Part 9 (1/2)

”He went totally limp, like a wet noodle,” Floyd said. ”And noodles don't break.”

”But why did he jump?” Sabine asked. ”What did he find in there?”

I was watching Taylor as we walked. She stayed a couple of steps ahead, leading the way. In response to Sabine's question, she looked back over her shoulder and shrugged. Her eyes were vacant, her thoughts a million miles away.

n.o.body spoke. There was no answer to Sabine's question.

Sabine grunted and looked down at the camcorder in her hand. She'd flipped open the viewscreen and was watching the video of the falling soldier. Her fingers shuttled back and forth between ”play” and ”rewind,” as she watched the fall over and over again.

We continued in silence.

It was a little after one o'clock when we reached Mama Ca.s.s and the Char-Grilled Miracle. We found the tables packed with hungry lunchtime customers. There were at least thirty people seated in the open dining area and another fifteen gathered on the sidewalk outside. It was a shock, seeing so many dirty faces gathered together in one place. It made me wonder just how many people were left here in the city. Two hundred? Three hundred?

Wandering the empty streets, it was easy to get caught up in the desolation of this place, easy to think that we were the only people left in the world-just our little household, along with the military, of course. But there were other civilians out there, holed up behind doors, making do without electricity and hot water, without Internet, cable, and phone service.

I grabbed my camera and started taking pictures, trying to get some candid shots. These were truly interesting people. Beneath all that dirt and exhaustion-beneath the ragged clothing, snaggled hair, chapped lips, and bloodshot eyes-there was genuine character and resolve.

These were the people who had stayed despite having every reason to leave.

”Cool it, Dean,” Taylor hissed beneath her breath. ”You're making everyone nervous.”

She was right. I glanced up and found myself the focus of wary glances and more than a couple of threatening glares. Several people had turned their bodies away, trying to s.h.i.+eld themselves from my camera.

”I'm sorry,” I mumbled, addressing the crowded room. I un-slung my backpack and tucked the camera back inside.

”Why, if it isn't my favorite band of vagabonds ... plus one!”

I turned and found a smiling, middle-aged black woman striding our way. She was thin as a stick, and her wide smile revealed pearl-white teeth. She was dressed in stylish ski gear, impeccably clean and perfectly fitted.

”Sharon!” Sabine exclaimed with a grin, moving forward to give the older woman a hug. ”When'd you get back?”

”About an hour ago. I got a lift from the infantry.” She pointed to a table of soldiers on the other side of the room. In response, the uniformed men looked up from their ma.s.sive plates of food and snapped off nearly synchronized salutes.

”Well, it's good to have you back,” Sabine said. She cast a nervous glance toward the back of the dining area, then lowered her voice. ”I didn't want to tell Bobby, but the food's suffered without you. h.e.l.l, I was thinking of taking my business somewhere else.” She held a straight face for a couple of seconds, then broke down laughing, moving to hug the older woman one more time.

”Who's your friend with the camera?” Sharon asked, watching me over Sabine's shoulder. There was a hint of distaste in her voice, like the word camera was a bitter fruit on her tongue.

”That's Dean,” Sabine said. ”He's an artist. A good guy. He's staying with us while he works on a project.”

Sharon shrugged. ”Well, any friend of yours,” she said, still sounding a bit skeptical. Then she turned and gestured toward the back of the room, once again playing the gracious hostess. ”Right this way, mes amies. You've got the chef's table today!”

The chef's table was an immaculate hardwood oval tucked into an out-of-the-way corner. It had intricate knurled legs and was polished to a high gloss, something you'd find in a suburban mansion. Sharon seated us in mismatched folding chairs.

”Sharon was a stockbroker back before all of this s.h.i.+t started,” Sabine said, addressing me with a sly smile as Sharon helped us with our chairs. ”She moved to Spokane to retire, to live the relaxed good life. Then the world went crazy.”

Sharon shrugged. ”I know it sounds bad, but I was starting to get bored, anyway ... just sitting on my a.s.s, watching cable news. Retirement just wasn't my thing. Besides, I always wanted to open my own restaurant.”

”Why 'Mama Ca.s.s'?” I asked. ”Why not 'Sharon's' or 'Mama Sharon's'?”

With a smile, she said, ” 'Cause people say I make a killer ham sandwich.” She waited a beat, then looked around the table, finding nothing but blank faces.

”Jesus Christ! Don't you know anything about rock 'n' roll history? Mama Ca.s.s? The Mamas and the Papas? Died choking on a ham sandwich?... Get it? I make a killer ham sandwich?” After a moment of expectant silence, she shook her head and tossed a stack of hand-lettered menus onto the table. ”You bunch are just getting younger and younger.” Muttering, she stalked away.

Sabine smiled and gestured toward the older woman's retreating back. ”She's so smart, it's scary,” she said with an admiring shake of her head. ”And this whole situation ... I've never seen anyone more suited to anything. She works all the angles, greasing hands and making deals. She moves in and out of the city with impunity. Somebody here will trade an old watch for a barbecue chicken; she'll take the watch to Seattle and sell it for a hundred bucks.”

”And the military lets her do that?” I asked.

Floyd let out a loud snort, then pointed to the table of soldiers near the front of the restaurant. ”The military f.u.c.king helps her.”

”And you've got to admire that,” Sabine said. ”You've got to admire that skill.”

Taylor grunted. ”Yeah, in the same way you'd admire a wolf's razor-sharp teeth.” Taylor was sitting directly to my left, and she kept her words low, meaning them for my ears only. I glanced over; she had her arms crossed in front of her chest, and she met my eyes with a disgusted frown.

”Uh-oh,” Floyd muttered. ”Here comes trouble.”

I followed his eyes back across the room and found Wendell standing just inside the entrance.

Wendell. At least that was how he'd introduced himself back when we first met. Taylor had used a different name: Weasel. That name seemed much more fitting. Stringing me along, stealing my backpack, taking advantage of my naivete. Just seeing him again ... it made me feel so stupid.

I felt a surge of anger rising in my gut and started to stand up, but Taylor put her hand on my shoulder, keeping me in my seat. ”Just read your menu, Dean. I'll handle this.”

As Taylor started across the room, I followed her suggestion, reaching out and grabbing a menu. But I couldn't read it. I couldn't take my eyes off of Weasel. It looked like the last couple of days had been rough on him. He was dirtier than I remembered, and somewhere along the line, he'd lost his hat. Good, I thought. Karma's a b.i.t.c.h. He was standing with a pair of equally mangy men, his eyes barely open. On the nod, I guessed.

He jerked to attention as soon as Taylor entered his line of sight. At first, it looked like he was going to bolt-his body tensed up and he glanced toward the entrance. But he didn't run. He stopped and turned back toward Taylor, his shoulders slumping in defeat. They talked for several minutes, Weasel occasionally glancing over my way. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but it was pretty easy to read the emotion in Weasel's gestures-he held his hands open wide, occasionally reaching out to touch Taylor's forearm. He gave me one last glance, then turned and left, striding through the wide-open storefront. His friends didn't follow.

”He's sorry,” Taylor said when she once again took her seat. ”And it's genuine, I think. He's an okay guy ... it's his monkey that's got the greedy hands. The smack. And he's working to get clean.”

I nodded. I wasn't sure I believed her-it sounded like wishful thinking to me-but I wasn't the one who knew him. I was just the stranger he'd tried to rob.

”In a week, if everything's cool, I think I'm going to invite him back to the house.”

I sat stunned for a moment. Weasel had taken advantage of me, had stolen from me, had made me feel like a fool. The fact that Taylor would ignore all that and invite him back into her home ... I was surprised at how this made me feel. A little bit hurt. A little bit betrayed.

”It's your house,” I finally said. ”You can do whatever you want.” My voice came out cold, a voice I barely recognized as my own. ”Besides, do you really think I'll be here in a week? Do you think it'll take me that long to get my pictures?”

At that, I opened my menu and stared down at the neat hand-drawn text. I could feel her watching me, confused. I could feel those coal-dark eyes drilling deep into my skull, trying to probe my thoughts and emotions.

I refused to meet her gaze.

It really was a killer ham sandwich.

According to the menu, the ham had been smoked out back in a jury-rigged smoking shed, then glazed with layers of honey and Dijon mustard. It was served thick-cut with lettuce, tomato, and Swiss cheese, between slices of doughy-fresh bread slathered with mayonnaise. It was wonderful. Each bite was salty and sweet, and I tore through the whole thing in a matter of minutes.

I had cash to pay for my lunch, but I watched Floyd trade in a couple of packs of C-cell batteries for his, and Sabine offered up a handful of costume jewelry. Mac paid for his and Amanda's meal with a couple of old books; Sharon slipped on a pair of reading gla.s.ses and studied the covers and copyright pages before nodding her acceptance. Taylor produced a roll of quarters from one of the pockets of her cargo pants.

”Sharon's got everyone in the city doing her looting for her,” Taylor whispered, nodding toward Sabine and her costume jewelry. ”Sooner or later, everything of value ends up here.” There was an anxious lilt to Taylor's voice. She was probing me, trying to gauge the depth of my hurt over Weasel.

I let out a low, noncommittal grunt. I still wasn't ready to meet her eyes.

”It was a pleasure doing business with you folks,” Sharon said, flas.h.i.+ng a wry smile as we got out of our seats. ”And it was nice to meet you, Dean. If there's anything you're looking for while you're here-anything at all-just let me know. I might be able to help.”