Robert Reed - Winemaster

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2024-11-23 0 0 45.84KB 23 页 5.9玖币

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ROBERT REED

WINEMASTER

THE STRANGER PULLED INTO the Quik Shop outside St. Joe. Nothing was remarkable

about him, which was why he caught Blaine's eye. Taller than average, but not

much, he was thin in an unfit way, with black hair and a handsome, almost pretty

face, fine bones floating beneath skin that didn't often get into the sun. Which

meant nothing, of course. A lot of people were staying indoors lately. Blaine

watched him climb out of an enormous Buick -- a satin black '17 Gibraltar that

had seen better days -- and after a lazy long stretch, he passed his e-card

through the proper slot and inserted the nozzle, filling the Buick's cavernous

tank with ten cold gallons of gasoline and corn alcohol.

By then, Blaine had run his plates.

The Buick was registered to a Julian Winemaster from Wichita, Kansas;

twenty-nine accompanying photographs showed pretty much the same fellow who

stood sixty feet away.

His entire bio was artfully bland, rigorously seamless. Winemaster was an

accountant, divorced and forty-four years old, with O negative blood and five

neo-enamel fillings imbedded in otherwise perfect teeth, plus a small pink

birthmark somewhere on his right buttock. Useless details, Blaine reminded

himself, and with that he lifted his gaze, watching the traveler remove the

dripping nozzle, then cradling it on the pump with the overdone delicacy of a

man ill-at-ease with machinery.

Behind thick fingers, Blaine was smiling.

Winemaster moved with a stiff, road-weary gait, walking into the convenience

store and asking, "Ma'am.? Where's your rest room, please?"

The clerk ignored him.

It was the men's room that called out, "Over here, sir."

Sitting in one of the hard plastic booths, Blaine had a good view of everything.

A pair of militia boys in their brown uniforms were the only others in the

store. They'd been gawking at dirty comic books, minding their own business

until they heard Winemaster's voice. Politeness had lately become a suspicious

behavior. Blaine watched the boys look up and elbow each other, putting their

sights on the stranger. And he watched Winemaster's walk, the expression on his

pretty frail face, and a myriad of subtleties, trying to decide what he should

do, and when, and what he should avoid at all costs.

It was a bright warm summer morning, but there hadn't been twenty cars in the

last hour, most of them sporting local plates.

The militia boys blanked their comics and put them on the wrong shelves, then

walked out the front door, one saying. "Bye now," as he passed the clerk.

"Sure," the old woman growled, never taking her eyes off a tiny television

screen.

The boys might simply be doing their job, which meant they were harmless. But

the state militias were full of bullies who'd found a career in the last couple

years. There was no sweeter sport than terrorizing the innocent traveler,

because of course the genuine refugee was too rare of a prospect to hope for.

Winemaster vanished into the men's room.

The boys approached the black Buick, doing a little dance and showing each other

their malicious smiles. Thugs, Blaine decided. Which meant that he had to do

something now. Before Winemaster, or whoever he was, came walking out of the

toilet.

Blaine climbed out of the tiny booth.

He didn't waste breath on the clerk.

Crossing the greasy pavement, he watched the boys using a police-issue lock

pick. The front passenger door opened, and both of them stepped back, trying to

keep a safe distance. With equipment that went out of date last spring, one boy

probed the interior air, the cultured leather seats, the dashboard and

floorboard and even an empty pop can standing in its cradle. "Naw, it's okay,"

he was saying. "Get on in there."

His partner had a knife. The curled blade was intended for upholstery. Nothing

could be learned by ripping apart the seats, but it was a fun game nonetheless.

"Get in there," the first boy repeated.

The second one started to say, "I'm getting in -- ' But he happened to glance

over his shoulder, seeing Blaine coming, and he turned fast, lifting the knife,

seriously thinking about slashing the interloper.

Blaine was bigger than some pairs of men.

He was fat, but in a powerful, focused way. And he was quick, grabbing the knife

hand and giving a hard squeeze, then flinging the boy against the car's

composite body, the knife dropping and Blaine kicking it out of reach, then

giving the boy a second shove, harder this time, telling both of them, "That's

enough, gentlemen."

"Who the fuck are you -- ?" they sputtered, in a chorus.

Blaine produced a badge and ID bracelet. "Read these," he suggested coldly. Then

he told them, "You're welcome to check me out. But we do that somewhere else.

Right now, this man's door is closed and locked, and the three of us are hiding.

Understand.?"

The boy with the surveillance equipment said, "We're within our rights."

Blaine shut and locked the door for them, saying, "This way. Stay with me."

"One of their nests got hit last night," said the other boy, walking. "We've

been checking people all morning!"

"Find any.?"

"Not yet --"

"With that old gear, you won't."

"We've caught them before," said the first boy, defending his equipment. His

status. "A couple, three different carloads..."

Maybe they did, but that was months ago. Generations ago.

"Is that yours?" asked Blaine. He pointed to a battered Python, saying, "It

better be. We're getting inside."

The boys climbed in front. Blaine filled the back seat, sweating from exertion

and the car's brutal heat.

"What are we doing?" one of them asked.

"We're waiting. Is that all right with you.?"

"I guess."

But his partner couldn't just sit. He turned and glared at Blaine, saying,

"You'd better be Federal."

"And if not?" Blaine inquired, without interest.

No appropriate threat came to mind. So the boy simply growled and repeated

himself. "You'd just better be. That's all I'm saying."

A moment later, Winemaster strolled out of the store. Nothing in his stance or

pace implied worry. He was carrying a can of pop and a red bag of corn nuts.

Resting his purchases on the roof, he punched in his code to unlock the driver's

door, then gave the area a quick glance. It was the glance of someone who never

intended to return here, even for gasoline -a dismissive expression coupled with

a tangible sense of relief.

That's when Blaine knew.

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Robert Reed - Winemaster

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