The Everborn - Nicholas Grabowsky [167]
Hence, with Scratch’s departure, Salvatia faded away in mid-sentance from a “Get back here, you son-of-a....”
Ralston plummeted airborne and free and alone now, then into the arms of Bari as she materialized to catch him just before his forehead was to collide against a bar stool leg. His cut-off trenchcoat was like a trampoline canvas as she held him there, and his ebony tear-drop eyes fought to see Bari’s semblance against a curtain of eyelids drawn heavy with relief.
“Where were you ten seconds ago?” Ralston said to her.
“Go,” Bari instructed, “assist my Andrew while I pursue other matters....”
“But...Andrew needs you...”
“I know what I’m doing....”
Without another word or further time wasted, Ralston did as Bari said and leapt from her arms and onto his feet. He turned his back to her and fled after Scratch in a determined fury to kick his ass; already, at the diner’s opposite far end, Max was succeeding on his own in overpowering an Andrew half his size, having virtually pinned Andrew bent-over-backwards by both arms atop the table surface of the corner booth. Melony was struggling to maintain her balance as she stood over the two of them upon the seat cushion, flogging the back of her estranged husband’s beige jacket with blows from rampant fists.
“Go ahead, you pregnant bitch, exert yourself,” Uncle Maxy exclaimed to her. “That’s not my bread bakin’ in your oven, but any way you bake it, it’s coming out burnt!”
And Scratch was nearly upon Andrew, too. Ralston did not know whether Scratch would instantly kill Andrew as soon as he’d come down on him, but the possibility was there; Ralston couldn’t risk that. He only hoped that Bari was swifter than he and that she did indeed have a strategy.
A strategy she would let him in on.
Ralston couldn’t help but notice in the process of the chase how the diner’s elderly patrons did not react to any of this chaos; yet as he chased past the length of the counter, he offhandedly caught ear to the mutterings of the denim Dickies man:
“You ain’t askin’ me fer no more cigarettes, now....”
46.
Private Parties Only
As the self-proclaimed Uncle Maxy for indefinite reasons, Maxwell J. Polito in current form was in essence two scoops of zombie in a raisin bran of ghost. In other words, he was ghostly enough to be considered an apparition yet was physical enough to restrain Andrew Erlandson pinned backside-down across the corner diner booth table.
It was a bitch of a chore for Andrew to crook his pygmy-sized knees into himself and find footing for his floppy sneaker bottoms against the chest of the beige bastard, to push him the hell away. The effort required Melony’s strength as well to do this and she took the hint and aided him. Uncle Maxy lost his grip upon Andrew and toppled backwards against the wall of Elvis portraits, broadsiding Scratch just as he arrived at the scene.
Andrew bounded up off the table and regained his stance long enough to assess the surmounting plight.
“Melony,” Andrew directed her by a flurry of hand motions towards the side exit door, “go, dammit, get out! I’ll follow you....”
Mel slid off the booth seat cushion and landed on her feet to the floor, was quick to ascertain her bearings in her fervent panic and managed a handful of doorknob. She turned it, found it unlocked, and exited into the outside night.
Andrew shuffled in reverse and into the door gap in turn after her, not an instant too soon before Uncle Maxy could plummet forward to seize him again. The side door shut, and Maxy collided with its frame in pursuit, an extension of arm transparent as it stretched its reach through the uninterrupted glass. The remainder of him, still physical, slumped disconcerted against the exit.
The cardboard PRIVATE PARTIES ONLY sign on the door’s top glass pane hung in Maxy’s vision like the foreboding curiosity of a beware sign, until the red thermal jacket embodying Scratch caught up with him and his attentions.
Scratch was mortified at how Max allowed Andrew to slip away so easily as he halted, “What would I expect from a