It wasn’t just that the world was a small place: it was just that it was twisted in such a funny way. Billy’s mom would want him to look in on Billy, and so would his dad, although Ernie would probably not admit to that under anything south of torture.
He had better look in on Billy, come to think of it—with a Son in town, he had damn well better. Billy is what he is, but he’s still one of us, he thought.
“Let’s head down this way,” he said.
Jeff had always liked the East Calhoun neighborhood. Best place in the city. To the people of Hardwood, Minneapolis—even though it was almost five hours away and even a solid four hours if you didn’t have to worry about speeding tickets—was always “the city.”
If he ever was to give up Hardwood and move to the city, he would like to live here. The Dutch elm disease that had massacred trees over the entire Midwest had, for whatever reason, spared much of East Calhoun, and from spring to fall the streets were covered by a thick green canopy that in winter was reduced to a skeletal frame of branches that still held the occasional stubborn leaf, rattling in the wind.
If you had to have street names—and Jeff, reluctantly, conceded that a city had to have street names—it made sense to number them or alphabetize them. Beyond Emerson was Fremont, then Girard, then Hennepin, which didn’t count as the H—Holmes, the next street, was the H; city folks could never keep to a simple set of rules—and then Irving, and finally James, where Billy Olson lived.
The house was one of those big, turn-of-the-century ones that nobody built anymore. It had probably come with its own servants—back when people had servants—but it had long ago been converted into apartments. A quick glance at the side of the house showed four electric meters, and Jeff’s first impression was verified by the four doorbells next to the massive front door.
There were two hand-printed signs tacked up next to the door. The larger, laminated against the elements, read, “All Deliveries to Foyer inside Side Door,” with a red curlicue arrow pointing around to the right side. The smaller one, tacked right next to the third of the four doorbells, read, “buzz once for Billy, and twice for William.”
The other names on the buzzers were unfamiliar to Jeff, so he buzzed once on the third bell, and waited.
Nothing.
“Well,” Maggie said, “I don’t think it’s getting any warmer standing out here. Do you want to leave your friend a note, maybe?”
“I don’t have a pencil or a pen,” he said, which wasn’t quite true; in fact, it wasn’t even vaguely true.
He made a mental note not to tell stupid lies to Maggie; she had already produced a pen, and was fumbling in the pocket of her parka, probably for a piece of paper.
Maybe it was time to try the truth, or something close to it.
“No,” he said, “I’d … rather not leave a note, I can come back later, or something.” He turned and walked quickly down the steps, carefully avoiding a couple of icy spots—and Maggie’s eyes, for that matter.
He’d tried, and that was all that was required. With a bit of luck …
His luck, though, wasn’t with him. The two of them were barely a dozen feet down the sidewalk when the door swung open behind him. He could practically feel the heat waft out, and the heady, homey aroma of freshly baking bread had his mouth watering.
“Jeff!” a familiar voice cried out. “Jeff Bjerke! I’d know the back of that bullet-shaped head anywhere.”
Jeff turned. Billy Olson stood in the doorway beckoning to him.
The Olsons were thick-boned types, with square jaws and blunt fingers, but not Billy. He was as tall as his brothers—a full head taller than either his mother or his father—but delicate and angular, with long, thin fingers and a sharp chin, now covered by a scanty goatee.
Billy’s smile was tentative and more than a little fearful, but he stepped out of the door and quickly walked down the steps and onto the sidewalk, with nothing more than jeans, a light, almost impossibly white puffy shirt, and a waiter’s apron to protect him from the cold air.
“Please,” Billy said, stopping before he quite got to hugging distance. At least there was no lisp in his voice, and his steps on the icy sidewalk weren’t quite mincing. “It’s been years.”
“Really?” Maggie gave Jeff a knowing look. She turned her back on him and stuck out her right hand. “I’m Maggie Christensen.”
“Ah.” Billy smiled as he took her hand in both of his. Say what you would about Billy, his smile would warm anybody. “Still seeing Torrie?”
“Yes, how—”
He patted her hand, then released it. “I don’t get back home much, but my dad writes me every week, and every once in a while my mom calls to talk—just for five minutes, she always says, just for five minutes—and we spend the rest of the afternoon on the phone.” Billy shivered theatrically. Billy had always done everything theatrically. “It’s far too cold to stand chatting out here; come in, please.”
Jeff wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d stamped his foot, but he didn’t.
Quite.
With a sideways disparaging look at Jeff, Maggie took hold of Billy’s arm, and Jeff had no real choice but to follow the two of them inside.
Billy’s apartment was on the ground floor, in the back, and the mat on the tiled floor in front of his door read, in ornate letters, “Mi Casa Su Casa.”
It might as well have had some sort of insignia, say, a limp wrist rampant on a field of pink flamingos.
The apartment was, as Jeff had expected, neat as a pin, down to the vacuum cleaner prints on the gray carpet that made it look as though Billy had just finished vacuuming. And while the air was filled with the warm, yeasty smell of freshly baked bread, there was not even a dusting of flour on the kitchen counter.
He patted them down into seats, then hurried off toward the kitchen. “Coffee, tea, or…” why did Billy have to put a pause in there? “… hot cocoa?”
“Cocoa,” Maggie said. “Cocoa would be wonderful—we’ll both have some.” She unbuttoned her coat and took it off, glaring at Jeff to do the same.
The walls had been painted with one of those pattern-painting gimmicks that made them look all splotchy, and probably covered up stains on the wall as well as wallpaper would have. Track lighting on the ceiling splashed warm buttery light on the Broadway posters, but also on the wall behind the red leather love seat, where a lap desk lay.
“Are you a marshmallow person, a whipped cream person, or a purist, Maggie?” floated out from the kitchen.
“Marshmallows, please,” she said, sitting back and clearly enjoying Jeff’s discomfort.
The truth was that Billy Olson had always made Jeff uneasy. Jeff had been more than happy when Billy had relocated temporarily to the city in high school, then permanently for and after college.
It wasn’t that he had anything against queers, not really, but they made him uncomfortable. It wasn’t a feeling he could speak out about very often—Doc Sherve and the rest of the elders were always ready to politely, carefully, explain to him that queers were no different than anybody else, but that just didn’t matter, not to Jeff.
He was allowed his own feelings, as long as he behaved himself, wasn’t he? And it felt strange being around homosexuals.
Yes, it felt strange being around black folks, but at least you knew going into it that they were black. You didn’t have to take showers next to them in gym class for years and years before you knew they were black. And while you could expect that Jews were smarter than you, most of them were nice about it, and, shit, Ian Silverstein was really one hell of a guy, once you got to know him.
“You look familiar, Maggie,” Billy called out, still clattering dishes in the kitchen. “I’m sure I’ve seen you before. Do you live in the neighborhood?”
“I was just thinking the same thing about you. I know I’ve seen you some place,” she said. “And I’m not quite in the neighborhood—I’m over at Lake and Bryant.”
“But you haven’t been t
here long?”
“No. Just this semester.”
“Then that’s not it—although I used to practically live at the Bryant Lake Bowl, back when I was—last year. Probably somewhere in Uptown?”
“That would probably be it,” she said. “I sometimes go over to Uptown for coffee.”
“Hmmm …” There was more clatter of dishes and silverware, and a moment later Billy appeared, backing up through the swinging door to the kitchen, a silver tray heavily laden with plates, silverware, and three steaming mugs balanced easily on the flat of his hand.
“You’re in luck,” he said, “I just made up a batch of pâté last week,” he said, scooping a small dollop out of a ramekin and spreading it on a piece of thin bread with a smooth, practiced motion. He set it on a plate, and set the plate in front of Maggie. “Taste.”
“With hot cocoa?”
“Chef Louis’s pâté goes with anything.”
Jeff accepted another plate from Billy, and bit into the pâté. It was smooth and meaty and rich, and while there was a definite liver note in the medley of taste, it didn’t predominate.
Billy was showing off.
As usual.
He was frowning, though, which wasn’t usual. “But if you live around here,” he said, “why haven’t we met, then? I’d surely have recognized Torrie. I knew he was going to the U, but I didn’t really expect to see him in this part of town.” He made a moue. “Not really butch enough for him.”
Maggie giggled. “Should I tell him you said that, or should I be sure not to tell him you said that?”
“Either way.”
Billy echoed her giggle. The two of them were getting along just fine and dandy, like a pair of old girlfriends. Jeff felt like a stranger, and he didn’t much like the feeling. Trust Billy Olson to find a new way to make him uncomfortable.
“So,” Billy asked, “what are you in town for, Jeff?” He gave a sideways smile to Maggie, then held out his wrists. “If you are here for me, just slap those cuffs on me; I’ll come quietly.”
Maggie spurted a mouthful of hot chocolate back into her cup. “Don’t do that when I’m drinking,” she said. “I almost ruined your carpet.”
“Just here on some … private business,” Jeff said, ignoring the way Maggie tried to catch his eye. She was young and cute and bright, and anybody who Thorian Thorsen thought so highly of was worthy of respect, but…
… but, dammit, this was Billy.
Billy looked from her, then back to him. “Okay,” he said, quietly. He set his mug down and sat back in his chair. “How can I help?” There was nothing mincing in his manner, not now. How much of it was Billy teasing him, and how much was just Billy being Billy?
Billy was always Billy, but…
There had been a time… Jeff remembered him and Billy running through the woods, a six-year-old Torrie Thorsen in their wake, carrying an increasingly heavy Davy Johansen for what felt like miles after Davy had fallen out of the tree they were building their fort in and cut his leg open from knee to hip. The other boys—shit, he couldn’t even remember who they were, which was probably just as well—the others had frozen, but Billy had gripped Jeff’s right wrist with his left hand, and his left wrist with his own right hand, and the two of them had carried Davy into town on the seat that the four hands and arms made.
Billy had had to be Billy all the way into town, and no matter how hard it had made him pant, he had kept up a stream of babble all the while they ran, but he hadn’t flagged, and he hadn’t for a moment taken his eyes from where the firm pressure of his blood-soaked bandana had turned a spurting of blood into only an oozing, and he hadn’t slowed Jeff down, and it shamed Jeff to the bone that he hadn’t even remembered that day in at least ten years.
Okay, Billy. “Yes,” Jeff found himself saying, “there is something you can do. I think Thorian Thorsen and I could use a place to stay for a couple of days.”
No, not Thorsen; what was he thinking of?
He knew damn well what he was thinking of. He was uncomfortable around Billy and would have preferred to have somebody else around with the two of them, but not somebody who would smell like a Thorsen to a Son—and Thorian Thorsen would smell like a Thorsen.
“No,” he said, correcting himself, “not Thorsen. He’ll be staying with Maggie; it would just be me. If that’s not a problem.”
“Not a problem, Jeff. You know that’s not a problem at all,” Billy said, with an entirely nontheatrical shrug. He sat back in his chair. “Mi casa, su casa, of course,” he said, with a flick of his hand.
Chapter Eight
Chest Pains
Doc Sherve let the big Suburban roll to a stop, the icy snow crunching pleasantly beneath the thick tires. It took too long before Chuck Halvorsen, rifle shouldered like he was on a march, stepped out of the shack. He stepped back at a quick wave of dismissal.
“It’s nice to see that he’s alert,” Sherve said, sarcastically.
Ian shook his head. “Hey, he’s not there to be watching out for cars.”
“Good point.” Ian reached for the door latch, but Sherve laid a hand on his arm, stopping him.
“You can finish your coffee, first,” Sherve said, gesturing at the travel cup still steaming in the cupholder. “You’re not in that much of a rush, are you?”
Ian ignored the question, but sipped at the coffee.
The truth was, he didn’t know how much of a rush he was in. And that’s what worried him. Ignorance wasn’t bliss; it was fucking scary.
“Coffee seems to be more the local religion than Lutheranism in Hardwood,” Ian said.
Sherve’s teeth were surprisingly white when he smiled, except for a brown stain that Ian assumed came from his cigars. “Absolutely. Go to church or not, that’s your concern. But if you don’t drink coffee, people will assume that you’re some sort of weirdo.”
“But I am some sort of weirdo,” Ian said. “You get used to it after a while.” He took another small swallow of the hot, black brew.
In the backseat, Valin finished his cup with a loud slurping, and then, when Doc Sherve silently passed the thermos back to the dwarf, he poured himself another cup. Well, you’d never know what you’d like until you tried it, and Valin had taken an instant fancy to black coffee, something that Ian had always thought was an acquired taste.
As a kid, before a trip, Ian would have been concerned not to drink too much of anything, for fear of having to go to the bathroom too soon. Being thirsty on the road was your own problem, and you could always drink later. Having to go to the bathroom too soon after leaving or too often during a trip was high on the list of Benjamin Silverstein’s lengthy list of punishable sins. Then again, breathing was probably fairly high on the lengthy list of sins Benjamin Silverstein thought punishable.
It was kind of disgusting that such things still affected Ian, that he couldn’t wipe every influence of that scumbag father of his from every corner of his mind, but that was the way it was.
Fuck.
And the worst of it was that he couldn’t simply figure out what his father would have wanted him to do, and then simply do the opposite. A stopped clock is right twice a day, after all. You just never know quite when.
Ian hated that.
He ached for the feel of a foil’s grip in his hand, for the shiny firmness of a fencing strip under his feet, for the vaguely metallic smell of the air inside his fencing mask. That was the one place he could trust his reflexes, the one place he didn’t have to figure everything out, as though figuring things out was some sort of panacea.
But here it didn’t matter. He would no more have to stop to take a piss in the Hidden Way than he would have to stop to rest or eat or sleep. And even beyond the Hidden Way, if you needed to relieve your bladder on the road, as long as you weren’t being followed, it was just a matter of unbuttoning your trousers, as strange as it felt, at first, to relieve yourself out in the open.
So he swallowed his coffee, and one more time silently curse
d at his father for making him have to figure every damn thing.
“I don’t suppose it’ll do any good, but I’d just as soon get it said, anyway,” Doc said. “You can hold off on this for at least another few days, you know.”
“You think so? Really?” Ian forced a smile. “And risk losing my nerve?”
Doc Sherve’s lined face might have been able to express more skepticism, but if that right eyebrow had gone any higher, flesh would have torn. “You?” Sherve snorted, spurting a booger out of one nostril and onto his sleeve, something that would have embarrassed anybody else, but which Sherve merely wiped off with a Kleenex. “Yeah, sure.”
He was silent for a long moment, then: “Just take care of yourself, okay?”
“What says the Honored One, Ian Silver Stone?” Valin’s voice graveled from the back. “Does he speak of what a great privilege it is for him to have been permitted to convey thy person in his carriage-of-steel?”‘
“He, err, he hasn’t quite gotten to that yet,” Ian said, then realized that while Valin had spoken in Bersmal, Ian had answered him in English. “The Honored One has not, as of yet, found such an opportunity,” Ian said in Bersmal.
Valin grunted skeptically. “There seems to have been ample.”
Sherve’s expression was a question. But Ian didn’t feel like answering this one.
“See you, Doc. Thanks for the ride.”
“Yeah.”
Still careful of his sore shoulder, he opened the door, exited the Suburban, and had the back door open before Valin could manage it.
It was cold out, but he wouldn’t need his parka shortly and he quickly stripped it off, replacing it with the fringed leather jacket that he had bought in a Grand Forks pawnshop. Arguably, it would break up his silhouette against almost any background—and that was a good thing—but mainly he wore it because it was comfortable, and he liked it.
He took Giantkiller’s scabbard out of the pool cue case and slung it over his shoulder, following that with one broad strap of his rucksack. He stalked over to the hole and dropped the rucksack unceremoniously down into the darkness—Karin Thorsen had helped him pack his gear, and she knew what she was doing; nothing would break from a much harder impact—then hurried back to the car to get the other rucksacks and the long, telescoping walking stick.
The Crimson Sky Page 11
