Marc Zicree - Angelfire

“Taking her in,” Cal repeats. “Maybe he was just asking if you meant to keep her, take care of her.”

“No, no. That wasn’t it. We’d already established that she was my flare.”

“It pissed me off,” says Magritte. “What, do I have a damned For Rent sign on my forehead?”

Cal glances up and down the street. “Okay, well, that gives us a little insight into the place. Apparently, some people are commodities here.”

“Some things never change,” says Magritte.

I ask, “Enid, do you think feedback would be a problem in here?”

He shoots me a startled glance. “Nobody’s threatened Maggie. That guy’s probably just doing business as usual. Maybe he’s a pimp.”

Maggie shakes her head. “I know pimps. He seemed more like a stockbroker.”

I glance back up the street. “Yeah, well, the stockbroker is following us. Can we blow this bus stop?”

“Let’s,” Cal says, and prods Howie out from under the bench.

Our pace isn’t brisk enough to keep the suit from overtaking us and putting himself in our path. “You didn’t wait to hear my offer,” he tells me, smiling. “I can be very generous.”

“Really? Well, I can be very violent. Please take no for an answer.” I lay a hand on my machete.

He seems not to take me seriously. “I can get all kinds of swag,” he says. “Jewelry, twenty-four karat gold, precious stones. Fresh water? I can get you fresh, clean water. And fruit.”

“She’s not for sale,” says Colleen, stepping out from behind me to face the suit. Her crossbow is aimed at his heart. “What part of this very basic concept don’t you get, mister?”

Her, he takes seriously. He stiffens, eyes the weapon, and steps back a pace, but he doesn’t give up. “She’s useless to you. Your friend here said he wasn’t planning to redeem her, so I thought perhaps…”

Colleen trades glances with me. “What do you mean, redeem her?”

An icy jolt of fear ripples through the connection between Maggie and me. I can’t tell whose it is, but I think of her uncle Nathan and sermons on salvation.

“You’re obviously not local,” says the suit. “Devas are worth a great deal around here, but you have to know the ropes, which you clearly don’t. I can act as middleman, pay you for her up front, handle the details of the redemption process myself.”

“Jesus,” says Colleen. “It’s like she’s a beer bottle or something.” Her hands flex on the crossbow as if they are just dying to take this joker out.

His eyes don’t miss this, but he persists. “If you don’t turn her in willingly, he’ll only take her away from you. You might as well derive some profit from it.”

“He?” asks Cal. “He who?”

“The Boss.” He pauses to glance at us askew. “You really are new here. Where are you from?”

“I’m from Chicago,” says Enid. “Before any of this happened. They’re from-”

“Yes, well, this Chicago is subject to the rule of law. That’s what holds it together. Specifically and especially, the law of supply and demand. I work the supply side. And trust me, there is a definite demand for her kind.”

“Why?” asks Cal. “Why her kind?”

The suit looks at Magritte, who moves farther behind me. “She’s a rare commodity, for one thing.”

“Look,” says Enid, before I can ask about the other thing. “I don’t give a shit about your laws or your demand. We’re not selling.”

He sidesteps the suit and moves off down the block. Cal gives the guy a last look and follows, pushing Howard a little ahead of him. The rest of us fall in behind.

When I glance back, the suit is gone. I feel no relief. My eyes brush Colleen’s as I face front again. We share an unlikely moment of accord.

“We might have been able to pry some information out of that guy,” Cal says.

“Yeah, maybe,” counters Colleen, “but could you stand being in the same breathing space with him for that long?”

Adams is less heavily traveled; we zig right onto it and a block later zag left onto LaSalle. We hurry; our eyes miss nothing. I find myself thinking about “the Boss.” My mind combines the historical with the virtual and conjures an image of a computer-generated guy in pinstripes and fedora with a tommy gun. Stupid, huh? I mean, tommy guns don’t even function anymore, except maybe as door stops, and these days all reality is virtual.

I scan the skyline. An impossible task; the buildings go up into a red Forever. But once or twice I think I see something large and shadowy gliding from pillar to post many, many stories above us. I decide I’d prefer it not to be real and sanguinely chalk it up to a mixed state (the bipolar equivalent of a rinse/spin cycle). It does not occur to me to wonder, at that moment, who or what is doing the mixing. I say nothing. I find I’m less afraid of actual mania than I am of having Colleen accuse me of being manic before the world.

“Oh, man, smell that?” asks Enid as we turn onto Randolph.

Food. Cooking. I salivate, remembering that I haven’t eaten since early morning. Ahead of us, people sit in a sidewalk bistro, dining. Chefs in white uniforms grill meat and veggies on barbecues under a green and white striped awning. For a moment I imagine that we really are in Oz.

“I wonder what they use for money besides gold and water?” Cal asks.

We pass by the bistro reluctantly, wistfully, hungrily, and continue east. I notice something. While the bistro’s tables are peopled by the well-groomed and the bold-eyed, there are small knots of bashful bag-carriers clustered around the green wrought-iron perimeter as if waiting.

A little farther up the street curiosity gets the better of me when I spot a pair of the grab-bag people huddled near the doorway of a fragrant place labeled ROSE’S TEAROOM. He is white and twenty-something; she is Asian, a little older, worn and faded. Her skin is more sallow than golden, and there are bluish smudges beneath her dark eyes. The two stand, listless, speechless, shoulder-to-shoulder, looking at nothing, packages piled about their feet.

I plant myself right in front of them. “Excuse me,” I say, when they pay me no notice whatsoever. “We’re from out of town and we were, um, wondering if there might be a place nearby we could spend the night.”

The woman blinks as if a patch of empty air has just spoken, while the guy says, “Huh?” His eyes lift only momentarily to my face, then glance away to my shoe tops.

I smile. “We just got here and, well, uh, all this,” I gesture up and down the street, “is kind of a surprise.”

The two exchange glances. Hers has an element of desperation in it that is only too familiar. I saw it all the time in Manhattan: in the underground, in the streets, in the high rises.

The guy lowers his voice. “Out of town? You came from outside?” For the first time his eyes actually make it to my face. Then they dodge to a spot over my shoulder and he says, “Shit!” and leaps backward, slamming against the stone railing of the tearoom’s porch. The woman, following his gaze, gasps and clutches his arm, her eyes going wide.

It’s Maggie, of course, hovering brightly behind me.

“Look, man,” says the guy. “You just move on, okay? Just… just leave us alone.”

The woman tugs at him. “Sammy, no , they’re from outside. They got in; maybe they know a way out.”

Sammy shakes his head, eyes trying to hold mine. “They’re not really from outside, Lily.” It is a statement of fact, he’s that sure.

Doc and Cal have moved to flank me. Doc says, “I assure

you, my friend Goldie is telling you the truth.” Though he

speaks to Sammy, it’s Lily’s face he’s focused on.