And Fontaine did, though vaguely: the man she'd gone down to Los Angeles with. 'And?
She started to speak, looked lost, glanced back over her shoulder.
'A friend, the one called Rydell said, none too convincingly. He was hugging a cheap-looking drawstring bag, which seemed to contain a large thermos, or perhaps one of those portable rice cookers. (Fontaine hoped that this wasn't going to be one of those pathetic episodes in which he was mistaken for a pawnbroker.)
'Let us in, Fontaine. We're in trouble.
You probably are trouble, by now, Fontaine decided, after whatever it was got you the black eye. He started unlocking the door, noticing how she kept glancing either way, as if expecting unwanted company. The cop-looking one, this Rydell, was doing the same. But the professor, Fontaine noted, was watching him, watching Fontaine, and it made him glad to have the Kit Gun down by his leg.
'Lock it, Chevette said, as she entered, followed by Rydell and the professor.
'I'm not sure I want to, Fontaine said. 'I might want to show it to you.
'Show it to me?
'You in the plural. Show you the door. Follow me? I was sleeping.
'Fontaine, there are men on the bridge with guns.
'There are indeed, said Fontaine, as he rubbed his thumb over the knurls atop the little double-action's hammer.
The professor closed the door.
'Hey, Fontaine said, in protest.
'Is there another exit? the professor asked, studying the locks.
'No, Fontaine said.
The man glanced back through the shop, to the rear wall, beyond the upturned toes of Fontaine's guest. 'And on the other side of this wall, there is only a sheer drop?
'That's right, Fontaine said, somehow resenting the ease with which the man had extracted this information.
'And above? There are people living above? The man looked up at the shop's painted plywood ceiling.
'I don't know, Fontaine admitted. 'If there are, they're quiet. Never heard 'em.
This Rydell he seemed to be having trouble walking He made it over to the glass-topped counter and put his duffel down on it.
'You don't want to break my display there, hear?
Rydell turned, hand pressed into his side. 'Got any adhesive tape? The wide kind?
Fontaine did have a first-aid kit, but it never had anything anyone ever needed. He had a couple of crumbling wound compresses circa about 1978 in there and an elaborate industrial eye bandage with instructions in what looked like Finnish. 'I got gaffer tape, Fontaine said.
'What's that?
'Duct tape. You know: silver? Stick to skin okay. You want that? Rydell shrugged painfully out of his black nylon jacket and started fumbling one-handed with the buttons of his wrinkled blue shirt. The girl started helping him, and when she'd gotten the shirt off Fontaine saw the yellow gray mottling of a fresh bruise up his side A bad one
'You in an accident? He'd tucked the Smith&Wesson into the side pocket of his trousers, not a safe carry ordinarily but a convenient one under the circumstances. The worn checkered walnut of the butt stuck out just enough to get a handy purchase, should he need it. He got a roll of tape out of the top drawer of an old steel filing cabinet. It made that sound when he pulled out a foot or so of it. 'You want me to put this on you? I taped fighters in Chicago. In the ring, you know?
'Please, said Rydell, wincing as he raised the arm on the bruised side.
Fontaine tore the length of tape off and studied Rydell's rib cage. 'Tape's mystical, you know that? He snapped the tape taut between his two hands, the darker, adhesive-coated side toward Rydell.
'How's that? Rydell asked.
'Cause it's got a dark side, Fontaine said, demonstrating, 'a light side, showing the dull silver backing, 'and it holds the universe together. Rydell started to yell when the strip was applied, but caught it. 'Breathe, Fontaine said. 'You ever deliver a baby?
'No, Rydell managed.
'Well, said Fontaine, readying the next strip, this one longer, 'you want to breathe the way they tell women to breathe when the contractions come. Here: now breathe out.
It went pretty fast then, and when Fontaine was done, he saw that Rydell was able to use both hands to button his shirt.
'Good evening, he heard the professor say and, turning with the roll of tape in his hand, saw that the boy was awake and sitting up, brown eyes wide and empty, staring at the man in the gray-green overcoat. 'You look well. Is this your home?
Something moved, behind the boy's eyes; saw, retreated again.
'You two know each other? Fontaine asked.
'We met last night, the man said, 'here, on the bridge.
'Wait a minute, Fontaine said. 'He get a watch off you?
The man turned and regarded Fontaine evenly, saying nothing.
Fontaine felt a wave of guilt. 'It's okay, he said. 'Just keeping it for him.
'I see.
'That's quite a watch, Fontaine said. 'Where'd you get it?
'Singapore.
Fontaine looked from the smooth gaunt wolfish face of the man who very probably wasn't a music professor to the blank and unlined face of the boy, beneath its new haircut.
'I see that you have a pistol in your pocket, the man said.
'I'm just glad to see you, Fontaine said, but nobody got it.
'What is its caliber?
'Twenty-two long rifle.
'Barrel length?
'Four inches.
'Accurate?
'It's not a target pistol, Fontaine said, 'but for four inches of barrel, it's not too bad. This was making him very nervous, and he very badly wanted the gun in his hand, but he thought that if he touched it now, something would happen. Something would.
'Give it to me, the man said.
'Forget it, Fontaine said.
'An undetermined number of armed men are searching for Mr. Rydell tonight. They would like to capture him alive, in order to question him, but they would certainly kill him to prevent his escape. They will kill anyone they find with him. That would simply be a matter of housekeeping for them. Do you understand?
'Who are they?
''Bright young things, ' the man said.
'What?
'They are mercenaries, in the pay of someone who regards Mr. Rydell as being in the employ of a competitor, an enemy.
Fontaine looked at him. 'Why you want my gun?
'In order to kill as many of them as I can.
'I don't know you from Adam, Fontaine said.
'No, said the man, 'you don't.
'This is crazy Fontaine looked at Chevette. 'You know this guy?
'No, Chevette said.
'You. Rydell. You know this guy?
Rydell looked from Fontaine to the man, back to Fontaine. 'No, Rydell said, 'I don't. But you know what?
'What?
'I'd give him the gun.
'Why?
'I don't know, Rydell said, and something seemed to catch in his voice. 'I just know I would.
'This is crazy' Fontaine said, repeating himself, hearing the pitch of his own voice rising. 'Come on, Chevette! Why'd you come in here? You bring these people-
'Cause Rydell couldn't walk fast enough, she said. 'I'm sorry, Fontaine. We just needed help.
'Fuck, said Fontaine, pulling the Smith&Wesson from his pocket, its blue steel warm with his body heat. He opened the cylinder and ejected the five cartridges into his palm. Fragile bits of brass less than the thickness of a pencil, each one tipped with its copper-coated, precisely swaged and hollowed segment of lead alloy. 'This is it, right? All the ammunition I've got. He passed the man the revolver, barrel pointed at the ceiling and cylinder open, then the cartridges.
'Thank you, the man said. 'May I load it now?
'Gentlemen, said Fontaine, feeling a frustration that he didn't understand, 'you may start your fucking engines.
'I suggest, the man said, inserting the five cartridges, one after another, 'that you lock the door after me and conceal you
rselves, out of the sight lines for the door and window. If they determine you are here, they will try to kill you. He closed the cylinder, sighted down the barrel at a blank patch of wall.
'Pulls a little to the left, Fontaine said, 'single-action. You want to compensate in the sight picture.
'Thank you, the man said and was gone, out the door, closing it behind him.
Fontaine looked at Rydell, whose eyes were bright with what Fontaine suddenly saw were brimming tears.
56. KOMBINAT PIECE
MR. Fontaine, Rydell said, 'you wouldn't have another gun around here, would you?
The three of them were sitting on the floor, in a row, their backs to the wall nearest Oakland, in the back room of Fontaine's little shop. Between Rydell and Fontaine, the duffel with the projector. The kid who'd been sleeping on the floor there was sitting up in Fontaine's narrow bunk, back against the opposite wall, clicking through something on a notebook; had one of those big-ass old military displays on, made him look like a robot or something, except you could see the bottom half of his face, see he kept his mouth open while he was doing it. The lights were all off, so you could see the steady pulse of pixel-glow leaking from the helmet, from whatever it was he kept pulling up.
'I don't deal in firearms, the black man said. 'Vintage watches, knives by name makers, die-cast military.
Rydell thought he'd had enough to do with knives already. 'I just don't like sitting here, waiting.
'Nobody does, Chevette said beside him. She was pressing a wet cloth against her eye.
Actually what bothered Rydell most about sitting was that he wasn't sure how easy it would be to get back up. His side, with the duct tape on it now, didn't hurt too badly, but he knew he'd stiffen up. He was about to ask Fontaine about the knives when Fontaine said: 'Well.
'Well what? Rydell asked.
'Well, Fontaine said, 'it isn't actually part of my stock, you know?
'What isn't?
'I've got this lawyer, he's African Union, you know? Forced out by politics.
'Yeah?
'Yeah, Fontaine said, 'but you know how it is, people come out of a situation like that, all that ethnic cleansing and shit.
'Yeah?
'Well, they like to feel they got protection, something happens.
Rydell was definitely interested.
'Trouble is, Fontaine said, 'they got this overkill mentality, over there. And my lawyer, Martial, he's like that. Actually he's trying not to be, understand? Got him a therapist and everything, trying to learn to walk around without a gun and not feel he's liable to get his ass blown away by tribal enemies, right? Like this is America, here, you know?
'I think you're still liable to get your ass blown away by tribal enemies, in America, Mr. Fontaine.
'That's true, Fontaine said, shifting his buttocks, 'but Martial's got that post-traumatic thing, right?
'You help him with these problems? You help him by holding a weapon for him, Mr. Fontaine? Something he wouldn't want to keep on his own premises?
Fontaine looked at Rydell. Pursed his lips. Nodded.
'Where is it?
'It's in the wall, behind us.
Rydell looked at the wall between them. 'This is plywood?
'Most of it, Fontaine said, swinging around, 'See here? This part's a patch, gypsum wall filler. We built a box in here, put it in, plastered it over, painted.
'Guess someone could find it with a metal detector, Rydell said, remembering being trained how to search for stashes like this.
'I don't think it has a lot of metal in it, Fontaine said, 'anyway not in the delivery system.
'Can we see it?
'Well, said Fontaine, 'once we get it out, I'm stuck with it.
'No, Rydell said, 'I am.
Fontaine produced a little bone-handled pocketknife. Opened it, started digging gingerly at the wall.
'We could get a bigger knife, Rydell suggested.
'Hush, Fontaine said. As Rydell watched, the point of the knife exposed a dark ring, the size you'd wear on your finger. Fontaine pried it up and out of the hardened plaster, but it seemed to be fastened to something. 'You pull this, okay?
Rydell slid his middle finger through the ring, tugged it a little. Felt solid.
'Go on, Fontaine said. 'Hard.
Plaster cracked, tore loose, as the fine steel wire attached to the ring pulled out around the patch, cutting through it like dry cheese. A rough, inch-thick rectangle coming away in Rydell's hand. Fontaine was pulling something out of the rectangular recess that had been exposed. Something wrapped in what looked like an old green shirt.
Rydell watched as Fontaine gingerly unwrapped the green cloth, exposing a squat heavy object that looked like a cross between the square waxed-paper milk cartons of Rydell's childhood and an industrial power drill. It was a uniform, dusty olive-green in color, and if it was in fact a firearm, it was the clumsiest-looking firearm Rydell had yet seen. Fontaine held it with what would've been the top of the milk carton pointed up at an angle, toward the ceiling. There was an awkward-looking pistol grip at the opposite end, and a sort of grooved, broom-handle affair about six inches in front of that.
'What is it? Rydell asked.
'Chain gun, Fontaine said. 'Disposable. Can't reload it. Caseless: this long square thing's the cartridges and the barrel in one. No-moving parts to it: ignition's electrical. Two buttons here, where the trigger would be, you just point it, press 'em both the same time. It'll do that four times. Four charges.
'Why do they call it a chain gun?
'What this is, Martial says, it's more like a directional grenade, you understand? Or sort of like a portable fragmentation mine. Main thing he told me is you don't use it in any kind of confined space, and you only use it when there's nobody in front of you you don't mind seeing get really fucked up.
'So what's the chain part?
Fontaine reached over and tapped the fat square barrel lightly, once, with his forefinger. 'In here. Thing's packed with four hundred two-foot lengths of super-fine steel chain, sharp as razor wire.
Rydell hefted the thing by its two grips, keeping his fingers away from those buttons. 'And that-
'Makes hamburger, Fontaine said.
'I heard a shot, Chevette said, lowering her wet cloth.
'I didn't hear anything, Rydell said.
'I did, Chevette said. 'Just one.
'You wouldn't hear much, that little.22, Fontaine said.
'I don't think I can stand this, Chevette said.
Now Rydell thought he heard something. Just a pop. Short, sharp. But just the one. 'You know, he said, 'I think I'm going to take a look.
Chevette leaned in close, her one eye purple-black and swollen almost completely shut, the other gray and fierce, scared and angry all at once. 'It's not a television show, Rydell. You know that? You know the difference? It's not an episode of anything. It's your life. And mine. And his, pointing to Fontaine, 'and his, pointing at the kid across the room. 'So why don't you just sit there?
Rydell felt his ears start to burn, and knew that he was blushing. 'I can't just sit here and wait-
'I know, she said. 'I could've told you that.
Rydell handed the chain gun back to Fontaine and got to his feet, stiff but not as bad as he'd expected. Fontaine passed him up the gun. 'I need keys to unlock the front?
'No, Fontaine said. 'I didn't do the dead bolts.
Rydell stepped around the shallow section of partition that screened them from the window in the door and the display window.
Someone in the shadows opposite cut loose with something automatic, something silenced so efficiently that there was only the machine-like burr of a slide working, and the stitching sounds of bullets. Both Fontaine's windows vanished instantly, and the glass front of the counter as well.
Rydell found himself on the floor, unable to recall getting there. The gun across the street stopped abruptly, having chewed its way through a full clip.
He saw himself down in
the basement range at the academy in Knoxville, ejecting a half-moon clip from the stock of a bull-pup assault rifle, pulling out another, and slapping it into place. How long it took. The number of movements, exactly, that it took.
There was a high, thin, very regular sound in his ears, and he realized that it was Chevette, crying.
And then he was up, shoving the milk-carton nose of Fontaine's lawyer's Kombinat gun over the bottom of the square hole in the door where the glass had been.
One of the two buttons, he thought, must be a safety.
And the other filled the air outside with flame, recoil close to breaking his wrist, but nobody, really nobody, was going to be reloading anything.
Not over there.
57. EYE
AND when they are cleaning up, the next day, Fontaine will find a cardboard canister of coarse Mexican salt, holed, on the floor, in the back room.
And he will pick it up, the weight wrong somehow, and pour the salt out into the palm of his hand, through the entrance hole in the side, until out falls the fully blossomed exotic hollow-point slug that had penetrated the plywood partition, then straight into this round box of salt, upon its shelf, spending its energy there as heat. But it will be cold then, like a fanged bronze kernel of popcorn, evidence of the ways in which its makers intended it to rend flesh.
And he will place it on a shelf beside a lead soldier, another survivor of the war.
But now he can only move as in a dream, and what comes to him most strongly in this silence, this tangible silence through which he feels he moves as if through glycerine, is the memory of his father, against his mother's ardent fear, taking him briefly out, into the yard behind a house in tidewater Virginia, to experience the eye of a hurricane.
And in that eye, after the storm's initial rage, nothing moves. No bird sings. Each twig of each leafless tree defined in utter stillness, yet perhaps on the very edge of perception there can be some awareness of the encircling system. Something subsonic; felt, not heard. Which will return. That is certain.
And it is like that now as he rises and moves, seeing the boy's hands frozen, trembling, above the notebook's keys, head still helmed with that old military set. And thinks for a moment the boy is injured, but he sees no blood. Frightened only.
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