Bleak History by John Shirley

friend, if he gets his mind working, that his gun went in the drink. And don't think I can't find you again if you piss me off. No matter where you go.”
    Gleaman was still spasming, though the vulture-headed baka loa had vanished.
    Bleak turned and walked out the door, wanting to get gone before the bartender called the cops. Normally he was okay with the police; today he was as reluctant to see the cops as Bursinsky would be. The CCA might have the cops looking for him. And he wanted to get away from the sound of Gleaman burbling.
    Outside, a little breeze from the river lifted sweat from his forehead; the breeze smelled of oil and river reek. Shoella came to him on the edge of the dock, watched as he tossed the gun into the river. Plunk, and the pistol sank away. “You don't use your especiality at all, when you bounty huntin', cher darlin'?”
    “Sure I do—to find them. Not to catch them. I want as few as possible to know.” She nodded. “Good sense, I 'spect.”
    “You knew that loser was in there, Shoella? That why you picked it?”
    Her smile gleamed, gold amid ivory. “My Yorena told me someone with hate for you was nearby, I wanted to see what you do. Only one time I see you summon les invisibles, see you work.” She toyed with her dreadlocks. “But I did see something in there—your manhood, that you summon and work. You summon something that way. From inside. Interesting to see.” She glanced at him; glanced away.
    “That man going to recover?”
    “Oh, no, I don' think,” she said disinterestedly.
    He shook his head. He could feel she was attracted to him; he felt drawn to her, especially sexually. But at moments like this, it was easy for him to keep his distance.
    She looked up into the inky sky, and he heard wings in the darkness. Her lips moved soundlessly. Then she turned to him, nodding. “They waiting for us. I will go to them first, you meet us. You know the dock La'hood use, sometimes, to meet?”
    “Sure.”
    “It'll take me some time. We'll meet just before dawn. When our strength is high.” He watched her walk into the darkness; then he went back to his cabin cruiser, tied up at the end of the pier.
    He had mixed feelings about meeting with ShadowComm. They made him feel less alone. But they were embarrassingly unpredictable—and maybe because he held himself aloof, most of them were vaguely hostile to him.
    As he cast off, he heard ghosts, under the pier, whisper warnings to him. But then they were always warning him of something.
    Everyone was always in danger, after all. From cancer, from car crashes and plane crashes, from criminals. Most people managed denial; managed to pretend they were safe.
    Gabriel Bleak never had that luxury.
     
    ***
     
    THE WEE HOURS OF the next morning. Atlantic City.
    The noise inside the casino was like a million children's toys, the slots with their bells and tweets and buzzes, endlessly clanging and tweeting, chiming crappy little tunes. It merged together into one warbling. People at the slots banging at the buttons—not just tapping them, but really smacking them hard. All desperation. Funny to see.
    “Casinos got rugs in them like my aunt Louella's house,” Jock said, as he and Gulcher walked in past the smiling casino greeter. The carpet in Lucky Lou's Atlantic City Casino looked like paisley had' gotten a disease. “My sister always said Louella had the ugliest damn rugs inna world.”
    “That greeter looked like he should be selling vacuum cleaners or some shit,” Gulcher said, laughing.
    They were both on a sort of high, saying things they wouldn't ordinarily say and saying them loud. Gulcher, who always knew when cop types were watching him, was aware, as they walked the aisle between rows of slot machines, that he'd already attracted the notice of a couple of thick-bodied, greasy-headed guys in casual suits. They were casino security bulls with headsets, hearing-aid-like pieces plugged into their ears. They had little blue-and-white