Tapping the Dream Tree by Charles De Lint Page A

didn’t like the look of him,” he says, “so I told him you quit.”
    â€œYou didn’t lie,” I tell him, already removing the apron.
    â€œWhat’s this guy got on you?” Raul asks.
    â€œNothing. He just works for some freaks who don’t like to hear the word ‘no.’ He comes back, you tell him you never saw me again.”
    Raul shrugs. “I can do that, but—”
    â€œI’m not saying this for me,” I tell him. “I’m saying it for you.”
    I guess he sees something in my face, a piece of how serious this is, because he swallows hard and nods. Then I’m out the door, walking fast, pulse working overtime. There’s a sick feeling in my gut and the skin between my shoulderblades is prickling like someone’s got a rifle site aimed at my back.
    Except the kind of boys the Couteaus hire like to work close, like to see the pain. I’m almost at the end of the alley, thinking I’m home free, except suddenly he’s there in front of me, like he stepped out of nowhere, knife in hand. I have long enough to register his fish cold eyes, the freak’s grin that splits his face, then the knife punches into my stomach. He pulls it up, tearing through my chest, and I go down. It happens so fast that the pain follows afterwards, like thunder trailing a lightning bolt.
    And everything goes black.
    Only maybe I didn’t go out the back door, where I knew he could be waiting.
    Maybe I grabbed my jacket and bolted through the restaurant, out the front, and lost myself in the lunchtime crowd. But I know he’s out there, looking for me, and I don’t have anywhere to go. I never had much of a stake and what I did have is long gone. Why do you think I’m washing dishes for a living?
    So I go to ground with the skells, trade my clean jacket for some wino’s smelly coat, a couple of bucks buys me a toque, I don’t want to know where it’s been. I rub dirt on my face and hands and I hide there in plain sight, same block as the restaurant, sprawled on the pavement, begging for spare change, waiting for the night to come so I can go looking for this wheel of Sammy’s.
    The afternoon takes a long slow stroll through what’s left of the day, but I’m not impatient. Why should I be? I’m just some harmless drunk, got an early start on the day’s inebriation. Time doesn’t mean anything to me anymore, except for how much of it stretches between bottles. Play this kind of thing right and you start to believe it yourself.
    I’m into my role, so much so that when I see the guy, I stay calm. He’s got to be the shooter the Couteaus sent, tall, sharp dresser, whistling a Doc Cheatham tune and walking loose, but the dead eyes give him away. He’s looking everywhere but at me. That’s the thing about the homeless. They’re either invisible, or a nuisance you have to ignore. I ask him for some spare change, but I don’t even register for him, his gaze slides right on by.
    I watch him make a slow pass by the restaurant, hands in his pockets. He stops, turns back to read the menu, goes in. I start to worry then. Not for me, but for Raul. I’m long past letting anyone else get hurt because of me. But the shooter’s back out a moment later. He takes a casual look down my side of the street, then ambles off the other way and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. So much for staying in character.
    It takes me a little longer to settle back into my role, but it’s an effort well spent, for here he comes walking by again. Lee Street’s not exactly the French Quarter—even in the middle of the day Bourbon Street’s a lively place—but there’s enough going on that he doesn’t seem out of place, wandering here and there, window shopping, stopping to buy a cappuccino from a cart at the end of the block, a soft pretzel from another. He finishes them