Down These Strange Streets

by George R. R. Martin; Gardner Dozois

  SHE LED HIM BEHIND THE HOUSE AND DOWN A PATH THAT FOLLOWED THE barbed-wire fence. The warm night air was filled with the soft lowing of cattle, and the smell of cow shit and dust. He began to mind where he stepped. Fireflies danced through the brown blades of grass like lost stars. The half moon had nearly set behind the hills.

  Ahead, a sinuous line of trees marked a stream’s meandering path. They broke through into a clearing where a wooden footbridge crossed the slowflowing water. The wind shifted and Cross smelled the smoke of a campfire. There was a hobo jungle nearby. Sharon stared in that direction for a long time, then sank down on the edge of the bridge, legs swinging free, and stared down at the silver-tipped ripples passing beneath her.

  Finally, she asked, “What do you do, sir? What’s your business?”

  “I’m currently a private detective, ma’am,” he said.

  She studied him for a long time. “So that means you help people.” Her voice was so soft he had to lean in to hear her. Her breath puffed softly against his cheek.

  “Do you need help?”

  She didn’t answer but turned her face away to contemplate the sky. “My husband is on his way to Chicago for the convention.”

  Cross didn’t need to ask which convention. The Democrats had gathered to select a presidential candidate. The Republicans were sticking with the hapless Hoover, so it was critical that the Democrats pick wisely. Not fucking likely was Cross’s estimation.

  “Marshall’s an alternate delegate, and he took Sean so he could see his government in action,” she continued. That gave Cross a twinge of unease. A preacher with an official position and the taint of an Old One could be a toxic brew.

  “I stayed behind to mind the mission.” Sharon continued. She gave the ring a nervous twist. The shadow tentacles writhed. She sat silent for a moment, then turned to face him. “The Lord has given me the gift of Sight, and I can see that you are a good man. I think you were sent here to help me.”

  “I couldn’t speak to the first part, ma’am, but if you’re in trouble I could probably help,” Cross said.

  She presented him with her profile. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”

  “Why’s that?”

  She thrust out her hand. “This ring,” she whispered. “My husband gave it to me, but I can’t take it off.”

  “Let me see.” He extended his hand, and she laid her hand in his.

  Power throbbed through the ring like a heartbeat. He gathered his own power, took a grip on the ring, and gave an experimental tug. There was a flare of violet light, something seemed to kick him in the chest, and the world went black.

  The first impression was that he was wet. Then Sharon was there, pulling his head into her lap and stroking his forehead.

  “Mr. Cross. Mr. Cross. Are you all right?”

  He forced apart his eyelids. Even the faint moonlight felt like a spike being driven into his head. He was lying with the lower half of his body in the creek. The assault from the ring had knocked him clean off the footbridge.

  The bonds that supported his human form were vibrating like a struck tuning fork. He swallowed bile, closed his eyes, and took slow, deep breaths. Don’t shatter. Don’t shatter. Not here. Not now. Not so soon after the last time. Slowly, he gained control over the body.

  “Do you think you can walk?”

  He nodded. A mistake, so he settled for a moan and hoped it sounded enough like yes to get across his meaning. He struggled, trying to regain his feet. Sharon helped, supporting him under one arm.

  They limped back to the mission. “I’m going to put you to bed in Sean’s room. And get out of those wet clothes. If I hang them now they’ll be dry by morning.”

  She took him upstairs to a narrow room with an equally narrow bed against one wall. There was a bookcase with schoolbooks and religious tracts. On top of the case was a collection of rocks, a crawfish in a tank, a football. A typical boy’s room. She left. Cross emptied his pockets and took off the gun rig. He stripped out of his clothes, and, half-opening the door, handed out the soggy bundle.

  He had the presence of mind to remove the money belt and shove it beneath the pillow. He then eyed the bed and fell naked on top of the covers.

  IT WAS THE WESTERING SUN, HOT ON HIS EYELIDS, THAT BROUGHT HIM awake. Cross found his clothes in a neatly folded stack on the foot of the bed. The incongruity puzzled him. Little Miss Goody Two Shoes had entered the bedroom of a naked man not her husband. He checked his wristwatch. The dark power in that ring had knocked him out for twenty-one hours. Cross shuddered; something had come through the veils between the dimensions here, and it appeared to be a shitload more powerful than he was.

  None of his possessions had been molested, not even the Webley. Dressed, he took a moment to quickly open the doors of the two other rooms on the upper floor. One was a study, the other a bedroom with a double bed covered with a patchwork quilt and redolent with the smell of perfume. And he found what he’d sought. Not the actual opening between the dimensions, but proof that an Old One had been resident in this house. The mirror on the dresser was gray and occluded, the result of contact with an Old One.

  He sat down on the edge of the bed and considered. One of his kind had entered the world here. Which meant that there was a hole in reality. He couldn’t deal with the tear; only a paladin using the weapon could close it. He needed to inform his boss and warn him it had moved on, probably to Chicago. He should head for Chicago too. Fight the Old One and maybe win. Even considering the coming battle had him shaking. On the other hand, Conoscenza had only told him to locate the source. Cross had done that. He could use the money in his belt, buy a ticket on the first train heading east, and make his report in person.

  Cross went to the top of the stairs and heard the rumble of male voices from the mess hall. This evening, the Blood of the Lamb Mission had customers. Entering the converted living room, he studied the situation. Stubble adorned all the faces because razors and soap were expensive. Most of the men wore coveralls. A few, like Cross, sported suits, the material worn down to a poverty shine. The room smelled of hash, scrambled eggs, freshly baked bread, and coffee cut heavily with chicory. Beneath the good smells was the stink of body odor, halitosis, and stale cigarette smoke.

  Sharon moved through the crowd doling out plates. The mongoloid staggered along behind her, carrying the plate-stacked tray. Usually the people afflicted with the condition were happy, loving people. This one was working his mouth and kept casting nervous glances at Sharon. And he’d nearly run the night before when Sharon had approached him. Maybe he sensed the dark presence lurking in the heart of her ring. Something clearly had him spooked. The strutting buffoon was at her shoulder. Cross wondered, why did such a beautiful woman keep such men on a string?

  Cross settled onto the end of a bench. The man next to him grunted a greeting. “Big crowd,” Cross remarked.

  “Yeah, we were camped down by the grain elevator. The twist came over and rounded us up.” The man gave Cross a grin that revealed too much gum and too few teeth. “Guess she was lonely.”

  Sharon reached his table. She gave him her flashing smile and deposited a plate in front of him. “How are you feeling? Better?” she asked.

  “Yeah. How do you afford a spread like this?”

  She gave him a pouting smile and placed a finger against her lips. “The Lord doth provide.”

  “Not in my experience.”

  She patted him on the shoulder. She then plucked a strand of her long brown hair off his shoulder and wrapped it around her finger. “Well, perhaps I’ll make a believer of you yet.”

  “Oh, I believe,” Cross said. “Never doubt that I believe.”

  She moved on, and he ate. The texture and flavors of food was one human experience he really enjoyed. He mopped up the dregs of the hash with a piece of bread, slurped down the last of the coffee, gusted a sigh, and pulled out a package of Lucky Strikes. The men at the table with him gazed at the green box with the name in its red bul
l’s-eye with avaricious eyes. Cross had barely gotten the fag between his lips when the self-important little man rushed over, wagging a forefinger.

  “Sister Sharon don’t hold with smoking. Take it outside.”

  It wasn’t worth a fight; Cross shrugged and headed out onto the screened porch. Wood bees, as big as the end of his thumb, droned around the eaves, and the breathless heat of the dying day had his shirt clinging wetly to his back. That was a human experience he didn’t enjoy. He adjusted the body and the sweat vanished. As he watched, the sun, bloated and red, sank beneath the horizon.

  Behind him, the screen door slammed shut. Cross glanced around. A group of men, led by a hard-faced man with a knife scar across the back of his hand, had joined him. One man took a battered, partially smoked cigarette from his pocket, lit it with a match, and passed it from hand to hand.

  “Harry says you had a pack of cigs.” There was an angry buzz on the edge of the words.

  The man with the knife scar was right behind him. Cross studied him; the light in the man’s eyes screamed out his desire for a fight. Cross decided to try appeasement. He took out the pack of Lucky Strikes and offered it around. The scarred man put his cigarette in his shirt pocket. Cross pulled out his Unique lighter and lit his smoke. The men stared at the silver Dunhill lighter in amazement.

  “So, who the hell are you? Daddy Warbucks?” Knife Scar asked. “And what else you got, friend, that you might be willing to share?” His eyes held all the warmth of a chip of flint.

  Cross leaned his shoulders against a support post. Around him mosquitoes whined like an angry wife. He took a slow drag, blew smoke, and said softly, “You don’t want to be going there, friend. It’ll turn out badly for you.”

  The other men, sensing a fight, formed a circle. Their excitement and barely suppressed violence licked at the edges of Cross’s consciousness. He pushed away the intoxicating brew, studied his opponent, and considered how best to handle the situation. He was still weak from being shattered and what had happened on the bridge last night. There had also been an Old One in this locale very recently. Cross didn’t want to be playing with his powers, lest it draw the attention of one of his brethren.

  His opponent shifted his weight from foot to foot and brought up his fists. Cross continued to lean while he finished his cigarette. He then dropped it and ground it out under his toe. The man rightly read Cross’s casualness as contempt, and his anger flared. It showed as jagged lines of red and sickening yellow erupting from his body. The watchers’ excitement flared in answer.

  The man telegraphed the coming swing. Cross had lived a long time, much of it in human form, and he’d acquired a wide variety of fighting skills. He opted for one he’d learned in China fifty years before. He stepped into the roundhouse, blocked the punch with his forearm, then spun and delivered a kick to the side of the man’s knee. The man went down screaming.

  Cross bent down and twitched the cigarette out of the man’s pocket. “And that’s the problem with going for more, friend. You can end up with nothing.” He straightened and scanned the crowd. The circle of spectators dissolved like ink floating away on a current.

  The screen door flew open, crashing against the wall, and Sharon rushed out with her factotum right behind her. Planting her hands on her hips she said, “There is no fighting in this place of peace.” She pointed at Cross. “You! Just get out! Go on, get!”

  Cross shrugged and headed down the porch steps while the other men filed back into the mission. Sharon got her shoulder under Knife Scar’s shoulder and supported him through the door.

  “I’m going to put you to bed in Sean’s room,” he heard her say to the limping man. “You’ll be right as rain by morning.” The screen door fell shut, and then the heavy wooden front door was firmly closed.

  Cross stood in the deepening twilight looking at that closed door and reflecting on what he had seen as the fight started. Sharon, shielded by the screen, watching with hunger in her eyes.

  HE NEEDED A PHONE. NEEDED TO CALL CONOSCENZA. THIS COULDN’T WAIT for Cross to return to New York. Once his boss heard his report, Conoscenza would head for Chicago. Which meant that Cross had to go there too. Which was the last thing he wanted to do. The power in that ring had him spooked.

  It was nearly eight at night. The post office had closed hours before. So he needed a house with a kind homeowner and the wherewithal to own a telephone. He moved off the main street and into a residential area, scanning the fences and gates for the bird symbol that indicated free phone. It took a while, but he found one. The name on the mailbox was Dr. Adam Grossman. It made sense a doctor would have a telephone.

  There was a Ford Model A parked out front, and it had been carefully washed and waxed. Cross paused behind it and took money from his belt. He then pushed open the gate and walked up to the front door. His knock was answered by a sharp-featured young man with slicked-back black hair. The distinctive scent of Murray’s Superior Pomade floated to Cross’s nostrils. He wore the smart new style of cuffed trousers and plucked at the pants crease with nicotine-stained fingers, while with the other hand he pushed his wire-rim glasses higher onto the bridge of his nose. Cross’s image of the white-haired, heavyset country doctor went up in a pop.

  “Dr. Grossman?”

  “Yes? Is somebody sick?”

  “No. I need to use your telephone,” Cross said, and he offered a folded double sawbuck, which he had pinched between his fingers.

  The doctor’s eyes widened at the sight of twenty dollars. “I generally let people use the phone for free.”

  “I know.”

  Grossman frowned. “How?”

  “There’s a sign on your gate.” The doctor peered out the door toward the white picket fence and gate. Cross laughed. “Hobo symbol.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” Grossman opened the door wide. “Come on in. That explains a lot.”

  Cross stepped across the threshold into a ruthlessly neat front room. Books were squared up on a small table next to an armchair. Throw pillows on the sofa were lined up like portly soldiers. There was no hint of a softening female presence. The room cried out ex-military, and a package of Army Club The Front-Line Cigarette cemented the impression into certainty. Returning doughboys had smoked the English cigarette during the Great War. Memory flickered and touched the senses. For an instant, Cross smelled rank water, unwashed bodies, and cordite, remembered the slip of mud beneath his boot soles.

  “The phone’s in the hall,” Grossman said, breaking the hold of the past. Cross held out the bill. Grossman held up a negating hand. “Keep your money.”

  “I don’t need it, really. Take it. Use it to buy medicine or pay yourself for treating someone for free,” Cross said. Grossman hesitated, then shrugged and took the bill.

  The telephone was nestled in a niche in the wall, and a wooden chair was placed in front. Cross lifted the receiver. A few seconds later, the operator came on the line. He gave her the telephone exchange for Conoscenza’s penthouse. It took a while for the call to route through, but eventually it started ringing and his boss’s familiar basso rumble filled his ear.

  “Conoscenza.”

  “Hey, it’s me. I found it. It originated in Oklahoma. And you were right, it was an incursion, an Old One came through.”

  “Can you deal with it?”

  “Nope, because it blew out of town, heading for Chicago and riding on a bush-league Bible thumper who happens to be an alternate delegate to the convention.”

  “What’s his name?” Conoscenza asked.

  “Hanlin.”

  There was silence for a few minutes and Cross heard the soft shush of turning pages. “He’s not getting any national ink. What do you know about him? Is he a rabble-rouser stoking populist anger?”

  “Couldn’t say.” Cross paused, then asked, “Do you think this is aimed at you? A way to block your plans for FDR?”

  “Perhaps, but whether it is or not we can’t take the risk. I’d best head to Chicago.”


  “Not that you’re going to get on the floor,” Cross said sourly.

  “There are a few Negro alternates,” Conoscenza said. The great raftershaking laugh filled Cross’s ear and seemed to echo in the hall. “And as far as the Democrat party bosses are concerned, my skin is green. I’ll get into the smoke-filled rooms, at least. You’re going to have to be my eyes on the floor.”

  Cold coiled down Cross’s back. Then the other one will see me, and I have no strength to withstand an attack. It was absurd, but he found himself remembering the advertising for Army Club. This is the cigarette for the fellow with a full-sized man’s job to do. When you’re feeling all “hit up,” it steadies the nerves. Cross wondered if he could hit up the doctor for a few.

  “Cross? Are you still there?”

  He shook off the exhaustion. “Yeah, I’m here. The Old One and the preacher laid some kind of powerful whammy on a ring and left it on his wife’s finger. I need to get it off before I blow town. I’ll see you in Chicago.”

  Cross hung up the phone and found the doctor standing quietly in the hall. “What the hell was that about? Are you an anarchist?”

  “No, quite the opposite,” Cross said.

  “And what’s this Old One, and a ring—”

  Standing, Cross held up a hand. “I really don’t have time to explain, and, with some things, it’s just better to live in ignorance.”

  Grossman followed him to the front door. “You seem to be making accusations against Marshall Hanlin,” Grossman said. “Let me tell you, even though I’m a member of a different tribe, Marshall Hanlin is a good man.”

  “I’ll have to take your word on that, Doc. I just know there’s been some bad shit going on in his mission.” Cross pulled open the door. “Thanks for the phone.” Cross opened a button on his shirt, reached into the money belt and extracted a fifty.

  Grossman stared at it. “I can’t . . .”

  “Yeah. You can.” He pressed the bill into the doctor’s hand and pulled open the screen door. The fireflies were back, darting through the grass.