He threw off the blanket and struggled up to sit on the edge of the mattress, shoulders hunched, head down. Moaning, groaning, gingerly massaging his temples in case the gods were listening and needed to know how much agony he was in so they could toss a little pity his way. .

  Or a new head.

  But why should they?

  Feeling like hell was one thing; feeling like a jerk was rubbing salt into the wound.

  He deserved it, though; no question but that he deserved it.

  His mother, when questioned about how and when to bluff, had explained that bluffing, no matter how you looked at it, was a simple matter of lying. The better liar you were, the better bluffer you were. All gamblers were liars to one degree or another, and if they had any innate talent at all, they eventually become damn good liars indeed. The hard part, she cautioned, was recognizing how good a liar the other guy was.

  The Harps were damn good.

  They had run some kind of weird scam on him, and he hadn’t seen it coming. First one, then the other. Not a tandem, but a left jab, a right hook. A fast ball, a Curve. Run from one into the waiting, practiced arms of the other, and the next thing you know, you can’t be sure of anything anymore. Off balance. Floundering. Ready for the final push.

  By the time he had gulped some aspirin down with tepid water and had made himself the most bland breakfast he could—butterless toast and milkless cereal—he figured patience was the key here. Patience, until his head stopped exploding and he could think straight; patience, while he waited for them to make their next move.

  The only thing that was clear—or as clear as things could get, considering how he felt—was that someone wanted him out of the city. The how and why and wherefore would have to wait until he didn’t feel so much like dying just to find a little comfort.

  Meanwhile, he whacked the side of the thermostat with the butt of a screwdriver to get it working again, then flopped onto the couch, arm draped over his eyes, and without planning it, fell asleep.

  * * * *

  There were no dreams, but he whimpered once and rolled over to face the back of the couch, curled as tightly as possible on the narrow cushions.

  * * * *

  There were no dreams, but the part of him that knew he was sleeping wished there was at last a little color in the dark.

  * * * *

  When he woke, it was with a grunt, as if someone had poked him in the stomach. Blearily he sat up, rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, and squinted at the front window, trying to gauge the time by the light around the edges. Still daylight, and he praised himself sarcastically for such a brilliant observation, rubbed his eyes again, and scratched vigorously through his hair to chase the last of the sleep away. Although he felt a stir of hunger, he decided to behave as if this were a normal Saturday, and it was morning, not halfway to whenever.

  Shower and shave; strip the bedclothes and replace them with clean sheets; wash the few dishes in the sink; avoid the radio like the plague because it was still unplugged and he still remembered; pick up here and there, and a glance in the bathroom hamper to remind himself that tomorrow he’d have to spend some quality soap time at the coin laundry before his clothes got up and walked away.

  Taking his time in case his head decided to get back into construction.

  Checking the refrigerator and wincing when he saw all the empty spaces where the beer had been, then grabbing the last can of soda and, with an unconscious deep breath for courage, walking to the front door and pulling it open.

  “Sweet. . .Jesus!” he yelped, and jerked his face away from the sunlight, fumbling behind him to snatch up his sunglasses and put them on with one slightly trembling hand before stepping onto the porch and lowering himself, carefully, unsteadily, into the white wood lawn chair that badly needed a fresh coat of paint and something to brace its back legs.

  The shadow of the house had already begun to slip toward the street, the day’s heat waning. He reckoned it sometime between five and six, but fetching his watch would be cheating. Instead he looked up the street to see who had already left for work, who was waiting for the last minute.

  He frowned.

  Two doors up, the front bumper and grill of Cable’s Oldsmobile poked out from under their carport. That’s wrong, he thought. Even if Cable delayed a bit, Steph would be out on the porch, pacing, practicing a step or stride while she fretted. Something’s wrong.

  Speculation was forestalled when he heard a breathless tuneless whistling and looked to his left, just as Hicaya strolled up the street from the mailbox row. He wore shorts, the glove, and a nylon-net T-shirt. And from the looks of it, he was in no hurry to change into his penguin suit and get down to the Strip.

  “Hey,” he said as the man walked by the house.

  Rick squinted over into the sun. “That you, Trey?”

  “I think so. Most of me, anyway. I don’t think my head has made up its mind.”

  Hicaya stuffed a couple of envelopes into his hip pocket, no response to the feeble joke. “Hard times last night, huh?”

  He nodded. “How come you’re not dressed?”

  The man shrugged. “Ain’t going in.”

  “A Saturday night, you’re not going in?”

  Another shrug, and he started walking again, abruptly veered toward the house, breaking through the invisible hedge. “You know,” he said, keeping his voice low and angry, “those fatheads at the hospital down there, down in Boulder, they wanted to . . .” He gestured vaguely with his gloved hand. “Plastic shit, you know what I mean? Replace it with plastic shit filled with wires and shit.”

  Trey didn’t quite know what to say. “You mean they wanted to—”

  Hicaya nodded sharply, made a chopping motion with his good hand. “Bastards. Said it’d be good for my mental health. Showed me pictures and everything.”

  Trey shuddered sympathy at the image, unable to keep from glancing at his own hands. “Damn.” He shuddered again. “So what are you going to do?”

  Hicaya straig
htened, scowling. “You have to ask?” He sounded insulted. “No damn doctor’s gonna take me apart, stitch me back together like some kind of monster, you know? I told them to shove it.” An emphatic nod, and he headed back to the street. “Got other plans, loafer,” he said over his shoulder. “Got other plans.”

  “Like what?” Trey called after him, ignoring the loafer crack, but Hicaya didn’t answer. He patted at his hair, touched his rump to be sure the mail was still there, and walked on, slapping lightly at the hood of Cable’s car as it drove past at a crawl. Stephanie was behind the wheel, and she stopped when she spotted Trey.

  “Hey,” she said, smiling broadly, teeth and lips gleaming.

  “Hey yourself.”

  “You going to the casinos tonight?”

  He hesitated, wondering, before saying, “I don’t think so, kid.”

  “Oh,” with the slightest hint of disappointment.

  “Maybe I’ll come see you instead.”

  Her laugh was quick, and coy. “You’ll need a telescope, then.”

  An eyebrow went up, and he leaned forward, forearms on his thighs. “What? You mean you’re not going to work? On a Saturday?” He gestured at the car. “I thought—”

  She shook her head. “Just heading for the store, that’s all. I forgot a couple of things yesterday.” The smile became grim. “Cable and I have plans for tonight.” She looked back toward her house. “He was let go the other night, Trey.” The little girl voice deepened. “Some asshole complained about his . . . you know . . . and they let him go.”

  “Damn, I’m sorry.”

  The car began to coast as she faced forward. “I’m not,” she said flatly. “Now he’ll have to listen to me for a change.”

  Again he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say, but her attitude, her posture, made the decision easy— he didn’t say anything. He watched until she turned the corner onto the tarmac, wincing when she floored it and the Olds fishtailed a little, nearly sideswiping the mailboxes. When the engine’s roar faded, he scratched briefly at his cheek, wondering what had gotten into everybody.

  He stiffened for a moment.

  No.

  Good God, no, not today, too.

  Fearfully he looked back at the road, half expecting to see Harp and Beatrice there, and was immensely, almost comically relieved when he saw nothing but the dying cloud of dust Stephanie had left behind.

  You’re doing it again, pal, he warned as he set the soda down beside the chair; you’re spooking yourself.

  He reached to his breast pocket for a cigarette, realized he’d left the pack inside, and sighed loudly. Go in? Be strong and wait? “Screw it.” He went in, found an unopened pack on the nightstand, and wandered out again.

  And stopped.

  Starshine was in his chair, draining the can, legs stretched out. Feet bare. Ponytail draped over her shoulder. She let out a monstrous belch when she finished, and Moonbow, on the floor beside her, giggled behind both hands.

  “That,” he said, “is disgusting.”

  “Where were you?” Moonbow demanded petulantly. “We knocked, but you wouldn’t let us in.”

  “He was drunk,” her sister said without inflection.

  Moonbow punched her arm. “Was not.”

  “I was tired,” he told them, moving to the steps, sitting on the slab with his legs crossed, back against the post. “I had a long day.”

  He could see their faces now, and neither seemed very happy. Starshine’s brow was creased above her sunglasses; and Moonbow looked as if she’d lost her best friend. They were dressed the same, in the same colors, as if they were canary twins—glossy yellow shorts and yellow tops. That’s when he knew there was definitely something up, because Starshine would rather die than have to dress like her sister. Their skin gleamed, as if fresh from a hard bath, and their ponytails had been recently brushed, no wind or racing tangles.

  “You guys going out?”

  Starshine didn’t answer, just glared at the soda can.

  Moonbow scooted up a bit so she could see around her sister’s legs. “You hear about Roger?”

  He shook his head, but he was pretty sure he didn’t want to know and was going to hear it anyway.

  “He was arrested yesterday.”

  He looked quickly up the street, back at the girls, and pulled off his sunglasses. “He was what? Arrested?”

  She nodded, bouncing with the news and trying hard to be cool. “He beat up his boss. In his bare feet.”

  “Almost killed him,” Starshine said, still studying the can.

  “He was drunk when they found him.”

  “He wasn’t drunk when he did it, though.”

  “There was blood all over the place.”

  “It took ten people to put him down.”

  Moonbow pushed her sister’s knee. “No, it didn’t, dope.”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  “Well, I was there, too, and I didn’t hear it.”

  “Then you weren’t listening.”

  “I was too listening. I heard—”

  “Hold it!” Trey said loudly.

  The girls jumped as if they’d forgotten he was there, and Starshine finally couldn’t help an evil grin. “They brought him home last night. Late. Momma had to help. The jerk could barely stand up.”

  Trey lifted a palm to shut her up, turned the palm up in silent question—would one of you mind telling me what’s going on?

  They looked at each other, and Moonbow slumped, began picking at her knees.

  “Roger,” Starshine said, making the name sound like a bad taste in her mouth, “hit his boss over the head with something, okay? I don’t know what it was.”

  “Clipboard,” Moonshine whispered.

  “Yeah. A clipboard. I don’t know why, but he did. A bunch of kids saw it. It was right outside Roger’s class. When the cops came, he was sitting at his desk, barefoot, drinking right out of a bottle.” Finally she put the can aside and looked straight at him. “He didn’t fight or nothing. They took him away, and arrested him.” She waved impatiently. “Other way around. But they took him away.”

  “What about his boss?”

  “Went to the hospital. Nineteen dozen stitches in his head.”

  “Twenty,” Moonbow whispered.

  “Yeah. Okay. Like twenty, maybe, something like that.”

  He frowned, stopped frowning, frowned again and said, “This is Roger Freneau we’re talking about here, right? Professor Roger Freneau? Rog?” He pointed. “Rog who lives up there? That Rog?”

  They nodded.

  “And . . . and he was let go? The cops brought him home last night?”

  They nodded again.

  He leaned back and gave them a crooked smile. “This is a joke, right?”

  They shook their heads.

  “It’s got to be a joke, guys, because if he did what you say he did, they wouldn’t let him out. That’s like ... I don’t know, attempted murder or something.”

  “With a clipboard?” Moonbow asked.

  He couldn’t help it; he started to laugh. The idea that one of the world’s biggest self-pitying klutzes had beaned his boss with a clipboard, then walked, was too much. It was the best, weirdest thing he’d heard in ages, a classic that cried out for dramatic embellishment each time it was told.

  “How...” He put a hand to his throat and swallowed until the laughter stopped. “How did he get out?”

  “Now that’s the weird part,” Starshine said, nodding, knees bobbing, feet jiggling. “His boss, I don’t know what his name is, what I heard was, his boss didn’t do whatever he’s supposed to do.”

  “Press charges,” Trey said.

  “Yeah,” Moonbow said. “He didn’t do that.”

  “Clobbered in front of witnesses, twenty stitches, and he didn’t... ?”

  The girls said it in unison: “Nope.”

  “It still doesn’t make sense. The cops—”

  “Some judge let him go,” Starshine said, dis
gust creeping back into her voice. “It was like, I don’t know, bail or something.”

  “Yeah,” her sister said, nodding. “There was bail, and somebody gave the money to somebody, and the cops brought him home because he was too drunk to walk. Or ride, I mean. By himself, I mean.”

  “Well, well,” Trey said. “The man has friends in high places, it looks like.” Then he saw their expressions, and knew there was something more. “What? You know who it was?”