Майкл Суэнвик - Tales of Old Earth [A collection of short-stories]

Old Goatfoot finished off the bottle and ate the glass. Then, keeping one hand on the throttle all the while, he unbuttoned his breeches, hauled out his ugly old thing, and began pissing into the firebox. There were two firemen standing barefoot in the burning coals, shoveling like madmen. They dropped their shovels and scrambled to catch as much of the spray as they could, clambering all over each other in their anxiousness for a respite, however partial, however brief, from their suffering. They were black as carbon and little blue flames burned in their hair. Old Goatfoot’s piss sizzled and steamed where it hit the coals.

Damned souls though they were, I found it a distressing sight.

“Y’all have to excuse me,” I said uneasily. “They’ll be opening the casino round about now. I got work to do.”

Old Goatfoot farted. “Eat shit and die,” he said genially.

Back in the casino car, Billy Bones had set up his wheel, and folks that on an ordinary day gambled like there was no tomorrow had pulled out all the stops. They were whooping and laughing, talking that big talk, and slapping down paper money by the fistful. Nobody cared that it was a crooked game. It was their last chance to show a little style.

Billy Bones was in his element, his skull-face grinning with avarice. He spun the wheel with one hand and rested the other on the haunch of a honey in smoke-grey stockings and a skirt so short you could see all the way to Cincinnati. She had one hand on Billy’s shoulder and a martini and a clove cigarette both in the other, and you could see she was game for anything he might happen to have in mind. But so far as Billy was concerned, she was just a prop, a flash bit of glamour to help keep the money rolling in.

LaBelle, Afreya, and Sally breezed by with their trays of cigarettes, heroin, and hors d’oeuvres . They were all good girls, and how they got here was—well, I guess we all know how good girls get in trouble. They fall for the wrong man. They wore white gloves and their uniforms were tight-cut but austere, for they none of them were exactly eager to be confused with the damned. Sally gave me a bit of a smile, sympathetic but guarded.

We had some good musicians died for this trip, and they were putting in some hot licks. Maybe they sensed that with the caliber of competition Down Below, they were going to be a long time between gigs. But they sure were cooking.

Everybody was having a high old time.

This was the jolly part of the trip, and normally I enjoyed it. Not today.

Sugar stood by the rear door, surrounded by a bevy of the finest honeys imaginable. This was nothing new. It was always a sight how they flocked to him on the southbound platform at Grand Central Station, elegantly dressed women who weren’t even dead yet, rolling their eyes and wriggling their behinds something outrageous. Sooner or later one would ask, “You ever seen … him?” and then, when he squinted at her like he couldn’t quite make out what she was getting at, “You know—Lucifer? The Devil.”

At which point Sugar would say, “Seen him? Why, just this last run, I had a private audience with His Satanic Majesty. Sugar, he says to me, You been talking mighty big of late, I guess it’s time to remind you who’s boss.”

“What did you say?” They would all hold their breaths and bend close.

“I said, Drop your pants and bend over, motherfucker. I’m driving now.”

They’d shriek then, scandalized and delighted. And when Sugar opened his arms, two of the honeys would slide in under them neat as you please.

Business was brisk at the bar. I tried not to let my thoughts show, but I must’ve made a bad job of it, for I was just thrusting one of those little paper umbrellas into a frozen daiquiri when a hand closed upon my shoulder.

I whirled around, right into the most knowing smile I’d ever seen. It was a smart-dressed lady, all in red. She had on a bowler hat and she smoked a cigar. Her skirt went all the way to the ground, but there was a slit up one side and you could see the silver derringer stuck into her garter.

“You look worried,” she said. “I wouldn’t think the crew had much of anything to worry about.”

“We’re human, ma’am. Subject to the thousand natural shocks the flesh is heir to.” I sighed. “And I will confess that if I weren’t obliged to be here behind the bar—well. What’s your pleasure?”

For a long moment she studied me.

“You interest me,” she said at last, and vanished into the crowd.

Not much later she was back, steering a shy little porcelain doll of a girl by the elbow. “Missy can tend bar,” she said. She slipped one hand between the girl’s legs and the other behind her shoulder blades and hoisted her clear over the bar. It was an astonishing display of strength and she did it with no special emphasis, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “She’s had more than sufficient experience.”

“Now hold on,” I said. “I can’t just—”

“Missy doesn’t mind. Do you, little sweet?”

The girl, wide-eyed, shook her head no.

“Wait for me here.” The lady leaned down and kissed her full on the mouth—full, and deep too. Nobody paid any mind. The festivities had reached that rowdy stage. “You come with me.”

I didn’t have much choice but to follow.

Her name, she said, was Jackie. And, when I’d introduced myself, “I’m going to help you, Malcolm.”

“Why?”

“I have observed,” she said, “that other people are often willing to accept whatever events may chance to happen to them, rather than take an active part in their unfolding. That’s not me.” She glanced scornfully back at the casino car. “I am no gambler. All my pleasure lies in direct action. Tell me your problem. Make it interesting.”

When I’d told my story, Jackie took the cigar out of her mouth and stared at it thoughtfully. “Your friend’s attention is currently given over entirely to the pursuit of money. Can’t you just go back to the baggage car now and look?”

I shook my head. “Not with Sugar standing by the rear door.”

We were in the space between the casino and the next car forward, with the rails flashing by underneath and the cars twisting and rattling about us. Jackie put a hand on the bottommost rung of the access ladder and said, “Then we’ll go over the roof.”

“Now, just a minute!”

“No delays.” She frowned down at her skirt. “As soon as I can arrange a change of clothing.”

Up the sleeper car she strode, opening doors, glancing within, slamming them shut again. Fifth one she tried, there was a skinny man in nothing but a white shirt working away on top of his lady-love. He looked up angrily. “Hey! What the fuck do you-”

Jackie pressed her derringer against his forehead and nodded toward a neatly folded bundle of clothing. “May I?”

The man froze. He couldn’t die here, but that didn’t mean he’d relish a bullet through his skull. “They’re yours.”

“You’re a gent.” Jackie scooped up the bundle. Just before closing the door, she paused and smiled down at the terrified face of the woman underneath her victim.

“Pray,” she said, “continue.”

In the hallway she whipped off her skirt, stepped into the slacks, and zipped them up before I had the chance to look away. The jacket she tossed aside. She buttoned the vest over her blouse and tentatively tried on one of the man’s wing tips. “They fit!”

I went up the rungs first. The wind was rushing over the top of the train something fierce. Gingerly, I began crawling across the roof of the casino car. I was scared out of my wits and making no fast progress, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I looked back.

My heart about failed me. Jackie was standing straight up, oblivious to the furious rattling speed of the train. She reached down and hauled me to my feet. “Let’s dance!” she shouted into my ear.