The Cloud Atlas

not worried that a man he had just struck, twice, might be interested in shooting him.

He held up the glass, and looked at me until I returned his gaze. “A moving target.” Then he pointed down the bar. “Ready?”

I nodded, adjusted my grip. Circle, study, plan.

Gurley made as if to toss the glass in the air, but then rocketed it down the bar, a line drive. It shattered against a far wall before I had a chance to do anything, let alone shoot.

“You didn't even fire, mon petit ami,” Gurley said with a smile. He knocked the bar. “Another glass.” I drew a breath, found a glass, set it up. “Ready?” he said. I nodded and raised the gun. Another line drive down the bar, even faster this time. I almost squeezed the trigger, but held off when I realized I was far too late.

“C'm'ere,” said Gurley. I leaned over. He took the gun from my hand and, holding the barrel, smacked the side of my head with it. For a second I couldn't see, and when my vision finally blinked back, I realized my right eye was already swelling shut.

“Second lesson,” Gurley said. “Are you looking at me?” I assumed I was, and stared more intently. “Second lesson,” he repeated. “Never, never let a man take your gun.” He gave it back to me, and raised his hand to strike again. Reflexively I aimed the gun at him. The hell with circling. Training can only take a man so far.

Gurley whistled low. “Third lesson,” he said, hands halfheartedly in the air. “Never aim a gun at a man unless you plan on shooting him.” I held my aim for a moment and then lowered the gun. “Good,” Gurley said. “I'd hate for us to get off to the wrong start.” He knocked the bar again. I set up a third glass. It rattled as I put it down and we both watched my shaky hand struggle for a second to release it. “Ready?” he said. I nodded. He reared back to pitch the glass down the bar.

I shot it out of his hand.

He staggered backward. His hand was miraculously not injured, and honestly, I don't think I was prepared to deal with the consequences if it had been. He studied his hand, as if trying to remember whether he'd ever picked up the glass, and then let a smile seep across his face. He reached across the bar and, as I flinched, clapped me on the shoulder.

“Nice, god, damn, shot, Belk,” he said. “Maybe we'll make a warrior out of you yet.” He bared his teeth; perhaps he thought he was grinning. “I'll be gone again, two days,” he said. “Thus you can understand my eagerness to meet you tonight.” I must have looked woozy because he eyed me carefully. “Belk? Listen, now: you have two whole days to come to your senses. Meet me at 0800, two days from now, Building 520.” I nodded this time. He smiled. “Building 520,” he repeated. “And bring your gun, if you like.” With that, he turned on one leg, wobbled, found his balance, and walk-swayed out of the bar.

CHAPTER 6

ELEVEN P.M., THE STARHOPE HOTEL.

It had taken me some puzzling over the dollar that Lily had pressed into my hand before I decided that what she'd scribbled on the back was an invitation. But to what?

I stood outside the building, looking up at the windows of Lily's “office” on the second floor, thinking about Gurley Lily, and Lily's bare legs. Would another man be there tonight? Would another interrupt us?

And yes, innocent that I was, I even thought about her advertised business, those careful and correct palm readings: after all that had happened so far, I was more interested than ever in learning my future. Especially if that future included sex.

I apologize: there are certain words a priest can't say, like sex, or the proper names of various parts of the anatomy, or the improper names, or, of course, the full raft of obscenities, carnal and otherwise. I can't say these words not because I lack the nerve, but the audience. These are things people can't hear me say; that's why it's a pleasure to talk to Ronnie now, who apparently can't hear me at all.

Whom else could I tell what it was like to stand outside that hotel, looking up, sweating hormones, the tart, metallic taste of blood from the fight with Gurley only now going stale in my mouth?

Whom else could I tell that of everything I felt, the sharpest feeling was fear?

Damn right I was scared. Scared of Gurley? Maybe I thought that then, but that was a fleeting fear. You can't be scared of a car that loses control on the highway. There's no time, no reason: you just concentrate on staying alive.

No, I was scared of the woman up on the second floor. And it kept me standing on the street right up to, and then after, eleven o'clock. Five after, ten after. I couldn't bring myself to go in, although I decided I would rush ahead if I saw any other man make for the building. But in the meantime, I stood there, rubbing between thumb and forefinger the magic dollar Lily had given me, wondering as I did so what crime I might have already committed and what crimes I might soon commit.

Here was the problem. Lily was a woman, a spit-in-the-eye-of-God occultist (the distance between palm reading and worshiping idols seemed shorter in my youth), a siren-she was all this, yes, but what consumed me was that Lily was Japanese. And while that didn't automatically make her a spy, everything else did: her presence here, in Alaska, when all other Japanese had been sent to camps; this strange building; her dark office; Gurley's mysterious arrival; the dollar she'd given me-and, of course, the fact that she was supposedly a palm reader. She made no secret that she dealt in secrets.

“Boo,” came a voice from behind me, and I must have leapt in the air, straight up, several inches, with my heart going faster and higher. “Don't turn around,” said the voice, which was doing a fair impression of a movie hoodlum until it broke down laughing. “Boo,” the voice said again between laughs, and I turned around to find Lily, grinning so broadly she couldn't see.

“Hello,” I said, using the biggest, most adult soldier voice I could manage. Lily imitated me-not very well, I thought, but she also found this funny, and laughed until I at least started to smile.

But when she finally caught her breath and focused, she stopped laughing altogether.

“What happened to you?” she asked. She started to extend a hand to the bruises on my face, and if she'd actually touched them, I would have counted the battle with Gurley as well worth the pain. But she stopped short, just inches from my skin. There was that kind of buzzing that comes just before a first kiss-yes, I know about these things, or knew-and I couldn't say anything, do anything. She'd immobilized me faster than Gurley, and panicked me just the same.

“I have to go,” I said, and then started to back away.

“I should have warned you,” she said, and my heart stopped beating while it waited to see if the next word out of her mouth would be Gurley. “ Anchorage can be a bit rough on a new kid in town.” She waited for me to answer, but I could only shrug. “ Fourth Avenue, I'm guessing? I mean, you don't need to be a mind reader to see what happened to you. Bar fight-some sailors, likely, they're usually pretty pissed by the time they come ashore in Anchorage.” She wrinkled her nose and started smiling again. “So I feel kinda bad. Sending you off to wander half the night. A kid like you.”

She'd won me over again until she came out with that kid.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I really do-have to go. I shouldn't have-”

“Not so fast, soldier,” she said, stepping after me with surprising speed. “You owe me something?”