Steven Brust - Agyar

“You’re pretty smart, motherf-er.”

“You already called me that. Come up with something different. No, on the other hand, skip it. I want to see you make the knife do tricks.” He did, too. Whoosh, whoosh, shick, shick, it went. Then he tried something even flashier, something that was supposed to hurt me. After that, he backed away, holding his right wrist in his left hand and grimacing. I threw the knife over my shoulder. It hit the plowed pavement and clanked. He gritted his teeth and reached behind him with his left hand, clumsily.

If I’d been faster, I could have prevented him from getting the gun out, but I was just too slow. It was a stupid little revolver, probably a. 38, with a barrel about two inches long. But I don’t like having guns pointed at me, even when I’m in the best of health.

He got off one round, which hit me low in the stomach on my right side, and that was all he had time for. Unfortunately, it gave the girl time to scream, and, worst luck of all, there turned out to be a patrol car within hearing of either the shot or the scream; the siren came almost at once.

I left him lying there and said to her, “Honey, this is your lucky day. You should find a new line of work, because I don’t think you’re going to have any more luck after this.”

I slipped away into the night as the police arrived, leaving her to explain things however she might. My need was urgent now, painful and desperate, and the bullet wound in my stomach wasn’t helping any.

There was a time when I wandered, not knowing where to go, alert as an animal for those blue uniforms. I don’t know where I went, but I remember leaning against a phone booth and suddenly thinking, “I could call Susan.”

I could call her, and she would come and pick me up in an automobile, and she would give me what I needed. I closed my eyes for a moment, and it seemed I could feel the heat of her skin against mine, the touch of her lips. Yes. I could call Susan, my lover, and she would come, and she would save me by-she would save me.

I pulled some coins out of my pocket and found one worth a quarter of a dollar. I let the others fall onto the floor of the phone booth; the clatter they made striking the metal floor of the telephone booth seemed inordinately loud and to echo and reverberate for a very long time.

I knew I was not well, and my hunger was a need that filled valleys and leveled mountains. Did I remember her number? Yes. I held the coin up toward the slot and noticed that my hand was shaking. That was all right; I just needed to reach Susan, and she would come for me, and take me home and-

I lurched out of the phone booth, dropping the quarter into the snow (at least, I don’t have it now, and I don’t remember doing anything else with it), and struggled to a place as far from any lights as possible, just because I felt the need for darkness as sanctuary. That’s the real trouble with cities, much as I love them: there’s nowhere that is truly dark.

There was a sweep of headlights past me, and for a moment I thought it was the police again, but no. I was on the ground floor of a parking ramp, in the corner away from the little booth and the exit and entrance.

Parking ramps are dangerous places.

I looked around for video cameras and didn’t see one. Then I waited. I couldn’t afford to be choosy this time, it was a matter of survival. Any age, any sex, as long as he or she was alone; I didn’t think I could survive a serious conflict of any kind.

I waited.

I huddled with myself, and the cold, though it could not penetrate the ugly parka, found all of the niches in the sleeves and collar. I shivered, and my teeth chattered. No one came, and no one came, and then a group of four, then two couples, and then no one and no one and no one. The sliver of moon had set many hours before.

Me, too.

Bars were closing, and now there were too many people. I waited, desperate and shivering, and my body clock went tick… tick… tick, winding down. People everywhere, walking past; cars starting, leaving, jockeying for position in the rush to the exit. A young couple whose Toyota was parked directly in front of me got into their car, and the man seemed to see me, but looked away. He probably thought I was drunk. Maybe he thought I was going to freeze to death and didn’t care. What’s become of human decency?

Tick… tick… tick.

Not so many, now. Footsteps echo through the empty ramp, but always in pairs.

Tick… tick… tick.

Now, no one at all.

Is it over? There are still a few cars, but perhaps they are abandoned.

Should I return home? Can I make it home at all?

Patience, patience. There is all eternity before you.

Tick… tick… tick.

Could I bring Jill to me? That would be better than nothing. But no, I could see the ugly beige partitions through her unfocused eyes, feel the needle in her arm, hear the rolling of carts down a hospital corridor. She would never make it here.

Tick… tick… tick.

Footsteps.

Another couple; the man very drunk, and large, from the sound of his footfalls, a woman with him, telling him that she’ll drive. He is arguing. I must take a chance, because there may not be anyone else. Besides, she is right; he ought not to be on the road tonight; what if he killed someone?

They walked past my spot, about thirty feet from me, and I fell in behind them. My legs were very stiff from having squatted there by the wall for so long, but I was no longer cold. He would be likely to fight, whereas she would be likely to scream. Of course, you cannot tell these days; it could be the other way around, but I went with the probabilities. A fight would be bad, a scream would be worse.

Now they were at their car, an old Dodge Dart that looked like he’d driven it drunk once or twice already. They were standing by the door, still arguing about who was going to drive. He was being stubborn. Maybe I could take them both at once, and not have to worry about either a fight or a scream. That would be best. I resolved to try, in any case.

I approached them; she on my right, he on my left. I’d have preferred it the other way around, but you take what you can get. I braced myself. It was going to have to be quick and certain.

I said, “Excuse me.” They turned as I approached. The woman seemed to be in her early forties, with bluegray eyes, and so muffled that I could tell little else about her. The man was about the same age, and, indeed, large; perhaps six feet tall and husky. I guessed most of his weight to be fat, but I’ve been wrong before.

He scowled at me and said, “Whattaya want?”

Afterward I leaned against the car, closed my eyes, and knew that I would live. I’d been right: mostly fat. When I was a few blocks away I went through the wallet and the purse. I can give them a name now: Lawrence and Roberta Tailor. His wallet had her picture in it, and another picture showing two girls, aged about five and seven; daughters, I suppose, but that wasn’t what I was looking for. I found the money and the credit cards, and threw everything else in a Dumpster. Just another typical robbery-murder, folks. Nothing to get excited about. Probably a gang. We need law and order, don’t you think? Most likely drug related. Just say no.

On my way home I threw the credit cards in the river. The money I kept. What the Hell.

I’m feeling better, although not as good as I’d like. I’m sorry that I had to kill Lawrence, but I didn’t really have any choice. I don’t feel bad about Roberta because I didn’t kill her; the embalmers will do that. A shame, but it isn’t my problem.

Today’s lesson: Everything is relative.

I don’t think I’m really in any better health than I was when I rose yesterday, but, after all I went through, I don’t mind so much.