Люциус Шепард - The Best of Lucius Shepard

“Thanks for the contribution, Busted… I mean, Buster,” said Pellerin, grinning hugely. “We going to miss you, sure enough.”

Kim called for another break and everyone made for a buffet that had been set up in the living room. Billy gave me a thumbs-up before heading over to the food. Standing apart from the rest, I told Jo about Goess and said that we had better do something soon or else I didn’t like our chances.

“I thought we were going to wait until the last minute,” she said.

“Far as I can see, this is the last minute.”

She seemed amazingly calm. “I have go to the restroom. Just wait, okay? Don’t do anything.”

I watched her cross the living room, her long legs working the dress, hips rolling under the silky fabric, and then went back into the card room, where Pellerin was playing with his chips.

“If you’ve got something in mind,” I said, “now might be the time to try it.”

“Right now?”

“Whenever you see an opening.”

He nodded. “All right. Y’all be ready. I’ll give you a warning beforehand.” He picked up a stack of chips and let them dribble through his fingers. “Life ain’t never as sweet as it appears,” he said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just my personal philosophy.”

“Fuck a bunch of personal philosophy. Get your mind right! Okay? When it comes time, I’ll handle Goess.”

“You take care of Billy. Leave Goess to me.”

“You think you up to it?”

“It’s a done deal,” he said.

“What are you going to do?”

He spread the deck of cards face-up on the table and started nudging out the painted cards with the tip of his forefinger.

“Tell me!” I said.

“I believe I may to have to violate his personal space,” said Pellerin.

I would have inquired of him further, but people began to wander back into the card room, carrying plates of food. Ruddle, Kim, and Carl took their places at the table. Jo patted my arm and gave me a steady look that said everything’s okay, but it was not okay and she knew it… unless she had slipped gears and gone to Jesus. Billy, Goess, and a straggler came in. I sought to make eye contact with Billy, but he stared straight ahead. The game resumed three-handed, with Carl winning a decent pot. Pellerin made his bets blind, not bothering to check his cards, tossing in chips until after the flop, and then folding. As Kim was about to deal a second hand, he stood up and said, “Gentlemen. And ladies. Before we begin what promises to be an exhilarating conclusion to the evening, I’d like to propose a toast.”

He lifted his glass. With his left hand, I noticed. His right hand was afflicted with a palsy, the fingers making movements that, though they were spasmodic, at the same time seemed strangely deft.

“Frank,” Pellerin went on. “You have my deepest gratitude for hosting this lovely occasion. I’d love to stick around and pluck your feathers, but… duty calls. I want to thank you all for being so patient with my abusive personality. Which, I should say, is not entirely my own. It comes to you courtesy of the folks at Darden, where your good health is our good business.”

“Are you through?” Ruddle asked.

“In a minute.” Pellerin’s voice acquired a sarcastic veneer. “To Miz Jocundra Verret. For her ceaseless and unyielding devotion. You’ll always be my precious sunflower. And to Jack Lamb, who—sad to say—is probably the closest thing to a friend I have in this world. What are friends for if not to fuck over each other? Huh, Jack?”

“Sit your ass down,” said Carl. “You’re drunk.”

“True enough.” Pellerin gestured with his glass, sloshing liquor across the table. “But I’m not done yet.”

Billy gave a squawk and leaped from his chair, backing away from Goess. I leaned forward and had a look. Goess’s eyes bulged, his hands gripped the arms of the chair, his face was red, glistening with sweat, and his neck was corded. He began to shake, as if in the grip of a convulsion.

“To Mister Alan Goess, who’s about to burst into flames!” Pellerin raised his glass high. “And let’s not forget Billy Pitch, at whose behest I came here tonight. I hear you like those reality shows, Billy. Are you digging on this one?”

The Cuban bartender had seen enough—he ran from the room. Buster started toward Goess, perhaps thinking he could render assistance, and Pellerin said, “Y’all keep back, now. Combustion’s liable to be sudden. Truth is, I suspect he’s already dead.”

“It’s a trick,” said Carl. “The guy’s faking it.”

Pellerin whipped off his sunglasses. “What you think, Tubby? Am I faking this, too?”

Green flashes were plainly visible in his eyes.

Ruddle threw himself back from the table. “Jesus!”

“Not hardly.” Pellerin laughed. “You folks familiar with voodoo? No? Better prepare yourself, then. Because voodoo is most definitely in the house.”

Everyone in the room was frozen for a long moment, their attention divided between Goess and Pellerin. Goess’s skin blistered, the blisters bursting, leaking a clear serum, and then there came a soft whumpf, a big pillowy sound, and he began to burn. Pale yellow flames wreathed his body, licking up and releasing an oily smoke. I smelled him cooking. Kim screamed, and people were shouting, crowding together in the doorway, seeking to escape. Billy dipped a hand into his voluminous hip pocket. I grabbed his shoulder, spun him about, and drove my fist into his prunish face, knocking him into a trophy case, shattering the glass. His mouth was bleeding, his scalp was lacerated, but he was still conscious, still trying to extricate something from his pocket. I kicked him in the gut, again in the head, and bent over his inert body, fumbled in the pocket and removed a switchblade and a platinum-and-diamond money clip that pinched a thick fold of bills. The clip was probably worth more than the bills. With millions resting in Ruddle’s vault, I felt stupid mugging him for chump change. Jo’s hands fluttered about my face. She said something about listening to reason, about waiting, but I was too adrenalized to listen and too anxious to wait. I gave Billy a couple of more kicks that wedged him under the wreckage of the trophy case, and then, shoving Jo ahead of me, glancing back at Goess, who sat sedately now, blackening in the midst of his pyre, I went out into the living room.

Ruddle’s security was nowhere to be seen, but Ruddle, Kim, and the rest were bunched together against the picture window, their egress blocked by tracks of waist-high flame that crisscrossed the blue carpet, dividing the room into dozens of neat diamond-shaped sections. It was designer arson, the fire laid out in such a precise pattern it could have been the work of a performance artist with a gift for pyrotechnics. Beside a burning sofa from which smoke billowed, Pellerin appeared to be orchestrating the flames, conducting their swift, uncanny progress with clever movements of his fingers, sending trains of fire scooting across the floor, adding to his design. I recalled the scorch mark on his bedroom wall. Along with everyone else in this lunatic circumstance, Pellerin had been holding something back. I thought if you could see the entirety of the pattern he was creating, it would be identical to one of the veves he had sketched on the napkin that day by the pool. I maneuvered as close to him as I dared and shouted his name. He ignored me, continuing to paint his masterpiece. The fire crackled, snacking on the rug, gnawing on the furniture, yet the noise wasn’t sufficiently loud to drown out the cries of Ruddle and his guests. Some were egging on Buster and another guy, who were preparing to pick up a sofa and ram it against the window. I shouted again—again Pellerin ignored me. Bursts of small arms fire, like popcorn popping, sounded from the front of the house.