“Which way do you think is best?” I ask, giving him an opening to lead me down any blind alley he wants.
“Through the market, I reckon. There’s a lot of traffic and people are looking at the goods and not at faces.”
And crowds are good places to stick a knife in someone’s back and disappear.
“Sounds good. Let’s go.”
We walk in silence. I can’t hear his heart or his breathing, but I can see him fine and Bill’s movements are definitely tense.
We pass the site where the new City Hall will go up. This Convergence L.A. is solid but there are small places where the real Hell peeks through. Like these Hellion cranes. The cabs are rounded and covered in heavy wired mesh and they have six or eight big portholes instead of windshields. They look a lot more like giant bugs grabbing food with long chitinous beaks than construction equipment.
Bill says, “You’re quiet all of a sudden. Usually you’re the chatterbox and I’m the one waiting to get a word in.”
The market stalls cover the sidewalks and spill onto the roads where the original stores and businesses have burned or been abandoned. The big stalls sell anything a fine upstanding Hellion could want, most of it black market. Clean clothes. Jewelry. Health and hex potions. High-end Aqua Regia and wine.
“I was thinking about who I should flay alive for selling all of Hell’s goods to these Harry Lime pricks.”
“I see. Maybe you’ve got more of the devil in you than even I credited you with.”
“Maybe it’s time to see just how much.”
There are ghosts in the crowd. Not damned souls. Ghosts. A few of them follow us.
Bill says, “Back there at the bar, you might have noticed I didn’t want to say some things.”
“I noticed that.”
Bill looks at me.
“That’s a cold tone. You peg me for a bushwhacker now too?”
“I’m tired of being surrounded by people with secrets. If you have something to say, just say it.”
“All right. But I’ll do it my way.”
“Fine.”
He puffs on his cigar. A red legger elbows Bill out of the way. Bill elbows him right back. The legger whirls around and grabs Bill’s arm. I reach for my knife but the raider sees the mark on Bill’s arm and backs away.
Bill turns and starts walking again like nothing happened.
“They tell me that back home I’m more notorious than John Wesley Hardin, which is a hoot, as he had more fights and killed at least twice as many men as I ever did. On the other hand, it pleases me no end that Broken Nose Charlie Utter, who so violently disrupted my final card game, is known to very few. Men with restless lives—and I’m including you in this—we don’t seem to get much say in who’s remembered and who’s forgotten and with what amount of affection or derision.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“I’m sure you have, Sandman Slim.”
Bill puffs his cigar and thinks.
“The point is, whatever you do, whether you’ll turn out to be the Antichrist, the prince of killers, or perhaps nothing at
