Shirley gasped, dropping a plate on the countertop.
“Mister,” the tree said slowly between clenched teeth. “You start rumors like that—that there was some damned nuke war back then—and I’ll have your hide. Stories like that cause trouble around here. We call ’89 the year of the big tornados.” He squinted his eyes at both of the freefighters. “Get me?”
Rock was mad for a split second, but then thought better of it. “Yeah—we get you.” The big man smiled.
“Well now, that’s better—ain’t it, folks? The fella made a little mistake. Now it’s all right. Hey, folks, get back to eating. Anyone got a nickel for the juke?”
Rock remembered the anthropology lectures by Dean Keppel back in Century City. “Never buck a local superstition, Rock, it could mean your life. People like to be affirmed in their beliefs—no matter how bizarre it may appear to you.” So the folks around here didn’t even believe there had been a war. So be it. He slapped Archer on the back to relax him. The big freefighter was still glaring over at the table of the tree ready to have a go at it. But the second helping of steak appeared in the nick of time and Archer dug in.
“Eat hearty, my friend—we have lots of credit here.” Archer did—and then ordered again.
Seven
W hen they’d finished eating as much as they could possibly stuff into their stomachs, both men felt exhausted. Rock wished he could get a bath and just sack out for the night—without half-naked panther women tying him up, or flaming balls of lightning on his tail. The waitress noticed Rock’s weariness and suggested the Three Little Bears Motel just down the road about a hundred yards.
“You have to watch carefully,” she said. “The neon sign’s been out for years. But they got good clean rooms and—” she leaned forward so as not to be heard by the other diners—“back behind the office is a little room where a gambling man and his friend could find some high-stakes players. If there’s more where that twenty piece came from.” She winked. “Just tell ’em, Shirley sent you. After you check in and all.”
“I’m afraid,” Rock said, “we’re dog-tired. We’ll probably just get some sleep and—”
“Game goes on twenty four hours a day,” Shirley continued, wiping the counter with a peculiar white towel made of bubbly white paper that seemed to absorb any spills quickly. “You can go in anytime. Someone will be there to take your money—or give you his. The game’s fair. The motel owner, Morrie Maliber, won’t have it any other way. It’s good for biz.”
Rockson thanked her kindly and the two freefighters slogged back out to the road. Archer had been given some pink liquid from a tablespoon by Shirley that seemed to have cured his indigestion after all those steaks and fries and donuts. Now all he complained about was, “Sleeeep, sleeeep.”
“Yeah, me too, pal. You and I will rent a nice soft bed for ourselves. Maybe three—two for you and one for me.” They walked down the dark road and easily found the motel deep set in a grove of pine trees with its paint peeling off and its sign—three bears sleeping in feather beds—half hanging from its hinges. The filthy khaki-clad Rockson and the pungent beaver-fur-jacketed Archer made quite a pair as they rang the bell to the office.
“Door’s open,” a voice yelled out from inside as a table lamp was switched on. The motel manager, dressed in a red lumberjack jacket, his head as devoid of hair as an egg, was yawning loudly. He eyed them suspiciously. “Can you pay?” he asked. “Up front.”
“Shirley sent us,” Rock said, rolling a shiny gold piece across the wood counter. The motel keep snagged it and quickly bit into the coin.
“Damned if it ain’t real.” He smiled broadly. “The name’s Maliber, Morrie Maliber, hospitality chief of the Three Little Bears. I got a nice double—big beds, shower and everything. And you probably know about our
“Mister,” the tree said slowly between clenched teeth. “You start rumors like that—that there was some damned nuke war back then—and I’ll have your hide. Stories like that cause trouble around here. We call ’89 the year of the big tornados.” He squinted his eyes at both of the freefighters. “Get me?”
Rock was mad for a split second, but then thought better of it. “Yeah—we get you.” The big man smiled.
“Well now, that’s better—ain’t it, folks? The fella made a little mistake. Now it’s all right. Hey, folks, get back to eating. Anyone got a nickel for the juke?”
Rock remembered the anthropology lectures by Dean Keppel back in Century City. “Never buck a local superstition, Rock, it could mean your life. People like to be affirmed in their beliefs—no matter how bizarre it may appear to you.” So the folks around here didn’t even believe there had been a war. So be it. He slapped Archer on the back to relax him. The big freefighter was still glaring over at the table of the tree ready to have a go at it. But the second helping of steak appeared in the nick of time and Archer dug in.
“Eat hearty, my friend—we have lots of credit here.” Archer did—and then ordered again.
Seven
W hen they’d finished eating as much as they could possibly stuff into their stomachs, both men felt exhausted. Rock wished he could get a bath and just sack out for the night—without half-naked panther women tying him up, or flaming balls of lightning on his tail. The waitress noticed Rock’s weariness and suggested the Three Little Bears Motel just down the road about a hundred yards.
“You have to watch carefully,” she said. “The neon sign’s been out for years. But they got good clean rooms and—” she leaned forward so as not to be heard by the other diners—“back behind the office is a little room where a gambling man and his friend could find some high-stakes players. If there’s more where that twenty piece came from.” She winked. “Just tell ’em, Shirley sent you. After you check in and all.”
“I’m afraid,” Rock said, “we’re dog-tired. We’ll probably just get some sleep and—”
“Game goes on twenty four hours a day,” Shirley continued, wiping the counter with a peculiar white towel made of bubbly white paper that seemed to absorb any spills quickly. “You can go in anytime. Someone will be there to take your money—or give you his. The game’s fair. The motel owner, Morrie Maliber, won’t have it any other way. It’s good for biz.”
Rockson thanked her kindly and the two freefighters slogged back out to the road. Archer had been given some pink liquid from a tablespoon by Shirley that seemed to have cured his indigestion after all those steaks and fries and donuts. Now all he complained about was, “Sleeeep, sleeeep.”
“Yeah, me too, pal. You and I will rent a nice soft bed for ourselves. Maybe three—two for you and one for me.” They walked down the dark road and easily found the motel deep set in a grove of pine trees with its paint peeling off and its sign—three bears sleeping in feather beds—half hanging from its hinges. The filthy khaki-clad Rockson and the pungent beaver-fur-jacketed Archer made quite a pair as they rang the bell to the office.
“Door’s open,” a voice yelled out from inside as a table lamp was switched on. The motel manager, dressed in a red lumberjack jacket, his head as devoid of hair as an egg, was yawning loudly. He eyed them suspiciously. “Can you pay?” he asked. “Up front.”
“Shirley sent us,” Rock said, rolling a shiny gold piece across the wood counter. The motel keep snagged it and quickly bit into the coin.
“Damned if it ain’t real.” He smiled broadly. “The name’s Maliber, Morrie Maliber, hospitality chief of the Three Little Bears. I got a nice double—big beds, shower and everything. And you probably know about our
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