by John Shirley
Hearing Shoella mutter something to her loas, Bleak straightened up and in the same motion brought his right fist up hard into Gleaman's chin; felt Gleaman's jaws clack shut, teeth crunching under the blow. Gleaman spinning, falling.
“Sorry about this,” Bleak told the bartender. “Come on, Shoella,” he muttered to her, turning toward the door. He got three steps—and normally he'd have “seen” Gleaman aiming at his back. But too many people were staring at him.
A gunshot, and the bullet sliced past Bleak's right ear.
Bleak spun and saw Gleaman sitting on the floor, pistol in hand. Bursinsky was getting to his hands and knees next to him—as Gleaman squintingly aimed the Glock nine-millimeter at Bleak through a blue cloud of gun smoke.
“Not gonna fucking miss this time,” Gleaman said.
Bleak began conjuring an energy bullet—but he figured it'd be too late.
Shoella was hissing to herself in Cajun French, and suddenly a translucent creature with a giant vulture's head and a man's body was hunched over Gleaman. A baka loa, one of the dark, “bitter” entities formed in the Hidden by voodoo beliefs. The apparition wore a lion's-hide skirt, and anklets of yellow grass hung over his bare black feet. The vulture's head was proportional with the body, beak opening wide...
And the baka loa dipped its beak to feed within Gleaman's skull. Its beak penetrated his skull without breaking the bone.
No one here could see this but Shoella and Bleak. All the others saw was Gleaman reacting in paralytic agony, flopping on his arched back, foaming at the mouth, whites of his eyes showing, the gun firing once. A glass fishing float shattered.
Bleak stepped in and expertly twisted the gun from Gleaman's hands. He looked at Bursinsky and said, “You want that to happen to you—what's happening to your friend?”
Bursinsky, getting to his feet now, was looking at Gleaman—who was spasming, chattering, and peeing his pants. Babbling: “Nuh take it out nuh take it out nuh take it out nuh take it out oh please God take it outta my head...”
“No,” Bursinsky said in a low voice. He took a step back. “I don't.”
“Then back off.”
Bursinsky looked at Shoella, sensing it was her doing somehow. He looked narrowly at Bleak. “How yuh find me anyway, last time? Just tell me that, Bleak. Ain't nobody shoulda been able to find me.”
Bleak shook his head. “I don't have to tell you anything except go see your fucking parole officer. You can tell your friend, if he gets his mind working, that his gun went in the drink. And don't think I can't find you again if you piss me off. No matter where you go.”
Gleaman was still spasming, though the vulture-headed baka loa had vanished.
Bleak turned and walked out the door, wanting to get gone before the bartender called the cops. Normally he was okay with the police; today he was as reluctant to see the cops as Bursinsky would be. The CCA might have the cops looking for him. And he wanted to get away from the sound of Gleaman burbling.
Outside, a little breeze from the river lifted sweat from his forehead; the breeze smelled of oil and river reek. Shoella came to him on the edge of the dock, watched as he tossed the gun into the river. Plunk, and the pistol sank away. “You don't use your especiality at all, when you bounty huntin', cher darlin'?”
“Sure I do—to find them. Not to catch them. I want as few as possible to know.” She nodded. “Good sense, I 'spect.”
“You knew that loser was in there, Shoella? That why you picked it?”
Her smile gleamed, gold amid ivory. “My Yorena told me someone with hate for you was nearby, I wanted to see what you do. Only one time I see you summon les invisibles, see you work.” She toyed with her dreadlocks. “But I did see something in there—your manhood, that you summon and work. You summon something that way. From inside. Interesting to see.” She glanced at him; glanced away.
“That man going to recover?”
“Oh, no, I don' think,” she said disinterestedly.
He shook his head. He could feel she was attracted to him; he felt drawn to her, especially sexually. But at moments like this, it was easy for him to keep his distance.
She looked up into the inky sky, and he heard wings in the darkness. Her lips moved soundlessly. Then she turned to him, nodding. “They waiting for us. I will go to them first, you meet us. You know the dock La'hood use, sometimes, to meet?”
“Sure.”
“It'll take me some time. We'll meet just before dawn. When our strength is high.” He watched her walk into the darkness; then he went back to his cabin cruiser, tied up at the end of the pier.
He had mixed feelings about meeting with ShadowComm. They made him feel less alone. But they were embarrassingly unpredictable—and maybe because he held himself aloof, most of them were vaguely hostile to him.
As he cast off, he heard ghosts, under the pier, whisper warnings to him. But then they were always warning him of something.
Everyone was always in danger, after all. From cancer, from car crashes and plane crashes, from criminals. Most people managed denial; managed to pretend they were safe.
Gabriel Bleak never had that luxury.
***
THE WEE HOURS OF the next morning. Atlantic City.
The noise inside the casino was like a million children's toys, the slots with their bells and tweets and buzzes, endlessly clanging and tweeting, chiming crappy little tunes. It merged together into one warbling. People at the slots banging at the buttons—not just tapping them, but really smacking them hard. All desperation. Funny to see.
“Casinos got rugs in them like my aunt Louella's house,” Jock said, as he and Gulcher walked in past the smiling casino greeter. The carpet in Lucky Lou's Atlantic City Casino looked like paisley had' gotten a disease. “My sister always said Louella had the ugliest damn rugs inna world.”
“That greeter looked like he should be selling vacuum cleaners or some shit,” Gulcher said, laughing.
They were both on a sort of high, saying things they wouldn't ordinarily say and saying them loud. Gulcher, who always knew when cop types were watching him, was aware, as they walked the aisle between rows of slot machines, that he'd already attracted the notice of a couple of thick-bodied, greasy-headed guys in casual suits. They were casino security bulls with headsets, hearing-aid-like pieces plugged into their ears. They had little blue-and-white plastic tags on Croakies bands around their necks, with their names and LUCKY LOU'S ATLANTIC CITY CASINO printed on them.
“But you know, this ain't the best casino on the street, man,” Jock said. “This ain't like Trump's or one of those classier places got the spas and fountains and they look more modern and shit.”
“It's just as big, and anyway it's the one I was guided to.” Gulcher looked around at all the clamorous action. “Here it is, like four in the fucking morning,” Gulcher added, talking loud so Jock could hear him over the endless insane chatter of the slot machines, “and we're like five steps in the door, and we got these nice new civilian clothes, and still they already doggin' security on us here.”
“Hey, Troy, these places run hard twenty-four-seven, suckin' up people's hard-earned cash.”
“Yeah, we been in the wrong business, Jock.”
“I hear that. Where we going to start in here?”
“I'll know in a minute, I figure.”
Neither of them had any doubts about what their objective was—they just didn't know, yet, how it would happen. Jock had tacitly acknowledged Gulcher as the leader, and the one with the real connection to the whisperer. Jock waited on Gulcher, and Gulcher waited on the whisperer.
Gulcher was a little surprised that Jock had deferred to him this much, Jock being so paranoid. But then, he'd seen people who were all hostile to you get friendly—temporarily, anyhow-after a few tequilas, or a line of cocaine. The whisperer gave you that stony glow without the booze, without the drugs.
Besides, following Gulcher's lead had gotten them out of high security. It was working out so far
.
Sure, it had occurred to Gulcher that he was taking a big risk, hooking up with the whisperer, allying with something he didn't really understand. He was becoming part of something, and somehow he knew there was no going back. He was committed now. And committed also meant stuck.
So what! He was out, free, armed, with money in his pocket, and in civilian clothes. Sure he was making a deal with something like...the devil. But hadn't he already done that, years ago, in a way? Hadn't he crossed the line anyway, when he killed that dealer and took his weight, back on the block? What difference did it make if he got in deeper?
And it felt good when he hooked into that power. Good watching those pigs die, walking out those doors.
They'd found a cab waiting in the parking lot of an all-night restaurant on the interstate, a quarter mile from the prison. They'd walked right up to the cab, and the driver, one of those Paki types with a turban, he'd seen their prison clothes and tried to drive away, but murky faces swirled around the hood of his yellow cab...and it just stopped running. Engine just froze up. Somehow seemed like the most natural thing in the world, to Gulcher, when that happened.
The guy had jumped out and run like a scared rabbit. They'd got in the cab, ignoring the sounds of sirens whooping from the direction of the prison. People starting to figure out there'd been a jailbreak and a lot of correctional officers gone crazy, back there. And dead people... quite a few dead.
Jock had taken the wheel and they'd driven in the cab to a little curtained, frame house a few miles from the prison, where there were a couple of guys who'd snitched on Gulcher.
The two dudes and their girlfriends had been up tweaking on their glass pipes when Gulcher and Jock walked in, Jock grinning, with the service .45 taken from the prison in his hand, firing one two three four five shots, only one extra needed when that black chick tried to crawl away.
They'd searched the place, taking some money and finding clothes they could wear. Hawaiian shirts, jeans, Gulcher picking up a nice pair of wraparound shades. “Wonder where they stole these shades,” he'd said. “Look at that, says 'Dior' on the side.”
“Might be counterfeit.”
“See there, you fucking rain on my parade, Jock.”
Gulcher put the shades on now because the glaring overhead lights of the casino, meant to keep people awake and gambling, were irritating his eyes.
He was feeling some tiredness—normally in stir he'd be snoring about now—but he was still high, still feeling stony good.
He hadn't been tempted by any of the dope in that frame house. That was new, not being tempted by drugs. Anytime before, since he'd first got high at thirteen, he'd have jumped right into that shit.
But it seemed paltry now, compared to this.
“The suffering here is part of your power, “ came the whisperer, then, as they paused by the roulette table. “Look around you, and know it. “
Gulcher had never had an interest in whether people suffered, unless he hated them—then he was real interested. People he didn't know—who cared? But if the whisperer said it was important...
There, a row of people at the slot machines. Three stumpy, little old ladies with fat ankles and cigarette-yellowed hands and droopy-sad faces: a white lady, a Filipina, a Cuban lady. Then a chunky black woman in a nurse's uniform; then a middle-aged, maybe Italian guy with buck teeth, receding hair, fake-looking gold chain. Then a big black guy in a New York Jets jersey; then a white guy so fat he was in a wheelchair from it, barely fitting in there between rows of slots; then a tall, skinny white woman in a pale pink pants suit with a crotch stain that made him wonder if she'd peed her pants because she wouldn't leave her slot machine; then a scared-looking pimply young guy, maybe nineteen; then...
And they were all pumping the slots, one way or another pumping at them, though the new machines, most of them, didn't have the metal arms you pulled; these weren't the old one-armed bandits, these were touch-screen and push-button, and they were all shiny with colors and panels glowing with pop icons, and they had themes, some of them, pictures of characters from TV shows on them—a CSI: Denver slot machine, a Magic Girl one, a Disney Planet one—and they had little lights on top that revolved when they paid, and they all went yippety-yippety-yippety-tweet-tweet-tootle all the fucking time.
As he watched them, a kind of ripple was in the air around each slot player, a membrane of heightened perception provided by the whisperer—and it revealed a second face on each person. As if each slot player had two faces at once, the second one floating behind and a little above the one you normally see. The second face was blue-white, almost like a mask, but you could see through it—a ghostly visage, with a different expression from the face the slot player showed the world, and it was looking around.
“That is the face of their souls, “ said the whisperer.
These soul faces were frightened and angry. They had the look of trapped people, Gulcher decided. Like they were really stuck somewhere and not sure how or why they got stuck there and they just wanted to get out. Like bugs in a Roach Motel.
The faces of their souls...
“You see it too?” Jock asked, sounding scared and sick himself.
“Yeah,” Gulcher said. Wondering what the expression on the face of his own soul looked like. These people looked like they were suffering, all right. That was funny, because the regular faces on their bodies looked like they were kind of bored, or just vaguely interested, or slightly excited. But these soul faces were like something you'd see in a mental ward. Gulcher himself had once been in a mental ward, playing crazy to stay out of prison, and he had fessed up pretty quick. Because that place
was too damned depressing. He figured people's body faces in mental wards looked like their soul faces, no different.
“Those you see before you have folded their winds into the games of chance, “ said the whisperer. “Their minds are trapped in the game, round and round. They have surrendered themselves; they have left an opening to anything that wishes to enter and take them. They are like puppets waiting for a hand. Your hands. Stretch out your hands. Two hands will do for many. “
“Two hands for many,” Gulcher repeated. Not knowing why.
“What'd you say, Troy?” Jock asked.
“Shut up, I gotta concentrate and shit,” Gulcher told him curtly. Jock had some ability to hear the whisperer, to glimpse the hidden things, but he didn't have anything like Gulcher's gift.
“Now reach out, “ said the whisperer. “Speak the names you were taught and reach out—feel your hands beyond your hands. “
He remembered. The whisperer had guided him, as he'd destroyed the guards, opened the doors at the prison.
“It is something you were born to do,” it told him. “It is a gift.”
Gulcher closed his eyes, said the names, and had a sensation that was alien to him and natural both, when he used the gift. A feeling in his hands. As if they were rubbery, extending impossibly from within. His astral hands, reaching out beyond his physical boundaries, stretching out toward the people at the slots. And swirling around them were the steam-shapes, the man-faced serpents, going where he directed them. Unseen by anyone but him.
“Hey, you two,” said the security bull, walking up to them. Gulcher opened his eyes a moment, glanced at the guy. Short, almost freakishly broad-shouldered, froggishly wide-mouthed. He closed his eyes again as the guy went on, “What's this, standing around waving your arms at people with your eyes closed? All this grinning and laughing? We don't want drugged-up people in here, this ain't no place to be tripping on meth.”
“Ha, he thinks we're on drugs there, uh, bro,” Jock said. A criminal's instinct keeping him from saying Gulcher's name out loud. “Tripping, he says!”
Gulcher was stretching his unseen astral hands out to the nearest ten people, reaching into a head, through a head; stretching on to the next head, into the head, through the head; on to the next one, his reach stretching through three heads, and on to the fourth, opening t
hem up, to stream astral familiars, the man-faced serpents into them.
Someone put their hand on Gulcher's arm—and Gulcher ignored it.
“Hey, keep away from him!” Jock warned the security bull.
“Okay, we got one with a gun here—!”
Bang of a gunshot, and the touch on his arm went away. Gulcher didn't open his eyes. He felt a body hit the floor. He knew it was the stocky, broad-shouldered one, falling, a bullet in his head. Didn't need to see it to know.
“More enemies are coming... reach out to more puppets. “
Running feet, another gunshot, but he was ready. He opened his eyes and looked around, saw one clumsily sprawled dead man, another man crawling away, blood spreading across that funky paisley carpeting.
Men were running toward him, two of them with guns in their hands. Jock beside him saying, “Hey, man—you going to—”
Then it came together—and came rushing out. All those people, his puppets, rushing from between the slot machines at the men in the suits, the security bulls going down under a scrimmage of gamblers before they could fire a shot; a tumble of bodies, many of them old and fat and infirm, but young ones too, so many of them the casino guards were overwhelmed. And what they did then...
It wasn't Gulcher who made them do those things to the security bulls. He never told them to pluck out their eyes and squeeze their necks till the blood came out their mouths.
“You have tapped into their anger, “ came the whisper. “Their hidden anger flows free and drives them. “ Its voice oozed primal satisfaction.
Gulcher felt sick and had to look away. He didn't really care what happened to private pigs—but watching people get their faces pulled apart like that, naturally it's going to make you sick.
“What we do now?” Jock asked.
“We lock this place down, for a while, and get this mess taken care of.” “Sure to be people calling nine-one-one. Some is just watchin'. Not everyone's part of it.” “That's okay. You'll see. It's in the whole building, now. I can feel it.” Gulcher turned to Jock, grinning. “This casino is ours.”
