City #02 - Hell's Horizon by Darren Shan

Author:Darren Shan [Shan, Darren]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Suspense, Fantasy, Science Fiction, Fiction, General, Large Type Books, Urban Life, Noir fiction, Gangsters, Magic Realism (Literature)
ISBN: 9780446551731
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2010-01-02T00:00:00+00:00

15

I kept my head down the next day, in case reporters were on the prowl. As things turned out, I had nothing to fear. The Cardinal’s people must have been hard at work because although the news bulletins on the radio made heavy mention of the Fursts throughout the day, my name never cropped up. They didn’t even report that there’d been a survivor, and only a few of the papers commented on it.

A cop came by with my bike around ten—“Compliments of Bill Casey,” he smiled—but apart from that I saw nobody until I ducked down to Ali’s in the afternoon for bagels. I passed a beggar on my way, going from door to door, selling photos of one kind or another. Ali was discussing the Furst slaughter with a customer when I entered. It was a disgrace, in their opinion, and the man who killed so immorally deserved to be roasted alive without a trial. I didn’t want to join the conversation—afraid my emotions might betray me—so I just paid for my bagels and made a hasty departure. Passed the beggar again on my way up. He was close to my apartment and would be calling on me soon. Inside, I got some change ready and stood by the door, waiting for him.

The beggar knocked twice. I opened the door and held out the coins. “Here you go,” I started to say, but stopped when I saw his walking stick and dark glasses. I immediately thought of the blind men I’d seen at the funeral and building site, but this guy looked nothing like either of them. He was younger, shorter, dressed in ordinary clothes.

The beggar smiled and held out a small group of photos bound together by a rubber band. “Visions of the city,” he intoned. “Can I interest you in visions of the city”—a moment’s pause while he sniffed the air—“sir? Best snapshots money can buy. Swiss Square at night. Peacock Wharf. Pyramid Tombs. Very scenic postcards. Ideal for framing or sending to—”

“How much?”

“Donations are voluntary.”

I dropped the coins into the tin hanging by a string around his neck. He listened, head cocked, judging their worth by the sound, then smiled and pressed the photos on me. I had no use for them but took them anyway, to humor him.

“May the gods bless you, kind sir,” he said, bowed politely and moved along to the next door. I glanced at the top “vision”—a tacky shot of Pyramid Tombs, where wealthy fools paid to be buried in the manner of ancient Egyptians—then tossed the package to one side and tucked into my bagels.

I returned to the Ellroy book in the afternoon, radio on as I read. The pages flew by in a blur and I was soon caught up in his reconstruction of earlier times—supposedly more innocent, but, as he wrote it, just as deadly as today—and two hundred pages further along before I set it down and rested my eyes.

I listened to the six o’clock news

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