Drink for the Thirst to Come Read Free

“Jordan’s House!” as though he knew what! “Time he’s back,” he waggled his thumb at the growlers, “this’ll be done-’fer.”
    “Yeah?” Boiler said.
    “Yeah. So?”
    “You getting suck, ain’t you, Harp?”
    “I hope to and that’s honest!”
    The eye squinted. “You let the Boss to know I’m serving twice-to-one here and tomorrow you go beg. Tomorrow and tomorrow forever-more you beg!” A slop of stew hit Lenny’s tin. “And I take some suck sticks.” He held up a three-fingered hand. “For risk.”
    “Three sticks. Done.”
    “Full hand’s five !” Boiler yelled.
    “Five then! Absolute!”
    “And because I’m so pretty!” The Boiler opened mouth and laughed.
    Burnups who’d got better were not pretty: flash-flesh, scarred white, bald, a wee black hole where once an eye had peeped. Laughing made it worse. Least he could cook. Saved Boiler from turning ’Tweener.
    Chris found a sit to eat his tumbleweed upon. The thistle needed salt indeed, more salt. Never salt enough.
     
    “You.” The Boss voice came over the bent necks in the Round Room where Chris ate. Not a shout. No need. “You,” meant Chris, meant now.
    Goddamn! Chris downed his spoon and scurried, let his breakfast to the tender care of Whitey, the One-eyed Kid from the rack above him. Whitey’d care for, touch neither his nor Lenny’s grub, not for himself nor give anyone else taste, touch, or smell. Whitey needed worth.
    “Yeah, Boss?” Chris twitched. His body wanted to get doing, doing whatever.
    “You need some work, my man.”
    He surely did and glad to have it too. Chris was middle pole. Stuck. Another twitch would help.
    “Got you a task. Think you’re up for it.”
    “I’m up.”
    “Didn’t ask, Duster. You’re going to the Wet. You get yourself out to the Heath and Hollows and see a man. Señor Temoco. He’ll have something for you.
    “Yes.”
    “Wait! The something will be a box.”
    “A box.”
    “Small box.” The Boss showed him. A foot by a foot by a foot.
    “Mm.”
    “You’ll be careful with that box.”
    “Yeah.”
    “You’ll not open, bounce, drop, or break it.”
    “No I won’t!”
    “Wait! Cripes. You’ll bear it back like it holds a Boomer. A big bad Boomer!
    Chris smiled.
    “You’ll treat it like your only pair of balls.”
    “Mm.”
    “’Cause it will be.”
    “Yes.”
    “You’ll need trade for this box. You draw you some goods.”
    The Boss and Chris let that hang dust.
    “Yes. Okay. Mm.” Sees me sweat, feels me shake, knows I’m…
    “What’s done with the goods, here to there, that’s your lookout.”
    “Yes!”
    “Just… Cripes, I’ll nail your dick to a wall you start hauling before I give you leave! Just make sure the goods is fresh upon delivery. It’s for sure Señor Temoco will want fresh for this most valuable box.”
    “Yep.”
    “And how will you know Señor Temoco?”
    “I’ll.” He was nodding but that was all Chris had. Some eye passed between the Boss and Chris. Cripes. He’s having fun.
    “You will know Señor Temoco by his bearing.”
    “His bearing. Yes.” This time he waited. The Boss’s look? Could have been friendly, might have been a smile, could have been pity, never could tell. You also never took for granted. And the Boss never pitied, so that was out.
    “And you’ll do what when you get the… what is it again?”
    “Box. This big. I bring it to you.”
    “And you look.”
    “Hell I do. I treat it like my nuts.”
    “And you wonder what it is?”
    Chris blinked twice. “You’ll tell me if I need to know.”
    “Okay, Duster. Haul.”
    Chris lit out, spring-shot past his bench in the round room. Cripes, cripes, cripes. There was Whitey and what was left of morning grunts, his and Lenny’s. Cripes.
    “You grip that grub, Whitey.” He gave the kid a plinking eye. “You give it all to Lenny and you let him know it’s thanks to me he’s eating. Got it?”
    “Yeah!” the Kid said. “From you. And