Read Online After the Dark by Max Allan Collins - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Max Allan Collins
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left that life behind.
The usual morning hubbub buzzed around the place, that peculiar combination of weariness and energy, of chaos and organization, found at the top of the day in most any workplace. The little ramp that led down to the concrete floor was swept neatly, as usual, and the wire grating that separated Normal—the messenger service's manager—from his peons still looked like this was visiting day at county lockup . . . though whether it was the messengers who were the prisoners, or Normal, remained unclear.
Several of Normal's seemingly endless supply of disheveled young riders milled about, sipping coffee or chatting each other up, some getting ready to take off on their first runs of the day. A few recognized Jam Pony's most famous graduate and stared openly at Max.
The peaceful settlement of the Terminal City siege had actually made her a local celebrity of sorts. Not reacting to those watching her, Max wondered if this was how Jenny Brooks, the Channel 7 weather girl, felt when she walked the streets.
This fifteen minutes of fame—which seemed to keep renewing itself—was surprisingly hard on Max, who as a loner felt uncomfortable wearing the eyes of others, and who as a longtime fugitive—she had spent most of her life on the run from Manticore, after all—felt uneasy when she could not fade into the landscape.
Doing her best to ignore the stares, she picked up on Normal, active behind his wire window. He had not changed an iota—his blondish hair was cut in its usual flat top, his black glasses continued to try to flee down his nose, and his ever-present earpiece made him look like the world's least sophisticated cyborg. He landed behind the window and looked up—sensing someone just standing there motionless, which meant a messenger needed a reprimand, of course—and then his mouth creased into something that might have been a smile.
“Well, well, little missy,” he said. He always seemed to savor his words, as if each one was his favorite flavor Lifesaver. “Have you finally come crawling back looking for your job?”
She gave him a good-natured smirk. “That's right, Normal—the money we're making hand-over-fist at the Terminal City Mall just can't compare to the nickels and dimes you used to toss me.”
He pretended to frown. “Well, that's a good thing—because I don't have an opening right now.”
“Oh, damn. I'm crushed.” She set the box of bagels on the counter and removed the two cups of coffee from their perch. She turned to find half a dozen messengers standing around her, watching their exchange. Max stopped, feeling awkward.
“Yes, slackers, it's Max—as seen on TV,” Normal said pleasantly. Then he scowled and yelled: “Get moving! This is not a youth hostel, but I
am
hostile to youth—packages to be delivered, people—bip bip bip!”
Slowly, grumbling, the group broke up.
Turning back to Normal, she laughed. “That's a new one—hostel, hostile? Nice.”
Around them, kids were still watching as they threaded off, and Normal's response was only to shoot Max a cross look; then when all of the messengers had moved along, none of them wanting to be next in line to feel Normal's wrath, the crew-cut petty dictator flashed her an affectionate smile.
“Truth is, missy,” he said, “you always got a home here, if you want it.”
She tilted her head. “You're getting soft, Normal.”
“Hey, I said there was a place for you, when this celebrity stuff wears off and you need to make a living again . . . but you'll have to carry your weight.”
“Actually, you didn't say there was a ‘place' for me, Normal. You said ‘home' . . . and Normal . . . that was nice to hear. You haven't chased off your ‘Nubian princess,' have ya?”
He pointed with his chin toward the cluster of lockers at the back. “She's here all right—the granddam of Jam Pony . . .”
“That's Original Cindy, all right.”
“Oh yeah—only this morning she seems sorta out of sorts
The usual morning hubbub buzzed around the place, that peculiar combination of weariness and energy, of chaos and organization, found at the top of the day in most any workplace. The little ramp that led down to the concrete floor was swept neatly, as usual, and the wire grating that separated Normal—the messenger service's manager—from his peons still looked like this was visiting day at county lockup . . . though whether it was the messengers who were the prisoners, or Normal, remained unclear.
Several of Normal's seemingly endless supply of disheveled young riders milled about, sipping coffee or chatting each other up, some getting ready to take off on their first runs of the day. A few recognized Jam Pony's most famous graduate and stared openly at Max.
The peaceful settlement of the Terminal City siege had actually made her a local celebrity of sorts. Not reacting to those watching her, Max wondered if this was how Jenny Brooks, the Channel 7 weather girl, felt when she walked the streets.
This fifteen minutes of fame—which seemed to keep renewing itself—was surprisingly hard on Max, who as a loner felt uncomfortable wearing the eyes of others, and who as a longtime fugitive—she had spent most of her life on the run from Manticore, after all—felt uneasy when she could not fade into the landscape.
Doing her best to ignore the stares, she picked up on Normal, active behind his wire window. He had not changed an iota—his blondish hair was cut in its usual flat top, his black glasses continued to try to flee down his nose, and his ever-present earpiece made him look like the world's least sophisticated cyborg. He landed behind the window and looked up—sensing someone just standing there motionless, which meant a messenger needed a reprimand, of course—and then his mouth creased into something that might have been a smile.
“Well, well, little missy,” he said. He always seemed to savor his words, as if each one was his favorite flavor Lifesaver. “Have you finally come crawling back looking for your job?”
She gave him a good-natured smirk. “That's right, Normal—the money we're making hand-over-fist at the Terminal City Mall just can't compare to the nickels and dimes you used to toss me.”
He pretended to frown. “Well, that's a good thing—because I don't have an opening right now.”
“Oh, damn. I'm crushed.” She set the box of bagels on the counter and removed the two cups of coffee from their perch. She turned to find half a dozen messengers standing around her, watching their exchange. Max stopped, feeling awkward.
“Yes, slackers, it's Max—as seen on TV,” Normal said pleasantly. Then he scowled and yelled: “Get moving! This is not a youth hostel, but I
am
hostile to youth—packages to be delivered, people—bip bip bip!”
Slowly, grumbling, the group broke up.
Turning back to Normal, she laughed. “That's a new one—hostel, hostile? Nice.”
Around them, kids were still watching as they threaded off, and Normal's response was only to shoot Max a cross look; then when all of the messengers had moved along, none of them wanting to be next in line to feel Normal's wrath, the crew-cut petty dictator flashed her an affectionate smile.
“Truth is, missy,” he said, “you always got a home here, if you want it.”
She tilted her head. “You're getting soft, Normal.”
“Hey, I said there was a place for you, when this celebrity stuff wears off and you need to make a living again . . . but you'll have to carry your weight.”
“Actually, you didn't say there was a ‘place' for me, Normal. You said ‘home' . . . and Normal . . . that was nice to hear. You haven't chased off your ‘Nubian princess,' have ya?”
He pointed with his chin toward the cluster of lockers at the back. “She's here all right—the granddam of Jam Pony . . .”
“That's Original Cindy, all right.”
“Oh yeah—only this morning she seems sorta out of sorts
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