Job knew she had five children to feed and a second job that would keep her working until midnight. He watched to make sure that no one was trailing her, then fell into step alongside and began to push her cart.
She turned to nod thanks. "You were not there today." She spoke in Mandarin, knowing that Job was at home in it. "But I saw you drive by in the truck. I think it was as well that you did not stop."
" 'The cautious seldom err.' "Job waited for her smile at his use of the Confucian proverb that she had once quoted to him, then went on, "I saw the signs of excitement. What happened?"
"Your friend the blackbearded one was taken."
Your friend. So much for the attempt to distance himself from Singh. "Who took him, and why?"
"I do not know. No one knows, except that it was the government. But there was screaming and shouting and beating, and he did not go easily. They sought you also. No one knew where you were."
The decision to extend the foraging trip to a second day had been made on the spur of the moment. Job shivered when he thought how close he had come to being trapped in his doorway when they arrived for Alan Singh.
"I said nothing when I saw you in the truck," went on Missie Chang. "They made big speeches, and told us that it was our duty to the country to tell them anything we knew. But as our ancient friend also says 'Fine words and an insinuating appearance are seldom associated with true virtue.' "
They had reached the corner where Job normally turned off to go home.
Except that tonight he dared not do it. And if he was being hunted, he should not be seen with Chang.
He released his hold on the cart. "Thank you, Missie. I will not forget what you did for me."
She nodded quietly and trudged off west. He watched her out of sight, then eyed the setting sun. It would be light for less than one more hour. The dark streets of the city were dangerous, and usually he avoided them.
But tonight was not usual. He walked to an old shelter for a long-gone bus route and sat down to wait.
Dangerous or not, tonight he needed darkness.
* * *
There were two ways to the garage of Sammy's house: through the basement, or down the alley at the back and in through the old wooden doors. They both had dangers too big for Job to live with. He started towards the front of the house, hesitated, and turned back. Before he could reach the red door he would be completely exposed, on a street with no bolt holes. And anyone could be inside the house.
He went along the side street that led to the alley, and halted before he was halfway there. This was even worse. The alley didn't even have two entrances.
But he had to go home.
Didn't he?
Job sat on the curb in the darkness and rested his head on his folded arms. If "home" meant possible capture, and a return to Cloak House, did he have to go there?
He stood up and set off through the streets for Bracewell Mansion. When he got there he did not go in. He lurked in the shadows and waited.
The evening wore on. Job was tired and hungry, but he had no thought of leaving. When after three hours the familiar stooped figure of Professor Buckler came creaking down the steps, Job waited until he could move to place himself between the professor and Bracewell Mansion.
He tiptoed forward until he was almost on Buckler's heels.
"Professor."
No one more than twenty feet away would hear that hiss. But Buckler certainly heard it.
And knew who it was. He jerked forward as though Job were a cobra at his heels.
"What do you want?" His back was rigid.
"I want a favor."
"I can't give you one. If Miss Magnolia finds out I've been talking to you, or even seen you—"
"One small favor, with no risk to you. And then I swear I'll never come here again, or try to reach you. Ever."
Buckler turned warily and stood looking down at Job's skinny figure. "What do you want?"
"When you brought me to Bracewell Mansion, you sent me on my first errand, to Sammy's house. Remember?"
"Naturally. As you well know, my memory is excellent." The professor was recovering a little of his poise.
"When I got back, you told Miss Magnolia that you had checked with Sammy, and that I had followed your instructions exactly. But I came back so quickly, you couldn't have met with Sammy. So although I've never seen a telephone in her house, and I've never heard one ring, there must be one. And you must have a way of calling her when you want to, from Bracewell Mansion."
"What if we do?"
"I want you to call Sammy for me. Ask if everything is normal there, and ask if it's safe for me to go back to the garage."
Buckler was stooping, staring into Job's face. "That's all you want? Just the phone call, and that question?"
"Just that, and I'll go."
"Wait here." The professor took a couple of paces towards the mansion, then turned back to Job. "If I'm not here in ten minutes, it means there's a problem. Don't come inside, whatever you do."
"I won't. But I'll stay all night long if I have to."
Buckler nodded. He went up the stairs, turning at the top to make sure that Job was not following. Job nodded to reassure him.
In less than five minutes the stooped form was back, hurrying down the stone steps as fast as Job had ever seen him move. "Sammy's there," he said. "And she thought you were there, too. Someone has been banging around in the garage for the past hour. When I called she was thinking of going down there and telling you not to make so much noise. Now she's going to lock off the basement access. Who is it, Job?"
"I'm not sure, but I think—"
"No." Buckler held his hands out to ward off words. "Don't tell me. The less I know about this, the happier I'll be. Remember what you promised. I did what you asked me. Now go."
"I'm going." Job turned and began to walk away into the darkness. When he had gone ten steps he spoke over his shoulder. "I won't pester you any more, Professor, but I want you to know one thing. I appreciate what you did for me tonight, and I appreciate what you did when you first brought me to Bracewell Mansion. If there's ever anything you want, and you know how to reach me, just ask."
He turned his head. It must have been the wrong thing to say. Professor Buckler was standing motionless, face turned sideways and down as though he had been struck. He muttered something under his breath and hurried away along the sidewalk.
As soon as the professor was out of sight Job stopped walking.
Where was he going? It could not be to Bracewell Mansion, or Sammy's house, or to his old vending stall. In a few hours he had become a true street basura, part of the homeless human rubbish that shared the city with the wild dogs and cats and rats.
And it was all his own fault. He had allowed himself to dabble in matters of no importance, just to satisfy his curiosity.
If he could learn that one lesson from this experience, he would be ahead. And tomorrow he would be ready to start over. From scratch.
Except that it didn't have to be from scratch! Job remembered the goods waiting for him at the truck drop-off point. At least four cartloads, probably more. He didn't have a cart—that was in Sammy's garage—but he had taken most of his valuables with him for his trading trip to the country, and he had a fair amount left. More than enough for a new cart.
But his new home must be far from here. In the city, surely, because that's what he knew, yet far enough away that none of his old acquaintances was in a position to see him and point him out.
Job strolled through the warm night, making his plans. Leaving Sammy's house and the final meeting with Professor Buckler was like severing another umbilical. He had learned a lot in the past half year. He could survive on the streets. And he was determined to do so. As determined as Skip Tolson had been to make it all the way through Cloak House.
But he must remember the rule, the Golden Rule, the only rule. He had forgotten it for a little while, and it had almost been his downfall.
He chante
d it to himself as he walked. Don't get caught again. Never, never, never.
Chapter Ten
Le coeur a ses raisons . . .
Don't get caught again.
If Job could have remained at ten and a half forever, more than likely he would have followed his Golden Rule and lived uncaptured in the city for the rest of his life. But while weakness and malnutrition may delay puberty, they do not prevent it. Between fourteen and fifteen Job added five inches to his height and matured sexually. And with those physical changes came emotional ones.
Their effects were not obvious at once. Job continued life according to the rigid procedures he had adopted after leaving Sammy's house.
Stay with what you know. He had to move from the area near Bracewell Mansion to a place where he was unknown, so some change was inevitable. But he should stay within the city, where he knew the geography and understood the languages and customs.
First he made a deal with the truck driver. He could leave his country purchases there as long as he liked for a tiny storage fee. Then he started to wander. Finally he chose an area south of the Mall Compound, not far from the river. He had not been there since his shopping trips with Mister Bones, but unless things had changed a lot the mile-long forbidden rectangle of the Compound would serve as a barrier. People who lived to the north rarely went around to the south side.
Don't live anywhere with only one entrance. The place he picked out was on the ground floor of an old factory. There were four doors to the rambling building, each leading to a different street, and upstairs the sealed door that led to an outside fire escape could be broken open in an emergency. The Brazilian family who occupied the rest of the ground floor were the "owners," who kept squatters out and would sell Job meals if he wanted them and oil for the stove. They extolled the virtues of the place and quoted a price. He pointed out that there was no heat and no running water, and made them a counteroffer.
But the oil stove keeps the room warm, and there is a faucet in the alley, just outside the back entrance . . .
Sure. But in the middle of winter, when the faucet freezes . . .
After fifteen minutes of happy haggling in Portuguese, the owners produced a bottle of wine to seal the deal. Job tried a glass and nearly choked. Sammy was right, alcohol was worse than brain-burner.
He bought a small cart and spent four days transferring his goods from storage to his new home. He took the long way round, heading far north and east before he came south again. Those journeys confirmed his first impression. His new home was in an area even more run down than the one he was used to. It sat at the edge of one of the city's big red-light districts, but one that catered to the poor. There was nothing with the grandeur, good-looking girls, and upscale clientele of Bracewell Mansion. However, there was plenty of business. And it was needed. Any money that Job's landlords and neighbors possessed came somehow spilling out from the bordellos, a by-product of prostitution.
Don't meet more people than you have to. A street vendor had to interact with strangers, it was the nature of the business. But Job could set up his stand right outside the factory where he lived. He no longer roamed the streets, by day or night. His monthly foraging expeditions to the country were a necessity, but the people there hated or despised the city and the government. He felt safer there than anywhere, and sometimes thought he should leave the city. But if he did, how would he survive? He lacked the skills and strength to be a farmer.
Job settled in and settled down. Life was good. He had food, a place to live, a job that he understood. It produced more than enough money for his simple needs. For entertainment he had reading. Once a week he went to the area's magazine vendor, bought a copy of each polyglot news-sheet on the stand, and pored over them when it was quiet at his stall. If that ever became boring he had the passing drama of the streets. He saw argument, murder, lovemaking, despair, greed, sickness and cruelty. He watched them all with interest, but always as a part of the audience, standing apart and never becoming involved in the action. As time went by he understood better the emotions and motives that drove the players. But they were not his emotions.
By the time he was eighteen he had reached his full height, a skinny, alert six-footer who believed that he had seen everything and was touched by nothing.
He had no friends. He felt no need for them. Since Laga's death, he had never had friends. He would have sworn, quite honestly, that he needed nothing. Until one October morning, three months before his nineteenth birthday, when he woke with a throbbing pain in his jaw and a left cheek so swollen that his eye could not open.
The Brazilian wife took one look at him and crowed with satisfaction. "Teeth! I knew with those teeth you would have problems one day. There is only one man in this whole town I would trust." She gave him an old bill, with an address scribbled on it. "Say that I sent you."
It was pelting with rain, but the torment was too bad to bear. Job took a waterproof coat and hood and left at once, hurrying along through deserted streets. He found that the address was right in the middle of the red-light district.
"Wisdom tooth," said the dentist. He was a frowning forty-year-old Mexican with monstrous, black-haired forearms. "Impacted, and abscessed. You're lucky you found me on a quiet day. No point in messing about. It has to go. I'm going to give you a shot, but this may still hurt."
It did. Ninety minutes later, Job was helped pale and groggy from the chair. He put on his coat and hat, went to the doorway, and stood there.
"You all right?" The dentist held up the bloodied and fanged wisdom tooth for Job to admire it. "You're still feeling the anesthetic. Want to sit down for a while?"
Job shook his head. He didn't want to sit down for a while. He wanted to lie down for a week. He went out into the sodden street.
Although it was not yet midday a few of the hookers were already on the streets. They were overpainted and underdressed, making sure that no one could miss the message. He walked slowly through them, ignoring their come-ons. Once they took a good look at him they didn't try very hard.
He was a couple of blocks from the edge of the bordello district when dizziness and nausea caught him. He lurched away from the gutter and leaned his head against the side of a house. With his open hands flat on the wall he struggled to remain upright. As the world steadied, he closed his eyes.
When he opened them he found that he was standing just a foot from a ground floor window. He could see in. And someone in there was gazing right out at him. Even in his dazed condition he realized that she was very different from the puta women he had just passed.
She wore little makeup, delicately applied. Her figure seemed to be excellent, but it was concealed by clothes that were sedate, almost prim, with a gray skirt that ended below the knee and a high-collared blue blouse. The blouse material was fine and unfamiliar, and threw off every gleam of light. Her hair was styled as he had never seen hair, straight and dark and skirting a broad forehead to end at mid-cheek. Her skin was that of a thirty-year-old; but her gray eyes had the clarity of a young child's.
She was opening the window, sliding it up in its wooden frame. "Are you all right?"
The voice held the same contradiction, deep as a woman's, with a childlike intonation.
"Not too good." The words came out as a mumble. Job pointed to his jaw. "Tooth. Just out."
"You have to sit down." The woman disappeared, and a moment later the door of the house opened. She came into the street, helped Job inside, and sat him on a little chair near the entrance where he could catch the breeze from the street. "You're not Matt, are you, the one that Daniello said would come to see me?"
He shook his head. "I am not Matt." As the anesthetic began to wear off, the left side of his face was sending pulses of pain up to the top of his skull. But at her last words, his muddled brain began to work.
It was English that she was speaking, standard English. But what was her accent? It was nothing he had heard before. Its strangeness was totally different from the
Texokie twang he had learned from Alan Singh. The woman's vowels were broad and open-mouthed, while her consonants were clipped and precise. He had already decided that she could not be one of the standard city hookers. Her voice confirmed it. But if she was not, then what was she? All the houses in this street were for the business. Someone's wife, then, or a sister?
She went to bring him a glass of cold water. He sipped it one-sided, keeping it away from the left side of his mouth. She was staring at him, her head on one side.
"It's not just a tooth, is it?" she said. "You have a swelling, but there's something wrong with your chin, too." And then, with no pause. "My name is Stella Michelson. I am visiting my cousin. What's your name?"
"I was born with my chin like this." Job did not give his name. He never gave his name, not to anyone. But the sound of her voice produced a flash of memory. He had heard that tone during his last days at Cloak House. The woman spoke almost as the dimmies spoke, flat and factual. And she was not wary of a stranger, as any woman in this part of the city would be wary. He stared again at the calm eyes. "What do you mean, you are visiting?"
"The Capitol, and the Mall Compound. This is my first time."
"But where do you come from? And why did you come here?"
She seemed to find nothing odd in his questioning. In twenty minutes Job knew more about Stella Michelson than anyone in the whole world knew about him. She was from the far northeast, hundreds of miles away. This morning she had flown to the airport just across the river and was supposed to be picked up there and go to the Mall Compound. But there had been a hitch. The woman who was supposed to accompany her had not been on the airplane. Her luggage had been collected and taken to the Mall Compound, but her cousin had not met her. Instead, Daniello had found her wandering the airport and brought her here. He had promised to go to the Mall Compound later, and come back with her cousin.
"Who is your cousin?" Job was beginning to have suspicions about Daniello.
"Reginald. Reginald Brook."
"Does he live here?"
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