Tim Powers - Dinner At Deviant's Palace

The flavors of the breeze changed as he walked toward the sea; now there was smoke in the air, the smoke from a hundred basement Mexican and Chinese kitchens, and though he knew he was probably imagining it he thought he detected tobacco and marijuana and perfume and the quiver of distant music. He remembered having whimsically wondered today whether the ghost of young Rivas might still haunt these bars and bridges and canals. Let's go see, he thought, whether I can catch him out of the corner of my eye.

He smiled almost sadly when he rounded the last corner and saw, in the still vacant paved yard, the dozens of pieces of plexiglass set flush with the old concrete, for they reminded him of his very first days of working here, washing cups and pitchers in the yellow afternoon light that filtered down through the translucent plexiglass skylight. The upright, wedge-shaped shed which was the top of the entry stairs was a little flimsier-looking now, and the lettering on the sign over the doorway had been repainted carelessly at least once; but several more tall poles had been planted in the dirt or nailed to the sides of the shed, and the many lengths of wire and string draped from one to another were lavishly flagged with bits of cloth and colored plastic and tinfoil; and through the soles of his feet he fancied he could feel the bass beat of subterranean music. He pushed his disordered hair back from his forehead, straightened his borrowed coat and crossed the yard to the descending stairs.

The band was noisy and only just competent, but the place had so many tunnels and burrows that it wasn't difficult to find a table from which the music was just a remote crashing. Candles behind colored glass threw tinted shadows, reminding him of one of the worlds he'd seen in Jaybush's memory, the world where the orange spider-things had each cast two shadows, a red and a blue.

A waitress arrived. He'd never seen her before, and she obviously wasn't interested in who he was. He ordered a tequila with water on the side, and she strolled away to get it.

All at once it came to him what it was that he'd been reminded of by the sensation of falling this afternoon, when the Blood dealer had dumped him and the far-gone boy onto the trash pile; for an instant it had taken him back to the at rest-in-free-fall sensation of being in the long wait between planets. But that wasn't a memory of his own—that was Jaybush's. It didn't please him to find himself sharing the Messiah's recollections.

During his third tequila, just as he was getting ready to leave and walk back to the Lady bug Canal, a lean, grinning middle-aged man walked up to him hesitantly, pointing at him. Rivas couldn't remember ever having seen him before.

«Greg?» the man said. «It's Greg, right? Rivas!»

He could have denied it, but the man at REALIGNMENT AND BALANCING having doubted him and called him Chucko, and the irresponsibility induced by the tequila, made him smile and say, «Right.»

«I knew it! You remember me, don't you?» The man dragged a chair over and sat down at Rivas's table.

Ordinarily Rivas would probably have objected to the unsought company, but tonight he wanted reassurance– admiration, if only from this silly little man. «Remind me.»

«Jack Frenchfry. I been working here forever. Remember? I helped you arrange some of your first songs—polished 'em for you.»

Like hell you ever did, thought Rivas; but, «Sure, I remember you, Jack,» he said. «So how's the old place doing?»

«Real good, Greg. Old Hanker died two years ago—he was real mad at you, but I told him, 'Hey, Greg is a genius,' I said, 'and geniuses can't be bothered with things like giving notice.' Am I right? Hah? Yeah, they wanted me to take over the place when he died, but I told 'em I'd rather stay maiterdee, out where I can meet the people. I like meeting people, you know? That's the kind of person I am.»

«Sure, Jack.» The man was beginning to depress him, but before Rivas could kill his drink and go, Frenchfry had ordered him another.

«You know who this guy is, Doris?» Frenchfry said to the waitress. «This is Greg Rivas from Spink's in Ellay. We're old friends. He comes back to see me every chance he gets, don't you, Greg?»

«Sure,» said Rivas, feeling dizzy.

«You don't look like him,» the waitress said. «And who needs old Rivas anyway?»

«I don't know,» said Rivas, shaking his head.

«Just bring him the drink, will you, Doris?» The unneccessary harshness in Frenchfry's voice made it clear to Rivas that the man had no particular authority over the girl. «If the new boss was here, Greg, he'd let me make it on the house—but he's in Ellay, on business. Sorry. You know how it is trying to deal with damn clerks and cashiers .»

Rivas's chest had gone cold and he fumbled in his pocket to see if he had enough left to cover this unwanted drink. He did, but barely, only if he ludicrously undertipped the waitress. That'll impress her with me, he thought.

«Yeah, I just kind of work here part time,» said Frenchfry expansively, «in like an advisory capacity. Fact is, I quit too, a while ago. This new boss started yelling at me about some crap or other, and I walked out. Who needs 'em, eh?» He leaned forward with raised eyebrows and poked Rivas painfully in the chest. «You know something?»

Rivas's drink was clanked down in front of him, and he pushed all his money across the table to the girl without looking at her. She took it and left with at least no spoken comment.

«You know something?» Frenchfry repeated.

«What,» said Rivas dully.

«You and me, Greg—we're two of a kind.»

«Jesus.» Rivas pushed his chair back and stood up. Why had he come here?

«Hey, Greg, where are you going?» Frenchfry started to get up too. «I know, you want to go to a better place, right? With girls, if I remember you correctly, eh? Listen, there's a place I go to a lot nearby where they got girls that'll—»

«You stay here,» Rivas said, afraid he might hit the man, or start crying again. «I'm leaving.»

«Well, say, Greg, I wasn't going to bring it up right now,» Frenchfry said, beginning to sound worried himself, «but I can't break the last, uh, hundred-fifth note they paid me here, and I was wondering—»

«That was it,» said Rivas, «for that drink.» He pointed at the fresh glass. «All the money I had.» He was having trouble taking a deep breath. «But hey, help yourself, man. Mi tequila es su tequila .»

He blundered out of the place, aware of the stares of other drinkers. The waitress had obviously told them who he claimed to be. Some seemed to believe it and some didn't, but none of them seemed very impressed.

In the darkness outside he walked quickly, as though trying to outpace the memory. You and me, Greg — we're two of a kind. My God, he thought. And everybody there thought we were! So who cares? So I care—you are what people think you are, which is why it's so important to get them thinking you're someone who . . . counts. Gaah.

By the time he came to the canal, the night breeze seemed to have blown away the worst edges of the tequila and the memory, and he stood on the bank and watched the reflected moon waver on the black water and then separate into glowing white streaks as some swimming thing approached, rippling the water. A rat? No, too many ripples. A dog, conceivably, or some kid.

The low waves subsided as the swimmer stopped in the darkness below Rivas and to his left.

«Greg,» came a whisper from the darkness.

«Who's—» he began, but he realized he didn't have to ask. He tried to tell it to go away, but at the moment he didn't have the strength.

«I can restore you,» said the whisper. There was a slurrying sound as the thing flapped gently in the black water.