place to place hugging the underbelly of the Level above only to swoop down at reckless speeds to the Level below. There were hair-raising turnpikes and overpasses that dropped a hundred feet on each side of a double lane. Driver loved it.
They parked around back then entered through the building’s brass double doors. They knew the mansion’s layout, had enjoyed its comforts in times past. There were mirrors everywhere, and all the furnishings were either antique or replicas of 18th Century designs. Every pillar, every cornice carried carved grapevines and angels. The butler showed them to the dining room, told them to refresh themselves and await the Marquis.
“Don’t worry, Tex.” Tiny picked up his pale glass of Chardonnay, sipped it. “I won’t spoil your fun. But look at him.” He gestured to Bloody’s startling face. “You said you’d spruce him up-looks like you dug him up.”
“Well, I just started gettin’ the creeps…” Driver’s blue eyes sparkled-his dark eyebrows forming an arc of dismay. He looked over at the dead man. “Bloody, you got to get into the swing of things. You can’t sit there starin’ like a goddamn zombie, askin’ us to wait on every hand and foot.” Driver turned to Tiny and whispered. “Well did you expect I was goin’ to put curlers in his hair? I ran a brush over his head. I ain’t no hairstylist nor any sweetheart dustin’ off his clothes.” The Texan’s eyes flashed with grim humor. “Goddamn it Tiny, I noticed you weren’t linin’ up to lend a hand.” He grabbed a formed fish-turkey leg off his plate, loaded it with chili peppers and tore a strip off it with his teeth. “You a bossy som’bitch.”
“Rude.” Bloody’s voice suddenly creaked like dry leather.
His companions looked at him, startled, then at each other.
“Rude?” Driver masked his surprise with a liberal mouthwash of wine.
“Talking.” Bloody’s purple-gray lips were granite.
“Oh, you’re right, Bloody. It isn’t polite to talk with you sitting there,” Tiny said, eyeing the gunman. “Course you could get involved in the conversation and stop acting like a bag of rotten bones.”
“Damn you son of a bitch.” Driver leaned forward, pointed. “Sittin’ there listening like the C-fucking-I- fucking-A. You got nerve!” The Texan dropped his fish-turkey leg. “Here I am thinkin’ you’re dead and gone, and you’re sitting there eavesdroppin’. And me in the car combing your goddamned hair!” He angrily lit another cigarette. “You must’a had a hoot!”
“You should know better, Bloody.” Tiny piped up now. “You and your self-pity make me sick. You’re out in the driving shed drinking and crying like a baby while Driver and me rack our brains for a way to make a living. We ain’t crying for you.” Tiny caught Driver’s surprised expression. “You got yourself killed, and you’re wallowing in pig shit and whisky.”
“Christ yes, Bloody.” Driver’s fingers clenched near his armpits where his guns nestled. They always twitched like that when his temper was up. “Take a bath. Get a new jacket. Christ you smell. You said once that the sorriest piece of shit on the planet was a man who lived in the past. Well you’re a sorry piece of shit.”
“Amen, brother.” Tiny toasted Driver.
Bloody’s frame convulsed, his lips pursed, and then his neck bulged like he was going to vomit. He said-his voice a seizure, “Forgive Felon.”
“That’s fine. I’m glad you got religion.” Tiny looked over at Driver. The Texan was digging into his food again.
Bloody’s forgiving Felon could mean anything. The gunman’s temper usually followed on the heels of his feelings. In the years they had known him, Bloody had forgiven a lot of people, in a way that earned him his nickname.
When they had first told him where they were going, he stood there staring through his sunglasses. Driver had picked the location, on the highway north about four hours out from the farmhouse. It was still hours to catch a ferry across the Mississippi Sea. The long straight stretch of highway took them along the west coast of the cold haunted body of water.
The Texan had pulled off the road and drove about a quarter of a mile over prairie grass. They got out, and motioned for Bloody to follow. Tiny kept his hand on his gun the whole time. The dead gunman moved automatically without any sign of caring. He came to a halt finally, listing to one side, about twenty yards from the car. Driver, dressed in tough black military pants, shirt, boots and trench coat, took ten paces to the northwest and Tiny, in gray, took ten to the southwest. The Texan turned and stood with the casual pose of a gunman. His twin automatics poked out of their shoulder holsters. His hands were crossed at his waist.
“Bloody, you’ve had a hard go.” The wind had snatched at Tiny’s voice. “But, it’s time we get back to work. We want you to ride with us. But we’re not sure about you.”
The dead gunman’s head had tilted forward. The wind tore at his filthy hair. Both of his friends recognized the stance. Bloody paused like that before he started killing. He relaxed both shoulders for the draw, and giant bullets would start blowing things apart.
At the motion, Tiny took his stance-legs relaxed, one hand in the front pocket of his overcoat. He’d tilt the gun barrel up instead of drawing it. A smaller weapon with a lighter grain of bullet would have done the job. But Tiny was nostalgic. A. 357 magnum fired at that angle with a single hand could snap his wrist. But the salesman had a trick. He’d do a drop dive, if it came to shooting-kick both legs forward and hit the ground firing over his knee. He had to get the gun up to take most of its kick along his elbow. Dangerous, but the situation was a sticky one. Driver nodded when he caught his eye.
“Bloody!” Tiny shouted. They both knew Bloody was a straight shot, and being dead, was impossible to kill. The. 45 Colt didn’t have to be all that accurate. Those big bullets could take an arm off. “We’ve got a job with Felon!” He waited a second, watched the dead man for any hint of recognition. “He can make us rich if we ride with him. Driver and me want to do it. Are you in?”
Bloody didn’t move. Tiny focused his energy along his thigh muscles and down into his calves. He had learned the technique forty years before from a karate teacher. The salesman kept himself in excellent shape, and in the years he’d spent after the Change he had learned to discipline both body and mind. He had to be hard and fast to survive. Bloody was a shining example of what happened if you got slack.
“What’s it goin’ to be?” Driver had bellowed, the wind plucking at his words.
“Forgive,” Bloody croaked.
“What?” Tiny shouted back.
“Forgive Felon.” Bloody’s voice was a broken thing to listen to.
Tiny and Driver had looked at each other then, and decided to go with it. Guns would have blazed if Bloody was against working for Felon. They got back in the Nova, drove to the ferry and went east from there. Bloody lapsed back into silence. Tiny had instructed Driver to take them to the Marquis’ La Maison du Porc where they were expected.
“So you’re goin’ to forgive him?” Driver asked as he dug into a pile of potatoes. “Don’t get yourself killed again.” Tiny and Driver knew Bloody’s trigger finger. And he killed when he started feeling too much. But Felon could take care of himself.
“Hush now.” Tiny raised his glass. “Someone’s coming.”
The ornate doors at the end of the dining room swung open and away from them. A dwarf in red silk knickers, stockings and waistcoat rushed in with powder flying from his wig. He held a long brass trumpet. Pressing it to his lips he blew once then barked: “Rise! Rise for the Marquis de la ville de la lumiere! La dame de la maison du porc!”
And the Marquis entered. He dressed as an eighteenth century French noblewoman. His gown was a richly embroidered and lacy bell embossed with glistening jewels. Upon his head was a tall powdered wig of curls, graced at the top with an arching tiara of diamonds. His face was powdered sugar white scarcely disguising his booze- veined nose. The Marquis’ cheeks and eyes were similarly highlighted in brilliant rouge and garish peacock. His ancient chest was powdered and puffed, and poked like a broken fence over the dress’s plunging neckline. His withered throat was accented with a strip of purple silk that exactly matched his dress’s embroidery. He batted his rheumy eyes. They were flat and pale. The old transvestite fluttered a golden fan under his nose.
“Bonjour mes amis!” the Marquis trumpeted as he fanned his corded throat. “How wonderful to have you gentlemen for entertainment.”
Tiny rose after his glass. Driver did the same-Bloody lapsed into corpse-like stillness. “A toast gentlemen!” Tiny smiled with all his might. “To the lovely Marquis.”
The Texan hoisted his glass and murmured, “Charmed.”
“Tiny!” The Marquis used a fake French accent. “You are the consummate roue as always!” He fluttered
