there.”
“I’ve been telling people that, but nobody listens to me,” Bannister said. “Business is hard to get. People nearly faint when I give them my card. We’re only just scratching out a living here, and you guys better start pulling your weight.”
Bannister walked into the kitchen and slammed the door.
Momentarily alone in the dark hall, Stuart and Cyrus exchanged worried glances.
“He’s not serious about the cemetery, is he?” Stuart said.
“Man, I hope not. He put a serious chill on the proceedings just talkin’ about it.”
“The man doesn’t know what it’s like in the cemetery.”
“Oh, he knows, all right, and not just because he can see it when other living folks can’t. My man Frank just got a natural affinity for the deep and dead. I’m sure he’ll enjoy it to death when he gets there himself.”
“What a bummer,” Stuart said.
“I got to cool out,” Cyrus said. “I’m gonna play me some music.”
Stuart was horrified. “Oh, God! Not Isaac Hayes,” he pleaded. “Anything but Isaac Hayes.”
Snapping his fingers, Cyrus disappeared through the wall in the direction of the living room. Within seconds, the theme from Shaft was booming out over the early-morning darkness of Fairwater.
Five
M orning brought a day in which the newly risen sun sent long shafts of brilliant light through the unfinished timbers of Bannister’s hilltop home. In the town below, life went on, blissfully unaware of the vibrant doings on the hill. The sound of 1970s disco had long since faded, but in its place was the sound of gunshots. One after another, spaced as they would be by someone taking slow and deliberate aim. The roar of each report, which echoed down the hillside but faded before reaching any neighboring ears, was too loud and too deep to come from any contemporary firearm. The weapon in question had to be old and big.
But not old and big enough to disturb Frank Bannister as he indulged in one of the few pleasures he allowed himself in his close-to-the-edge life. He was taking a shower, humming to himself as he let the water cascade over his head and shoulders.
All of a sudden the water pressure died. Bannister frowned and adjusted the hot and cold faucets. When that didn’t do anything, he twisted the nozzle. Then the pipe bulged, the metal screamed, and Cyrus ballooned out of the shower head, his head and shoulders terribly distorted as the rest of his body slimmed back down into the slender pipe.
“Whaddaya want?” Bannister grumbled, his voice showing irritation but in no way indicating that this occurrence was unusual.
“It’s the Judge, Frank. The cat’s real upset. He’s got his six-shooters out.”
With the water no longer running, Bannister could hear the gunshots. Two especially close ones rattled the glass in the medicine cabinet.
“What’s he upset about?” Bannister asked.
“Beats me. I’m just layin’ low till this blows over.”
With that, Cyrus sucked back into the pipe. Before he could react, Bannister got a faceful of scalding water. “Aargh,” he moaned, grabbing frantically for the faucets.
After finally getting the water shut off, he stepped from the shower stall and hurriedly toweled himself off. The shots were still coming—one every few seconds, as he found his old terrycloth robe and pulled it on, belting it tightly. He stormed into the kitchen.
There, Bannister was confronted by a tall and elderly emanation called the Judge, a lawman from the last days of the Old West. Somewhere back in the closing moments of the nineteenth century, he had died and been embalmed. But the embalming job was a cheap one and hadn’t stood the test of time. His dry, mummified body was in an advanced state of decay. How it all held together—especially in its already fragile ectoplasmic state—was anybody’s guess.
The Judge wore a black frock coat and a white shirt with a high starched collar. A black string tie was decorated with a longhorn steer
“I’ve been telling people that, but nobody listens to me,” Bannister said. “Business is hard to get. People nearly faint when I give them my card. We’re only just scratching out a living here, and you guys better start pulling your weight.”
Bannister walked into the kitchen and slammed the door.
Momentarily alone in the dark hall, Stuart and Cyrus exchanged worried glances.
“He’s not serious about the cemetery, is he?” Stuart said.
“Man, I hope not. He put a serious chill on the proceedings just talkin’ about it.”
“The man doesn’t know what it’s like in the cemetery.”
“Oh, he knows, all right, and not just because he can see it when other living folks can’t. My man Frank just got a natural affinity for the deep and dead. I’m sure he’ll enjoy it to death when he gets there himself.”
“What a bummer,” Stuart said.
“I got to cool out,” Cyrus said. “I’m gonna play me some music.”
Stuart was horrified. “Oh, God! Not Isaac Hayes,” he pleaded. “Anything but Isaac Hayes.”
Snapping his fingers, Cyrus disappeared through the wall in the direction of the living room. Within seconds, the theme from Shaft was booming out over the early-morning darkness of Fairwater.
Five
M orning brought a day in which the newly risen sun sent long shafts of brilliant light through the unfinished timbers of Bannister’s hilltop home. In the town below, life went on, blissfully unaware of the vibrant doings on the hill. The sound of 1970s disco had long since faded, but in its place was the sound of gunshots. One after another, spaced as they would be by someone taking slow and deliberate aim. The roar of each report, which echoed down the hillside but faded before reaching any neighboring ears, was too loud and too deep to come from any contemporary firearm. The weapon in question had to be old and big.
But not old and big enough to disturb Frank Bannister as he indulged in one of the few pleasures he allowed himself in his close-to-the-edge life. He was taking a shower, humming to himself as he let the water cascade over his head and shoulders.
All of a sudden the water pressure died. Bannister frowned and adjusted the hot and cold faucets. When that didn’t do anything, he twisted the nozzle. Then the pipe bulged, the metal screamed, and Cyrus ballooned out of the shower head, his head and shoulders terribly distorted as the rest of his body slimmed back down into the slender pipe.
“Whaddaya want?” Bannister grumbled, his voice showing irritation but in no way indicating that this occurrence was unusual.
“It’s the Judge, Frank. The cat’s real upset. He’s got his six-shooters out.”
With the water no longer running, Bannister could hear the gunshots. Two especially close ones rattled the glass in the medicine cabinet.
“What’s he upset about?” Bannister asked.
“Beats me. I’m just layin’ low till this blows over.”
With that, Cyrus sucked back into the pipe. Before he could react, Bannister got a faceful of scalding water. “Aargh,” he moaned, grabbing frantically for the faucets.
After finally getting the water shut off, he stepped from the shower stall and hurriedly toweled himself off. The shots were still coming—one every few seconds, as he found his old terrycloth robe and pulled it on, belting it tightly. He stormed into the kitchen.
There, Bannister was confronted by a tall and elderly emanation called the Judge, a lawman from the last days of the Old West. Somewhere back in the closing moments of the nineteenth century, he had died and been embalmed. But the embalming job was a cheap one and hadn’t stood the test of time. His dry, mummified body was in an advanced state of decay. How it all held together—especially in its already fragile ectoplasmic state—was anybody’s guess.
The Judge wore a black frock coat and a white shirt with a high starched collar. A black string tie was decorated with a longhorn steer
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