Part 42 (1/2)
”When will you come back?” the Razor-Eater asked.
”Never.”
Breer smiled. ”I'm free, then,” he said.
”You are dead, Anthony,” Mamoulian replied.
”What?” Breer's smile began to decay.
”You've been dead since the day I found you hanging from the ceiling. I think perhaps somehow you knew I was coming, and you killed yourself to escape me. But I needed you. So I gave you a little of my life, to keep you in my employ.”
Breer's smile had disappeared altogether.
”That's why you're so impervious to pain; you are a walking corpse. The deterioration your body should have suffered in these hot months has been held at bay. Not entirely prevented, I'm afraid, but slowed considerably.”
Breer shook his head. Was this the miracle of redemption?
”Now I no longer need you. So I withdraw my gift . . .”
”No!”
He tried to make a small pleading gesture, but his wrists were bound together, and the bindings bit into the muscle, causing it to buckle and furrow like soft clay.
”Tell me how to make amends,” he offered. ”Anything.”
”There is no way.”
”Anything you ask. Please.”
”I ask you to suffer,” the European replied.
”Why?”
”For treachery. For being, in the end, like the others.”
”. . . no . . . just a little game . . .”
”Then let this be a game too, if it amuses you. Six months of deterioration pressed into as many hours.”
Mamoulian crossed to the bed, and put his hand on Breer's sobbing mouth, making something very like a s.n.a.t.c.hing gesture.
”It's over, Anthony,” he said.
Breer felt a motion in his lower belly, as though some jittering thing had suddenly twitched and perished in there. He followed the European's exit with upturned eyes. Matter, not tears, gathered at their rims.
”Forgive me,” he begged his savior. ”Please forgive me.” But the European had gone, quietly, closing the door behind him.
There was a brawling on the windowsill. Breer looked from door to window. Two pigeons had squabbled over some morsel, and were now flying off. Small white feathers settled on the sill, like midsummer snow.
66
”It is Mr. Halifax, isn't it?”
The man inspecting the boxes of fruit in the breezeless, wasp-woven yard at the back of the shop turned to Marty.
”Yes. What can I do for you?”
Mr. Halifax had been out sunbathing, and injudiciously. His face was peeling in places, and looked tender. He was hot and uncomfortable and, Marty guessed, thin of temper. Tact was the order of the day, if he hoped to win the man's confidence.
”Business OK?” Marty asked.
Halifax shrugged. ”It'll do,” he said, unwilling to be drawn on the subject. ”Lot of my regular customers are on holiday at this time of year.” He peered at Marty. ”Do I know you?”
”Yes. I've been here several times,” Marty lied. ”For Mr. Whitehead's strawberries. That's what I came for. The usual order.”
Halifax registered nothing; he put down the tray of peaches he was holding. ”I'm sorry. I don't supply any Mr. Whitehead.”
”Strawberries,” Marty prompted.
”I heard what you said,” Halifax replied testily, ”but I don't know anyone of that name. You must be mistaken.”
”You do remember me?”
”No, I don't. Now if you'd like to make a purchase, Theresa will serve you.” He nodded back in the direction of the shop itself. ”I'd like to finish here before I cook in this b.l.o.o.d.y heat.”
”But I'm supposed to be picking up strawberries.”
”You can have as many as you like,” Halifax said, spreading his arms. ”There's a glut. Just ask Theresa.”
Marty could see failure looming. The man wasn't about to give an inch. He tried one final tack. ”You don't have any fruit set aside for Mr. Whitehead? You normally have them packed, ready for him.”
This significant detail seemed to mellow the dismissal on Halifax's face. Doubt dawned.
”Look . . .” he said, ”. . . I don't think you quite understand . . .” His voice dropped in volume, though there was n.o.body else in the yard to hear. ”Joe Whitehead is dead. Don't you read the newspapers?”
A large wasp alighted on Halifax's arm, navigating the ginger hairs with difficulty. He let it crawl there, undisturbed.
”I don't believe everything I read in the newspapers,” Marty replied, quietly. ”Do you?”
”I don't know what you're talking about,” the other man returned.
”His strawberries,” Marty said. ”That's all I'm after.”