Asimov's Science Fiction: April/May 2014 by Penny Publications Page B
Authors: Penny Publications
Tags: Asimov's #459 & #460
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ago?"
"My granpap used to talk about it."
"It was record-sized hail. The size of a fist."
"So much for
that
record."
The man said, "If you're investigating this, you should talk to BL. I saw BL talking to that older fellow."
"BL?"
"Bob Law. Always gone by BL."
The woman, still looking through the blasted entrance, nodded. "His folks called him BL."
"I seen him walk around the corner with the old guy. Was there for a minute."
"Do you think BL would talk to me?"
"Oh, sure. He down the street at the
ga
-rage."
Leaving them, Jimmy wondered if he and Bekka would grow to look like each other; then it struck him that the couple might have been brother and sister.
As Jimmy entered the glass-fronted office, the man at the shabby desk behind the counter tore open four packs of sugar at once, then commenced emptying their contents into his short cup of what appeared to be coffee. His black hair ranged about his head like weeds and hung in his face, and he did not look fully awake.
BL did not acknowledge Jimmy's arrival. "Excuse me."
The man plunged his index finger into the cup and stirred. "Be right with you." His deep voice seemed reluctantly tugged from his chest.
"I'm not here for business. I was talking to those folks who own the restaurant that was damaged." "The Stookeys. That's Stookey's Restr'nt."
"Sure. Anyway. They said you might know the elderly man who showed up in town during yesterday's events."
"Hm." He finally withdrew his neglected finger and sucked it. "I'm not sure who you mean."
"There was a man, an old man, tall, dark-complected. He had companions."
"I don't think I can help you." Furtively, from behind strands of hair, BL met his eyes.
"Perhaps," Jimmy said, and steadied his voice. "Perhaps you picked up some idea about where he was going."
BL took a longer pause this time, yet repeated, "I don't think I can help you."
"That's not the same as saying you don't know anything."
"That, my friend, is an accurate statement. Why are you so interested in this... old man?"
"I knew him—That's about all I can say. I spent some time around him. Recently."
"And what did you call him?"
"Beg pardon?"
"By what name," and he paused to sip his coffee, "did you refer to him?"
"We didn't have exactly one name."
"I'm talking 'bout you." He set the coffee down with what appeared to be precision, as if the cup had a place to which it must be returned. That done, he settled his hands in his lap and gave Jimmy his full attention. "What'd
you
call him?"
"Methusaleh."
"Methusaleh."
"I really can't explain further." Jimmy heard himself echoing the other man's resistance.
The hair over BL's eyes twitched when he blinked. "I'm afraid you're wasting your time," he said at last. "Or I'm wasting yours, is another way of seeing it."
At the loose-fitting door, Jimmy spun the knob, then said, over his shoulder, "What
should
I have called him?"
Car door open to let out the heat, Jimmy sat with one foot on the blacktop, pointlessly contemplating the piece of cardboard that crookedly sealed the shop window. BL appeared beside him as if winking into existence at that moment.
"Studdard, Georgia," he said. Jimmy gripped the steering wheel in surprise. "Sorry." BL appeared amused. He blinked against his hair. "I'm letting you know something I believe you ought to know."
"What are you—wait, what did you say?"
"Studdard, Georgia. Unless the Old Man is mistaken. Any clue could be misread." Jimmy didn't move. "Well, that's it," BL said, and as he turned to go, he parted with what might have been a salute. Keys, a grape cluster's-worth of them, jangled from a belt loop. He had, somehow, approached Jimmy without them making a sound.
11. Prison Walls
Weston stood with her fist at her lips, one arm propping the other, to watch a series of proofs play out on the wall-sized screen. Leaning against the door, glowering, Covey moved his massive jaw from side to side ruminatively. Quarles had helped Jimmy assemble video clips
"My granpap used to talk about it."
"It was record-sized hail. The size of a fist."
"So much for
that
record."
The man said, "If you're investigating this, you should talk to BL. I saw BL talking to that older fellow."
"BL?"
"Bob Law. Always gone by BL."
The woman, still looking through the blasted entrance, nodded. "His folks called him BL."
"I seen him walk around the corner with the old guy. Was there for a minute."
"Do you think BL would talk to me?"
"Oh, sure. He down the street at the
ga
-rage."
Leaving them, Jimmy wondered if he and Bekka would grow to look like each other; then it struck him that the couple might have been brother and sister.
As Jimmy entered the glass-fronted office, the man at the shabby desk behind the counter tore open four packs of sugar at once, then commenced emptying their contents into his short cup of what appeared to be coffee. His black hair ranged about his head like weeds and hung in his face, and he did not look fully awake.
BL did not acknowledge Jimmy's arrival. "Excuse me."
The man plunged his index finger into the cup and stirred. "Be right with you." His deep voice seemed reluctantly tugged from his chest.
"I'm not here for business. I was talking to those folks who own the restaurant that was damaged." "The Stookeys. That's Stookey's Restr'nt."
"Sure. Anyway. They said you might know the elderly man who showed up in town during yesterday's events."
"Hm." He finally withdrew his neglected finger and sucked it. "I'm not sure who you mean."
"There was a man, an old man, tall, dark-complected. He had companions."
"I don't think I can help you." Furtively, from behind strands of hair, BL met his eyes.
"Perhaps," Jimmy said, and steadied his voice. "Perhaps you picked up some idea about where he was going."
BL took a longer pause this time, yet repeated, "I don't think I can help you."
"That's not the same as saying you don't know anything."
"That, my friend, is an accurate statement. Why are you so interested in this... old man?"
"I knew him—That's about all I can say. I spent some time around him. Recently."
"And what did you call him?"
"Beg pardon?"
"By what name," and he paused to sip his coffee, "did you refer to him?"
"We didn't have exactly one name."
"I'm talking 'bout you." He set the coffee down with what appeared to be precision, as if the cup had a place to which it must be returned. That done, he settled his hands in his lap and gave Jimmy his full attention. "What'd
you
call him?"
"Methusaleh."
"Methusaleh."
"I really can't explain further." Jimmy heard himself echoing the other man's resistance.
The hair over BL's eyes twitched when he blinked. "I'm afraid you're wasting your time," he said at last. "Or I'm wasting yours, is another way of seeing it."
At the loose-fitting door, Jimmy spun the knob, then said, over his shoulder, "What
should
I have called him?"
Car door open to let out the heat, Jimmy sat with one foot on the blacktop, pointlessly contemplating the piece of cardboard that crookedly sealed the shop window. BL appeared beside him as if winking into existence at that moment.
"Studdard, Georgia," he said. Jimmy gripped the steering wheel in surprise. "Sorry." BL appeared amused. He blinked against his hair. "I'm letting you know something I believe you ought to know."
"What are you—wait, what did you say?"
"Studdard, Georgia. Unless the Old Man is mistaken. Any clue could be misread." Jimmy didn't move. "Well, that's it," BL said, and as he turned to go, he parted with what might have been a salute. Keys, a grape cluster's-worth of them, jangled from a belt loop. He had, somehow, approached Jimmy without them making a sound.
11. Prison Walls
Weston stood with her fist at her lips, one arm propping the other, to watch a series of proofs play out on the wall-sized screen. Leaning against the door, glowering, Covey moved his massive jaw from side to side ruminatively. Quarles had helped Jimmy assemble video clips
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