Gene Wolfe - Free Live Free

“I’m not begging any more. I’ve got something.”

“You called me just for old times’ sake?”

“Right.”

“Jim, you’re not licensed.”

“I didn’t say I had a client. Just a little job for an old friend. I told you. How about finishing the story? You ran into Bill Kramer.”

“I said, have you seen Jim, and he said, yeah in the coffee shop this morning with another guy and two gals—”

“He said ‘gals’?”

“All right, so Bill’s not a very bright guy. If he was he’d be working for me. Yep, he said gals. You and two women and another guy in the coffee shop. He said after that he checked to see if you were registered and you weren’t, but he figured maybe you were shacking it with one of the women.”

“He’s running a riding academy now, huh?”

“Jim, every place’s a riding academy now. Nobody gives a shit unless you rip the sheets or wake up the couple in the next room. Where are you?”

“In the hotel.”

“Hell, I know you’re in the God-damned hotel, you just told me. What’s your room number?”

“That’s confidential, Cliff. You know how it is.”

“By God, you’re getting cocky. This afternoon you were begging me for a job.”

“Yeah, and you wouldn’t give me one.”

Stubb hung up. Leaving the spindly chair beside the telephone stand, he kicked off his shoes, threw himself into a larger, more comfortable chair, and put his feet on the bed. Smoothing the note, he reread it and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. A smile crossed his waxy face. He stretched, went into the bathroom and relieved himself, washed his hands, then sat down at the telephone again and dialed.

“Front desk? My name’s Jim Stubb. Am I being paged?”

“Yes, sir.” The clerk paused. “We’ve been having a little disturbance here, but I believe you are.”

“What’s the message?”

“I don’t know, sir. You can find out by calling the bell captain, sir. One nine.”

“I can find out from you too—” Stubb began, but the clerk had hung up. Fuming, Stubb banged down the handset, picked it up again, pressed one nine, and identified himself.

“The message is call eight, seven, seven, sir.”

“I thought it was. I don’t know why I’m wasting my time with this Mickey Mouse.” Stubb cradled the handset a second time and grinned, then pressed the number.

“Hello? Eight seventy-seven.”

“It’s me again, Cliff. You’ve got the kid hollering for me, and I’m getting sick of tipping him.”

“Jim, you didn’t have to hang up on me.”

“Only if I wanted to look at myself when I shave. You want to say I’m not tall enough to look in the mirror? Go ahead, say it. It isn’t true, but say it.”

“Jim, you’re trying to put words in my mouth. I never said anything like that to you.”

“Like hell.”

“Okay, maybe I kidded you a couple of times. But Jim, it was only kidding. Now I need you. What the hell did I say in that note? A hundred and fifty a day? I’ll make it two hundred.”

“You said two C’s. Make it three.”

“Now you’re kidding. Two fifty.”

“Goodbye, Cliff.”

“Jim, don’t hang up. Three hundred. Okay.”

“Plus expenses.”

“Plus expenses, right.”

“It’s a deal. What’s the job?”

“Come up to the room, Jim. Hell, you know I can’t talk about it on the phone.”

“You’ve got a big, big client, and they’ve told you, you own the mint. You’ve got every man you’ve got on it already. What is it, Cliff? CIA? Saudi Arabia?”

“You’re working for me now, so knock it off. For three hundred a day you can get your ass up to this room.”

“I don’t start till tomorrow, right? Any rough stuff?”

“You start right now, Jim—I’m paying you three hundred for the rest of tonight. No rough stuff at all, I swear to God. A pussycat, so get your ass up here.”

“Like you say, boss.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“Stubb hung up, nodding to himself. “It sure is,” he whispered.

He found his shoes, jammed his feet in them, and put on his jacket and trenchcoat. Lifting the mattress, he thrust his arm under it and pulled out Proudy’s gun. In the bathroom, he stood on the toilet to retrieve the cartridges from the top of the medicine cabinet.

“My coat,” Candy muttered. “My God, I haven’t got a coat.”

A woman nearby turned toward her. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said I don’t have a coat,” Candy explained. “I was just talking to myself.” After a moment she added, “I’ve been in the bar. Must have left it there.”

The woman nodded. It was not clear whether she was agreeing that was the most probable explanation or acknowledging that Candy had indeed been in the bar; perhaps both.

Candy turned away, doing her best to walk straight and succeeding pretty well. There was a long rack of coats, with a shelf above for hats, in a narrow room that formed a buffer zone between the bar and the lobby. A weary redhead stood behind a small counter that closed the entrance.

Candy smiled at her with as much charm as she could manage. “Can I get my coat? My boyfriend has the checks.”

The weary woman shook her head. “You’ll have to get them from him.”

Candy bit her lip. “Please. I want to go home.”

“Like that, huh?”

Candy nodded.

“Which one is it?”

Candy peered into the narrow room, trying to imagine what sort of coat a nurse might wear. “I don’t see it,” she said. “It’s dark blue and, you know, big.”

The weary woman nodded. “I think I remember it. You’ve been here a while, huh?”

“I guess so. There was the blackout and everything. He’s really very nice, except when he has too much to drink.”

“And you don’t have a hell of a lot of choice. Honey, I know how it is. Wait a minute.”

There was a bowl for tips at one side of the counter. While the weary woman’s back was turned, Candy took three dollars.

“Here you go. This’s it, right? Pretty lining in the hood.”

Candy nodded. “Thanks so much.” The coat looked large and warm, a silky blend of wool with some softer fiber.

“You got bus fare?”

She was afraid the weary woman would take it from the tip bowl and shook her head. “I’m fine. I’ll go home in a cab.”

“Yeah, that would be better—on the bus, some creep might take advantage of you.”

“I’m all right,” Candy told her. “I just shouldn’t have had that last one.”

“You talk pretty good, but I keep thinking you’re going to fall down. Maybe you ought to go out in the lobby and sit for a while.”

“Okay, I’ll do that.” As she left the coat room, however, she was gripped by the conviction that she would forget the stolen coat when she got up, and struggled to get her arms into the sleeves before dropping into a providentially empty chair.

She thought she recalled Sweet’s face, but it was nowhere in sight. After a minute or two, she decided he might be screened from her by one of the rectangular imitationmarble-sheathed pillars. She tried to stand up; but when she should have been on her feet, she discovered she was still in the chair. Something wasn’t working, she decided. She would rest a bit and try again.

An elevator door opened, and the tall brunette who had been with Ozzie Barnes came out, followed by Barnes himself and Little Ozzie. Barnes went over to the registration desk and knocked down a tall man in a check suit. That’s done it, Candy thought, I’ve got the DT’s. She put her hands to her face to see if she could feel crawly things. It reminded her that her makeup must surely be gone. A crowd of people surrounded Ozzie and the tall man; faintly above the hubbub she could hear the solid crack of punches, but the liquor had erected its diaphanous, nearly impermeable curtain between her and reality: she was warm, languorous, and happy.