Aleae Iaciens

I feel prolific tonight!  (Not as prolific as Fade, but prolific nonetheless.)  Here's chapter 3, weighing in at a meaty 1523 words; total so far is 5028.

Previous chapters:

• Chapter One
• Chapter Two

The click of the overhead lights startled Fletcher out of a light, troubled sleep, and he was halfway out of the bed before he realized that he was in his bedroom in Dodge.  He shook his head briskly to clear the cobwebs of the previous night out of his head, reached up and whacked the light fixture to stop its humming, and shambled over to the sink and mirror.  He looked about like he felt - unkempt, unshaven, rough and unready.  A quick dash of water helped raise his level of alertness, and shaving the stubble with a Bowie knife at least made him look less like a drifter, but the bags under his eyes weren't going to go away anytime soon, especially considering his quality of sleep lately.

Fletcher sighed and pulled his shirt on.  "Might as well get this over with," he mumbled, and grabbed his jacket and hat before locking the door behind him and heading downstairs.  "Mornin', Faye," he said, nodding to the desk clerk as he passed, and she returned the gesture.  "Any news?"

"Gossip says there was a break-in at Ilsa's last night," said Faye, shaking her head.  "Nobody hurt, but someone set off the alarms in half a dozen rooms."

Fletcher winced as he pulled his jacket on.  "Dammit," he said, then looked up.  "Sorry.  I guess I was hopin' for no news.  Thanks, Faye."

"Any time, honey."  She smiled at him, and he nodded and settled his mooroombah on his head.  "See you tonight."

The sunshine stung his eyes, but he stepped into the street anyway and looked around.  This early, nearly nobody was up and about, so the streets were empty of autos and horses.  Fletcher enjoyed the silence as he walked down the street toward the Hy-Brasil, scanning the sidewalk for any sign of Raphael Sapia, but it seemed that the black-clad deputy was either still indoors or very good at hiding.

The door to the Hy-Brasil was thick pine from the northern forests, and it looked imposing, carved with figures and events from ancient Celtic legend.  Fletcher hesitated, then knocked; after a moment, a panel to the side of the door lit up, and a middle-aged woman with greying brown hair and slate-gray eyes appeared on the screen.  "What is it?"

"Ilsa, it's Owen Fletcher," he said.  "I'm here to see one of your renters."

Ilsa nodded.  "Good to see you, Owen.  Michael Hawkins, isn't it?  He said you'd said hello last night.  Hang on, I'll open the door."  The screen flickered to black, then to a wood-grain pattern that blended in with the rest of the paneling, and the door opened an inch.  "Come on in," said Ilsa from within, and Owen pushed the door open and stepped through.

The interior of the Hy-Brasil was furnished in the same wood paneling as the outside of the inn, and Fletcher wondered briefly what the price of hardwood was now that the surplus had been bought up.  That thought was interrupted, however, by Ilsa coming out from behind the bar and wrapping him in a hug.  "You," she said, looking up at him, "have not visited in too long.  You should be ashamed."

"I am, Ilsa, certainly," he said, returning the hug.  "My work keeps me busy."

"I know, I know," said Ilsa, backing away and eyeing him.  "You've been hurt?"

"Gunfight at the Kansas last night.  Robber caught me in the leg before he went down.  Don't worry, it's been extracted, I just have to be careful for a few days."

Ilsa sighed and shook her head.  "Even off duty you get into danger.  Why do you stay in the city, Owen?  It's not like you like it here."

Fletcher looked away.  "I have nowhere else to go."

"Feh," said Ilsa.  "You told me this story a long time ago.  I know it by heart.  But I'm keeping you - go see Mr. Hawkins.  He's in 207.  I'm sure I'll see you later."

Fletcher nodded and smiled.  "It's good to see you, Ilsa."

"And you, Owen.  Now do I have to push you up the stairs, do you think, or will you manage to get your legs in gear by yourself?"

"It's early," he said, stopping on the first step.  "My sparkplugs still aren't all firing."  She swatted him on the rear, and he grinned and made his way up the staircase.

The second floor was as richly appointed as the first, with doors nearly as thick as the front door and brass number plates on every door.  It was easy for Fletcher to find 207, and he thumped his fist on the frame several times before a bleary Hawkins opened the door.  "Mr. Fletcher?  Come in.  You're early."

Fletcher looked at the clock on the wall: eight o'clock, on the nose.  "So I am.  Get dressed and get packed.  You're leaving."

"I... what?"  Hawkins paused with his shirt half-on.  "Why am I leaving?"

"Because there's a bullet in the city with your name on it," said Fletcher, searching the dresser for clothes.  Fortunately, it seemed that Hawkins hadn't unpacked yet.  "Man name of Sapia showed up last night looking for you.  Wants to drag you back to Cliffside to sit trial for a murder."

Hawkins paled.  "What?  Damn it.  Damn it!"  He yanked his shirt the rest of the way on and began buttoning it up hastily.  "I thought I'd lost him in New Tulsa.  Damn it!"

Fletcher turned to look at Hawkins.  "You know about this guy?"

"How could I not?  The man's been hunting me for weeks."  Hawkins snapped a pair of suspenders into place, then went to the closet and pulled out a jacket matching his pants.  "He thinks I killed someone in Cliffside, and I don't blame him - but Owen, I didn't do it.  I swear this to you, on the bones of my sainted mother, I did not kill that girl."

Fletcher frowned and snapped Hawkins's suitcase closed.  "Then why would he think you did?  Why would he have eyewitnesses who said you killed her?"

"I don't know," said Hawkins, checking his pockets.  He pulled out a brass watch, checked it against the clock on the wall, and wound it briefly before replacing it in his pocket.  "I don't even remember what happened, which, I assure you, is unusual in and of itself.  My memories of that period end when I went to sleep the previous night, and begin again as a passenger on a high-speed train out of the city.  But I know, in my mind and in my heart, that I did not kill anyone in Cliffside."

"Well," said Fletcher, "then we had best get out of here, because Mr. Sapia thinks you're leaving in half an hour."  The clock now read five past the hour.

Hawkins stopped and stared at Fletcher incredulously.  "Good Lord, Mr. Fletcher, you didn't tell him where I was?"

Fletcher nodded.  "I did.  But like I said, he's not expecting you to leave until eight-thirty-"

Hawkins grabbed the suitcase out of Fletcher's hand with surprising strength.  "Do not presume to play games with my life, Mr. Fletcher.  I am neither a toy nor a game, and I do not exist for your amusement."  He turned to the door, then stopped and looked back over his shoulder.  "I am not as weak as I may appear, Mr. Fletcher.  I do not require your misguided protection or attempts at misdirection.  What I do require is a meeting with Mr. Verdi, with which you have said you can supply me.  Is that still the case, or shall I attempt once again to find him on my own?"

Fletcher stood, stunned for a moment by the force of Hawkins's outburst.  "Yes," he said finally, "I think I can manage a meeting, at that."

"Very well," said Hawkins, opening the door.  "Shall we?"

Fletcher nodded.  "Let's."  He followed Hawkins out the door and down the staircase, where Ilsa was waiting for them.  "Ilsa," said Fletcher as they passed her, "Mr. Hawkins won't be staying here - turns out someone's hunting him, and he needs to move on."

"So that's what all the noise was about last night.  I understand," she said, and patted Hawkins's shoulder.  "Your first stalker?"

Hawkins flushed.  "Yes, ma'am," he said, his voice half an octave higher than usual.

Ilsa smiled sympathetically.  "Keep moving, and keep your head down.  Don't sleep in front of the window.  And don't let it get you down - sooner or later, we all get one."

Hawkins nodded.  "Yes, ma'am."

Fletcher looked meaningfully at the door.  "Afraid we ought to be going, Ilsa.  You take care - I'll try to stop by later."

Ilsa nodded and grinned.  "Get, get.  Go, before they find you.  If they get in, I saw nothing!"

Hawkins opened the door and looked back.  "I appreciate that, ma'am."

Fletcher prodded him in the back and the two of them stepped into the brightening daylight.  "So," said Hawkins, "where is this mysterious Mr. Verdi?"

"Just follow the directions I give you," said Fletcher, scanning the street and then pointing left.  "We'll be there in no time."

Posted by Chris Anthony at 08:13 PM | Permalink

Finally, chapter 2 of my NaNo project is done.  1795 words, total 3502.

Chapter One can be found here.

"Day or two to heal, like usual," said the doctor, patting the fast-cast on Fletcher's thigh.  "Don't put any more stress on it than you have to."

"You're not going to tell me to keep off it?"  Fletcher climbed gingerly off the table, even though the cast was anesthetizing the wound, and started pulling his pants on.

The doctor picked up his clipboard and started scribbling notes.  "You're not going to do it, so why should I tell you?  Just try not to get shot again, and come back if anything feels wrong."

Fletcher shrugged.  "Sure, Doc.  You'll send the bill-"

"To your employer, yes.  Now get out of here; I have other patients to see."  The doctor pulled open a file cabinet and began hunting for the appropriate folder as Fletcher opened the door and made his way out.

The cast made a slight bulge in his pants leg, and he felt conspicuous - as he always did - walking down the row of waiting patients, some sick and others with wounds far more horrible than his own.  He tried to hurry, although the anesthetic was giving him a slight limp, and by the time he made it to the front door he was nearly running.  He caught himself on the door and stepped carefully out into the night air, looking around to see if anyone was waiting for him.

There was, in fact, a figure in the shadows across the street.  As Fletcher stepped out onto the dusty road, the figure did the same, and Fletcher recognized the face Michael Hawkins in the moonlight.  "Hawkins," he said, walking across the road, "were you waiting for me?"

"I was," said Hawkins.  "Mr. Donager didn't seem particularly inclined to speak to me, and you seemed somewhat friendlier, from the little we spoke.  I was hoping you could tell me a few things about this area of the city."

Fletcher shrugged.  "Maybe.  Let's walk back to the Kansas.  I'll see what I can't tell you between now and then."  He began limping off toward the bar, and Hawkins followed after a moment's hesitation.  "What d'you want to know about the city, Mr. Hawkins?"

"Please, call me Michael."  Hawkins hurried to catch up to Fletcher.  "There's... actually one person in particular I'm looking for.  His name is Enrico Verdi."

Fletcher stopped and turned to look at Hawkins.  "What do you want to know about Enrico Verdi, Michael?"

Hawkins refused to meet Fletcher's gaze.  "We have a business engagement.  He stopped by my town a few weeks ago, and we made an arrangement to meet here."

There was a long pause, and then Fletcher said, "All right.  I can take you to Verdi.  But not tonight - tomorrow, in the daylight.  Verdi's a dangerous man to meet at night."

"Yes," agreed Hawkins as they started to walk again.  "I'd come to that conclusion myself."

They walked in silence for a few minutes before Hawkins spoke up again.  "Do you happen to know what in particular it is that Mr. Verdi does?  I didn't get the opportunity to ask him for details."

Fletcher shrugged.  "Verdi is a scientist, an engineer.  He's got a big project going on, but I don't know anything more than that.  He gets the money for it by selling other machines that he's made.  Anything from toys to coal-powered carriages."

Hawkins nodded.  "That confirms some of my suspicions.  Thank you."  They had arrived, finally, at Donager's bar, and Hawkins looked down the street.  "I had best be going.  It's late, and I need to get some rest.  When should I expect you tomorrow?"

Fletcher blinked, his hand on the bar's swinging door.  "That depends on where you're staying," he said.

"Down the street," said Hawkins.  "A hotel called Hy-Brasil."

Fletcher nodded.  "I know the place.  Make it eight-thirty."

"In the morning?  Certainly.  I shall expect you then."

Fletcher nodded.  "You have a good night, Mr. Hawkins.  Tell Ilsa I said hello."

Hawkins stuck out his hand cheerfully, and Fletcher noticed for the first time that Hawkins was wearing jet-black gloves.  He took the profferred hand and shook it firmly.  "See you tomorrow, Michael."

"And you, Mr. Fletcher.  Give my regards to Mr. Donager."  Hawkins smiled and turned, heading down the moonlit street.  Fletcher watched him go until he turned a corner and vanished from sight; then Fletcher finally came through the swinging doors and entered the Kansas.

"Owen," boomed Donager while Fletcher was still halfway across the room, "glad t' have y' back.  How was dinner wi' yer mother?"

"I-" started Fletcher, and then another stranger sitting in the corner farthest from the door caught his eye.  "I couldn't have had a better time, William," he said.  "She might be getting old, but she can still cook better than anyone I know."

Fletcher sat at the bar and looked down; within seconds Donager had filled his gaze with a shot of whiskey.  A note was taped to the bottom which Fletcher could barely read through the thick glass, but with a moment's effort he understood: "LOOKING FOR HAWKINS".

Fletcher met Donager's gaze and nodded, then downed the contents of the shot glass.  The bartender leaned down and muttered, "Hawkins left about five minutes after you did, and he came in about fifteen minutes after that.  Says Hawkins is wanted f'r somethin' 'r other an' 'e's been assigned t' bring the lad in."

"I wouldn't be surprised," Fletcher said in equally low tones.  "Mr. Hawkins didn't exactly strike me as quite right.  Didn't the hunter say what Hawkins was wanted for, or did he say and you just can't remember?"

Donager shot Fletcher a dirty look.  "He didn't say," the bartender said pointedly.

"Fine, fine."  Fletcher tapped the glass.  "Pour me another and I'll go talk to him."

Donager grumbled something Fletcher couldn't hear and poured another whiskey.  Fletcher stared at it for a long minute, then drank it down in one swallow and stood up from the bar, looking around before he walked over to the stranger's table.  "Bartender tells me I might be of service to you," he said, settling down opposite the black-clad man.  "Name's Owen Fletcher.  What can I do for you?"

The stranger's voice sounded like chunks of ice scraping against one another.  "My name is Raphael Sapia, Mr. Fletcher, and I am looking for a man named Michael Hawkins.  Have you seen him?"

Fletcher leaned back in his chair.  "Yeah, I've seen him.  Just bid him good night, in fact.  Might I ask why you're looking for Mr. Hawkins?"

Sapia smiled, his teeth bright white in the shadow of the brim of his wide hat.  "Mr. Hawkins is a wanted man, Mr. Fletcher, and I am authorized to return him to Cliffside for trial."

Fletcher nodded.  "A marshal, then?  Pardon my saying so, Mr. Sapia, but you don't exactly look the marshal type."

"That would be because I am not a marshal, Mr. Fletcher," said Sapia, his grin vanishing.  "You might say that I have been deputized."

"Makes sense."  Fletcher looked back to the bar and waved lazily to Donager.  "You want anything, Mr. Sapia?  Besides Mr. Hawkins, that is."

Sapia shook his head.  "I do not drink, Mr. Fletcher, but thank you for the offer."

Fletcher looked back again and held up one finger, then turned back to Sapia.  "So, what's Michael wanted for, anyway?  Didn't strike me as someone who exactly warranted bringing in."

Sapia's eyes narrowed.  "Mr. Hawkins is wanted for no less than the crime of murder, Mr. Fletcher.  As it was the daughter of one of the Cliffside selectmen who was killed, I assure you that the town is quite interested in seeing the murderer brought to justice, and several eyewitnesses say that they saw Mr. Hawkins perform the deed.  If they are wrong, the jury will find Mr. Hawkins innocent, and he will be free to go.  If they are right..."  He clenched his gloved fist.  "...another threat to a civil society will be removed from this world."

"You sound very determined, Mr. Sapia."

"I am," said Sapia, his smile returning.  "I am indeed, Mr. Fletcher."

Donager arrived with Fletcher's shot of whiskey; he set it on the table and gave Fletcher a look.  Fletcher nodded, and the bartender shrugged and ambled back to the bar.  "What was that?" asked Sapia.

Fletcher took a sip of the whiskey.  "I was letting Mr. Donager know that everything's all right over here.  He doesn't have many strangers in his bar, and you're the second tonight who hasn't had anything to drink."

Sapia nodded.  "I presume that Mr. Hawkins was the other.  Tell me, do you know where he is now?"

"Michael, you mean?  He's at an inn called Hy-Brasil, up the road."

Sapia sat bolt upright.  "You should have said so earlier, Mr. Fletcher.  With luck, I can capture him while it is still dark-"

"No, no," said Fletcher, swallowing the last of the whiskey.  "You'll never get out.  It's defended too well - Ilsa doesn't like her guests disturbed.  Trust me, I helped her set up the defense system."  He set the shot glass on the table loudly and shook his head.  "I'm going to meet him tomorrow morning at 8:30 - he wants to meet someone of my acquaintance."

"He is probably setting up an escape route, a different identity... you can bring him to me?"

Fletcher nodded.  "Be outside of the Hy-Brasil at 8:35.  No earlier, or the roving eyes will ticket you for loitering.  I'll bring him out of the hotel then, and you can make your collar."

"Excellent."  Sapia slid his chair back and stood up.  "Thank you, Mr. Fletcher.  You have been an immense help.  I look forward to seeing you again tomorrow morning."

"Bright and early," said Fletcher.  "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sapia."

"And you, Mr. Fletcher," Sapia said, smoothing his long coat.  "A distinct pleasure."  He tipped the brim of his hat and made his way out the door.  Fletcher watched him leave, then walked back to the bar.

"What, y' gave th' kid up?" Donager said, scowling.  "Not like y', Owen."

Fletcher shrugged.  "He's wanted for murder, William," he said, "and I have no real attachment to the lad.  Besides, if he killed a girl in Cliffside, who says he wouldn't try to kill Verdi when I take him there tomorrow?"

Donager stared at Fletcher for a long moment, then sighed.  "It's on your conscience, Owen.  Y' want another shot?"

Fletcher hesitated, then shook his head.  "No, I think that's enough for tonight."  He pulled a few coins out of his pocket and handed them to Donager.  "That ought to cover tonight, shouldn't it?"

Donager shook the coins in his fist.  "Yeah," he said.  "Yeah, that should cover it."

Posted by Chris Anthony at 05:19 PM | Permalink

Michael, I just spent two hours answering your questions and then lost the whole thing because I screwed up a single keystroke.  I'll answer again later tonight when I'm not concentrating on not breaking down in public.

Posted by Chris Anthony at 06:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I don't know who I've told about this, but I'm setting my NaNoWriMo novel for this year in the Frontier world.  Not everything in the novel is canon, although much of it is; I'll make a note if I decide that I've written something that's not canon for the world.

In the meantime, I figure I'll post what I have here, in the (possibly vain) hope that it'll give folks a feel for the world and the sort of story I expect the world to support.  I think Michael's right in calling it "steampunk Wild West" - that's pretty much exactly the style I want, in really basic terms.  (And Michael, all of your points are valid, and I actually do have responses to them.  I'll answer your comment once I'm home and not limited by memory and screen real estate.  (Right now, I'm at the café in Borders, which seems to be more conducive to writing for me than most places.  Plus, the barísta is cute.)

Anyway, Chapter One of my 2004 NaNoWriMo novel follows.

Owen Fletcher sat in a bar at the edge of Dodge City, intent on drinking until he didn't remember the events of the day, or at least until he could ignore them.  This was not unusual for Fletcher, and it got more difficult every time he tried it.

There were several other patrons in William Donager's bar Kansas, but no regulars aside from Fletcher, and none of them were ordering as heavily as Fletcher was.  One in particular hadn't ordered anything all night, which did not sit well with Donager; he was glad that folks found his bar comfortable, but in the end he ran the bar to make money, and he wasn't making any money from someone who wasn't drinking.  Donager had even asked the man several times if he needed anything; the response, every time, was "No, I'm fine, thank you."  The man, Donager had noticed, was writing something in an unfamiliar alphabet on cheap paper.

Fletcher called for another shot of whiskey, and Donager lumbered back over to the bar to pour it.  As the bartender approached, Fletcher lowered his voice and asked, "What's his problem?"  His eyes flicked briefly to the teetotaler near the wall.

Donager shrugged.  "Writin' a book, I guess.  Not drinkin', that's for sure."

"What kind of book?" asked Fletcher.

"Dunno," said Donager.  "I can't read the writin'.  Language I've never seen before."  He shrugged and poured Fletcher's shot.  "He goes ten more minutes without drinkin', he's out."

Fletcher looked around the bar, then back at Donager.  "Not like you're hurting for space, Will.  Let 'im stay on."

The bartender muttered something Fletcher couldn't quite make out.  "Tell you what, Owen.  You buy 'im a drink an hour, he can stay all night if he wants.  That satisfy you?"

"Sure," said Fletcher, and pulled a handful of coins out of his pocket.  "That ought to cover it, right?"

"For the rest o' the night, sure."  Donager swept the coins into his open palm and dropped them into the till.  "You gonna tell 'im he's got a free ride, or should I just take the drink over now?"

Fletcher downed his own shot and stood up.  "I'll take the drink over," he said.

Donager grabbed a bottle and a fresh glass off the shelf and started pouring.  "Just be careful y' don't drink it yourself," he said as he handed the shot to Fletcher, who looked wounded as he headed over to the other man's table.

"Howdy," said Fletcher, and set the shot down on the table.  "On me.  You shouldn't sit in a bar if you're not gonna drink.  Hurts the bartender's feelings, you know."

"Oh," said the other, without looking up from the paper on which he was writing.  "Sorry.  I'm new in the city.  I'll keep that in mind.  Thank you."  Fletcher noticed that his voice was a clear tenor, without the gravel that a long stay in Dodge added.

"You have a name, friend?  Mine's Fletcher."

The writer finally looked up and met Fletcher's eye.  "Michael Hawkins," he said, then returned to his writing.

Fletcher waited a minute, then went back to the bar, where Donager had poured him another drink to pass the time.  "Well, I tried," he said as he sat back down, "and anyway he's got his drink.  Maybe he'll warm up a little after he's finished writing."

"If he finishes writing," said Donager sourly.  "He's got enough paper there to write 'til next week."

Fletcher downed the shot in front of him and set the glass carefully on the bar.  "I hope it at least pays well.  Wonder who he works for."

Another customer came up to the bar and nodded to Donager, who smiled and said, "What'll it be, Tan Hsu?"

Tan tapped the glass in his hand, and Donager nodded.  "Same thing, then," he said, and pulled the bottle of vodka off the shelf while Tan set the glass down along with a pair of coins.  "Three fingers, huh?  'S your liver, I guess," said Donager, and poured a significant fraction of the vodka in the bottle into Tan's glass.  Tan nodded, picked up the glass, and headed back to his seat near the door as Donager dropped the coins into the till.  "You know," he said to Fletcher, "he's never spoken a word to me since he started comin' here.  Just points and gives me money.  Feels wrong somehow, y' know?  Like, I'm a bartender, I'm s'posed to talk to the flies."

Fletcher nodded.  "Yeah... I think I get what you mean.  I'm the same way, except I'm not supposed to talk to people when I'm on the job.  If I do, it feels strange."

"Y' know," said Donager thoughtfully, "I don't think y' ever told me what it is y' do.  Come to think of it, I don't think y' ever told me where you come from, 'bout y'r family... hell, I don't think I know anythin' 'bout y' 'cept y'r name, Owen."

Fletcher looked into his glass for a long minute.  "Tell you what," he said finally, pushing his glass toward the bartender.  "You scrap my tab for the rest of the night, I'll tell you whatever you want to know."

Donager snorted.  "For anyone else, it'd be 'hell no' in a spacer second.  For you..."  He thought about as long as Fletcher had.  "Okay.  Y' got y'rself a deal."

Fletcher grinned as Donager refilled his glass.  "All right," he said.  "I'll probably forget about it in the morning anyway.  I'm -"

There was a gunshot outside, and then a spurred boot kicked the swinging doors open and a man none of them had seen before fairly leapt into the bar.

He was, by Fletcher's estimation, about six feet tall and a little thicker than average.  His clothes weren't new, but they weren't very worn, either; his boots, by contrast, didn't even have a day's wear on them, and his spurs and rowels still had the store shine on them.  As did, Fletcher noted with a sense of detachment, the gun that the stranger was waving around.  "All right," shouted the newcomer, "I want you all to empty your pockets.  You -" He pointed the gun at Donager.  "You empty the till onto the counter.  Do it fast."

Fletcher stood up lazily.  "I'm not sure you want me to do that, son."  Nearly everybody else looked up at Fletcher as he spoke, but Michael Hawkins was still writing and not paying the least bit of attention.

The putative robber fired a shot over Fletcher's shoulder, shattering one of the lamps on the wall.  "What, you carrying bombs?  I said empty your pockets, now do it."

Fletcher shrugged.  "Like you want," he said, and pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, slapping it on the bar.  His hand paused at his hip, and the stranger noticed the gun for the first time.

"Nice and slow," he said.  "Put it on the bar with your wallet.  I'm not interested in hurting anybody, but I will if I have to."  He fired another shot for emphasis; the bullet lodged in the wall behind Fletcher's other shoulder.

Fletcher undid the snap holding the gun in place and pulled it out slowly with his thumb and forefinger.  "Nice and easy, just like you say," he said, transferring the gun to his right hand and opening his left to the stranger.

"Nice and easy," the robber repeated, nodding, and just after the words left his mouth Tan's glass shattered on his gun hand.  "Son of a..." he yelped, turning to Tan.

Fletcher's revolver was already in his palm, and before the robber could pull a bead on Tan - who was under his table now - Fletcher had put a bullet through the man's shoulder.  The stranger screamed in pain and turned back to Fletcher, who was quickly aiming his second shot.  The robber got there first, though, and fired; his round went through the flesh of Fletcher's leg, and Fletcher went to his knee, gasping as he hit the ground.

The nameless gunman's left arm hung limp, but his bleeding right hand still held the gun, and his eyes were wild now.  "Anybody else want to have a chat with my pistol?" he shouted.  "Anyone?  Huh?"

In the commotion, nobody had noticed Michael Hawkins start speaking, but when he stopped the silence was startling.  Fletcher, Donager, and the gunman turned to face Hawkins - and then the gunman slumped to his knees and then fell prone, the gun dropping from his hand and clattering across the floor and under an unoccupied chair.  "What the hell...?" said Fletcher quietly, and pulled himself back up onto his stool.  "What the hell happened?  Did you kill him?"

"No," said Hawkins quietly, although in the silence everyone in the bar could hear him.  "He's just asleep.  His body thinks it's been awake for a good three days or so.  He'll be asleep for about half a day, I guess."  He waited for a response, then shrugged and went back to writing.  "Thank you for the drink, Mr. Fletcher.  And it's Greek, Mr. Donager.  Attic Greek.  Spoken a few thousand years ago by one of the classical cultures of Earth."

"No problem," said Fletcher, and turned back to Donager, who was nodding at Hawkins.  "You want to call the marshall?" he asked.  "I think I should probably head to a doctor myself."

"Yeah," said Donager, and picked up the phone, dialing absently.  "Sorry, just a little d'stracted.  Not every day I get one o' them in my bar."

Fletcher nodded.  "Yeah, I know.  Keep an eye on him.  I'll be back tonight, I think."  He slid his wallet back into his pocket and re-holstered his gun.  "I tell you," he said, "I guess I'm glad for it - I'd have shot him dead."

Donager scowled.  "In my bar?  Y'd be payin' for the new shine on the floorboards."

"Yeah, yeah.  I'll be back," said Fletcher, gingerly stepping over the prone gunman and limping to the door as Donager began talking to the deputy on the phone.  On the way out, he looked back over his shoulder.  "You can get up now, Tan," he said, and then let the door swing shut behind him.

Posted by Chris Anthony at 09:36 PM | Permalink