The Rise and Fall of the Gallivanters

by M. J. Beaufrand

  “The Marr can work slowly, son. It can take its victims a piece at a time.”

  I put my hands on my knees and sucked air. “So he’s fine?”

  Ziggy didn’t say anything. He wouldn’t meet my eyes.

  Even though I was so freaked out I was sweating poison, I started to take in more details of the monster cloud.

  Clack! I thought I saw a claw reaching out, testing.

  “How do we get rid of it?”

  He shook his head. “You mean completely? Don’t be stupid.” He pronounced it shtyou-pid. “You can never get rid of the Marr. It’s a part of life.”

  I sniffed the air. The hops smell intensified. Slowly, that thing, that Marr, began to creep forward again.

  “All the same, best not to stick around,” Ziggy said, and pulled me by the elbow down the street. “Come on, son. Time to regroup and form a battle plan.”

  “Sure. Just a sec.” I turned around and flipped that thing off.

  Yeah. I know. Real mature, not to mention dangerous.

  But damn did it feel good.

  I’D NEVER BEEN INSIDE COFFEE INVASION BEFORE, but I’m pretty sure that, like a lot of places I found that muggy spring, it had been there all along, and it only seemed to pop up when we needed it.

  It was two blocks away from Cinema 21 and was the first place Ziggy and I ran to, trying to escape that thing by the dumpster. What had he called it? The Mars? There was no life on Mars. Or at least none that clacked and sucked the hope right out of you. I’m sure there were people who believed that shit, but those were the same guys who thought they saw Elvis in the Piggly Wiggly five years after he died.

  When Ziggy and I ran into Coffee Invasion that night, I felt like I’d made it to home base and that whatever that thing was, no way it could tag us now. The café was too clean and bright, and what the hell was that smell? Could it be . . . coffee?

  I wouldn’t know, since my only experience of the stuff was the crystals my mom shoveled straight into her mouth and the sludge they served at Denny’s.

  Coffee Invasion was like a whole different world. The customers looked like they actually wanted to be there. There were couples wearing velvet and spooning cheesecake into each other’s mouths. The pastry case facing the front door displayed desserts that actually looked like fruit and chocolate instead of . . . I don’t know, gelatin and marshmallows and cigarette butts.

  While I was looking around, I hadn’t noticed the girl. But there was one, not much older than me, standing behind the front counter. She had brown curly hair and a scrubbed face that looked like it belonged on a student government poster. She was staring at me. “You’re bleeding,” she said.

  “What? Oh.” I touched the growing boulder on my forehead. It was tender and sticky with blood. I’d forgotten about my collision with the speed bump. I must’ve looked a nightmare. I was bringing the whole tone of the place down. “Sorry about that. We can leave.”

  “Don’t be silly. You’re the first customer we’ve had younger than forty for . . . ever,” she said, smiling brighter than the neon sign out front. “Right this way.”

  She showed us to a round café table by the window, with a clear view of the street. Perfect. Above our heads was a neon sign of a cup of coffee with arms and legs and jagged teeth chasing B-movie victims. Ha-ha. Very funny. It was on a timer, because it buzzed on and off with a loud zzzt.

  The girl with the curly hair handed me a menu, completely ignoring Ziggy, and said, “I’m guessing coffee, right?”

  Ziggy nodded.

  “Please. Two,” I said.

  She looked at me intently. “Been that kind of night, has it? No prob.” She disappeared through a set of chrome doors that squeaked behind her as they swung shut.

  As soon as she was gone, I chanced a look outside. It was dark, but normal dark. Not sucking-wound-in-the-fabric-of-the-universe dark.

  I began to breathe.

  I leaned forward and asked Ziggy, “Are we safe?”

  “For now,” he said. He unbuttoned his silk jacket and crossed his legs. He lit a cigarette, took a drag, and time slowed. I wished I smoked. It had a profound effect on people who knew how to do it. Which I didn’t. I always choked and hacked up loogies. Plus Dad had smoked a lot. One more reason for me never to learn.

  “What did you call that thing, anyway? A Mars?”

  “‘Marr,’ son. No s on the end. Two rs.”

  “What the hell is it? It felt like pure evil.” I could still hear the screams of Please Girl and see the shadowy look on her face as it flashed in front of the cloud.

  Ziggy shook his head. “It’s beyond evil. Is a tiger evil? No, son. It’s a predator. Only, the Marr’s not a very efficient one. It tends to decimate what it hunts. It consumes without stopping.”

  I asked the obvious question. “Then why did you hold me back? That thing has Evan.”

  “Because, lad. You can’t take on the thing head-on. It would’ve gotten you too, and we never would’ve been able to get you out. It’s different with your mate. It only got pieces of him. There may still be time to save him.”

  “Oh yeah? Enlighten me. How do we do that?”

  Ziggy looked on the verge of answering, but the hostess came back with two teeny-weeny cups of coffee, a stack of napkins, and a slice of something chocolate. It was swimming in a pool of red sauce on a clear glass plate.

  Oh god. That had better not be what it looked like.

  “Here you go. Two espressos for your tough night. Napkins for your head. And . . .” She looked over her shoulder at the kitchen beyond the pastry case. When it seemed like no one was looking, she shoved the plate at me.

  “I didn’t ask for this,” I said, trying not to sound as freaked as I was.

  “I know.”

  “What is it?”

  “Chocolate ganache.” She did a back-check again.

  “Chocolate what?”

  “Ganache. Go on. Take a bite.”

  “Is this expensive? Cause I don’t . . .”

  A gray-haired woman came into view behind the counter. The hostess ducked low.

  “Quick. Try it now.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Please. I don’t have much time. Take a bite.”

  I made a quick judgment call then. No girl with a face as scrubbed as that could be pushing me to eat chocolate in a pool of human blood. I picked up the fork and shoved some in my mouth.

  And oh, the way that chocolate whatsit melted. It made me feel like there were no dumpsters in the world, and I could walk down the street without worrying about anything—least of all Evan—ever again.

  “Jesus,” I said.

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s addictive. Are those raspberries?” I swirled designs in the red pool.

  And that girl smiled brighter than Ziggy’s hair. “Oh yeah. I strained them myself. Through a cheesecloth and everything. Do you really like it? ‘Cause I was worried that it might be a little too bitter—”

  “Excuse me, sir, but how do you intend to pay for that?”

  The gray-haired woman was now standing over us. She had on an apron over a flowered dress that made her arms look pillowy, like pastry dough.

  She looked me over, my green hair and forehead dripping blood, and smiled a tight smile.

  I looked at Ziggy. Wasn’t it obvious that the suave man chain-smoking in the thousand-dollar suit would pay?

  “Ah, crap,” the girl said, standing up. “It’s not a big deal, Mom. It’s just the chocolate ganache cake I made. You were going to throw it out anyway ‘cause it turned out lopsided.”

  “It didn’t taste lopsided,” I said.

  Another tight smile from her mother. “You’re too kind. Can I speak to you for a second, Claire?” She pulled her daughter over to the pastry case and whispered to her loudly enough that I heard the words “bringing down the tone” and “feeding every skate punk that comes through” and “go broke.”

  I didn’t understand. I was us
ed to this treatment in Gresham, where everyone knew my history and was just waiting for me to turn out like my dad. But no one knew me here. Besides, I was eating with Ziggy, who, if anything, brought up the tone of the place.

  They were still arguing when I decided I would stay put until they kicked me out. It had already been a long night, and the chocolate cake was so good I was beginning to feel safe again. “You don’t want a bite of this, do you, Ziggy?”

  “That’s quite all right, old boy. You need it more than I do. Your first glimpse of the Marr. I’m surprised your hair hasn’t turned white.” He scooted his chair closer. “Tell me, lad. What did you see in it?”

  “You know what I saw,” I said, my mouth gummed up with chocolate. “I saw my friend Evan.”

  “And?” Ziggy prompted.

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  “One face? It might be. Some see just one. But you saw more, didn’t you? You’re different.”

  “Why? What makes me different?”

  He tapped out his cigarette in the saucer in front of him. He knew. I don’t know how he found out about Dad’s accident, but he knew.

  Had he been stalking me? I was already starting to think that running into him that night in front of the PfefferBrau Haus, when I was out of options and needed someone most, was no accident.

  Whose side was he really on?

  He could be evil. But he was in here with me, and the Marr was out there. I didn’t know what to think. Why could I see the Marr when others couldn’t? Not for the first time, I wondered, was I sick? Did I need to be locked up?

  I set down my fork, suddenly full. “I’m damaged, aren’t I?”

  For a second, I’d forgotten the world outside. But now it came crashing down around me. Why couldn’t I just live here, in Coffee Invasion, not in a split-level on a dead-end street in the suburbs? Why was I the only one to see patterns on cork walls in Denny’s, shadows behind the dumpsters of run-down theaters?

  “Come now, lad. We both know you’ve had more than your share of blows in your life. Can you honestly tell me you think the same way as the rest of these fine citizens?”

  He nodded toward the people in the café. They wore silk and discreet jewelry. They ate cheesecake and pear tarts. And by the pastry case, one girl named Claire was getting nailed for using me as a guinea pig for her cooking experiments, a crime that was probably not going to get her pushed down a flight of stairs.

  “No. They don’t see the danger.”

  “Exactly.” Ziggy nodded. “Now, tell me, Noah. What did you see?”

  I braced myself with coffee from the teeny-weeny cup. I let the warmth and taste invade my body from my head to the tips of my fingers. “I saw girls. A lot of them. The ones who’ve disappeared around the city,” I said.

  It was crazy. But I was beyond caring what I sounded like.

  Ziggy leaned back in his chair. “Oh my,” he said.

  “What?”

  “You’re more in tune with the Marr than I thought.”

  “I take it that’s not a good thing.”

  Ziggy considered, and tugged on his expensive cigarette.

  “I don’t understand. You were standing right next to me. Why didn’t you see the Disappearing Girls too?”

  “The Marr presents itself in different ways to different people. I don’t share your experience.”

  “Why? What do you see?”

  I looked into his eye that was all pupil. Nothing good could come of someone with an eye like that. That thing could be a tunnel to hell.

  “Too much, son. I see masses of people in pain. But the pain isn’t the worst part.”

  “What is?”

  He picked a fleck of something off his upper lip and rolled it in distaste. “That day in the basement, Noah, the split second before the gun went off, do you remember what you felt?”

  My hands clenched around a napkin. I wasn’t amazed that he knew about the accident. It was just that I’d tried so long to block it out of my memory.

  It never worked.

  The accident itself took less than a second. But in all the seconds leading up to it, even though the gun was pointed away from me, it was still in Dad’s hands. There was nothing to keep him from turning it around. And even if he didn’t, even after all the things he’d done to me and my family, I still didn’t want to lose him.

  You think you’re smart, don’t ya, punk ass? You’ll never be free.

  I pushed away my plate, even though there was half a slice left. “Fear,” I said.

  I remembered that part vividly. The fear had frozen my blood. I’d felt like I couldn’t move my arms or legs. And I was so cold. I’d never felt as cold since. Until tonight.

  Ziggy picked up my fork and sampled the chocolate ganache. He left me the darkest part on the bottom, rich and bitter at the same time. “All right,” I said. “The Marr isn’t evil. It feeds on fear. So what can we do to make people less afraid?”

  Ziggy’s eyes focused on something on the street outside. “Oh lord.”

  “What? What is it?”

  There was no darkness creeping down the street. Just four people. Two men and two women in expensive overcoats, their collars turned up against the rain.

  Whatever color had been in Ziggy’s face instantly drained. “I should’ve known. This is one of the few cafés open late Sunday nights. He’s not the type to turn in early on any day of the week.”

  “He who?”

  But I knew who, even before I could make out the details of the guy’s craggy face, with eyebrows so thick and furry he looked like a wolf.

  “Jurgen Pfeffer,” I said. “You think he’s got something to do with the Marr, don’t you?”

  “Lad,” Ziggy said, leaning toward me and whispering. “He’s brewing it. And it’s spreading.”

  I sniffed the air. A new scent was mingling with the coffee and chocolate and raspberries. I felt fingers of cold scuttle up and down the fine hairs of my neck.

  My eyes shot from the men in the entrance to where our teenage hostess was still listening to her mother tell her in a quiet voice exactly how she’d screwed up.

  “You know what you have to do,” Ziggy said.

  I was on my feet before he stopped talking. I went up to the pastry case. “Excuse me, ma’am?” The mother turned to me. “I need to speak with you for a second.”

  She shot her daughter a look that said You’re gonna get it later, then walked around to face me. “What do you want?”

  I took her doughy arm. “Get your girl out of sight right now. Quick. Before they see her.”

  I nodded at the entrance, at the ones who just came in. First came Jurgen Pfeffer, with his sharp blue eyes and craggy face, flanked by two girls with eye shadow clear out to their temples.

  And following behind them, not flanked by any girls at all, was Jurgen’s other half, Arnold, the brother the papers ironically dubbed “Little Pfeffer,” even though Arnold looked like a Pfeffer-and-a-half standing behind his brother, since he was a foot taller and twice as broad. He had icy blond hair cut into a flattop, and his chest was so sculpted it looked like he had two muscled boobs.

  I’ve gotta hand it to her: The woman with the doughy arms was cool. She stood in front of her daughter and slowly backed the two of them toward the chrome kitchen doors. They were gone for a while.

  Meanwhile, I found myself standing alone behind the front counter.

  Jurgen Pfeffer snapped his fingers in my face. “Boy. Do you work here?” He pronounced it “verk.”

  My eyes went to cubbies under the desk. I found the menus I was looking for. “Table for four? Right this way, sir.”

  I didn’t know if there were any tables for four. But I looked around and found one far, far away from the kitchen.

  I sat them down and handed each of them a menu. I didn’t know anything about being a hostess, so I tried to remember what the girl had said. And it wasn’t so much what she’d said as the ease with which she’d said it.

  “I�
��m assuming coffee all around?” The girls nodded their empty heads, but Jurgen sized me up.

  “You don’t really verk here, do you?”

  At our table by the front window, Ziggy sat calmly smoking. Why wasn’t he doing this? Why was I stuck handling this German asshole?

  “How do you know?” I said.

  He pointed at my forehead.

  “You’re bleeding. The health department frowns on human blood in food. And I would know.” And the sicko laughed. And his two dates laughed with him. But seated in the corner, with his back to the wall, Little Pfeffer didn’t laugh. He didn’t smile. He wore a haunted expression that I was oh so familiar with from looking in mirrors when my father was alive. It was an expression that said, I don’t think this is right, but what do I know? I’m worthless.

  What, I wondered, did Jurgen have on him that Little Pfeffer had to follow his brother around like a puppy? The papers said Arnold cried for days over Sherell Wexler, some random kid he didn’t even know.

  If he could just stand up to his twisted brother, I’d feel a whole lot better about our Wake the Dead gig.

  And suddenly, I knew what to say. “You’re right,” I told Jurgen. “I don’t work here. I was just having coffee when I saw you come in. I’m a musician. I need a break. I thought I’d take a shot.”

  Jurgen’s face took a serious turn. He studied me as though I was a difficult exercise in translation.

  “I see,” he said. “And you think we can give it to you?”

  “I don’t expect you to just hand it to me,” I said. “I intend to work for it.”

  It was only half a lie. I didn’t tell him that I wanted it for my sick friend. I didn’t tell him that if only he would let me into the brewery, I would find the Marr, somehow reach into it, pull out the pieces of Evan, and put him back together.

  “I see. You and half the city,” he said. “People are very forgiving when fame is at stake.” He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a silver case, from which he removed a business card. “When you have your demo, go ahead and send it to me personally with a note. Remind me that you’re the boy from Coffee Invasion. Now, will you please send over our real waitress? Or are you hiding her in the back?”