Restoration (14 page)

  "Home Town," said Loomis. "It'll be the biggest draw around these parts, may God strike me down if I tell a lie."

  Tom wished he believed enough in God to hope for just that. Experience told him that a truthful realtor was a rare breed.

  "Sounds interesting," Tom heard himself say; that bourbon must be working its magic already, he thought.

  "It's a cross between a mall and a theme park," Loomis explained, "all themed around fifties America, you know, lots of Chrome and jukeboxes… few Chevys parked here and there."

  And we're discussing this because…? Tom wondered.

  "I brokered the deal myself," Loomis continued, "had that patch of land along Highway 192 for a couple of years now, just waiting for the right buyer. It's just shy of the interstate, perfect accessibility."

  A small bell began to ring at the back of Tom's speedily mellowing head. He glanced at Miles who gave a slight nod. Well, okay… now Tom was more interested. It seemed they might have found their location. Small world… Tom thought. Who would credit that they'd be dropped off at the right place and time to meet this guy? Little did he know that, many miles – and years – away Ashe had been having similar thoughts. The House seemed to be placing them just where they needed to be. He attacked his drink, wondering why it was still being so rude as to not be on the inside of his body. Oops, looked like he'd finished that one…

  "We should think of ordering some food," suggested Miles, noticing the speed with which Tom was drinking.

  "Or some more drinks?" Tom countered. Nobody else had put a serious dent into theirs. Though Carruthers was clearly enjoying his "masculine" Harvey Wallbanger.

  "Most refreshing," he said after taking a mouthful.

  "Say, what is it you guys are up to here anyway?" said Loomis, determined to suss out whether there was any business to be had.

  "We're meeting up with a friend of ours," Miles said.

  "And looking into sites for a new antiques outlet," added Tom, knowing how to keep a man like Loomis on the hook.

  "Well, hell…" Loomis said, with a grin so wide you might think he was trying to eat his own moustache off. "You should come over and take a look at the Home Town construction, we've some prime units left."

  "Maybe we should at that," agreed Tom.

  "Definitely," Loomis reached for his jacket, "let me give you a card… oh shit it…" he remembered he'd lost his wallet. "I can give you my number if one of you guys has a pen?"

  Carruthers pulled his pencil and notebook out of his rucksack. "By all means," he said, opening the book at a blank page and offering it to Loomis.

  Loomis wrote down his number, adding his name underneath with the sort of flourish that befitted a rock star rather than a beige-suited hawker of bricks and mortar. "You just give me a call in the morning," he said. "And I'll get you guys over. Damn sure you won't regret it."

  He drained his drink and got to his feet. "Look forward to hearing from you!"

  "We'll give you a call first thing," Tom said. "Before you go, don't suppose you know a hotel around here?"

  "Hell yeah, there's the Plaza just round the corner, give 'em my name and they'll treat you special, use the place for a lot of business."

  Tom wondered if that was the sort of business that had secretaries sitting awkwardly in their office chair for the rest of the afternoon.

  "Great, we'll be sure to do that."

  Loomis offered another of those huge,
grotesque
, smiles and made his way out of the bar.

  "Well," said Miles, "he's lovely. Our new best friend."

  "More drinks!" said Tom.

  Carruthers drained his Harvey Wallbanger. "More drinks and food," he said. "Then we can see about this hotel our 'new best friend' has suggested."

  "Night's young," grinned Tom, dashing to the bar.

 

 

In the end it was Carruthers that forced them to leave, his enjoyment of the cocktails having been over and above his ability to process them. They had seen their way through a round of burgers – with Carruthers insisting on eating his with a knife and fork naturally – followed by several more rounds of drinks. Miles, having stuck to beer, survived the intake. Tom was born to deal with it, Carruthers on the other hand… They had to drag him out of there before he caused problems they could well do with out. After five minutes climbing through the decorative plants, begging the band to shut up and then talking to a black guy in a "curious dialect I picked up while cruising along the Zambezi" they decided it was leave or end up throwing punches. Neither Miles nor Tom fancied their odds on the latter so leave they did.

  They got a cab to drop them at the hotel. A towering construction that offered the sort of faux opulence that only
slightly
rich people can afford. The sort of class that rubs off if you lean on it too hard, all glitter and plastic flowers. They didn't care, it was a step up from their recent accommodation. Tom introduced them to the old guy behind reception as "clients of Ted Loomis" offering him Ted's card to run a tab. "That Ted, he sure knows how to look after a guy," he whispered, "I've never known such a big spender!"

  The receptionist – tired and wanting nothing more from the rest of his shift than a few chapters of the Ira Levin novel he had on the boil – just nodded and took an imprint of the card. He knew Loomis well enough not to give two shits whether these drunken assholes broke the man's card in two. He handed them a key each and wished them a good night in the neutral tone employed by night shift receptionists everywhere. The sort of tone that says "get the hell to your rooms and stop bothering me, I'm pulling minimum wage and my give-a-fuck threshold is way too low tonight". Tom had no problem with that, took the keys and wished the guy well.

  He and Miles bundled Carruthers into the elevator, ignoring his mumbled "because even the stairs that move are too much like hard work for some". They rode up to the tenth floor, the ping of the elevator bringing another drunken pronouncement from the explorer: "Tea is served!" he bellowed before promptly falling onto the hallway carpet and beginning to snore.

  "I'll let you put the old man to bed," said Tom with a smile after helping Miles drag him as far as his room.

  "Too kind," Miles replied, opening the door and rolling Carruthers inside.

  Tom let himself into his own room, slung his jacket on a chair by the window and loaded a small selection of mini bar miniatures into his hat. He didn't bother with a glass, no need to stand on ceremony after all, just kicked off his shoes and lay down to quench the thirst that never died. For a short while he listened to the ruckus coming from the adjoining room as Miles tried to roll Carruthers into the bed. Eventually all fell quiet and Tom, lost in his own thoughts, realised he'd drained all his little bottles. Briefly he considered calling the old guy on reception to have more brought up but by then reaching for the phone was beyond him. He managed to knock the lights off and closed his eyes. He was asleep in moments.

  A few hours later he was woken by the sensation of someone getting into bed with him. "Elise?" he asked.

  "Go to sleep Tom," she replied.

  He did so, crying all the way.

 

 

Ted Loomis stumbled out into the gentle heat of the night. His anger at having his wallet stolen somewhat tempered by the glistening promise of cash on the horizon. He wasn't altogether sold on the three weirdos he'd met. But then he never could get his head around Brits – in his head they all wore bowler hats and had butlers, he was not a man that had travelled – so he put his reservations down to that. What the hell, either they would be a little gift from the Patron Saint of Realtors or they would wind up a waste of his time. Business as usual. He'd know for sure once he got them on site, Ted Loomis was a man who prided himself on being able to hear the first leathery creaks of a wallet opening or the death knell clang of it staying shut altogether. Tomorrow would tell.

  He fished his car keys out of his pocket and let himself into the tan Oldsmobile that served as his home from home during days at the Home Town site. "Goddamn thing's bigger than my wife's ass," his golfing partner, Davey Lyons, had been heard to say, "and that's too big by a country mile."
So's your goddamned mouth
, Loomis frequently thought, but never said. Lyons had several of the Orlando councillors so deep in his pocket they tickled his balls. A man like that was just about as useful as you got. Which meant you laughed at his jokes, however lousy they were.

  Loomis relaxed back into the Oldsmobile's easy-chair of a driving seat. He wanted to get home, shower and crash out on some clean sheets. He supposed he ought to call the bank first, get his cards struck out… Son of a bitch has probably already maxed them out, he thought… let the insurance deal with that shit, that's what it's there for. He was about to turn the ignition when someone tapped on his window. For a minute he wished he'd popped a couple of breath mints before getting in the car, last thing he needed was for some eager-beaver Trooper to catch the whiff of scotch on his breath and start getting clever. He'd lost enough money tonight without adding a fine. Then the man outside stooped down and Loomis caught a look at his face.

  "Bones?" he asked, before realising he'd have to wind the window down if he expected to be heard. "What the fuck are you doing here?" he asked once the window was open.

  "He's with me," said a small white guy appearing alongside him. "We fancied a chat."

  He reached in and punched Loomis to the side of the head. Loomis went out instantly, headbutting the luxuriantly padded steering wheel of his precious car.

 

 

Hughie Bones had no idea how best to respond to the presence of this new housemate. For certainly, that's how the stranger presented himself. He didn't make any demands – beyond a compulsive need to work his way through the local pizza takeout menu at least – just sat in Hughie's front room, watching the TV and staring into space.

  "What do you want?" Hughie had asked him one day.

  "What does everyone want?" the man had replied, a cat's cradle of melted cheese strings hanging from his mouth as he worked his way through a fat slice of Meatball Madness with Extra Onions, "I want entertainment, amusement, distraction."

  This seemed no kind of answer to Hughie and he said so.

  "I just want to stretch my limbs a little," the stranger insisted, "I've been out of things for a while…"

  "You've been inside?" Hughie asked. Though he'd never served time himself it was at least a concept he could relate to, as far as this guy was concerned that was rare.

  "Yes," the stranger answered, "and now I'm free, so just relax and let me enjoy the fact will you?"

  Hughie had little choice in the matter so did the only sane thing and left the man to it.

  In the few days that his house had been invaded, Hughie's view of reality had been forever skewed. The worst wasn't the man's constant presence in his house – and it hadn't taken long for Hughie to use the word "man" loosely in the case of his visitor – rather the presence in his mind. To begin with he had dismissed the notion that the guy was taking a stroll around his thoughts as casually as he did the swamps. After a while he could deny it no more. He heard the man's voice, heard him comment on the things he found rattling around in Hughie's brain like discarded postcards of days gone by. He was like a tourist, cooing in interest at each new detail.

  When Hughie slept, the sensation was worse. Often he would dream of his visitor, looking through his life like an enthusiastic desk clerk rummaging through a filing cabinet. He would wake even more tired than before he'd gone to sleep.

  The final moment of proof had come the first time Hughie had tried to escape. Let him keep the goddamn house, he had thought… no great loss. He had run into the swamp, meaning to cut over to the Interstate and thumb his way as far from the invader as possible. He had been gone no more than five minutes by the time the stranger's voice began chuckling inside his head. "Where are you going, Hughie?" he had asked. "Don't you know it's rude for a host to abandon his guests?"

  Hughie had thought himself quite mad, shouting at the flies that encircled him out there in the humid swamp. Crashing through the undergrowth with no concern about the creatures that might take a fancy to a piece of strolling T-Bone. "Go away!" he had screamed, opening up the skin of his knuckles as he punched the twisted trunk of a cypress tree.

  Soon, robbed of all sense of direction through his panic and the sound of the man in his head, he had dropped, exhausted, into the undergrowth. After a few minutes he had walked home, legs moving almost independently of his own mind, nothing but a marionette brought back and laid down in the toy box for future games.

  The second time had been much more cautious. Only too aware of his visitor's abilities – however impossible they might be – he had snuck out of the window in the middle of the night, like a teenager creeping away from his folks when he wanted to party. He had hopeful thoughts of a limited range to the man's powers, a zone around his old shack that, once breached, would see him away scot-free. He had no intention of risking the depths of the swamp this time, not in the dark. He made his way along the track that led from his home to the narrow access road that allowed the few houses around here to drive up to the Interstate and into civilisation. The ground was dry and it was easy going once his eyes got used to the lack of light. His head was mercifully silent as he approached the edge of his property. The visitor had been watching the television – wasn't he always? He had seen the second-hand flicker of a news station through the window as he had crept past. It was as if the guy had never seen the TV before, obsessed with everything it offered, from
Fox News
to
I Love Lucy
reruns. He was welcome to it, Hughie hoped it rotted his damned brain right out of his ears.