David Barbour - Shadows Bend

“I can give you a deal on some new paint,” the mechanic said, running his fingers over a patch that had been sandblasted in the storm.

“I ain’t concerned about the looks of her,” said Howard. “She can look like a nag as long as she runs like a mustang.”

“There’s fine-looking mustangs and there’s ugly ones, if you know what I mean.”

“Look, I don’t need no paint, old-timer.” Howard walked back to the car and told Lovecraft they should split up while he took care of some business.

“What business would you have in Las Vegas?” Lovecraft asked, rather puzzled.

“Man like me’s got business in lotsa places, HP. Why don’t ya take in the scenery and we can meet later at that restaurant down the street. You remember what it was called?”

“The Grand Gallery? It hardly seems auspicious to dine at a place named for a tomb.”

“What?”

“A certain interior feature of the Great Pyramid is called ‘The Grand Gallery’.”

“Well, what do I care? It ain’t like we’re gonna get beaned by some fallin’ bricks, right?”

“I suppose not. Very well, I shall meet you there, although I find this business of yours highly unlikely.”

“You go on and think whatever ya like. Two hours. Just don’t be late, hear?”

“I understand.” Lovecraft stood for a moment and looked around, scanning north to south and east to west as if getting his bearings. He really had no place in mind, but the thought of wandering through this just-established town had a certain appeal. He gave Howard a nod and headed up the street toward what seemed to e the denser part of town.

Lovecraft found himself oddly out of sorts as he walked along the streets. He didn’t understand what it was at first-he enjoyed wandering through towns and cities without any real destination—but then he realized that it was a sense of unrealness he felt. The buildings were all new, so freshly constructed that they seemed almost to have sharp edges, and the streets were all too wide and too orderly, the paved streets too neat and clean. Under the big sky with nothing on the near horizon, the buildings seemed two-dimensional. He wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that they were mere facades like those Hollywood towns propped up on wood braces with nothing more than empty lots behind them.

On one of the side streets he found a low stucco building that announced itself as the public library. Inside, he found it impossibly dim until his eyes adjusted, and then he was disappointed to see how pitifully inadequate it was. He had seen reading rooms better stocked. For a moment he entertained the notion of staying and browsing through their selection of magazines, but when he saw their pathetic selection he approached the librarian’s counter. “I beg your pardon,” he said, “but might you have a title called Weird Tales among your periodicals?”

The librarian was in the back room, and when she emerged, Lovecraft immediately knew the answer. She had her spectacles dangling from a chain around her neck, and if it weren’t for the heat, she would surely have worn a cardigan sweater with index cards protruding from the pockets. “Weird Tales?” she said. “I can assure you we carry only wholesome periodicals, sir. You’ll have to check the tobacco shop for that.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Lovecraft. “But if you would bother to look beyond the covers of that journal, you would find some fine examples of popular writing.”

“I beg your pardon,” replied the woman.

“And are these all your books? Or perhaps I’ve stumbled unwittingly across the Las Vegas branch library?”

The woman gave a wry smile at this. “This is Las Vegas, sir. Strangers don’t usually come here searching for reading material. Unless maybe they’ve lost all their money and are waiting for their companions to do the same.”

Lovecraft left with a terse “good day” and walked out again into the red glare of the early-evening sun. A steady wind blew from the east it would have been cold blowing so hard if not for the desert heat it carried. All along the eastward horizon, from one end to the other, a vast pall of ominous clouds hung so low the sky underneath was no more than a ribbon. Jags of lightning flashed in the distance, and yet no sound carried in the quiet roar of the wind. Lovecraft turned west to put his back to the wind; he wandered, meandering through the still-forming idea of a town until the first neon signs lit up the semidarkness, and then he walked back to the Grand Gallery. By then the wind was strong enough to carry an abrasive cloud of Nevada sand, and as Lovecraft squinted to keep it from his eyes and hunched his shoulders to keep it from his neck, he remembered how, years ago, he had dreamed of visiting the great Giza pyramids across the Nile from the ancient city of Cairo.

At the restaurant, the waitress placed Lovecraft by a window away from the other tables. He sat there, fiddling with his pen, trying to get ink out of its recalcitrant tip. He shook it vigorously, and tapped it, and nearly dug through three layers of paper with its clogged point, but all he got was a few blackish clots. “Confounded pen!” he exclaimed before he suddenly realized that the clots were dried animal blood from their siege in the desert. He had just given up on the idea of writing when Howard appeared over him, laughing at his misfortune much to his annoyance.

“It appears you are late for our appointment,” declared Lovecraft. “And it is no laughing matter for a writer to be without a reliable pen.”

“Wouldn’t know about that, HP. I’m a confirmed typewriter myself.” Howard scooted into the seat opposite and pointed out the window, where Lovecraft could see the Chevy looking somehow refreshed—though he knew nothing had been done to improve its outward appearance.

“I don’t know how anyone can compose on those loathsome clattering machines. To my dying day, longhand will always be my preferred method.” Lovecraft lifted his pen again, then decided against another futile attempt and let it drop to the table with a clatter.

Howard smiled, reached into his pants pocket, and pulled out a small gift-wrapped package, which he placed ceremoniously on the table. “In that case, HP, happy forty-fifth birthday, ya old coot!”

Lovecraft was visibly stunned, but he quickly resumed his usual aloofness. “So,” he said, “this is the reason for the painfully transparent subterfuge this afternoon.”

“Yep.”

Lovecraft picked up the thin package and turned it back and forth in his hand. “I did not even recall it was my birthday until I opened up my journal a few minutes ago.”

“Go ahead and see what’s inside already!”

Lovecraft carefully unwrapped the paper and opened the box. It was a state-of-the-art black fountain pen monogrammed in silver with the initials “HPL” on its shaft. He turned the black pen in his fingers, feeling its balance, watching the light glint off its glossy black finish, and he felt his throat go tight. It took a great effort to conceal the fact that his eyes were on the verge of tearing, and it was a moment before he was finally able to summon words to his lips. “This is most… fortuitous,” he said, “…particularly in light of the fact that I was about to discard this… poor excuse of a writing tool.”

Howard smiled at his friend’s struggle to find the right words. He knew he’d succeeded with the gift and didn’t mind the palpable awkwardness that lasted the next few moments.

Finally, Lovecraft rose. “Bob, I was about to go to the Western Union office next door to send Klarkash-Ton a telegram to let him know when we expect to arrive. I shall return momentarily.”

“Good idea.” Howard buried his face in the menu in front of him. “I’ll go ahead and order for the both of us while you’re gone. What’d ya want?”