Light Shaper, page 23
“Steve?” Rigel repeated.
“I heard you the first time,” Barrow snapped. “Just keep walking. We’re almost to the tavern strip.”
“Okay.”
They made a sharp turn left and came out onto a street that was slightly wider than the one they had been crossing. They avoided a large pile of garbage sitting by a corner and headed straight for The ’79, the tavern where Streaker usually hung out. It was one of the few places that did not close during the daytime, as Barrow knew from many years ago. They walked straight up to the place, and there Barrow stopped, apparently looking through the window to see if it was open. He used the murky reflection to check out their pursuer, and he breathed a silent sigh of relief. It was just a teenager wearing a haphazard combination of what had to be previously discarded clothing, holding a large crowbar in both his hands. He sauntered onto the street trying to look threatening.
Rigel had seen him too.
“Steve! It’s that guy!”
He said that a little too loudly, and given that the street was rather quiet, it was hard for the teenager not to hear him. Well, too late to go into the tavern without making a scene. Barrow turned around and dropped all pretense that he did not know he was being followed.
The teenager grinned widely as he approached, evidently taking Rigel’s nervousness as a sign that they were easy prey. Barrow saw the guy’s eyes flicker to the side, and he guessed the teenager probably had other friends waiting to jump on them if they did put up a fight.
This would have to end quickly, then. Barrow did not want to kill anyone if he could help it, because the people here would not care that the teenager had been the one who started the aggression. All they would see was that Barrow had murdered one of their own, and if he did that, then his chances of either him or Rigel getting out from here alive were very slim.
Barrow took a step forward as the teenager stopped, moving his crowbar around in lazy circles.
To Barrow’s surprise, it was Rigel who spoke up first.
“We don’t want any trouble,” Rigel said.
“Well, neither do I, is the thing,” the teenager answered. “But you’re here, no? Not in your neighborhood.”
“We don’t have any money, if that’s what you want,” Rigel told him, sounding pretty convincing. “It’s not worth the trouble for either of us to go through this, so why don’t you get lost?”
Barrow saw the teen’s eyes moving from Rigel to him, evidently wondering why the bigger guy wasn’t saying anything. Barrow simply crossed his arms across his chest and waited. He had expected Rigel to be the kind of guy who ran away from confrontations because of his weak hands, but he was pleasantly surprised to see that Rigel could stand up for himself. Rigel and the teenager glared at each other, each sizing the other guy up. Barrow kept watch out of the corner of his eye for any additional kids who might try to jump them. He caught a flicker of motion twice, which confirmed his suspicions. They were coming closer, closing the trap.
“I don’t like your tone with me,” the teenager said. He hefted the crowbar more menacingly and stepped closer to Rigel. “You look like rich city folk. And I think you have plenty of money. That’s why you come here. Shouldn’t have come in the first place.”
Rigel took a step forward, and Barrow was pleased to see the teenager flinch a bit, expecting an attack. The kid was shorter than Rigel but a lot more heavily built. Rigel apparently didn’t care.
“Oh, really?” Rigel said in a cocky tone Barrow had not heard before. “What are you going to do about it?”
The two men stared at each other for another instant. Then the teenager attacked.
He swung the crowbar fast, but Rigel was ready for him. He deflected the blow with one of his braces. There was a clang of metal on metal, and then Rigel was coming in close before the kid could recover, swinging a kick that caught the teenager right in the balls. The kid squealed and dropped his weapon.
And then the rest of the gang was upon them.
It was only three more, and Barrow felt a little bad at having to punch them senseless. He dropped the gym bag with his supplements to free his hand and got to work. He got the first guy easily enough with kicks and was rounding on the second one when the last kid got behind him and tried to stab him with a knife. He missed, but Barrow got a cut on one arm, and after that he stopped feeling bad for the little criminals.
He was efficient, hitting only to incapacitate, and by the time he was done, a variety of improvised weapons were strewn over the dirty ground. The four members of the gang had grouped together against a wall, looking resentful but ready for another go. Barrow caught a glimpse of the desperation in their eyes, their hope that they would be able to get some money from the outsiders to escape the misery they lived in for a little while at least. Barrow knew exactly how that felt.
He sighed and drew his gun.
The effect was instantaneous. The kids scattered like rabbits, running away as fast as their legs could carry them and abandoning their weapons in their haste. One of them grabbed the bag Barrow had left behind and carried it away, sprinting down the alley. Barrow could have shot him, but he wasn’t going to kill a kid for a bunch of supplements, and there was no way to make him stop otherwise. Barrow put his gun away with an annoyed grunt and turned to find Rigel grinning at him.
“That was impressive,” Rigel said.
Barrow shrugged. “It was just a few kids.”
“Kids who had to be about my age,” Rigel argued. “Maybe just a bit younger. And, in case you didn’t notice, they would have probably beaten us to death just for our wallets.”
“Well, that’s true.”
“Where did you learn to fight like that?” Rigel asked him, and there was just enough of a hint of admiration in his voice to make Barrow feel pleasantly flattered.
“I have some fighting training, from earlier.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re on my side. That was pretty cool to see, the way you beat them up so easily.”
“You didn’t do so bad yourself,” Barrow countered. “Got that kid by surprise with that kick. I didn’t think….”
“You didn’t think I could fight because of my condition?” Rigel asked him, although he was grinning.
“I didn’t say that!”
“No, but you were thinking it.”
“I—”
“Come on, big guy,” Rigel told him, walking to the tavern door. “This is where we’re meeting your contact, isn’t it? Let’s go inside.”
“Sure,” Barrow answered. He couldn’t help smiling.
Barrow pushed open the door and went in with Rigel behind. The inside of the tavern was stuffy and dark since there were no windows except those facing the street. There was a persistent smell of old booze and sweat that brought unpleasant memories to Barrow, and he looked around as soon as he was inside, hoping to spot Streaker quickly and spend as little time as he had to in the dingy place.
No luck. There were only three other men sitting at the bar, all of which turned around curiously to look at the two newcomers. Their gazes were unfocused and bloodshot. The bartender had been lazily watching television, and he, too, swiveled around in his chair. Barrow strode purposefully right up to the bar, ignoring the other patrons. He felt them shrink away from him slightly, which was good. If he showed even a little bit of hesitation, it wouldn’t be just kids coming after him next time. Up in the slums, appearance was everything.
“I need to see Streaker,” Barrow told the bartender.
Barrow saw the other man size him up, then look at Rigel and quickly dismiss the younger man as a possible threat. He focused all his attention on Barrow.
“Don’t know anyone by that name,” he said. He stuffed his left pinky into his ear, twisted, and brought it out again with a little pop. A disgusting gesture that Barrow remembered, even if he didn’t want to. He had a brief flashback of himself as a young kid, running errands for this jerk and getting scammed out of his pay when he came back. It was good that Barrow had changed so much from the scrawny teenager he had been. He doubted any of these people would ever match him to their memory of little Stevie, and it was just as good. If any of them did, Barrow would be forced to punch their face in.
“Of course you do,” Barrow told the man. Howard, he suddenly remembered. His name was Howard. “Tell me where he is.”
“Sorry, can’t help you,” Howard said, reaching casually under the bar with a smooth, practiced motion.
Barrow was ready. He caught Howard’s arm as it came back up holding a small revolver, twisted it sideways, and slammed the bartender’s hand down on the wooden bar, hard. Howard yelped, and everyone else jumped. Barrow heard Rigel stifle a cry of surprise behind him.
“Son of a bitch!” Howard cursed, his face screwed up in pain. “Let go, dammit!”
“The gun,” Barrow said calmly, tightening his grip on the other man’s forearm.
“Fuck you!” Howard snarled, but he let go. Barrow grabbed the revolver and took it in his other hand.
“I don’t want any trouble,” Barrow said clearly, pointing the gun at every guy in turn in case they got any ideas. “I just want to know where Streaker is. I know he comes here. You can either tell me now or tell me… later.” He clicked the safety off.
Two of the guys immediately started mumbling nonsense about how they didn’t know anything. The third one was too spaced out to understand what was going on.
“Fine!” Howard said, jerking out of Barrow’s reach as soon as Barrow relaxed his grip. “He comes here in the mornings, most like. Haven’t seen him today, but you never know with that guy. He also has a stall over at the Night Market. You can find him there for sure, every day except Saturdays.”
Barrow nodded slowly. Howard looked like he was telling the truth, and if that was the case, then it would be pointless to hunt around for Streaker all over the slums in full daylight. They would just be inviting more trouble, and Barrow had no doubt that the little gang of teenagers they had beaten up earlier would have gathered more members by now, waiting for an opportunity to jump them again if they could get away with it.
The Night Market was probably their best bet. Barrow knew it opened just before dusk every day, and by that time the streets of the slums would be full with people going about their business. It would be much easier to get lost in those crowds and get to Streaker undetected.
Which meant Rigel and he needed a place to stay for the next few hours. And besides, Streaker might show up at the tavern after all. It would be unpleasant to hole up in here, but Barrow had stayed in worse places.
“Okay. I believe you,” Barrow told Howard. He nodded toward Rigel. “This guy and I will wait for Streaker here in case he does show up. Clear the table over there for us. Order some pizza, and send us a couple of cold beers.”
Rigel took out a crumpled bill from his pocket and put it down on the bar. Howard snatched it immediately but didn’t move yet, looking at his gun currently still in Barrow’s hand.
“You get this back when we leave,” Barrow told him. “You better go call for that pizza.”
Barrow turned around and went over to a table in the far corner of the establishment. It was scuffed but reasonably clean, and Rigel followed him as he sat down. Howard came along resentfully after a little bit, wiping a grimy cloth over the surface of the table to get rid of the dust and setting down two beers before them. Then he went back to his bar, and Barrow saw him pick up the phone. Satisfied, Barrow clicked the safety back on the gun and set it aside. He picked up his beer, opened it, and took a long swig.
When he put it down, Rigel was still trying to open his, but the tight seal on the cap was defeating him. Barrow frowned. The guy hadn’t been lying when he had said his hands were basically useless.
“Give me that,” Barrow told him, reaching for the bottle.
“I got it,” Rigel said defensively, twisting the cap as hard as he could. He grimaced in sudden pain and was forced to give up.
Barrow grabbed the bottle, twisted it open with an easy flick, and handed it back.
Rigel was blushing again. “Thank you,” he said stiffly.
Barrow nodded, distracted by Howard. He was still on the phone, and Barrow could not imagine that ordering a pizza could take that long. He wanted to go to the bathroom and wash the knife cut that one of the kids had given him earlier in the fight, but he wasn’t sure it would be wise to leave Rigel alone in here unsupervised.
He was still deciding what to do when he saw Howard put down the phone, a smug grin on his face. Howard’s eyes met Barrow’s, and in that instant Barrow knew. The little weasel had just called for backup.
Barrow stiffened, made a grab for the gun—but the back door to the tavern burst open, and someone came in along with a blinding burst of light and a blast of hot air. Barrow stood up and turned, but it was too late already. The new arrival grabbed one of the chairs lying around, swung it, and slammed it down on Barrow’s head.
Chapter Twenty
RIGEL JUMPED back just in time to avoid a flying piece of broken chair that had been about to collide with his face. He tripped over his own chair as he did so and lost his balance, crashing down on the floor and kicking the table above him involuntarily. It, too, fell to the ground, and both beer bottles shattered on impact, sloshing bubbly liquid everywhere.
“Get him!” somebody was yelling.
Rigel scrambled to his feet, but he slipped on the beer and fell back down again. Around him it was madness. Bodies colliding with each other, grunts of pain, and once the sickening crunch of a fist hitting something hard. Rigel looked around wildly and saw three men ganging up on Steve. One of them had grabbed his left arm and wasn’t letting go. The second one was trying to do the same with Steve’s right arm, but Steve wasn’t making it easy. From the bar, the guy Steve had threatened was shouting at the top of his lungs, urging his friends to take Steve down although he himself wasn’t joining in the fight.
Rigel saw Steve getting hit by one of the men right in the stomach, heard his oof as the breath was punched out of his lungs. Rigel needed to help him—and he saw the revolver, still on the floor, within his reach.
He picked it up, fumbling about for the safety until he got it. Then he stood up as quickly as he could and fired a warning shot straight up at the ceiling.
He got an overhead lamp by accident, which exploded in a shower of sparks and broken glass. Very dramatic, and it did the job. Everybody stopped and looked right at him. Rigel swallowed.
“Let him go,” Rigel said evenly, pointing the gun at the three men.
They hesitated, giving Rigel calculating looks that spoke volumes. They were probably considering whether they could get to him before he fired, and whether he actually had the guts to shoot them. To make matters worse, Rigel’s hands began to shake again from exhaustion. They obviously interpreted this as a sign of weakness, and one of them took a step toward him.
Rigel fired. Not at them, but close enough. The deafening bang made them jump, and Steve used the distraction to his advantage. He elbowed the man still holding on to him hard, forcing him to let go.
“Get out,” Rigel said, grabbing the gun as firmly as he could. “Or this time I shoot you.”
They backed away a little bit, but it was enough for Steve. He took his own gun out of his belt so it would be clearly visible. He didn’t even have to point it at the man. From the way he held it, it was evident he knew how to use it.
“Howard, I told you we just want to wait here calmly,” Steve said loudly to be heard over the residual ringing of the shots. He kept his eyes on the man who had attacked them. Rigel noticed that the bartender started, surprised at hearing his name. Rigel wondered how Steve knew it. “Tell your friends to go.”
The men who had been drinking at the bar were already sneaking out the front door, trying not to make noise. The bartender, Howard, scrunched up his face but nodded stiffly.
“Guys, get out of here. I don’t want my place more trashed up than it is.”
The men looked relieved to hear that.
“Sorry, man,” one of them told Steve. He raised his hands over his head, palms up, and the others copied him. “Must’ve been a misunderstanding.”
Steve jerked his head toward the back door. “Out.”
They left. There was a moment of awkward silence as Steve and Howard glared at each other. Howard was too cowardly to say anything, from the looks of it, because he was the first to look away.
“Get us that pizza,” Steve told him. “We’ll be here until dusk or until Streaker shows up, whatever happens first. Then we leave. Okay?”
“Yes. Okay,” Howard agreed, sounding as if he was forcing the words out.
“Good,” Steve said. “And get us a couple more beers.”
He led Rigel to another table, one in the middle of the room that gave them plenty of opportunity to see whether anybody would crash in on them from either the front door or the back. Howard got them their beers, called for the pizza, and paid the deliveryman when it came. He even got a couple of plates for them to eat and then disappeared behind his bar, turning up the volume of the TV and setting it between himself and his unwanted patrons as a kind of shield. He seemed determined to ignore them for the rest of the time they would be there.
“You should probably get that cut washed,” Rigel told Steve, when he noticed that his arm was bleeding. He supposed it had happened in the earlier fight with the teens.
“You’re right,” he said. “Will you be okay on your own?”
Rigel bristled. “Hey. I saved your ass from those three men, didn’t I? And I still have the gun I took from the CradleCorp guard and this old revolver. I don’t need you to babysit me.”
Steve grinned and gave him a little nod. He clapped Rigel on the shoulder. “Sorry. Didn’t mean it like that. Thanks for saving my ass, though.”
