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When it was time for the next cup for Sue, Benny went to the
kitchen. Ama was frying bacon. Real bacon. Not soy, not turkey, but cured and
smoked rib meat from a hog. Benny drooled and got a smack with the wooden
spatula for it.
“Mind you’ manners,” Ama said.
Rubbing the red mark on his arm, he gave her a sullen nod.
Ama stirred the bacon.
“You like it soft o’ hard?”
Grinning, Benny spun. “Soft.”
She flipped a half a pound on a plate, then slid it onto the
table.
“I like to baste the eggs in the grease.” She tossed
Benny a fork
He grabbed it and picked up a few slices, then stilled.
“This that charity crap?”
“Huh?” Ama glanced up. Grease spattered and she grimaced,
slapping at a spot on her arm. “Yeah. Maggie brought it. Hotdogs, too.”
Swallowing his hunger, Benny sat the fork down and pushed
back the plate.
“I do not take charity.”
Ama scowled, but he shot her a look that bordered on hate.
Benny filled the cup and carried it back for Sue.
Ama came to the bedroom doorway. Benny was lying on the bed.
His face was soft and with none of the anger that made it so difficult to face
him.
“Son,” she whispered.
He glanced at her and Ama winced. Mean as cat crap and twice
as ugly.
“Son, you got to eat.”
Looking away from her, he shook his head.
Ama rasped a grunt. “You get sicker, then what? Don’t try
to lie, man. I know you’re in pain. JJ be back, and he owns her soul.”
“I’ll kill him, first.”
A grinning Ama shuddered at that soft promise.
“Well, are you healthy enough to work for it?”
“So long as I ain’t got to bend a knee and kiss the buns,
yes.”
She chortled. “Maggie was over to Antone’s Place.
Dolores, she looking for a man she can trust. Got to wash dishes till late, then
help clean. Don’t pay much, but the eats is free and the soda, too.”
Benny glanced at Sue, then at Ama.
“When do I start?”
Mike felt a thin sheen of sweat on his face. Damn Cindy. The
sign said Antone’s Place in dull white letters on a brick building painted in
a dull, matte black. A neon sign in the window proclaimed the same in gold and
red. Awn-tone-ehz, Creel told him, then went back to sleep.
“Look, buddy,” the cabby muttered, his eyes darting over
the streets, “I ain’t staying forever. This ain’t a good place to be even
at high noon, let alone after dark.” He glanced back at Mike and the clothes
the agent wore. “You staying or do I take you to a place with some real
class?”
“So ’m sleepy,” Creel muttered, snuggling against Mike.
“Hotel.”
The driver snickered, rolling his eyes.
With a scowl for the man, Mike palmed the driver’s screen
to record the end of the trip. The screen whispered its thanks. He handed the
man twenty credits through a thin slot cut in the bulletproof plastic divider.
“Last o’ the big spenders,” the cabby muttered,
slapping the key to unlock the rear doors for Mike.
“Don’t spend it all in one dive.” Mike dragged Creel
from the cab. The doors slammed shut. Hanging from Mike’s fist by the back of
his coat Creel yelped, grabbing his foot.
“Ow, it hurts. Freekin pinhead.” Then he started
sneezing.
The taxi shot away into the sky. Mike jerked Creel upright
and shied him at the door to Antone’s Place. Creel fumbled with his wallet and
stumbled over the worn brick paving. A quick grab by Mike kept him from adding
to the trash laying soaked in the gutter.
A dog snarled from the shadows. The back of Mike’s head
started to itch, and he palmed a small hideout gun from the rig under his sleeve.
The dog raced away. A thin, scabby pariah, it was dun yellow and so thin Mike
could have counted the beats of its heart through the ribs.
Mumbling under his breath between coughs, Creel found a city
ID and banged on the door. A slot opened. He slid it through and the door
opened, backed by a tall, angry man with a sawed-off shotgun. Creel reached for
his card.
The man held it up. “Who be you, mon?”
No dreadlocks, but definitely Jamaican. Mike scratched his
nose, and the wristwatch took the guard’s picture.
“Hell, Creel and a friend. Since when Dolores an’ Mitch
got to have a guard?”
Bone white teeth flashed in the guard’s face. “Since dey
troubles start over to Safe Side. Some bunch o’ Harvester gots they-selves
chewed up. Coroner, he found some teeth, o’ them boys still be considered
AWOL.”
A woman shouted from the kitchen and the man motioned them to
come in.
“Damned fools,” the guard said, pushing the door shut
behind Mike. “Aye an’ was a good way for a Harvester to go, flushed down wit
the rest o’ da shit.”
“Jason,” the woman shouted. “Mind you tongue o’ I add
it to the menudo!”
“Aye, ma’am,” the guard said, but he was grinning. “I
don’ use no foul language like shit an’ such in this here Zip
establishment.”
She held up a butcher knife and showed him an evil grin. The
guard chuckled.
“Me sister-in-law. Hey, man,” he snapped at Creel. “You
ain’t contagious? This year already de damned flu must o’ killed enough
people to populate Safe Side.”
“No,” Creel said, but a look of worry came over him. “I
had my shots.”
Laughter boomed through the bar from the guard.
“Shots?” he exclaimed. “Damned shots will kill ya
quicker dan flu.”
A lot of eyes were on them. Mike grabbed Creel by
the shoulder, hauling him to a booth in the corner with a few men lounging in
it.
©2004 StoriesByEmail.com
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