Get a bottle, then try for a safe place to sleep it off. The pitiful shelter of some flophouse with its chickenwire barricades at best. At worst—
Great God but death was coming, prowling the street in the next block. Feathers, seeing the dark-suited figure under a streetlight from a block away, recognized it instantly and knew an instant convulsion of terror. His ancient heart leaped up to pound savagely under his ribs. He instantly ceased his shuffling progress to nowhere, and stood leaning like an abandoned store dummy against the nearest building front. For all his immobility he was suddenly more awake, more alive, than he had been for years. With all the energy that he could muster, he willed himself unnoticeable, invisible. Meanwhile death in a dark elegant suit came pacing on in his direction. The seeking butcher, pale angular face brooding above a neat collar and red tie, stalked past Feathers not a body-length away, without a sign of being aware of him. Feathers did not breathe. He saw a worn gold ring on a white finger. The dark eyes in death’s wan countenance did not turn toward him. The moment passed with Feathers still invisible, and then the embodiment of death was gone.
He breathed again. He gasped, and sweated too. God, why did he cling so frantically to life, erect his flimsy chickenwire barricades of the mind, just to give the throatslitters a little more trouble in getting their hands on him? But cling to life he must, there seemed to be no choice.
Now he really had to get a bottle. He’d seen death on the streets before in recent days, but never so close. He needed a bottle, and then some place where he could rest.
Against a half-familiar storefront he let his legs give up their burden. His shaky knees folded, and he slid down to sit on the sidewalk. His once-strong hands caressed the solid, physical concrete, still warm from the sunlight of the day just past.
“Feathers?”
This was a new voice, one that did not sound as if it ought to be on the street at all. Its owner had somehow contrived to approach without being heard. The old man roused in surprise from his near-trance, noting with shaky relief that the newcomer was not in a black suit, even before he could get a good look at the man’s face.
The man standing over Feathers was no one he had ever seen before. Maybe one of the Street missionaries, except few of them were blacks. This man had skin the color of coffee heavy on the cream, features half African. Coatless, his dark shirt open at the collar, but well-enough dressed in the dirty dusk; in fact, dressed too well by far to be a genuine member of the Street himself.
The man was smiling at Feathers softly. He was of average build, and somewhere under forty. “I heard your friend over there call you by that name not long ago: ‘Feathers’. We could use another name if you don’t like that one.” His accent was not American Black, but not quite Standard American either. Maybe Caribbean?
“No friggin’ friend of mine. Who’re you? You’re no friggin’ friend either.” And all the while Feathers felt a weak relief that this was not dark death returned. Speech and thought, as they so often did, seemed to be springing from different founts inside his head, each going its own way almost unrelated to the other. He was being discourteous. Well, sometimes that was actually the best way to cadge a drink, and anyway most people deserved it.
“I could be your friend.” The stranger’s dark eyes were vaguely luminous. “I’ll buy you a drink. Where’s the best place?”
“Drink. All right. I’m your man.” Still sitting on the pavement, Feathers suspiciously eyed the street to right and left. The choice of a place did matter, because— “Not right here.” There was a tavern within spitting distance on his right. “If we go in here, all my goddam friends will see and come in after us. Bumming drinks. Leeches.”
“Okay,” agreed the stranger good-humoredly. “Where then?”
“Place just around the corner. Down the side street.” Feathers’ feet had by now somehow become positioned under his center of gravity. Standing up was now possible, with a little help from the stranger’s hand, which felt stronger than it looked. Shuffling, leaning on a building now and then for balance and support, Feathers led the way around the corner.
When you turned this way the world changed quite a bit in just one block of gritty sidewalk. Proceeding a second block in this direction would have brought them to an alien country, whose horrified inhabitants would boot a Skid Row bum right out of their taverns. But Feathers had no intention of going that far. One block was just right. The corner tavern on the borderland would let him in, if he had a companion who looked as if he could put down some money on the bar. And here the leeches were not likely to dare to follow.
In the doorway of the borderland tavern they were met by cooled air, the smells of stale beer and staler pizza. This atmosphere had a certain degree of class. It bore no noticeable traces of bad wine or old vomit. The people already in the bar, none of them with their clothes torn or their flies gaping, looked up coldly at Feathers when he entered. But he had judged correctly, they weren’t quite ready to throw him out on sight when he came in with someone better dressed.
“How about some food?” His soft-voiced benefactor, helping him get settled in a booth, was becoming solicitous. Maybe he was queer. It was a long, long time now since Feathers had felt the need to worry that anyone would approach him in that way. He doubted that was it.
The two of them
