Outward Bound, page 18
Irene shrugged, pouting a mouth that had too much lipstick. "The money and the hours are better, and it's easier on the feet," she said. "What can I tell you? It's just like any other job after a while. You wake up, you make money, you owe it to somebody for this or for that, you eat, you go to sleep again, and one day you die. What else is there?"
What else is there? The words repeated themselves in Linc's mind. What can I tell you? Irene had said. What was there for him even to have begun telling her.
He looked at her more closely. It probably wouldn't have been so obvious to him before, but he could still see behind the purple lips, the paint, and the overdone mascara, the shoe-shop girl who had run away from home to do better. Like Ozzie's bar with its gaudy new front and colored lights, she was fooling the world that didn't know her with what the outside pretended to be.
Irene indicated her companion, who was staring across the street vacantly, chewing a wad of gum. "This is Orla. She's new around here—sharing with me till she gets her own place."
Linc nodded. "Hi." Orla smiled back. She was young, and from the look of her, probably tripped out on something. Not a word, not a thought. Neither necessary nor relevant, so why bother? Available merchandise on the block.
"Linc's one of the guys from around. He's been away for a while, you know—like out of circuit. He's okay."
Orla blew a bubble of gum and popped it. "I'm getting hungry," she said.
Linc glanced away along the street. "Well, I've got things to do and not a lot of time. It was good running into you."
"You going back soon?" Irene asked.
"'Fraid so—out of here tonight." Linc and the others had allowed time for a little last-chance-on-Earth-for-a-while relaxation before shipping back. Marlene, still in an up-again, down-again, on-again, off-again relationship with Arvin, had been added to the party at the last moment to make up a foursome, and Rocky and Liz would be joining them after a quick trip to Liz's hometown in Connecticut.
Irene looked disappointed. "Oh, that soon, huh? Well . . . . let's hope they don't keep you out there too long. So, take it easy, eh?"
"And you . . . . Good meeting you, Orla."
Orla blew him another bubble with her gum.
Chapter Thirty-Five
ON the way down from Grayling, Linc had fantasized about reappearing as the adventurer returned from afar, astounding his friends with accounts of places he had been and things he had seen that were beyond their wildest imagination. He would tell them about the things that were happening beyond the Moon, and open their eyes to the realms of wonder and opportunity waiting out there. Bringing enlightenment like some kind of crusader, his last task before departing would be to spread the word and the vision so that others might follow.
By the time he arrived at what had been one of his regular hangouts—the back room behind Big Dino's diner, where you kill an hour over a coffee or even a real beer as long as you were willing to say you'd brought it yourself—the thought was already as dead as the chicken cuts stacked in Dino's freezer. The torch Linc had carried fizzled out under a rolling tsunami of realizations of things that would never change—a process otherwise known as a confrontation with reality.
Chips Reid was in the center of one of the wooden benches flanking the room's two tables when Linc appeared from the passageway past the kitchen. He still dressed to try and look like a big shot and was holding a bottle of Bud. Chips was few years older than Linc and had gotten the name after a scam he'd been mixed up in that involved selling suckers fake gambling chips, supposedly stolen. Next to him was Joe Belluni—nicknamed, inevitably, Baloney—already arrested four times (that had been the score when Linc was last around) for break-ins and larceny but never convicted. Larry, "The Boot," was sitting on the bench opposite. Larry's specialty was demonstrating that having strong door locks didn't do a lot of good if the doorframe wasn't at least as strongly fixed into the wall. Two others were with them that Linc didn't recognize: a sharp-faced youth, maybe twentyish, who could have been Puerto Rican, and a blond-haired guy not unlike Arvin in appearance but fatter.
Linc had to speak before recognition dawned on them. "Hi, Chips. Joe . . . . Larry . . . ." It was the hair and the clothes. Evidently the street girls had a better eye for picking out faces.
There was a moment of silence, they, "My God! It's Linc Marani back from the joint!" Chips waved an arm magnanimously, as if he were ushering a big spender into a plush club that he owned, not the back room of somebody else's back-street meatball restaurant. Linc pulled a chair over from the other table and sat down.
Joe Baloney made an appealing gesture at the others. "He just breezes in off the street . . . like it was only yesterday that he walked out. So, it's great to see you again, Linc." Linc had always had time for Joe. He always got the feeling that Joe would listen and try to understand when Linc attempted to explain something, whereas most others just returned blank stares.
Larry just nodded. He never said much. Linc had the impression he wouldn't have shown surprise if the president of the country had suddenly walked in. Fat Blondie nodded too, but without changing expression. The Puerto Rican just glowered suspiciously.
Chips went on, "So when did they let you out, Linc? We heard it, like, you know, around, that you'd gone down a big hole in the ground because you wouldn't deliver any names the way that thing they pulled was supposed to collect. Clay and Slam are still on ice, and, hey, they didn't even have the contacts . . . " He seemed to remember the two new faces suddenly, and waved. "Oh, and these are Lou and Gomez, who drifted in from D.C. a while back. Linc's a squeeze man who's been around here forever, guys. He got busted, when? . . . It must have been around a year ago, in a setup operation they pulled . . . So what happened, man? Did you ever see any more of those other two that you worked that job with?"
Linc shook his head. "I guess we must have gone different ways. There was a special kind of program they've got, that some people got a chance to try for. Well, it was clear what the alternative was, so I went for it."
"Yeah, well, I always thought that Clay and Slam were losers anyway," Chips said, waving a hand dismissively. "You remember that time Clay was going to torch Velo's car over that loan thing? I mean he wants to send Velo a message? Come on, gimme a break. The only thing that amazes me is that Clay's still alive."
Linc wasn't interested in hearing replays of anecdotes that had already been old long ago. "So what's new?" he asked.
Chips stared down as his hands, spreading his fingers. He was wearing a lot of rings these days, Linc noticed. "Kyle's still around, running the collections . . . ." Chips paused, as if considering whether to confide something weighty. "As a matter of fact, we might be working something out—you know, sharing some of the action. He made me this proposition . . . ."
It was strange. Linc had practically forgotten about Kyle. He could remember nights when he had lain awake nursing the rage that had burned in him, consoling himself by rehearsing in his mind how he would get even. And not just with Kyle but also the man called Carolton, whom Breece had said Kyle worked for. But somehow over the months that had slowly changed . . . and now it just didn't matter anymore. Linc had seen things that Kyle could never know. He could no longer hate a man he didn't envy.
Chips mistook his silence for resentment. "Well, it did leave a kind of a hole that needed filling when you evaporated," he said. "Business has to go on, and all that . . . . We could talk about cutting you back in, I guess. Want me to mention it to him?"
"He's scum," Linc said. "The worst. Take some good advice: Have nothing to do with him."
Chips looked offended. "Hey, Linc, are you forgetting who you're talking about? That could get somebody into bad health around here. I mean, I know you got a bad rap, but he did what he could—"
"He didn't do anything. I was thrown overboard."
"What are you talking about, Linc? The pukes had it in for you from the start. Kyle told me the story. They wouldn't even give you bail. He had a lawyer on it practically full-time."
"He lied. The package he's selling kids is a line. He's using them as expendables to save his soldiers. If you want to do the kids a favor, spread it around. If you want to do yourself one, walk."
Chips stared at Linc as if he had taken leave of his senses. "Phew! . . . I mean, man, you really don't care about laying it on." He meant Linc's talking this way in front of people he didn't know. "You must be forgetting some of the basics about staying smart around here, know what I mean?"
"It doesn't matter to me," Linc said. "Three days from now I'll be going back."
"You mean to that special program you mentioned?" Joe said.
Linc nodded. "Uh-huh."
Joe seemed curious. Or maybe he just wanted to head Linc and Chips away from a course that could get acrimonious.
"What is it, exactly? One of these rehab things they have, where shrinks ask you questions all the time, and you get to be a gardener or something?"
Linc shook his head. "No, it doesn't have anything to do with the state, the feds, or anything like that. It's not really a rehab trip. More a way of starting out again all over."
"Staring what out again?" Joe asked. Chips looked huffy. He didn't seem to like Linc's walking in and getting all the attention.
"Your life," Linc said. "If nobody's got a place for you here but they figure you can be something that you haven't discovered yet, they'll move you out to where things are different. And that way, maybe you find out."
Chips made a face. "Who? Move you out where? What are we talking about here?"
"The Outzoners—you know, out there in space. It's like the government hands you over."
"You're going out there'?" Chips looked perplexed. Given a week, he would have had trouble forming something more meaningful to say on such a topic.
"From Yucatan three days from now," Linc said. "Then shipping out from lunar orbit another three days after that. That's why I came back—for a last look around . . . . You know the kind of thing."
"Isn't it all supposed to be a bit crazy out there?" Joe said guardedly. "There was something about it on TV—like they don't want to trade, won't let anyone put any big money into what they're doing. It sounded like some kind of religious-cult thing."
Linc looked at him strangely. He had never thought of it that way. "I guess in a way you could say it is," he said.
Chips threw up both hands to recapture his audience. "Hell, if they won't let people put money in, that has to say it all. You can't get crazier than that."
Linc looked back at him. There had been a time, he recalled, when he had looked upon Chips as "cool"—the way to be in maybe another year's time. Now he saw just a kid with a loud mouth, who wore a hat that was too big and a cheap suit that needed pressing. Another Kyle in the making. He would cause a lot of people trouble and grief—and very possibly die suddenly because he didn't have the brains to know his limits and would get overambitious. Linc could pretty much guess the fates mapped out for the others too. Larry would kick down the wrong door one day and walk into a shotgun blast coming the other way. And although he knew nothing about them, he could already read a repeat performance of the Clay-and-Slam act in Gomez and Lou, destined to go down the same tubes. In Joe alone he sensed a potential that the right opportunity could maybe bring to bud and make flower.
But there was no way Linc would change any of that now, any more than he was about to bring a new crusade to the world. There was really only one other thing he wanted to know. He had decided to try and get news first, rather than walk in cold to any ugly surprises. "I'll be stopping by to see my folks later," he said, forcing his voice to remain casual. "How have they been doing? Is everything okay with them as far as you guys know?"
Chips looked at Joe and Larry as if it were an odd question to be asked, and spread his hands. "Sure, as far as I know. Did you guys hear any different?" They shook their heads. "That sister of yours was in Dobe's, oh, a week or two back," Chips told Linc. "What's her name? . . . The one who was shacked up with that jerk you worked over once."
"Marcella," Joe put in.
"She's not with him now, then?" Linc checked.
Chips shook his head. "Nah. He was feeling heat and blew town. I don't know the details. But if there were any problems at home, she'd have said." He looked to the others for confirmation. They nodded. "Sure, she'd have said," he repeated.
Linc felt relieved. At least whoever sent Sammy with the message after Linc was arrested had played straight on that score and not seen reason to carry out their threat.
There was nothing more to be accomplished here. Linc pushed back his chair and stood up. "Well, I've got things to do, and there's only today. Take care, you guys. Don't go walking into any trucks. And, who knows, maybe I'll be back and stop in again one day, eh?"
"You going already?" Chips said. "You've only just sat down."
"It's like I said—lots to do, not a lot of time."
"Well, okay . . . . And hey, glad you made it, anyhow."
Larry looked at Linc expressionlessly. Joe mustered a grin and offered a hand. "Good luck out there, Linc," he said. "I never thought I'd see the day you got religion, man."
"It's not exactly the way you think," Linc told him.
Lou just nodded. Gomez stared at Linc sourly.
On his way out through the front of the restaurant, Linc stopped Dino's niece, Carla, who was working the tables. "Hey, remember me?"
Carla stared back at him for a second, then her eyes widened. "Linc! You're back! Why didn't anybody tell me?"
"Because they didn't know. So how's everything?"
"Oh, you know . . . " She shrugged. "It's like the weather, some days up, some down. And you?"
"Just fine. Look, I'm in a bit of a hurry, so I can't explain, but I want you to do something for me."
"Well, sure . . . if I can."
Linc took out his pocket phone and handed it to her. "Wait about a half a minute, then take this out back and give it to Joe—you know, the guy with the hair tied back . . . "
"Yes, Joe Baloney. I know."
"Tell him I dropped it on the way out. I'm heading uptown." Linc saw the frown and questions already starting to form. "I don't have time. Just do it," he said.
Joe caught him a couple of minutes later, when Linc just happened to have stopped to look in the window of an electronics shop. "Linc, is this yours? Carla gave it to me. She said you dropped it."
Linc turned and took the phone. "Thanks." Joe looked puzzled at Linc's evident lack of surprise. "No, I gave it to her," Linc said. "I wanted to talk to you away from those other guys. Look, give me your call code and a mail drop, would you?"
Joe's puzzlement increased, but he complied. Linc keyed the details into the phone's scratch memory. "Sometime later, I don't know exactly when, someone will contact you and mention my name," he said. "When they do, listen carefully to what they tell you. It will be very important, Joe—maybe involving one of the most important decisions you'll ever make in your life."
Chapter Thirty-Six
NOTHING had changed much in the house. Cartons of empties and bags of trash waiting to be put out were still piled behind the kitchen door. The tacky, coming-apart couch had been replaced by a just-as-tacky couch that looked as if it wouldn't be long coming apart. There was a new wall-size TV with VR console, probably not a button on it yet paid for.
Linc's father looked paler than he remembered, the flesh, under his eyes more saggy. Although it was afternoon, he was still in a coffee-stain undershirt and hadn't shaved. Linc's mother, in a robe and smoking a cigarette, was puffy-faced and hungover, half spaced on something that was supposed to take care of it—probably other things as well. She had shown no more reaction to Linc's appearance than if he had returned from going to the grocery store along the street half an hour ago. Linc had given up attempting to explain the Outzone and what it meant. Their perceptions had been shaped by media depictions, which Linc now had no doubt were contrived deliberately to mislead and misinform. Linc's father was relieved that Linc seemed to be straightening out, but couldn't get it out of his head that what Linc would be going back to was a correctional program run by the government. "I didn't know they had places out there that they sent people to," was the only comment Linc had been able to evince.
"Did you ever hear from Sadie?" Linc asked them. His father had offered him a beer, but he'd preferred coffee. They were out of it, but his mother had found some instant in an old jar at the back of a shelf, and he had made himself one in a plastic mug and brought it back out. It was bitter, watery, but drinkable.
"We get E-mails every now and again," his mother said. She looked across at Linc's father. "Where was she last time? . . ."
"I'm not sure. Someplace in California, wasn't it?"
"Oh, you don't know anything. What was she doing there?"
