like an hour—but was probably only five or ten minutes—there was pounding on the door, lots of swearing, and eventually somebody tripped the lock with a hard key from the outside. I could hear Kolya, Archie, and the others raising hell, but the sound had a distant, hollow quality, as if it came from the other end of a long hallway. It went on for a long time, between swearing at the open window, swearing at my sport coat out in the alley, swearing at each other, swearing at Bear, getting him conscious and moving, and then getting everyone chasing after me. Eventually they went away and it was quiet, except for the rhythmic pounding of blood in my ears.
Now what? I could still hardly move. I wasn’t sure I could even get down off the goddamned toilet without falling on my face. Then the door to the head opened, someone came in, and started looking in the stalls, one at a time. There were only three stalls, and I was on the end closest to the inside wall. He got to mine last, slowly pushed open the door, looked in, and laughed.
“Man,” Henry said, “I know people who would kill for a picture of this.”
* * *
Much later, people would look back on “The Quann Sit-Down” and say that it was the second most amazing escape of my life. I think taking out Ricky was really the most amazing, but for some reason, nobody talks about that. Instead, they talk about Quann’s . . . and the other.
It’s creepy to hear people talk about you like that, as if you’re a character in history, even if luck and circumstance make it turn out that—you know—you are. It’s especially weird if you know all you did was squat on a toilet seat and try like hell not to fall off.
I often wonder how many of the “amazing” things in history really just involved the equivalent of someone squatting on a toilet seat and not falling off.
SEVEN
Bernie the Rat. What a name, huh? You gotta love a guy who calls himself a rat. He was wearing gray silk pinstripe slacks—banker pants, he called them—with red suspenders, just like the big shots. The look was . . . not spoiled, exactly, but certainly altered by the faded yellow and red “Gearloose Star Tour” tee shirt, some mechnod band that that been popular on Terra maybe a decade ago.
Bernie was mostly bald, but with a faint shadow of fuzz cut so close you couldn’t really tell where the skin started and the hair stopped. That and the wrinkled face and deep-set eyes made him look older than I remembered, old enough that he was starting to look young again, like a baby.
Bernie had been an old-school shtarker , back when the world was younger, but he gave it up to run a fence and sell information. He had a reputation among the old guys as about the toughest son of a bitch in the Quarter, and he probably could have run the place if he’d worked hard enough at it, but instead he walked away. He told me once he just got tired of all the violence. I can relate.
One thing’s for sure, he’s still a wiry little son of a bitch, and impossible to kill—enough people have tried. After a while, they just get tired of hunting him, because once he goes to ground in the Quarter, forget it, and then he starts ratting out all your secrets. Everybody’s got ’em, and Bernie the Rat knows most of them.
I’ve never tried to kill him. I think it would be like burning a book because you don’t like what it says, and I’m not much into book burning.
“So, Bernie, you find out anything about two leather-heads trying to get off-planet?”
“Ooo. Very interesting. There’s this hot babe that Kolya wants to poke, she’s looking for a way off for ’em.”
“Yeah, that much I know. But who are they?”
He shook his head and frowned.
“Who are they . . . don’t know. But I think they got something to do with that shooting, up-canyon. Very weird. Very weird.”
I’d heard there had been some high-level leather-head gunned down, but I hadn’t paid much attention to the
Now what? I could still hardly move. I wasn’t sure I could even get down off the goddamned toilet without falling on my face. Then the door to the head opened, someone came in, and started looking in the stalls, one at a time. There were only three stalls, and I was on the end closest to the inside wall. He got to mine last, slowly pushed open the door, looked in, and laughed.
“Man,” Henry said, “I know people who would kill for a picture of this.”
* * *
Much later, people would look back on “The Quann Sit-Down” and say that it was the second most amazing escape of my life. I think taking out Ricky was really the most amazing, but for some reason, nobody talks about that. Instead, they talk about Quann’s . . . and the other.
It’s creepy to hear people talk about you like that, as if you’re a character in history, even if luck and circumstance make it turn out that—you know—you are. It’s especially weird if you know all you did was squat on a toilet seat and try like hell not to fall off.
I often wonder how many of the “amazing” things in history really just involved the equivalent of someone squatting on a toilet seat and not falling off.
SEVEN
Bernie the Rat. What a name, huh? You gotta love a guy who calls himself a rat. He was wearing gray silk pinstripe slacks—banker pants, he called them—with red suspenders, just like the big shots. The look was . . . not spoiled, exactly, but certainly altered by the faded yellow and red “Gearloose Star Tour” tee shirt, some mechnod band that that been popular on Terra maybe a decade ago.
Bernie was mostly bald, but with a faint shadow of fuzz cut so close you couldn’t really tell where the skin started and the hair stopped. That and the wrinkled face and deep-set eyes made him look older than I remembered, old enough that he was starting to look young again, like a baby.
Bernie had been an old-school shtarker , back when the world was younger, but he gave it up to run a fence and sell information. He had a reputation among the old guys as about the toughest son of a bitch in the Quarter, and he probably could have run the place if he’d worked hard enough at it, but instead he walked away. He told me once he just got tired of all the violence. I can relate.
One thing’s for sure, he’s still a wiry little son of a bitch, and impossible to kill—enough people have tried. After a while, they just get tired of hunting him, because once he goes to ground in the Quarter, forget it, and then he starts ratting out all your secrets. Everybody’s got ’em, and Bernie the Rat knows most of them.
I’ve never tried to kill him. I think it would be like burning a book because you don’t like what it says, and I’m not much into book burning.
“So, Bernie, you find out anything about two leather-heads trying to get off-planet?”
“Ooo. Very interesting. There’s this hot babe that Kolya wants to poke, she’s looking for a way off for ’em.”
“Yeah, that much I know. But who are they?”
He shook his head and frowned.
“Who are they . . . don’t know. But I think they got something to do with that shooting, up-canyon. Very weird. Very weird.”
I’d heard there had been some high-level leather-head gunned down, but I hadn’t paid much attention to the
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