Living Dead at Zigfreidt & Roy by Axel Howerton Page A

sheets and a half-eaten club sandwich littered his
table. The other occupied table, at the front of the diner, held a
young couple arguing in harsh whispers and oblivious to the rest of
the world.
    The cowboy
jumped as a sudden blur of lights and wailing alarms flew past the
street-side windows. Every face in the room turned, as if by mutual
instinct. The old man watched with visible discomfort as the parade
of sirens sped by, before returning to his coffee.
    The cook let
his gaze turn to the cowboy, and he spoke in a low growl
    “Guess if the
cops were chasing you, you wouldn’t stop in here, now would ya?” He
continued to eye the old man with a suspicious glare. “You got any
idea what’s goin’ on out there? That’s the third set of cops and
ambulances we’ve seen in ten minutes.”
    The old man
turned slowly on the stool, his rheumy eyes hardening to a concrete
stare as he leaned forward. “I told you I’d tell you the story. But
you ain’t gonna believe me. Not by a long shot.”
    The cook
crossed his arms and redoubled his stare. “Spill it, old
timer.”
    The cowboy
took another sip of his coffee and set his eyes on the dark
reflection in the bottom of the cup.
    “Was over to
the casino to see that show with all the animals and them two
fellas, the magicians. You know? The ones wear them white jumpsuits
full of shiny bullshit. Got a couple of white tigers to match?”
    The old man
paused, staring into the oily black dregs in his cup, as another
raucous choir of sirens charged past the diner. When quiet had
fallen back over the room, the cook cleared his throat in hopes of
urging the cowboy to get on with the story.“Yep. That's a damn fine
cup of coffee, boy. Y'know, over at the hotels, they only got them
places with all the ven-see latt-tays and mocha-fritos, or whatever
the hell they call em'-”
    The cook stood
solid, glaring down with the face of an old bulldog waiting for his
can of meat.
    The cowboy
coughed, “Yep. They give out free tickets to keep ya comin’ back to
the casino for more. I’ll tell ya, it was the wrong goddamn show to
see tonight. Never seen any crazier shit in all my days.”
    “Yeah, it’s a
crazy fucking magic show all right,” the cook replied, rolling his
eyes. “You’re in Vegas, Pops. Were you looking for card tricks and
top hats? Let's hear about the blood and the ambulances.”The old
man sneered. “I'm gettin' there, you asshole. There was this spooky
lookin’ Indian fella settin’ in the back of the theatre when I got
there. Not American Indian, y’understand. ... East Indian, or maybe
he was one of them Packeeestanis. He was wearing one of them white
suits with no collar, like James Coburn in them spy pictures.”
    “Nero,”said
the busboy, hustling back with a tray full of greasy dishes and
bottles full of cigarette butts.
    “Who in the
hell was talking to you, Tommy?” growled the cook.
    Tommy cowered
behind the pile of dirty plates and cups. He spoke in a soft,
trembling voice. “I was just saying, they call it a Nero suit.”
    “It’s called a
Nehru suit, you retard,” the cook barked, waving the busboy away,
“go wash some fucking dishes!”Tommy carried his load behind the
counter and back into the kitchen. There was a clattering sound as
the dishes tumbled into the stainless steel sink. Tommy scuttled
back to the counter. He was small and slight with a hunched posture
and a mouse-like twitchiness. Tommy grabbed the coffeepot and
brought it around to refill the stranger’s cup. He hesitated as he
caught a glimpse of the barrel of the pistol, poking out from
beneath the old man’s hat.
    “Obliged,” the
cowboy muttered with a nod and a slight rise atthe corners of his
mouth. “Have a seat, son.”
    “So what, old
man? So there was some Indian guy wearing a white suit? Everybody
wears white in those Vegas shows.” The cook prodded.
    “The Indian
fella weren’t with the show. He was just standin’ in the back,
watchin’. He was big for