Read Online The Bible Repairman and Other Stories by Tim Powers - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tim Powers
Ads: Link
to pull out a flat half-pint bottle of Wild Turkey bourbon. His hand was shaking now as he unscrewed the cap and tilted the bottle up for a mouthful.
Hollis looked down at the pans. Several triangular slices of pizza had been left uneaten, pepperoni in one pan and sausage and bell pepper in the other.
“We just throw ‘em out,” he said. “Hard luck on the starving children in China, but … that’s what we do.” “Oh,” she said. “I wondered.”
Hollis hesitated, then glanced to the bar and back to her. “Sometimes I leave them at the end of the bar,” he said. “Till I have time to take them to the back room, where the sinks are.”
After another pause, he nodded and carried the pans to the bar, and set them in front of one of the empty stools on the side of the cash register away from the kitchen. There were no customers at the bar, so he walked on into the kitchen, where two other young men in aprons and red-and-white-striped shirts were listlessly painting tomato sauce onto disks of dough. Hollis took the long-handled spatula from the top of the oven and pulled open the narrow top door – probably he had burned his forearm on the door-edge, as he often did – and turned the pizzas that sat on the flour-dusted iron floor inside.
When he looked through the doorway to the bar a few minutes later, he saw the girl sitting at the end of the bar, chewing. When he looked again, she was gone, and later when he went to pick up the pans he saw that they were empty.
Hollis and the girl never spoke again, though she had come in about once a week, always on a slow weekday night, and sat at the stool beyond the cash register, and Hollis had every time found an opportunity to leave a half-finished pizza or two near her.
And she had been there, he recalled now, on that last night, June 21, 1975; the night Firehouse Pizza closed down, and he had thus lost the last real job he’d ever had; the night that had been intruding so stress-fully into his dreams lately that he had actually ridden his bike over here today. The night of which he had no recollection past about 8 PM, though he had awakened the next day at noon in his apartment, his face stiff with dried tears and stinging with impossible sunburn.
You can’t possibly eat all of them.
He stared at her now as she sat chewing M&Ms across the table from him, stared at the corners of her eyes, the skin on her throat and the backs of her hands. It was all still smooth – she still looked to be about twenty years old.
“That,” he said carefully, “was thirty-one years ago. A bit more.”
“That’s recommended retail time,” she said. “We get it wholesale.”
“You do recognize her,” said the blond man.
“Who are these guys?” Hollis asked Felise. “Why is he wearing that Buck Rogers jacket?”
“It’s a uniform,” said Felise, “or will be. Could I – ?” she added, with a wave toward the bottle of Wild Turkey. When Hollis nodded she reached over and slid it to her side and took a sip from it. “But I’ve got to admit,” she said, exhaling around the whiskey, “that it makes him look like a baked potato that was taken too young from its mother.”
“My name is Perry Kokolo,” the blond man said, apparently unruffled. “The citizens beside me are Hartford Evian and Zip Scarbee. We employ Felise as a consultant. Do you remember a man named Don Lyle?”
“Yes!” Don had been working that night too, Hollis recalled now. The boss had left for the night, and he and Don had been drinking beers as they worked, pausing occasionally to sing old Dean Martin songs over the loudspeaker that was meant for calling out pick-up numbers.
“He’ll be joining us soon,” Kokolo went on. “He’s done some consulting for us too, on a more freelance basis. We’d like your help as well.” “They pay very nice,” said Felise. “I can afford my own pizzas now.” “Did they recruit you with a stun-gun?”
Felise said, “Probably,” as
Hollis looked down at the pans. Several triangular slices of pizza had been left uneaten, pepperoni in one pan and sausage and bell pepper in the other.
“We just throw ‘em out,” he said. “Hard luck on the starving children in China, but … that’s what we do.” “Oh,” she said. “I wondered.”
Hollis hesitated, then glanced to the bar and back to her. “Sometimes I leave them at the end of the bar,” he said. “Till I have time to take them to the back room, where the sinks are.”
After another pause, he nodded and carried the pans to the bar, and set them in front of one of the empty stools on the side of the cash register away from the kitchen. There were no customers at the bar, so he walked on into the kitchen, where two other young men in aprons and red-and-white-striped shirts were listlessly painting tomato sauce onto disks of dough. Hollis took the long-handled spatula from the top of the oven and pulled open the narrow top door – probably he had burned his forearm on the door-edge, as he often did – and turned the pizzas that sat on the flour-dusted iron floor inside.
When he looked through the doorway to the bar a few minutes later, he saw the girl sitting at the end of the bar, chewing. When he looked again, she was gone, and later when he went to pick up the pans he saw that they were empty.
Hollis and the girl never spoke again, though she had come in about once a week, always on a slow weekday night, and sat at the stool beyond the cash register, and Hollis had every time found an opportunity to leave a half-finished pizza or two near her.
And she had been there, he recalled now, on that last night, June 21, 1975; the night Firehouse Pizza closed down, and he had thus lost the last real job he’d ever had; the night that had been intruding so stress-fully into his dreams lately that he had actually ridden his bike over here today. The night of which he had no recollection past about 8 PM, though he had awakened the next day at noon in his apartment, his face stiff with dried tears and stinging with impossible sunburn.
You can’t possibly eat all of them.
He stared at her now as she sat chewing M&Ms across the table from him, stared at the corners of her eyes, the skin on her throat and the backs of her hands. It was all still smooth – she still looked to be about twenty years old.
“That,” he said carefully, “was thirty-one years ago. A bit more.”
“That’s recommended retail time,” she said. “We get it wholesale.”
“You do recognize her,” said the blond man.
“Who are these guys?” Hollis asked Felise. “Why is he wearing that Buck Rogers jacket?”
“It’s a uniform,” said Felise, “or will be. Could I – ?” she added, with a wave toward the bottle of Wild Turkey. When Hollis nodded she reached over and slid it to her side and took a sip from it. “But I’ve got to admit,” she said, exhaling around the whiskey, “that it makes him look like a baked potato that was taken too young from its mother.”
“My name is Perry Kokolo,” the blond man said, apparently unruffled. “The citizens beside me are Hartford Evian and Zip Scarbee. We employ Felise as a consultant. Do you remember a man named Don Lyle?”
“Yes!” Don had been working that night too, Hollis recalled now. The boss had left for the night, and he and Don had been drinking beers as they worked, pausing occasionally to sing old Dean Martin songs over the loudspeaker that was meant for calling out pick-up numbers.
“He’ll be joining us soon,” Kokolo went on. “He’s done some consulting for us too, on a more freelance basis. We’d like your help as well.” “They pay very nice,” said Felise. “I can afford my own pizzas now.” “Did they recruit you with a stun-gun?”
Felise said, “Probably,” as
Similar Books
