bones and he wanted to die.
“Y'okay?” It was Diaz, standing just inside the front door, craning his head just enough to see him.
Martin didn't answer, but he turned and came out.
Diaz stood in front of him and put one of his big hands on each of Martin's shoulders. “I don't want to intrude, man,” he said quietly, “and I don't want to get into your personal business. But if you're thinkin' of puttin' yourself away, give it a pause. Take it from me, gettin' dead is easy, doesn't take much time, and you can do it in any thirty seconds.” He touched his vest, where he carried the pistol. “You can always go that direction. The problem is, do you really want to leave the world to the a-holes like Stewart and Captain Zero?"
Isha stood behind Diaz, her head hanging but she was looking up at Martin.
“I'm all right.”
“Good.” Diaz dropped his hands from Martin's shoulders. “Because I can't make no more sense today. I'm out of bein' reasonable.” He gave his big grin again.
“I'll check for drugs,” Martin said.
“Right. While you're doing that, I'll browse through some of the other apartments.”
Isha stayed with Martin while he went through Delana's things. Periodically, he heard the heavy thumps and splintering of Diaz kicking in doors. Under her bathroom sink he found a shoe box of sample packets — four or five kinds of antibiotics, decongestants, tranquillizers, analgesics, miscellaneous things. He took them all and then looked one last time around the room where he had spent the happiest hours of his adult life. He sat on the edge of her bed and wept into his hands until tears ran down his arms.
When he could see again, Isha was sitting beside him, watching him anxiously with her clear brown eyes.
“You're a pal,” he said to her.
She pushed her head once against his leg and then rested her muzzle on his knee, waiting for his next move.
“Let's go do it,” he said to her, “whatever it is.”
He locked the door of Delana's apartment when he left.
Chapter 10
“I gotta travel,” Diaz said, adjusting his mirror-surfaced sunglasses on his nose and then swinging his leg over his bike and settling into the wide leather seat. “When I'm on my up cycle, I gotta move, go places, do stuff. Tonight I'll blow into Reno, look around tomorrow, and about sundown, head for Denver.”
“Across the desert?”
“Straight across. But I got safeguards,” he said with his grin. “If my machine blows and there's no vehicle to be found far or wide—” He popped open one of the saddle-boxes and pulled out a pair of white high-top roller skates with yellow wheels. “On a good day, no hills, I can make fifty, sixty miles on these.”
“You're kidding. Roller skates?”
“Yo. Street skates and a big canteen. Laugh not. What am I supposed to haul on this thing, a bicycle, a canoe?”
“I was just starting to think you were normal.”
“An error made by many casual observers.” He shook his finger under Martin's face. “I'm unstable as they come. I see things sideways. I figure I get to New York in three, four weeks' easy travelin', then my down-cycle hits, I weather it out in some five-star hotel, eat all their food, wait till the good times roll, then see what I do next.” With his toe, he nudged out the kick-lever, lifted himself into the air and dropped his weight on it. The bike chugged, coughed black smoke, and then rumbled slowly and evenly, a bass purr. “A beauty, ain't she?” he said over the noise.
“Diaz,” Martin said, “come back by sometime. If I leave this place, I'll put a note in the mailbox there, let you know where to find me.”
He nodded, did his big grin, and twisted the accelerator. Over the noise he chanted, “Stompin' my pedal to the floor, wanta see me some more, what else you got to show me? Drive, I said, cause I'm one of the few that ain't dead, still got a brain in my head, a belly that's been fed, so let's hit the road now.” Another bigger grin.
“Y'okay?” It was Diaz, standing just inside the front door, craning his head just enough to see him.
Martin didn't answer, but he turned and came out.
Diaz stood in front of him and put one of his big hands on each of Martin's shoulders. “I don't want to intrude, man,” he said quietly, “and I don't want to get into your personal business. But if you're thinkin' of puttin' yourself away, give it a pause. Take it from me, gettin' dead is easy, doesn't take much time, and you can do it in any thirty seconds.” He touched his vest, where he carried the pistol. “You can always go that direction. The problem is, do you really want to leave the world to the a-holes like Stewart and Captain Zero?"
Isha stood behind Diaz, her head hanging but she was looking up at Martin.
“I'm all right.”
“Good.” Diaz dropped his hands from Martin's shoulders. “Because I can't make no more sense today. I'm out of bein' reasonable.” He gave his big grin again.
“I'll check for drugs,” Martin said.
“Right. While you're doing that, I'll browse through some of the other apartments.”
Isha stayed with Martin while he went through Delana's things. Periodically, he heard the heavy thumps and splintering of Diaz kicking in doors. Under her bathroom sink he found a shoe box of sample packets — four or five kinds of antibiotics, decongestants, tranquillizers, analgesics, miscellaneous things. He took them all and then looked one last time around the room where he had spent the happiest hours of his adult life. He sat on the edge of her bed and wept into his hands until tears ran down his arms.
When he could see again, Isha was sitting beside him, watching him anxiously with her clear brown eyes.
“You're a pal,” he said to her.
She pushed her head once against his leg and then rested her muzzle on his knee, waiting for his next move.
“Let's go do it,” he said to her, “whatever it is.”
He locked the door of Delana's apartment when he left.
Chapter 10
“I gotta travel,” Diaz said, adjusting his mirror-surfaced sunglasses on his nose and then swinging his leg over his bike and settling into the wide leather seat. “When I'm on my up cycle, I gotta move, go places, do stuff. Tonight I'll blow into Reno, look around tomorrow, and about sundown, head for Denver.”
“Across the desert?”
“Straight across. But I got safeguards,” he said with his grin. “If my machine blows and there's no vehicle to be found far or wide—” He popped open one of the saddle-boxes and pulled out a pair of white high-top roller skates with yellow wheels. “On a good day, no hills, I can make fifty, sixty miles on these.”
“You're kidding. Roller skates?”
“Yo. Street skates and a big canteen. Laugh not. What am I supposed to haul on this thing, a bicycle, a canoe?”
“I was just starting to think you were normal.”
“An error made by many casual observers.” He shook his finger under Martin's face. “I'm unstable as they come. I see things sideways. I figure I get to New York in three, four weeks' easy travelin', then my down-cycle hits, I weather it out in some five-star hotel, eat all their food, wait till the good times roll, then see what I do next.” With his toe, he nudged out the kick-lever, lifted himself into the air and dropped his weight on it. The bike chugged, coughed black smoke, and then rumbled slowly and evenly, a bass purr. “A beauty, ain't she?” he said over the noise.
“Diaz,” Martin said, “come back by sometime. If I leave this place, I'll put a note in the mailbox there, let you know where to find me.”
He nodded, did his big grin, and twisted the accelerator. Over the noise he chanted, “Stompin' my pedal to the floor, wanta see me some more, what else you got to show me? Drive, I said, cause I'm one of the few that ain't dead, still got a brain in my head, a belly that's been fed, so let's hit the road now.” Another bigger grin.
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