"We were out deer hunting. It was just after sunup and cold enough that I could see my breath. I'd spotted a six-point buck ahead in the tree line. I led the way, up front a few yards, with my father right behind me. I spotted the buck in a clearing, signaled my father to stop. I raised my rifle and took the shot. Just as I pulled the trigger, I heard another gun go off and something hit me on the side of the head. My father's shot had missed me by maybe an inch and hit the tree where I was leaning. I looked back at him, blood coming down my face where flying bark and splinters had hit me. He came running up apologizing, saying it was all an accident, asking if I was okay. But behind all the panic in his eyes, there was nothing but fear and loathing. He hated himself for taking the shot, but he hated me more for still breathing."
"I'm so sorry."
"Just because someone says they love you doesn't mean they're not going to fuck you over the first chance they get."
"What about Alice? Did she fuck you over, too?"
"No. She's the one who didn't."
Allegra empties a couple of overflowing ashtrays into a metal trash can on the floor.
"Doesn't that mean anything?"
"No. I told her I loved her about a million times. It didn't save her. It's what got her killed."
"But you both loved each other. You still have that."
"You loved your drug-dealer boyfriend. I bet he told you he loved you every day. How'd that work out for you?"
"This isn't about me."
"You're right, it's not. So, why don't you run along back to Vidocq and let me finish my work so I can get all of you and this town behind me?"
She shakes her head, pushes more junk from the table into the trash, and starts for the door.
"After I'm gone," I tell her, "as far as I'm concerned, you can have Max Overdrive. Parker's killed Kasabian by now, so he's not going to want it back. I'm sure Vidocq can come up with some kind of glamour that'll make it look like you owned the place all along."
She drops the trash can by the door. Lets it fall over and spill food wrappers, empty cans, and cigarette butts on the floor.
"You know what? You're not a monster. You're just a motherfucker. Eugene should have let Aelita put you out of your misery."
"Good-bye, Allegra. Go tidy up at Eugene's." She kicks the can out of the way and slams the door. I can hear her stomp down every single step, like she's punishing the staircase, like God's tiniest tyrannosaurus.
WHEN ALLEGRA IS gone, I finish cleaning and reassembling the guns. When that's done, I take old newspapers and paper bags from under the bootlegging table and lay them out flat on the floor.
When you stretch out a regulation na'at to its full length, it's ten feet of very sharp Hellion steel teeth, spikes, and spines. Some are spring-loaded and ready to go whenever you pick up the na'at. Others only open up when you trigger them from the grip.
Traditionally, you use a na'at like a spear or a staff, but there's another trigger that collapses the central shaft. Suddenly the na'at is as loose as chicken chow mein, a metal whip that can strip the skin off a rhino like peeling a grape. Not that I've ever peeled a rhino or a grape, but you get the idea.
I only mention this to explain that your basic na'at has a lot more intricate mechanical parts than anything any human has ever manufactured. When you decide to WD-40 your na'at, you need a lot of room and a lot of newspapers to soak up the excess oil. You should also open a window before you start spraying lube and solvents around your bedroom, something I almost always forget to do.
I drag the newspaper and the na'at across the room and out of the way. I stash the guns under the mattress and wash the WD-40 off my hands in the bathroom. I've trashed enough clothes that I'm back down to video-store T-shirts and jeans. I throw on the silk overcoat I've been avoiding and slip the knife inside. On the way out, I push open the three big windows on the wall opposite the bed.
The short walk to the Bamboo House of Dolls clears the stink out of my nose and head. A drink and a cigarette later and I'm happy to be back on Earth. When Carlos brings me my food, I drink to his health. I haven't done much for him lately, except maybe cooking and decapitating some skinheads, but I can't exactly talk to him about that. He brings up sports and I try to say something that doesn't sound stupid, but I didn't know much about sports before I went Downtown. Finally, he gives up and walks off to serve other customers.
I haven't talked to him much lately. I haven't wanted to talk much at all. It seems like a good idea to let the guy know that I appreciate him, his bar, and his food. Right now Carlos is about the closest thing I have to friend on this planet. With Cherry, Jayne-Anne, and Kasabian gone, so are all my ties to Mason, leaving me right in the middle of downtown with nothing to do and nowhere to go. When you're in that neighborhood, you need at least one person on your side. Preferably one with a bar.
I finish off two more drinks before it becomes dangerously clear that if I hang around much longer, I'm going to have to talk to someone.
I time the walk back to Max Overdrive perfectly. I get to the door right on the last puff of my cigarette. Flicking the butt into the Dumpster, I let myself in the back way.
Inside, the oily solvent smell is gone, but now there's something else. Alcohol? Disinfectant? The staircase smells like a hospital waiting room.
I find out why a minute later. By then I'm already on the floor and the world is a shivering Slip and Slide, so there's no chance of me getting up. I have a feeling that the robot ghost in the dirty trench coat that's waving a baseball bat in my face might have something to do with it.
Pieces of the world start falling back into place enough for to me to see that the robot ghost isn't really a robot or a ghost. It's Kasabian, and he's held together with a lot of metal rods and screws. There's a metal band bolted around his head, held in place by steel dowels that are attached to a brace on his chest. A traction halo. It holds his head onto his body well enough for him to stand up, but the rig makes him move like a rusty windup toy. Still, for a kid's toy, he's doing a pretty good job tuning up my ribs.
I deflect a couple of the blows with my arms, which feels just as good as it sounds. Kasabian is so stiff, he has to stand in one place to work me over. Lucky me. I swing one of my legs around and catch him behind the knee. He goes down on the knee, but refuses to fall over. Just keeps smashing me with the bat, teeth gritted, sweating and red-faced. But he's working from close range now, so the shots hurt a lot less than before.