by Steven Brust
Jamie was the first one after her, with Tom right on his heels, then me, then Rose. What Rose or I thought we were going to do, I don’t know. There wasn’t anyone on the street, except one grey sedan with the Muni insignia on the door.
The bakery was small and ugly, with exterior brick up to three feet, then plate-glass windows perhaps four feet long and three feet wide, separated by thin metal strips. The windows displayed loaves of bread and pastries. All of these windows were broken. Most of the pastries were ruined. As we came out, Libby, Tom, and Jamie fired.
Justin and Claude emerged and began running down the street, I guess deciding that the bakery was a poor place to have a gunfight, after all. Jamie and Libby shot at them and missed, and we all set off. I wondered what I thought I was going to do if we caught them. It was growing dark, and I wondered if that would make a difference.
Claude, in front, reached the door of Le Bureau Théâtral du Nouveau Québec. It occurred to me that, once inside, they would know the place really well, and that they might have reinforcements waiting. I guess the same thoughts occurred to the others, because they put on a burst of speed and we were right behind them in a narrow hallway, with no possibility of cover for anyone. If they stopped, I think they could have had us all then, but instead they continued past a receptionist’s desk to what looked like a copying center, with several machines and a sturdy bookcase or two. There was a window in the back, and at first I thought they’d go through it and keep running, but instead they stopped below it and turned to face us, like boars at bay. I was just outside the room, Rose was behind me, Libby and Jamie and Tom were almost in the door.
Squat, curly-haired Claude fired a shot at Jamie, and tall, long-haired Jamie went down behind a copier. I couldn’t tell at the time if he had ducked or been shot, and neither could Claude, who kept shooting into the machine, hoping to pierce it and hit him. Claude’s pistol was small, but in that room seemed much louder than the bigger weapons had in Feng’s. My ears hurt.
Justin had a machine pistol, but Tom moved too quickly. He rolled behind a bookcase, came up, fired several times. He missed, but I saw where the bullets hit near Justin’s head. Justin ducked down. The .45 was very loud, as well.
Libby fired at Justin, and, well, for noisemakers, you’ll have to put the .44 automag up there with Spinal Tap and 747s. She fired at Claude, and I stayed down and figured that ear damage was the least danger I was in. She kept alternating shots at Justin, who was behind a machine, and Claude, who was behind the counter. There was a lull while she reloaded, during which Justin stood and went crashing out the window. Tom leapt through the window after him, .45 flailing about in his hand.
I guess this was too good a chance for Claude to pass up, because he stood suddenly and carefully aimed for Tom’s back. A sick feeling hit my stomach, and I yelled and so did Rose, but we needn’t have bothered. Jamie stood up from behind the machine and fired. Claude spun and slammed against the wall, looking very surprised, and I saw an exit wound in front of his shirt, just like Rich’s, and I was glad.
Claude was working on raising his pistol when I heard the hammer fall on Jamie’s revolver. It was empty. Claude’s face lit up. There was another gut-wrenching frozen moment, but then there was another ear-shattering explosion as Libby put a shot into Claude’s stomach. Claude dropped the pistol and crumpled to the ground, and now the look on his face wasn’t surprise, it was pain, and I thought of Rich again and I liked that, too. Libby fired again, then again, then kept putting bullets into his body until her gun was empty. I turned away before this point.
I started to shake in the deafening silence. “Let’s get back to Feng’s,” said Jamie after a moment. I realized that I was having some trouble hearing him for the ringing in my ears. His face was slack and he looked very tired. Libby didn’t answer; there was an expression on her face that I couldn’t read.
Rose said, “What about Tommy?”
“I don’t think he’ll come back here,” I said. “Let’s just get back to Feng’s where it’s—well, safer.”
Jamie and Rose and I left the office. I heard Libby’s footsteps behind us as we reached the door and stepped out onto the street. We turned up toward Feng’s in the growing twilight, and stopped cold.
Sergeant Iverness stood in a crouch, his pistol held in both hands and pointed at Jamie. Christian stood easily in an ankle-length leather coat, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, a pump-action shotgun pointing loosely at Libby. I was glad Tom, at least, wasn’t around, and I hoped he’d be all right.
“Toss your guns to the side,” said Iverness crisply. His voice came as through a distance due to the ringing in my ears, and this added to the sense of unreality about the entire scene.
Jamie sighed and let his gun drop. I heard the sound of Libby’s dropping as well. What the hell, they were empty, anyway. Christian moved the shotgun to cover Rose, who had her hands jammed into her jacket pocket. The rest of us stood with our hands well away from our bodies.
Iverness said, “Where’s the skinny guy?”
I shrugged. He studied me for a moment, then turned to Christian and nodded. “Let’s get it done,” he said, again as from far away. I knew it couldn’t be real.
Christian swung his shotgun until it was pointing at Libby again. Then Iverness faced me and pointed his pistol dead at my chest, and I saw his face tighten just a little, and I could actually see, or imagined I could see, his finger squeezing the trigger.
I closed my eyes, just to show how brave I am, and waited for the bullet. Next to me, Jamie had time to say, quite clearly and distinctly, “Well, shit,” then I heard the sound of a shotgun, twice in quick succession, and I winced and waited for the impact.
And waited.
Presently I looked. Iverness lay on the street, and I averted my eyes from what was left of his face. Christian’s shotgun still pointed at him. He pumped another round into the chamber, walked over to the body, and touched it with his foot. I think he was checking to make sure he was dead, but I averted my eyes once more.
None of us moved; none of us spoke. We stood there in the spreading darkness and looked at one another and at Christian, who returned our looks from slitted eyes.
Rose said, “Perhaps we should go inside now.”
“Good idea,” I said. “And you can put that thing away anytime.”
“What? Oh, this.” She put the derringer back in her pocket. “I never got to shoot it, anyway,” she said. “Christian shot first.”
“I noticed that,” I said. And to Christian, “Why?”
“I’ve never liked cops,” he explained.
That was as good as I needed just at that moment. Jamie and Libby retrieved their weapons and left Iverness lying there. We walked back to Feng’s. Did I mention before that I’d wandered into a western? It felt like it more than ever as we walked through deserted streets back to Feng’s. It would have been funny if it weren’t so spooky.
When we got there, Jamie stepped in ahead of me, though he wasn’t armed, either. I stood inside and looked around. There was still the faint smell of gunpowder, but the blue smoke had dispersed. There was a fair amount of broken glass, chipped woodwork, and smashed crockery, and I could see it would take some clean up, but it was home. We sat down at a table, and I said to Christian, “Well, when are the police going to show up?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “You weren’t supposed to live through today, so no one made any contingency plans.”
“Sugar Bear really does own the police department, don’t they?”
“Pretty much the whole city,” said Christian.
“Damn.”
Jamie nodded thoughtfully, then suddenly turned to Libby. “By the way,” he said, “why did you charge out there like that? That was crazy. You could have—”
“Fuck off,” said Libby, acid in her voice.
“Well, shit,” said Jamie, but didn’t push it.
To change the subject, I asked her, “How is Fred d
oing? We should tell him what—”
“The bullet hit an artery in his leg,” said Libby. “He’s dead.”
Intermezzo
Now with this loaded blunderbuss—
The truth I will unfold.
He made the mayor to tremble
And robbed him of his gold.
“Brennan on the Moor,”
Traditional
He lived in a single room, sharing bathroom and kitchen with the junkie to the right and the prostitute across the hall. The mattress took up one corner of the room, his hollow-body electric and acoustic took up one corner, his antique, honest-to-God, real, two-hundred-year-old Fender Stratocaster got the guitar stand. Next to them was his shotgun, two pistols, and ammo boxes. On the other side of the room were his piles of clothes (one dirty, one clean; he could usually tell them apart). Next to them books: Flaubert, Dickens, Hugo, Hawthorne, Dumas, a few contemporary novels, some current works of political studies, music theory.
Just at the moment, he was working on soloing over thirteenth formations, playing with the mixolydian scale, emphasizing the seventh in the lower octave and sixth in higher. He was lost, as he always was. The rest of the world did not exist, music was all there was: the music in his head, and the music from the guitar, as he concentrated on making every note speak, on phrasing and dynamics, and the creation of beauty.
There was a sharp rap at the door. He stopped playing. What the hell?
“Who is it?”
“Municipal Police Force.”
He frowned, set the guitar down, opened the door. The big one, in front, said, “Sir, we’ve had a complaint about noise—”
“From who?”
“I’m afraid we can’t say. Someone in the building.” Here the cop sniffed.
“Jesus Christ, it’s not even ten o’clock. What’s the problem?”
The cop’s face changed then, and he said, “Look, punk, I don’t give a—”
“Hold it,” said his partner, a shorter guy he almost recognized.
“What?”
The partner said, “Aren’t you Christian Drewry?”
“Yeah. So?”
The two of them had a hasty, whispered conference, then the short one said, “Excuse us. Never mind.”
Another one who took orders from Rudd, Christian decided, which made him a friend of Iverness’. Christian smiled to himself. He mostly helped Rudd out because he liked Ivy and because it was fun to test his nerve from time to time, to get out some of his frustrations, but every once in a while, it paid off in unexpected ways. He said, “Before you go—”
“Yeah?”
“Who was it?”
“Huh? Oh.” The cop pointed straight down.
“Thanks.”
“Forget it.”
When they’d left, Christian went back into his room and picked up his .38, replaced one live round with a blank load, and cocked the pistol with the blank under the hammer. He walked down the stairs and kicked open the door to the guy’s room. He didn’t know the guy, who had just moved in, but he didn’t really care. He was fat and balding and very surprised as he sat watching the TV. Christian stuck the barrel practically up the guy’s nose and said, “You got a complaint, motherfucker?”
“Huh, wha—?”
“I said you got some noise complaint to make? Am I interfering with your peaceful enjoyment of the evening?”
“N-no.”
“Good. You’re interfering with mine.”
Christian smacked him across the face with the gun while simultaneously firing it. Then he put a round into the TV and left without looking back. He went up to his room, set the pistol down, and picked up his guitar again, began laying down melodic phrases on top of chord progressions in his mind.
Chapter 14
Up the long ladder and down the short rope
To hell with King Billy and God bless the Pope.
“Up the Long Ladder,”
Traditional
“He’s dead,” said Libby, toneless, even, distant.
Leave it there, just for a minute.
Why? Perhaps as a gesture of sympathy made out to whoever needs it at the moment. We’ll find out soon enough, I suppose, and cash it then. Fill in the amount with your chosen investment, in the coin of love, hate, excitement, disgust, intrigue, boredom, or however you spend your life. Leave it there; we’ll come back to it.
When Rich died, scenes had returned to me—incidents which had captured who he was, to me, and this had brought his death home, and yet kept it at a distance and begun the healing process.
But I guess I never really knew Fred. There was a distance about him at all times, a formality that was not cold, but didn’t invite closeness. He was good at what he did, and he was dependable, but he was almost more of an automaton than a real person. Jamie, I guess, was closer to him than anyone except Libby, and that was perhaps because they were so different. Jamie was loud where Fred was quiet, Jamie was warm and emotional where Fred was cold and rational. But now Jamie was alive, and Fred was not, and I wished I’d known him better, that I might mourn him as he deserved.
Those were thoughts at the time, in that first instant after Libby’s announcement. I don’t know what thoughts the others had, but there was silence for a long, long moment, broken suddenly by Tom’s arrival. He walked in the door so cautiously that it would have been comical if it weren’t so reasonable.
Then he looked around and said, “What is it?”
We told him. He went up to Libby and held her. It looked like she was about to start crying, then she caught herself and said, “I’m all right. What happened to you?”
Tom opened and closed his mouth, still holding Libby, then he said, “Justin outran me, which was just as well, since I realized that my gun is empty and I left all my spare magazines back here.” He shook his head like it was a joke, but I couldn’t help shuddering. “What happened with you guys?” he said.
I said, “Did you go by Le Bureau?”
“No.”
“Well, if you do, you’ll find a few bodies in the area.”
“Oh?”
“Claude, for one.”
“Good work. Who got him?”
“Jamie and Libby.”
“Good,” said Tom, like he meant it.
“Claude’s the one who killed Fred,” said Jamie.
“Oh,” said Tom. “Who else?”
“Would you believe, the cop, Iverness?”
“Really? We’re going to have the whole city on our asses. Who shot him?”
Jamie gestured with his head toward Christian, who was sitting in a far corner. Tom stared at him. “I thought you were on their side.”
“I was.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I was just standing there, about to shoot Libby, and I couldn’t. I had to shoot Ivy instead. I don’t—”
“Ivy?” said Rose.
Christian shrugged. “I’ve known him for a long time.”
“You are with Sugar Bear,” said Jamie softly.
“I was. I don’t think I am anymore.”
“But I don’t get it. Why did you do all that stuff?”
“What stuff?”
“Why were you with them?”
He lit a cigarette and turned away. I thought he wasn’t going to answer us, but he finally said, “That’s a hard one. I never thought about it much, I just did it. I was brought up that way, like we were special because we were still going to be around when all the sickies killed themselves.”
I said, “You mean, when you guys wiped out—”
“I didn’t know about that until you guys told me.”
“Oh. What did you do?”
“Pretty much what I was told. Security stuff, making sure people didn’t find out about us, helping to keep the organization safe. It didn’t come together until just now, when I had to kill Libby and couldn’t. Even when Ivy and I charged in the back door, if Fred hadn’t been there, we’d have gone
through and shot you down.”
“You sure kill easy,” I said.
He said, “Yes, I do,” looking me in the eye. After a moment I looked away.
Jamie said, “Well, I believe you.”
“Me, too,” I said.
“I guess you’re with us now,” said Tom.
“I guess so.”
“I don’t suppose,” I said, “you could tell us where the home world is?”
“No. I hadn’t even realized there was one until you mentioned it. I’ve never been very high in the organization.”
“Hmmm. So we still have to figure out how to find it.”
“The Physician would know.”
“Who’s the Physician? Rudd mentioned him.”
“The big boss. I don’t even know if he’s on Laurier or somewhere else.”
“Oh. How do we find him?”
“Souci would know.”
“Oh, wonderful,” I said. “I have real doubts that she’d tell us.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
“We could ask her, though,” I said. “I know where she lives—”
“She’s moved,” said Christian.
“To where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Wonderful.”
“But I think her friend Carrie would.”
Tom shook his head. “This just keeps getting better, doesn’t it?”
“At least we know what we have to do,” I said. “If the cops don’t show up and drag us all in.”
“I think we’re going to be safe for a while,” said Christian. “Only those at the top really know what happened, and it’ll take them a while to figure out what to do.”
“Good,” I said.
“Tell me something,” said Jamie to Christian. “How did Sugar Bear find out about us?”
“I don’t know, exactly. I got word of you from Monsieur Rudd, and was told to keep track of you, and—”
“What were you told about us?”
“That people here were on the side of the sickies, and might have to be stopped.”
“I see,” I said. “That’s worth knowing.”
