Tim Pratt - Sympathy for the Devil

He stopped in at Hatta’s on his way back down Cypress Street. Mary Beth looked up at him in real annoyance, but he dug a nickel and five pennies out of his pocket and smacked them down on the counter.

“I’m buying something, ha ha ha,” he announced, and after a great deal of forethought selected a Mars Bar. As he wandered back down Pomeroy he ate the bar in layers, scraping away the nougat with his teeth and crunching up the almonds in their pavement of hard chocolate. When the candy was gone you could always chew on the green waxed paper wrapper, which tasted nice and felt interesting between the teeth. He was still chewing on it when he passed the Red Rooster and spotted Ronnie inside, ghastly pale under a cone of artificial light, leaning over a green table and cursing as his shot went wrong. Markie gulped and ran.

Down in the underground room, Smith was watching a fly circle in the motionless air. As Markie approached him, he made a grab for it and missed.

“Shit,” he said tonelessly. He noticed Markie and grinned again.

“Well? Did he take me up on it?”

Markie nodded and sat down, rubbing his legs. The red carpet felt sticky.

“He says-yes, test. He says he’ll let you find a murderer and he’ll make his heart hard. He says let his children cry. He says we’ll see about the people and faith.”

“So I’m supposed to get him a murderer?” Smith leaned back. “That figures. I don’t have anything else to do, right? Okay, I’ll get him his murderer. This will take some work to get it just right… but, Hell, I like a challenge. Okay.” He unrolled his shirtsleeve and took out a pack of cigarettes, and lit one; Markie didn’t see just how, because the cloud of smoke was so immediate and thick. Smith waved it away absently and stared into space a moment, thinking. Markie got up on all fours and staggered to his feet, drawing back Smith’s attention.

“I bet he’s not paying you anything to run all these messages, is he?” Smith inquired. “Hasn’t even offered, huh?”

“Nope,” Markie sighed.

“That’s him all over. Well, here’s something for you.” Smith leaned down and fished out something from a brown paper bag under his stool. He held up a brown bottle. “Beer! Big kids like beer.”

Markie backed away a pace, staring at it. Ronnie had made him taste some beer once; he had cried and spit it out. “No, thank you,” he said.

“No? Nobody’ll know. Come on, kid, you must be thirsty, the way he’s made you run around.” Smith held it out. Markie just shook his head. Smith’s eyes got narrow and small, but he smiled his yellow smile again.

“You sure? It’s yours anyhow, you’ve earned it. What do you want me to do with it?”

Markie shrugged.

“You want me to give it to somebody else?” Smith persisted. “What if I give it to the first guy I meet when I go home tonight, huh, kid? Can I do that?”

“Okay,” Markie agreed.

“Well, okay then! Now go deliver my message. Tell him I’ll get him his murderer. Go on, kid, make tracks!”

Markie turned and limped out. He went slowly down the stairs to the beach, holding on to the sticky metal handrail. It was late afternoon now and a chilly wind had come up. All along the beach, families were beginning to pack up to go home, closing their striped umbrellas and collecting buckets and sand spades. Mothers were forcing hooded sweatshirts on protesting toddlers and fathers were carrying towels and beach chairs back to station wagons. The tide was out; as Markie trudged along shivering he saw the keyholes in the sand that meant big clams were under there. Ordinarily he’d stop and dig up a few, groping in the sand with his toes. He was too tired this afternoon.

The sun was red and low over the water when he got to the dead trees, and the dunes were all pink. The old man was pacing beside the water, in slow strides like the white bird. He turned his bright glare on Markie.

“He says okay,” Markie told him without prompting. “He’ll get a murderer.”

The old man just nodded. Markie thought about asking the old man for payment of some kind, but one look into the chilly eyes was enough to silence him.

“Now, boy,” said the old man briskly, “Another task. Go home and open the topmost drawer of your mother’s dresser. You’ll find a gun in there. Take it into the bathroom and drop it into the water of the tank behind the toilet. Go now, and let no one see what you’ve done.”

“But I’m not supposed to go in that drawer, ever,” Markie protested.

“Do it, boy.” The old man looked so scary Markie turned and ran, stumbling up the face of the dune and back into the thicket. He straggled home, weary and cold.

Mama was sitting on the front steps with two of the other mothers in the courtyard, and they were drinking beers and smoking. Mama was laughing uproariously at something as he approached.

“Hey! Here’s my little explorer. Where you been, boyfriend?” she greeted him, carefully tipping her cigarette ash down the neck of an empty beer bottle.

“Hanging around,” he replied, stopping and swatting at a mosquito.

“You seen Ronnie?” Mama inquired casually, and the other two mothers gave her a look, with little hard smiles.

“Uh-uh.” He threaded his way through them up the steps.

“Well, that’s funny, because he was going to give you a ride home if he saw you,” Mama replied loudly, with an edge coming into her voice. Markie didn’t know what he was supposed to say, so he just shrugged as he opened the screen door.

“He’s probably out driving around looking for you,” Mama stated. She raised her voice to follow him as he retreated into the dark house. “I don’t want to start dinner until he gets back. Whyn’t you start your bath? Don’t forget you’ve got school tomorrow,”

“Okay,” Markie went into the bathroom and switched on the light. When he saw the toilet, he remembered what he was supposed to do. He crept into Mama’s bedroom.

Karen was asleep in the middle of the bed, sprawled with her thumb in her mouth. She did not wake up when he slid the dresser drawer open and stood on tiptoe to feel around for the gun. It was at the back, under a fistful of Ronnie’s socks. He took it gingerly into the bathroom and lifted the lid of the toilet tank enough to slip it in. It fell with a splash and a clunk, but to his great relief did not shoot a hole in the tank. He turned on the water in the big old claw-footed tub and shook in some bubble flakes. As the tub was filling, he slipped out of his clothes and climbed into the water. All through his bath he half-expected a sudden explosion from the toilet, but none ever came.

When he got out and dressed himself again, the house was still dark. Mama was still outside on the steps, talking with the other ladies. He was hungry, so he padded into the kitchen and made himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and ate it, sitting alone at the kitchen table in the dark. Then he went into his little room and switched on the alcove light. He pulled out the box of comic books from under his bed and lay there a while, looking at the pictures and reading as much as he knew yet of the words.

Later he heard Mama sobbing loudly, begging the two other mothers to stay with her, and their gentle excuses about having to get home. Heart thudding, he got up and scrambled into his cowboy pajamas, and got under the covers and turned out the light. He lay in a tense knot, listening to her come weeping through the house, bumping into the walls. Was she going to come in and sit on his bed and cry again? No; the noise woke up Karen, who started to scream in the darkness. He heard Mama stumbling into the bedroom, hushing her, heard the creaking springs as she stretched out on the bed beside the baby. Markie relaxed. He was going to be left in peace. Just before he fell asleep, he wondered where Ronnie was.