Read Online Busted Flush by George R. R. Martin - Free Book Online
Authors: George R. R. Martin
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roomsavailable, but I milk the British accent for all it is worth, with a hapless Bertie Wooster sort of demeanor. She loves it, and soon she loves me. I get a room. As I’m walking to the elevators I pass the ubiquitous wooden stand filled with flyers detailing all the wonderful things to do in Pecos. The Pecos Cantaloupe Festival seems to be most prominently displayed. Pity I’m here too late for that excitement. Another flyer shows a Schwarzenegger looka-like dressed as Conan the Barbarian. BARBARIAN DAYS! it announces, JUST 259 MILES AWAY IN SCENIC CROSS PLAINS, TEXAS . Yes, 259 miles, just a Sunday drive for a Texan. If there was gasoline.
I dump the garment bag in the room, and crank the air-conditioning to high. It’s one of those low, under-the-window affairs, and it sets up a frightful clattering. It does pour cold air into the stuffy room. I’m tired, but I’ve got to hit the town. My guess is that evacuees from Wick and any survivors from Pyote will be in Pecos. I need to find them, buy rounds, and loosen their tongues. But God I’m tired.
I’d dropped Bugsy in D.C., and had to wait for dawn so I could make the daylight-to-daylight jump as Bahir. Once the Hazmat suits were back in London I stopped at my flat and packed a bag so I wouldn’t arrive back in Texas without luggage. I checked on Dad, and prepared him a cup of tea and a slice of toast smeared with Nutella. He ate three bites. I finished it, and now it lies in the pit of my stomach like a piece of lead shot. It’s early afternoon in Pecos. Someone will be at the local watering holes.
While I walk I use my phone to link to the Internet. Bugsy has been a busy boy. His post is already up.
It was a Nuke, boys and girls! The coyotes are glowing at night—at least the ones that aren’t dead. I know, I know, it’s so twentieth century to be talking about The Bomb, but it’s clear that MAD has stopped working, and now it’s time for everybody to get Mad.
I pass one of those white metal boxes that pass for a newsstand in the U.S. The local Pecos paper is still yammering about grain elevators.
I regret not wearing a hat, and my usual black attire amplifies the heat. The sky is painfully bright, and the sun doesn’t so much shine as glare. My skin prickles. I’m acutely aware of radiation right now. I pause and survey the dining choices—a Pizza Hut, a Dairy Queen, a Subway. I spot a Mexican restaurant. What I don’t see is a bar. Equally unfortunate is that themost cars are in the parking lot of the Pizza Hut. Well, they might have a beer and wine license. And then I spot the fire truck parked near the back. Yes, this might be the right place.
Inside, the harsh smell of undercooked tomato sauce is an assault on the sinuses. Conversation fills the room with a droning sound, as if a hive of bees were moving in. People don’t even fall silent when I enter. They really are upset.
The waitress is cute and small and round and Hispanic. She has an expression that is both alarmed and delighted. People on the edges of a catastrophe always have that particular look.
“I’ll take a small meat pizza and your salad bar. And what kinds of wines do you have?”
“Red and white.”
I mentally sigh.
Of course.
“I’ll take red.” I give her my best stage smile. She smiles back. “I say, dear, I’m a producer with—” I time it so her exclamation of excitement makes it unnecessary to say with whom.
“Movie?”
“Well . . .” I look about conspiratorially. “I don’t want to say too much. So often these things come to nothing, but I think you all have quite a story here, and if that’s true, well . . . things might happen,” I hastily add, “And of course anyone with information would be compensated and probably be in the film.”
She scuttles away. Satisfied, I drift over to the salad bar. In a surprisingly short time a number of people have joined me around the giant bowl of iceberg lettuce. I can smell the MSG as I drop it onto
I dump the garment bag in the room, and crank the air-conditioning to high. It’s one of those low, under-the-window affairs, and it sets up a frightful clattering. It does pour cold air into the stuffy room. I’m tired, but I’ve got to hit the town. My guess is that evacuees from Wick and any survivors from Pyote will be in Pecos. I need to find them, buy rounds, and loosen their tongues. But God I’m tired.
I’d dropped Bugsy in D.C., and had to wait for dawn so I could make the daylight-to-daylight jump as Bahir. Once the Hazmat suits were back in London I stopped at my flat and packed a bag so I wouldn’t arrive back in Texas without luggage. I checked on Dad, and prepared him a cup of tea and a slice of toast smeared with Nutella. He ate three bites. I finished it, and now it lies in the pit of my stomach like a piece of lead shot. It’s early afternoon in Pecos. Someone will be at the local watering holes.
While I walk I use my phone to link to the Internet. Bugsy has been a busy boy. His post is already up.
It was a Nuke, boys and girls! The coyotes are glowing at night—at least the ones that aren’t dead. I know, I know, it’s so twentieth century to be talking about The Bomb, but it’s clear that MAD has stopped working, and now it’s time for everybody to get Mad.
I pass one of those white metal boxes that pass for a newsstand in the U.S. The local Pecos paper is still yammering about grain elevators.
I regret not wearing a hat, and my usual black attire amplifies the heat. The sky is painfully bright, and the sun doesn’t so much shine as glare. My skin prickles. I’m acutely aware of radiation right now. I pause and survey the dining choices—a Pizza Hut, a Dairy Queen, a Subway. I spot a Mexican restaurant. What I don’t see is a bar. Equally unfortunate is that themost cars are in the parking lot of the Pizza Hut. Well, they might have a beer and wine license. And then I spot the fire truck parked near the back. Yes, this might be the right place.
Inside, the harsh smell of undercooked tomato sauce is an assault on the sinuses. Conversation fills the room with a droning sound, as if a hive of bees were moving in. People don’t even fall silent when I enter. They really are upset.
The waitress is cute and small and round and Hispanic. She has an expression that is both alarmed and delighted. People on the edges of a catastrophe always have that particular look.
“I’ll take a small meat pizza and your salad bar. And what kinds of wines do you have?”
“Red and white.”
I mentally sigh.
Of course.
“I’ll take red.” I give her my best stage smile. She smiles back. “I say, dear, I’m a producer with—” I time it so her exclamation of excitement makes it unnecessary to say with whom.
“Movie?”
“Well . . .” I look about conspiratorially. “I don’t want to say too much. So often these things come to nothing, but I think you all have quite a story here, and if that’s true, well . . . things might happen,” I hastily add, “And of course anyone with information would be compensated and probably be in the film.”
She scuttles away. Satisfied, I drift over to the salad bar. In a surprisingly short time a number of people have joined me around the giant bowl of iceberg lettuce. I can smell the MSG as I drop it onto
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