(no subject)
It's an old trick; he got it from his mother, who got it out of a novel. It's a good one, though. It works. It kept them alive, running from the man in the yellow coat, and it kept him alive, getting out of Austin. It'll work with any deck of playing cards, but Tarot cards are better. George used a deck of loteria cards, bought at the HEB the morning the god showed up to warn him and carefully plastered over his truck that afternoon.
It's an old truck, too, that makes its way to San Antonio in the dead of night, the oil light already a burning amber eye on the dash. The wind passing over the cards (The Rooster, The Devil, The Lady, The Skull) and the whirl of the ones in the wheelwell set up a spinning field of random luck all around him, shielding from anyone able to track by the path of ka itself.
He passes what's left of the night slumped across the front seat of the truck in a parking garage. By ten o'clock it's too hot to breathe. He takes a spare shirt from the back and works for his air conditioning, passing for the new guy, building displays and taking them down, helping customers and shoplifting his lunch. He lays lows and hoards his meager supply of cash. He moves the truck every night, both to avoid getting towed and keep up the cloud of random luck. On the third day a manager in a pastel polo shirt threatens to write him up for his increasing scruffiness and a sort of dazed demeanor.
A shoplifted pair of trunks and a visit to the San Antonio public pool cleans him up a little but he knows he needs a real shower and a real bed. By now he's convinced he's lost the road viruses; the smart money says they're waiting in Austin to see if he comes back, and the bitch of it is he has to go back. He needs that fucking check, still four days away.
In the meantime--
It's another old trick. Not one he enjoys. He sinks a little cash into it at an occult bookstore near the Alamo, the sign unreadable, every letter replaced with a symbol from a global hodge-podge of mysticism. Dreamcatcher necklace; some kind of 'tribal' beadwork bracelets. A cheap world-tree t-shirt. Even in the blazing heat the Alamo is packed with tourists, and he zeroes in on one. An older woman, alone, slightly faded, inspecting a diorama; she smells just faintly of the liberal guilt complex he needs for this to work.
"You know, my great-grandfather was there," he says, trying to sound solemn and contained. "With Santa Ana. They say he was the bad guy but the Mexicans were always kinder to my people than the Texans."
(He has no idea if this is true; his own people were Lakota, from a lot farther north. If she knows anything at all he'll find another mark. But as it turns out, she doesn't.)
He likes the guy he is in the story; rez kid, poor college student, seeing history on his summer break. He likes him a lot better than the real George Hill. She buys him dinner in one of the restaurants along the riverwalk. She's staying in the swank hotel, her window facing out over the water, and light from the strands of Christmas tree lights strung over the river shine in the windows and are kind to them both, making love. She doesn't ask about the scars; she does ask about the reservation, and he hates himself more than ever as he makes it all up.
In the dead of night she hears him moving around and thinks she knows what's happening, but the toilet flushes and he comes back to bed. He doesn't make her say anything awkward in the morning, though, just gets his shower (bliss) and she leaves with her tour group with a spring in her step. George goes to move the truck but it won't start.
He slumps over the wheel, still bone-tired. He thinks about going back to the HEB... and he thinks about the plastic keycard hidden in his hatband.
He's watching the Powerpuff Girls with feet up; his ears are tuned to the hallway. The bolt is thrown; if she comes back unexpectedly, she'll have to go get someone and he can make a run for it.
Elevator.
The monkey guy is pretty funny on this.
Footsteps. He's got his boots on before they stop outside the door, only they don't stop outside the door. Something hits the door, something heavy, and it rattles.
"Hey you fuckaaaaaaaaaaah!" Malloy shouts outside the door, and it rattles again.
George grabs his hat; grabs his gun. He fires twice through the window then kicks the glass out out; looks out the window for one of the tour boats that pass through at intervals.
Another thud against the door.
Come on come on come on--
The door comes off the hinges, Murphy's weight barreling him into the room and onto his face, and Malloy steps through. George goes out the windows; catches the strands of lights, snapping them free from the moorings and tangling them in branches, and swings as far across the river as he can before his weight rips them free entirely. He comes down on a tour boat, landing hard, his hat dangling from the blue shoelace cord and his gun still in his free hand.
Malloy sticks his head out the window and roars; the other two are out here, on the side of the bank by the hotel, and they turn and shout, pointing at him. Delacroix makes a crazy leap from the sidewalk and lands on one edge of the boat, which rocks wildly; the virus roars, showing his teeth, and George shoots him in the chest four times, blasting him back and overboard.
Everyone on the tour boat screams and moves away from him; he spins and runs and jumps to the bank, hitting the sidewalk hard and dunking his legs, scrabbling up onto the pavement. Reyes is dragging the spluttering Delacroix out of the river. He runs to the truck; he's got nowhere else to go. If nothing else he needs more bullets.
"Please," he says, and tries the key. It starts.
"Thank you," he breathes, laying a hand on the dash. It's a good truck, and it deserves better than he's going to do to it.
He runs. They chase him. It's a long time before he sleeps in a real bed again.
It's an old truck, too, that makes its way to San Antonio in the dead of night, the oil light already a burning amber eye on the dash. The wind passing over the cards (The Rooster, The Devil, The Lady, The Skull) and the whirl of the ones in the wheelwell set up a spinning field of random luck all around him, shielding from anyone able to track by the path of ka itself.
He passes what's left of the night slumped across the front seat of the truck in a parking garage. By ten o'clock it's too hot to breathe. He takes a spare shirt from the back and works for his air conditioning, passing for the new guy, building displays and taking them down, helping customers and shoplifting his lunch. He lays lows and hoards his meager supply of cash. He moves the truck every night, both to avoid getting towed and keep up the cloud of random luck. On the third day a manager in a pastel polo shirt threatens to write him up for his increasing scruffiness and a sort of dazed demeanor.
A shoplifted pair of trunks and a visit to the San Antonio public pool cleans him up a little but he knows he needs a real shower and a real bed. By now he's convinced he's lost the road viruses; the smart money says they're waiting in Austin to see if he comes back, and the bitch of it is he has to go back. He needs that fucking check, still four days away.
In the meantime--
It's another old trick. Not one he enjoys. He sinks a little cash into it at an occult bookstore near the Alamo, the sign unreadable, every letter replaced with a symbol from a global hodge-podge of mysticism. Dreamcatcher necklace; some kind of 'tribal' beadwork bracelets. A cheap world-tree t-shirt. Even in the blazing heat the Alamo is packed with tourists, and he zeroes in on one. An older woman, alone, slightly faded, inspecting a diorama; she smells just faintly of the liberal guilt complex he needs for this to work.
"You know, my great-grandfather was there," he says, trying to sound solemn and contained. "With Santa Ana. They say he was the bad guy but the Mexicans were always kinder to my people than the Texans."
(He has no idea if this is true; his own people were Lakota, from a lot farther north. If she knows anything at all he'll find another mark. But as it turns out, she doesn't.)
He likes the guy he is in the story; rez kid, poor college student, seeing history on his summer break. He likes him a lot better than the real George Hill. She buys him dinner in one of the restaurants along the riverwalk. She's staying in the swank hotel, her window facing out over the water, and light from the strands of Christmas tree lights strung over the river shine in the windows and are kind to them both, making love. She doesn't ask about the scars; she does ask about the reservation, and he hates himself more than ever as he makes it all up.
In the dead of night she hears him moving around and thinks she knows what's happening, but the toilet flushes and he comes back to bed. He doesn't make her say anything awkward in the morning, though, just gets his shower (bliss) and she leaves with her tour group with a spring in her step. George goes to move the truck but it won't start.
He slumps over the wheel, still bone-tired. He thinks about going back to the HEB... and he thinks about the plastic keycard hidden in his hatband.
He's watching the Powerpuff Girls with feet up; his ears are tuned to the hallway. The bolt is thrown; if she comes back unexpectedly, she'll have to go get someone and he can make a run for it.
Elevator.
The monkey guy is pretty funny on this.
Footsteps. He's got his boots on before they stop outside the door, only they don't stop outside the door. Something hits the door, something heavy, and it rattles.
"Hey you fuckaaaaaaaaaaah!" Malloy shouts outside the door, and it rattles again.
George grabs his hat; grabs his gun. He fires twice through the window then kicks the glass out out; looks out the window for one of the tour boats that pass through at intervals.
Another thud against the door.
Come on come on come on--
The door comes off the hinges, Murphy's weight barreling him into the room and onto his face, and Malloy steps through. George goes out the windows; catches the strands of lights, snapping them free from the moorings and tangling them in branches, and swings as far across the river as he can before his weight rips them free entirely. He comes down on a tour boat, landing hard, his hat dangling from the blue shoelace cord and his gun still in his free hand.
Malloy sticks his head out the window and roars; the other two are out here, on the side of the bank by the hotel, and they turn and shout, pointing at him. Delacroix makes a crazy leap from the sidewalk and lands on one edge of the boat, which rocks wildly; the virus roars, showing his teeth, and George shoots him in the chest four times, blasting him back and overboard.
Everyone on the tour boat screams and moves away from him; he spins and runs and jumps to the bank, hitting the sidewalk hard and dunking his legs, scrabbling up onto the pavement. Reyes is dragging the spluttering Delacroix out of the river. He runs to the truck; he's got nowhere else to go. If nothing else he needs more bullets.
"Please," he says, and tries the key. It starts.
"Thank you," he breathes, laying a hand on the dash. It's a good truck, and it deserves better than he's going to do to it.
He runs. They chase him. It's a long time before he sleeps in a real bed again.