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Mike backed away from the bar. He whistled at Mitch and held
up two fingers. Busy filling a bouquet of beer pitchers, Mitch nodded.
Bumping into people, Mike went back to the booth. Men
scowled, but the man had a look they decided not to bother with. This close to
the Dead Zone he could be a cop, or a drug lord with soldiers in the crowd.
Mike dropped into the seat. Creel was wheezing but happy with
a belly full of whisky in him. Dolores shouted warnings, weaving between people
to the table. She set the classes down and muttered at the heat coming off of
Creel’s.
Mike slid the credits across the table. She picked them up
and whistled for the Jamaican. Grinning, teeth flashing in the light, Jason
pushed through to the table to take Creel and push him down on the seat.
Squirming under the man, Creel wheezed and cried, “Hey,
lemme go.” He tried to shove the Jamaican away, but the lanky man only laughed.
“Mon, don’ be bad. You’ pardner, he must like you, else
he not wanna help.”
Creel stilled. Eyes wide, he stared up at Mike.
Mike grabbed Creel’s jaw and wrenched it open. Grim and
half-angry, he dumped the contents in, tossed the glass at Dolores, and clamped
his hand over Creel’s mouth and nose.
Sad, watering eyes stared up at him, but Creel swallowed fast.
Sweat ran down the face. As the Jamaican stepped away, Mike jerked Creel up and
propped him up in the corner so he couldn’t doze off on Mike’s shoulder
again.
Squeaky noses came from the man. Mike scowled at him. Creel
was smiling in a tender way at Mike and blinking through a wash of tears.
“I like you,” he said, but it came out, “Iee lye
coo.”
With a small groan of self-pity, Mike nursed his boilermaker
staring at the opening to the kitchen. Every once in a while Benny would appear
only to duck down to hide. Creel slumped in the booth. He sighed and his head
slid down to rest on Mike’s shoulder.
With a short, wistful glance at the ceiling, Mike whispered,
“Why? Why me, man?” He winced, muttering, “This is Mama’s doin’,
isn’t it?”
It was sheer hell, having a mother that was a prayer warrior.
He slapped Creel’s head away, but a moment later Creel was back, snuggling
against Mike.
Benny slipped out for the eighth time to take a look at Mike.
The man turned away. Scowling and half-afraid the man was waiting for the right
moment to grab him, Benny whispered at Mitch.
Plodding back to the kitchen, Mitch slid onto a barstool. He
cleared his throat to kill a yawn but it came anyway.
“Hm?" He smiled at Benny. “What do you need, man?”
Shrugging, Benny said, “That dude in the corner. He’s a
cop.”
“Yeah, and? They come down now and then, so they can claim
they’re watchin’ Penn. He makes no trouble; he lives to come back.”
"A fed cop.”
Mitch’s head came up, the brown eyes narrowing as he
stared.
“Fed. Like what?”
“Special agent for the Janissary Project.”
“Heard o’ them. A bad bunch, but they ain’t got nothing
they want, here. They get all they meat out o’ the prisons.” Mitch scowled.
“Redskins . . . you?”
Peering out, Benny saw Mike duck away again.
“Yeah.”
Mitch moved slowly from the stool.
“Look, you’re safe enough. The cops, they raid down here,
but not too much. Just enough to show the suckers in Safe Side that they’re
all law and order and need the vote. They come trying to fry some fool in
Penn’s ‘hood, they got more trouble than just from Penn. The raiders in the
Dead Zone start preying on the blockhouses because they know Penn won’t say
nada about it. Not after a battle.”
He gripped Benny’s shoulder. “Nada y de nada, its not
something to worry you. Creel, he knows the score.” Mitch grinned, adding,
“But I wouldn’t go dissing him, neither, you know? Stay back here. We got a
bolt hole, just in case.” He gave Benny a brotherly wink and plodded back to
the bar.
Dolores came in chatting and sat on the stool. Her shoes hit
the floor with a double thud. Reaching back, she turned off the bar signs, and
there was a small rush for drinks before Mitch closed.
“Gimme me a minute,” she told Benny. “We can start on
the kitchen then.”
“It’s done.”
Dolores glanced around. The grill showed silver and clean
oil, not grease. Even the hood was clean. The floor was damp and she smelled a
hint of turpentine from the cleanser a free trader brought into the city from
New Jersey, smuggling it across the river in the dead of night. The walls were
washed down and the sinks clean.
“Food lockers and the coolers?”
“Done.”
“Storeroom?”
“Swept and the traps baited with bacon grease.”
“If you want, you can go. Just let Mitch pay first. OK?”
Benny glanced out. The crowd was thinned to a few dozen. Mike
ducked down. The man with him was snoring, the bony head back, and mouth open.
The second agent drifted close to Mike, smiling and laying his head on Mike’s
shoulder. Mike shoved him away, trying to prop the man in the corner.
Benny glanced at Dolores. She was frowning.
“Somethin’ wrong, man?”
“Huh?" Startled, Benny shook his head. “No.”
One eye cocked, she shrugged.
“There’s burgers and hot sausage left. You want it?”
Tempted, Benny grimaced. He shook his head.
“No charity, huh?” Dolores smiled. “Looks like Sue got
a man, a real man. Hey, no prob. You don’t want it, toss it in the garbage for
the hogs.”
Benny’s eye shot open.
“You serious? That’s real meat.”
“Yeah, but I can’t eat it all, and the coolers are out
because of the rats. The freeze is half-assed. We can’t get freon no more, and
the new uns suck up so much juice they’d drain the battery packs.” She
shrugged. “So, if nobody wants it, we toss it.”
“No . . . I mean, yeah. I’ll be glad to have it. Why
wouldn’t somebody want it?”
“Too close to the Dead Zone,” she said, glancing out the
doorway. “The druggies, you know? The crazies and the Gsters. Watch the folks.
In ones and twos they come in. They leave, they go out three or more at a time,
and holding iron.”
She gave Benny a crooked, happy/sad grin. “Hey, it’s a
hobby. This close to the Zone and we pay no taxes. Who would try to collect?
Even Penn don’t send enforces this way. Not at night.”
Benny took a box and started wrapping the food.
Mitch stuck his head in. He scowled, but Dolores shook her head and winked.
©2004 StoriesByEmail.com
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