by Mick Farren
The bartender looked doubtful.
"Are you sure about that, pilgrim?"
Vickers' eyes became don't-mess-with-me slits.
"Sure I'm sure."
"Suit yourself."
The bartender poured him another double shot and ran Vickers' credit card through the machine for the fifth time. The Las Vegas airport dressed their bartenders like parodies of Mississippi gamblers, string ties and brocade vests. Vickers wasn't prepared to take flack from anyone in a string tie. As he filled the hollowness with more scotch, it was replaced by hostility. He had a suspicion that as well as being in some kind of delayed shock, he was probably also suffering a multiple comedown from all the mind alterers he'd been fed in the bunker. Why else would the bartender sound like John Wayne? John Wayne hovered protectively.
"Don't care to fly, huh?"
"I don't even have a ticket."
"Think maybe you ought to go home or something?"
Home? For Vickers the concept was weird. The hollowness expanded as he realized that the bunker was the only place that he could think of as home. He was like an ex-con, just out of the penitentiary. Somehow he had to get a grip on himself. His first task was to deal with Big John.
"Listen, I'm just sitting here in your bar getting drunk as a skunk. If you don't like it just tell me and I'll go someplace else, otherwise just keep pouring and if I get out of line, call the cops."
The bartender seemed to be weighing Vickers in the balance. Finally he made up his mind. John Wayne ran out and he was nothing but cold.
"I'm sorry, sir. I really don't think I can serve you any more."
Vickers had a compact.32 auto in a shoulder holster under the jacket of his brand new suit. For a moment he was tempted to shoot the bartender. In an instant of clarity he realized that there was a certain logic in not turning the entire bunker population loose en masse. They were all at least as crazy as he was. He resisted the urge to homicide and instead swallowed what was left of his drink in one burning gulp.
"If that's the case, fuck you."
"You have a nice day too, sir."
He slid off the barstool and started a little unsteadily in the direction of the check-in machines. The Intercontinental Pyramid dominated the skyline beyond the nearest expanse of panoramic glass. He remembered how he'd rappeled down from the fifty-fifth floor and the urge to get the hell out of Las Vegas became overwhelming. Then the voice came from behind.
"Hey Mort, wait up!"
Vickers twitched. He had to fight down a reckless impulse to go for his gun. He slowly turned. A woman in a red dress was hurrying after him. Her outfit had the kind of wide shoulders and narrow skirt that were fashionable before he'd gone into the bunker. A tiny matching hat with a veil was perched on the top of her short dark hair. What was this all about? Then he recognized the face.
"Johanna?"
He'd never seen her in makeup and real clothes. She was really quite stunning.
"What the fuck are you doing here? How did you get out of the bunker?"
"I've had more gracious receptions."
"I'm sorry; I'm drunk. The bartender just refused to serve me any more booze. I'm not sure I'm quite ready to be back in the world. How are you doing?"
"I think it's fabulous."
"Fabulous?"
"Yeah, fabulous. I can wear clothes again, makeup. I had my hair done and a facial. I've had about a hundred showers. Unrationed water is quite a novelty. You can't believe what a relief it is to be out of that blue uniform and have space to move around."
"How did you get out? I thought they were only letting people out in ones and twos."
"I got myself to the head of the line."
"How did you do that?"
"I told them that I was your girl friend. I figured that after carrying a torch for so long I ought to make some use of you. You'll be flattered to hear that your name actually cut some ice."
"I'm a fucking hero."
"You're a fucking bastard."
"Really?"
"I spent more than one night pining for you."
"It was an impossible situation."
"Not for you men it wasn't. Sexually you were in hog heaven."
"Jesus Christ."
Vickers turned and started to stagger away. Johanna put a hand on his arm.
"Wait, Mort. I'm sorry. Don't go off this way."
Vickers halted. His legs suddenly felt weak. A wave of self-pity threatened to engulf him.
"I'm sorry too."
Johanna raised an eyebrow.
"Do you actually have anywhere to go?"
Vickers stared at her blearily.
"Go?"
"Or are you just planning to hang around the airport drinking yourself unconscious?"
Vickers squinted belligerently at her.
"I've got a thousand places to go."
"You really don't know what to do, do you, now this adventure's at an end. You look like a little boy lost."
"I don't need this." Her expression abruptly softened. "Do you even have the approximation of a home?" Vickers swayed, his smile was lopsided. "I've got some new clothes and an awful lot of money. That's all I need.
"Why don't you come to Los Angeles with me. Contec is putting me in the Beverly Wiltshire while they figure out what to do with me. It could be fun. You can relax, work out some of the knots."
Vickers was very tempted but he wasn't quite ready to admit it.
"I don't want to go to Los Angeles. There are too many people who don't like me in LA to make it very relaxing."
"That's a pity. I don't like to see you drunk, wandering around on your own like this."
The only word was vulnerable. He didn't want to be drunk and wandering around like this either. "I… why don't you come with me."
"You don't know where you're going." Details of a flight to Rio came up on the Faxcast. "Rio. Come to Rio with me. We can lay on the beach and look at the sky."
"Rio?"
"The plane leaves in forty-five minutes."
"What about Contec? I'm supposed to go to LA."
"I can square anything with Contec. Contec loves me."
"You're sure."
Now Vickers was becoming expansive. "Sure I'm sure."
He held out his arm. Johanna hesitated just long enough and then she sighed and took it. Arm in arm they walked toward the Amjet check-in.
"Do you really have a great deal of money?"
"A great deal."
"That's nice."
"Isn't it."
"Maybe we could even make love in the toilet of the plane."
Vickers shook his head.
"It's going to be a long time before I do anything in an enclosed space."
Notes
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-g4osgj0i-xk6u-uccv-vrj6-b027fepawnx6
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 11.09.2006
Created using: Fiction Book Designer, FB Writer v2.2 software
Document authors :
Paco
Document history:
v1.0 - создание файла (fb2) Paco
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