Chapter Fifteen

Levi Shabazz leaned over the baron’s stove, lifted the lid on the bubbling pot and sniffed deeply at the fragrant steam. “Now, that’s some chiller gravy,” he said.

“Sauce,” the baron’s cook stated. “It’s a sauce.”

The bearded trader dipped a grimy finger into the simmering liquid and hooked it into his mouth. “Mmm,” he said, smacking his lips. “Don’t care what the fuck you call it, that shit is triple tasty.”

The cook started to say something, then thought better of it and kept his trap shut. Some people just couldn’t be educated. And trying to play teacher could get a person’s neck broken. The cook turned and hobbled toward the other end of the long stainless steel counter, his manacle chains rasping over the wood floor.

The swing doors to the kitchen opened, and Baron Zeal walked in, his hairy ankles wobbling as he struggled to maintain his balance on the towering, red high heels. Under his right arm was a small, apparently extremely heavy metal box. On top of the box was a pair of thick gauntlets.

Shabazz leaned back against the edge of the stove and scratched his throat. He was very pleased with himself. Every once in a while, he had what seemed like a moment of pure genius, an insight so clear and wonderful that it surprised even him. To Shabazz, it sometimes seemed like the really great ideas were just floating around out there, like motes of dust in the sunlight, and occasionally he would open his mind and suck one in. That his ideas always had to do with torture and pain seemed only natural.

So what was it that he had whispered to the baron in the refinery? What inspired, magic words had turned the trick, convincing Zeal to forego his immediate pleasure in exchange for something even better? Shabazz had put them in the form of a question, actually.

And the question he whispered was, “Ever seen a guy die of rad poisoning?”

Zeal had ceased his sputtering and fuming at once. Realizing that he had captured the baron’s full attention, Shabazz had then described the whole abysmal sequence in gory detail. He had waxed poetic over the way radiation caused the entire bowel lining to slough off and slide out the backside like a misplaced afterbirth, over the way the butt hole poured forth a river of bright blood, over the incredible burning pain in the guts, and the massive, rapid sepsis leading to brain-melting fever and a terrible, tortured death.

Zeal hadn’t answered an audible “No” to the question, but the answer was there in his eyes. He hadn’t ever seen it. Alongside the “No” had been a “But I would like to, very much.”

And that wistful hope was very close to coming true.

The baron deposited the metal box and gloves on the kitchen counter. “It still bothers me,” he said, “that we had to leave Trader alone in his wags for so long. No telling what he was doing inside.”

“Yeah,” Shabazz countered, “but if all the wags were set to blow up like he said, and we were standing too close, looking over his shoulder, we could’ve gotten blown up with them if something had gone wrong.”

“If, if, if,” Zeal fumed. “Don’t you see what’s going on here? We’re taking Trader’s word for things at every step. He’s making us jump through hoops!”

“One of the wags blew. We know that.”

The baron snorted. “We don’t even know if any of the other wags were mined. But you can bet they’re all mined now. He had plenty of time to do it when he was inside, all by himself. Seems like no matter what we do, the bastard is always ahead of us. Like he’s got the whole thing mapped out and we don’t have a clue where he’s going. Let me tell you, it pisses me off, biggish.”

Shabazz nodded at the metal box on the counter. “He ain’t gonna be one step ahead for long. His butt’s gonna be dragging real soon.”

“That’s what you said before,” Zeal reminded him, “about the nerve gas. It was supposed to chill them all, as I remember. Seems to me that your precious deadly grens didn’t work for shit.”

Shabazz didn’t like being called on the carpet for something that wasn’t his fault. The wind had screwed up his delivery system. “Nothing wrong with the grens,” he said, “If you want another demonstration, I got plenty more where they came from.”

Zeal eyed him archly. “I warned you before and now I’m telling you, flat out. If I find you’ve stashed that nerve gas somewhere in my ville without my consent, I will personally shove every single gren up your backside.”

Shabazz made a mental note to relocate the crates of weapons, which were currently hidden in the refinery warehouse, among the many tiers of full fuel drums awaiting buyers.

“Don’t worry about Trader,” he said, quickly changing the subject. “I figure a day or two will be all he’ll last, which should give us plenty of time to capture Spearpoint with his wags. That’s all we need him for.”

The baron scowled, which only magnified the effect of his fright mask of a face.

Shabazz knew Zeal as well as anybody could. He was a man who loved nothing but himself. And his goal in life, it seemed, was to sweep all things into his talons. Was the man insane? Yes. Did he always seem to make a profit? Yes. Did the two balance out in Shabazz’s eyes? Yes again.

Zeal pushed up the sleeves of his fur robe and donned the heavy gauntlets he had brought, then unlatched the lid of the metal box. When he opened it, Shabazz could see that the box’s walls were six inches thick, and that the narrow cleft that remained held a single, gleaming silver cylinder the size of a man’s index finger. On the inner surface of the lid was a purple-and-yellow Caution Radiation Hazard warning.

The baron carefully removed the cylinder from its resting place and unscrewed the top in slow, even turns like it contained high-ex. “Doesn’t look like much,” he said of the fine, shiny black powder inside.

“Deadliest shit since nukeday,” Shabazz pronounced. “Plutonium dust. Not only does it chill you dead, it chills you ugly dead.”

“Never thought I’d have a use for it,” Zeal said. “I took it in trade for fuel, along with a bunch of other nuke stuff, a few years back.”

“I think Trader’s grub could use a touch more seasoning,” Shabazz said as he removed the lid on the saucepan.

At the other end of the kitchen, the cook glanced over, shrugged and looked away.

Zeal sprinkled some of the dust into the sauce, holding it close to the surface so as to keep it all in the pot. As Shabazz stirred it in, the baron moved on to the soup course. The cook had prepared homemade oxtail soup. Zeal shook a good amount of plutonium into it, and it sank immediately to the bottom.

Likewise, he doctored the accompanying jug of strong ale.

“Don’t forget the dessert,” Shabazz reminded him.

Dessert sat on the sideboard. The pie shell had been precooked and filled with plump purple berries and a thick, sugary liquid. The unbaked pie top sat to one side, awaiting the cook’s final touch. Zeal emptied the last of the vial into the pie filling.

After replacing the container in the box, locking it shut and removing the long gloves, the baron ordered his cook front and center. “Get that pie in the oven,” he said. “I want Trader’s dinner on the table, right sharpish.”

The cook immediately started to apply the strips of unbaked crust into the latticework that would form the top of the pie. “Be fifteen minutes more,” he said.

“One more thing,” Zeal told him, leaning so close to the cook that he couldn’t help but flinch. The man knew better than to draw away. “And I want you to listen to me very carefully. You must throw away all the pots and pans you’ve used to cook this meal. Toss out the utensils, as well as every plate, cup and saucer you use to serve him. Don’t wash them. If I see them in this kitchen again, I will hang you from the gates of the stockade by your balls. Do you understand me?”

“Throw everything out,” the cook repeated, a pained expression on his face.

TRADER SAT IN THE BARON’S living room, smoking his hand-twisted cheroot, scattering the ashes on the sofa and rug. He was thinking about his wags and the autodestructs. He hadn’t actually shut down the system, of course. As he’d moved from wag to wag, he’d reset the time to detonation, pushing it forward twenty-four hours. He figured if his crew wasn’t back in charge by then, they’d never be.

Because none of the external mines were set, he didn’t have to do anything to get at the door locks. Once he’d done his work inside, though, he’d tripped all the outside switches. His crew always checked the switches before they tried to enter the wags. Anybody else looking to hop a ride was going to get a big surprise.

Trader didn’t think it was very likely that Zeal and Shabazz had located Spearpoint; he had always figured the stockpile of stockpiles was a tall tale. And even if they had found it, he never expected to see any part of the fifty-fifty split he had worked out with them. He knew the two snakes would dispose of him as soon as they could. Right now, he had them off balance, and he planned on hanging on and digging in his spurs a bit more. Poet, Ryan and Hunaker were still out there somewhere, and he couldn’t have picked three better crew members for the job of freeing the convoy. He wasn’t worried that they hadn’t tried anything yet. He knew there would be better opportunities for ambush and rescue outside the ville.

A servant approached from the other side of the room. He stepped up and said, “Your dinner is ready. If you’ll follow me, it’s this way

“

Trader wasn’t expecting dinner. Out of gratitude to his cross-dressing captor, he stubbed the cheroot on the arm of the sofa, leaving a nice black hole in the floral-print upholstery. Then he dropped the hot butt in his shirt pocket and followed the servant through a doorway and down a corridor.

“Not serving smoked human head tonight, are we?” Trader asked.

“Of course not,” the servant answered, taken aback by the question.

“Good, because that’s what I had last night and the night before that. Getting kind of tired of it. Especially the ears

“

The servant blinked at him.

“Chewy,” Trader said without expression.

The servant visibly blanched. “I’ve already laid out your meal, sir,” he said stiffly. “It’s right through there.”

Trader entered a spacious dining room. Evidently he was the only guest. The servant walked past the table heaped with food and passed through a pair of swing doors, into what Trader figured had to be the kitchen.

Scraping back a chair, he sat and started digging in. First thing he pulled the berry pie in front of him. One sniff and his mouth began to water. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had blueberry pie. He shoved aside the silverware had been set out for him to use and drew his own knife. The SOG Pentagon model dagger was double edged, and one edge was serrated, for cutting tree limbs, thighbones or pie crust. He slashed the dessert into four huge wedges, then wiped the purple-stained blade on the linen tablecloth.

Using his fingers, Trader proceeded to wolf down the entire pie. He had started out with every intention of going slowly, so as to get the maximum enjoyment out of it, but the damned thing tasted so good he just couldn’t stop himself.

“Hell of a cook!” he bellowed toward the kitchen when he was done. “Goddamned chef, that’s what you are! If you ever feel the need to put some miles under your boots, you always got a ride with me!”

Then he let out a sonorous belch.

He noticed a kind of funny grit in his mouth. He thought it was from the berry seeds or the wheat flour in the crust. Disdaining the crystal beer mug set out before him, he picked up the flagon and drank straight from the spout. The beer was heavy and had just the right balance of bitterness and sweetness. It sure wasn’t the thin, green donkey piss they served in the Virtue Lake gaudies. He emptied the jug down his throat in a single pour, slammed the empty vessel on the table and shouted, “Going to need some more of this ale!”

The servant hurried out and took the flagon away. By the time he returned with another foaming jug, Trader was well into the main course. He held the china plate tipped to his mouth and, using the tip of his dagger, shoveled in the fricassee of game birds—quail, prairie chicken and chukar. He paused only for breath, and to groan with pleasure. Each of the birds had been boned and cooked separately, to preserve its unique flavor and texture. They were only stirred into the sauce at the very end. The effect was marvelous. Trader used a hunk of fresh bread to mop the last of the sauce from the plate, then returned to the ale to refresh his palate.

He took on the oxtail soup last, spearing out the hunks of tender meat with the tip of his knife; then when he’d cleared the field, he picked up the soup bowl and drank it down to the last drop.

“Can I bring you anything else?” the servant asked as he cleared away the empty plates.

Trader laced his fingers behind his head and propped his feet up on the edge of the table. “No. That was perfect.”

As the servant turned away, he whipped out a fresh cheroot and lit it up. Stomach well packed, brain warm and slightly buzzed from two quarts of strong ale, Trader blew smoke rings at the ceiling. If it turned out that this was his last meal, he thought, it was a damned fine one.

After a bit, the servant came back with a carafe of brandy and a cut-crystal glass. “In case you’d enjoy a drink with your cigar, sir.”

“Zeal’s not trying to get me drunk, is he?”

“I wouldn’t know that, sir. But please, help yourself.”

“Well, he can try all he likes,” Trader said, filling the tumbler to the brim. He downed the brandy in a single gulp and promptly refilled the glass. “I can put any man under the table.”

“I don’t doubt that, sir,” the servant said as he left the room.

Trader blew more smoke rings, guzzled more of the baron’s fine brandy and generally felt on top of the world.

This while, inside his overstuffed belly, a time bomb ticked.