vision adjusted. He looked back. The river still had a pink tinge.
The little moon, without competition, washed down dark walls to wet pavements. Here and there a streetlamp glowed, and a bit of brilliantly colored neon flared. Motorcycles were parked in clusters, and a few of the boxy old-style cars.
Danny saw a multiple, hunched movement, as of something huge and dark and formless slithering down an alley—or else just a group of people, keeping their backs to the wind.
"Was that—"
"Probably. Where're you from, Doc?"
"Nowhere."
"Been there many a time. Little dull, but no cooking like it. Where?"
"Okay, Iowa. Adair, Iowa. Know anything you didn't know before?"
"Adair, Iowa. The James brothers pulled their first big robbery around there, didn't they?"
"Yeah. Yeah, they tried—but they robbed the wrong train."
"Ah, well, everybody has to start somewhere, eh?" McCain laughed, and Danny felt himself relax.
Then McCain said in a dead cold tone, "Where you start is knowing that all the attitude in your little farmboy body don't come up to the top of my shoes. Got that?"
It hit Danny like a fist. "I guess I'm learning."
"If you can learn, then it'll all be right. 'S'how it goes." McCain's voice was back to normal.
"Earlier—when Cloudhunter had the shotgun on me—he would have blown my head off just like that, right? No warning? Is that how it goes?"
"When you mean to kill somebody, only a damn fool gives him a chance to disagree. And only a damn fool pulls a gun without meaning to kill somebody." McCain turned, smiled—not all that reassuring a sight—said, "Ease up, Doc. You did a good job tonight.
You work for Mr. Patrise now. There's no better friend you could have on the Levee."
"Are we friends?"
"I do sincerely hope so."
McCain stopped the car in front of a lighted building with a violet awning that stretched from the curb down stairs to a double glass door. Massed electric bulbs spelled out LA MIRADA.
The door was opened by a man in a white top hat and tails. "Good evening, Mr. Patrise. Mr. McCain, Cloudhunter. And good evening to you, sir. Your coats?"
Patrise said, "Pavel, this is Doc Hallownight. A full member of the club with all privileges."
"Delighted to meet you, Mr. Hallownight. What will you be drinking?"
"A beer. Please."
"Your brand, sir?"
"Uh—anything. Have you got draft beer?"
"Of course, sir."
The entryway was lit by brass towers that threw light against the white sculptured ceiling. Brass vases of fresh flowers stood in niches along the wood-paneled walls. The corridor led to a double door of glass, frosted in geometric patterns, framed in chrome.
That door was opened by a blonde girl in a white blouse and an extremely short black skirt. "Oh! Mr. Patrise!"
The name stopped everything in the room. The few people there all turned.
The room was large and circular, with a domed ceiling that was black with twinkling stars. The outer part of the circle was three steps higher than the center. On one side of the upper ring was a black glass bar, backed by chrome and mirrors and endless ranks of bottles; a woman in a white shirt and red bow tie was mixing drinks. A man and woman leaned against the obsidian bartop, interrupted in conversation. On the other side were dining tables, all empty but one where two men in dinner jackets and two women in astounding gowns were seated.
The lower circle was a glossy black dance floor, empty. At the rear of the room was a bandstand with a white grand piano; a woman leaned against the piano, toward a man seated at the keyboard.
None of them looked like elves, but there was enough glitter and cool light that Danny was hardly sure.
Patrise went to the occupied table. One of the women said, "Patrise, how good to see you! You won't believe the stories that have been going around tonight." She sounded very drunk.
"Then you must tell me sometime, Tonia," Patrise said genially. "Hello, Erika. Bob, Warren. Have you had a good evening?"
They
The little moon, without competition, washed down dark walls to wet pavements. Here and there a streetlamp glowed, and a bit of brilliantly colored neon flared. Motorcycles were parked in clusters, and a few of the boxy old-style cars.
Danny saw a multiple, hunched movement, as of something huge and dark and formless slithering down an alley—or else just a group of people, keeping their backs to the wind.
"Was that—"
"Probably. Where're you from, Doc?"
"Nowhere."
"Been there many a time. Little dull, but no cooking like it. Where?"
"Okay, Iowa. Adair, Iowa. Know anything you didn't know before?"
"Adair, Iowa. The James brothers pulled their first big robbery around there, didn't they?"
"Yeah. Yeah, they tried—but they robbed the wrong train."
"Ah, well, everybody has to start somewhere, eh?" McCain laughed, and Danny felt himself relax.
Then McCain said in a dead cold tone, "Where you start is knowing that all the attitude in your little farmboy body don't come up to the top of my shoes. Got that?"
It hit Danny like a fist. "I guess I'm learning."
"If you can learn, then it'll all be right. 'S'how it goes." McCain's voice was back to normal.
"Earlier—when Cloudhunter had the shotgun on me—he would have blown my head off just like that, right? No warning? Is that how it goes?"
"When you mean to kill somebody, only a damn fool gives him a chance to disagree. And only a damn fool pulls a gun without meaning to kill somebody." McCain turned, smiled—not all that reassuring a sight—said, "Ease up, Doc. You did a good job tonight.
You work for Mr. Patrise now. There's no better friend you could have on the Levee."
"Are we friends?"
"I do sincerely hope so."
McCain stopped the car in front of a lighted building with a violet awning that stretched from the curb down stairs to a double glass door. Massed electric bulbs spelled out LA MIRADA.
The door was opened by a man in a white top hat and tails. "Good evening, Mr. Patrise. Mr. McCain, Cloudhunter. And good evening to you, sir. Your coats?"
Patrise said, "Pavel, this is Doc Hallownight. A full member of the club with all privileges."
"Delighted to meet you, Mr. Hallownight. What will you be drinking?"
"A beer. Please."
"Your brand, sir?"
"Uh—anything. Have you got draft beer?"
"Of course, sir."
The entryway was lit by brass towers that threw light against the white sculptured ceiling. Brass vases of fresh flowers stood in niches along the wood-paneled walls. The corridor led to a double door of glass, frosted in geometric patterns, framed in chrome.
That door was opened by a blonde girl in a white blouse and an extremely short black skirt. "Oh! Mr. Patrise!"
The name stopped everything in the room. The few people there all turned.
The room was large and circular, with a domed ceiling that was black with twinkling stars. The outer part of the circle was three steps higher than the center. On one side of the upper ring was a black glass bar, backed by chrome and mirrors and endless ranks of bottles; a woman in a white shirt and red bow tie was mixing drinks. A man and woman leaned against the obsidian bartop, interrupted in conversation. On the other side were dining tables, all empty but one where two men in dinner jackets and two women in astounding gowns were seated.
The lower circle was a glossy black dance floor, empty. At the rear of the room was a bandstand with a white grand piano; a woman leaned against the piano, toward a man seated at the keyboard.
None of them looked like elves, but there was enough glitter and cool light that Danny was hardly sure.
Patrise went to the occupied table. One of the women said, "Patrise, how good to see you! You won't believe the stories that have been going around tonight." She sounded very drunk.
"Then you must tell me sometime, Tonia," Patrise said genially. "Hello, Erika. Bob, Warren. Have you had a good evening?"
They
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