Ain't Talkin'

The day continued through the way most days did in the epilogue of the world. It had a tired, slow way of shifting to late morning and noon and finally into the twilight that brought about a burned sky the color of tropical fruit. Roche sat on a bench outside of a tavern that had no sign and no name. The barkeep inside, a heavyset man with an egg-head and suspenders had sold Roche a bottle of cheap bourbon and lent him a dirty glass.

Roche rolled a cigarette and took note that he was almost out of paper scrap to roll with.

He swigged out of the bottle and untied the twine from the Corporation soldiers address book.

It was a lost art in the world to be able to read and write. Roche had been lucky enough to have had a small library in the town where he was born and a kindly old woman who ran the place to teach him the art of letters from an early age.

He was lucky enough that this soldier had the privilege of also knowing his letters. There had been half a moment when Roche had thought that putting a bullet through both of the soldiers would have stymied his trail for a bit.

Knowing letters however, proved to be different from having neat handwriting.

The address book was disorganized above anything. No rhyme or reason to which notes pertained to which subject, only random scrawls and chicken-scratch. Dates. Names. Locations. The occasional list of ‘shit to buy’.

Roche tugged on his cigarette and took another lick from the bottle.

Dust devils sprang up in the street and across the way a beggar-man pushing a cart stooped to pick up something of interest from the pavement.

A copper came along the street from the other direction, and Roche tucked the address book in his pocket and bellied another draught from the bottle.

The coppers had found the bodies Roche had left in the alley by now, that much was certain. In small border towns like Parmiskus the law was made up of vigilante volunteers. They were quiet folk who’d spent their lives in Polkun county and after decades of lawlessness, excess and violence had organized themselves into small private-sector militia that masqueraded as law enforcement. Their only judicial power stemmed from a full-time executioner with a rope and mob justice. But if it was all the same, Roche tended to stay on their even-keel side. Wasn’t much use going around the wastelands of the Mojave pissing off every Tom-Dick-and-Harry law gang this side of the Colorado. Eventually you got a reputation, and Roche preferred his only reputation be as a for-hire man with a special set of skills. Not an outlaw. But who could really be sure in the world’s epilogue, it was all hazes of gray.

The copper drew closer to Roche and gave him a look up and down. Roche settled back against the bench and slid a hand in his jacket pocket past the address book and to his revolver, it was the same leg he had just strapped the sawed-off to with a couple lengths of leather and a makeshift holster. Roche dipped his chin as if drunk and slouched.

“Can’t drink out here.” The copper stopped in front of Roche and rested a palm on his exposed gun. “Gotta go inside the bar.”

“I’m sorry, officer. Didn’t know.” Roche mangled his tongue when he talked, making himself sound soused.

“Yeah, well. Parmiskus folk don’t like their drunk out and about where any all can see ’em. Just the preference of the people ’round here, but you’ll kindly go inside.” It wasn’t a request. This Dick was hard on himself about the little bit of power a tin badge gave him with a gibbet at his disposal.

“Yeah, alrigh’ then.” Roche said, still slurring his words for effect.

Roche stood to leave, one hand still deep in his jacket on his revolver. He capped his bourbon bottle with one hand and set it on the bench and turned to go, eyes watchful over his shoulder.

“Hey!” The copper held out a hand.

“Yeah?”

“You forgot your whiskey.”

“Ah. Oh, yeah.” Roche took the bourbon bottle from the Copper, who held it out to him with a wan smile. “Say, you didn’t happen to hear about a fella gone missing from around here?” Roche ventured, the question coming across idly as though it was just polite conversation, a ruse he had perfected.

The copper handed Roche the bottle and looked left and right, checking for prying ears. “That Alex Markus fella?”

“That’s the name? I heard it was something different.” Roche played.

“Nah. Alex was the guy. Went gone just over two days ago. Nothing much to say on it. Guy up and vanished. No trace. Militia been to the house on the father’s account and found nothin’ and less. Guy just up and left I guess. Maybe a struggle, maybe not. Not the first time or the hundredth time a guy gone up and disappeared for no reason though. Not our top care anyhow. Two men gunned down out past the Hen, for money I’d guess. Don’t matter so much as a killing scares folks.” The copper looked at his boots, realizing that he maybe had said too much, and then seemed to realize that he’d only told a soily drunk, and cared less.

“Ah. No idea which way he went then?” Roche ventured some more.

“Pfft, ah. West probably. Towards New San Fran, seems to be where they all head eventually if they get the idea to move out and get ‘er goin’. Always talk of bright waters and gold in the shallows. Come on then, you. Move along.”

Roche tipped his hat in thanks, stuffed the bourbon bottle under one arm and made his way not back into the bar but down the street.

“Hey-” The copper called, about to chastise him again for staying on the streets. But he did not, he simply kicked at the dust in the street, swung wide and turn the other direction.

Roche finally took his hand off of his revolver beneath his jacket and set the bourbon bottle down against a wall as he trod off towards the mangy rot of the setting sun in the western sky.