The Six Messiahs - Mark Frost [169]
Eileen dried her tears, not wanting the actors gathering in the lobby to see her in such a state. They were already moving toward the theater, a scheduled rehearsal only a few minutes off.
A man stood up across the lobby and strode toward her, taking off his hat. Wearing a fringed yellow leather jacket, boots, chaps on his pants; he looked like an actor in a wester melodrama. At least he wasn't wearing a white shirt. But five? worried youngsters in white shirts immediately followed the man over to her.
"Ma'am, might I have a word with you?"
A tall one. And handsome wasn't the word for it. And go Lord, what a voice, like a low note on a cello. She instantly revised her first impression; she'd been spending far too much time in the company of actors. The way he moved, the way he carried himself; this man was a real cowboy.
She pulled out a cigarette, her favorite stalling technique; he had a match struck off his thumbnail before she could pull one from her purse.
"What about?"
"Would you mind stepping outside a moment?" he said, with an explanatory shrug in the direction of the five white shirts.
"Gladly."
He held the door for her as she exited, then turned to block the shirts when they tried to follow.
"You kids stay put," he said.
"But we're supposed to see you to your room...."
"Here's a buck," he said, flipping them a coin. "Go buy Mime lollipops."
"But, sir—"
"Clarence, if I catch you trailing after me one more time, I will personally kick your rear ends into the middle of next
July."
Frank shut the swinging door firmly in their faces, put on his hat, and fell into step beside Eileen on the sidewalk.
"You're name's Eileen, isn't it, miss?"
"Yes."
"Mine's Frank."
"Frank, I have a feeling you're not interested in my autograph."
"No, ma'am. Could I ask how long you planned on staying in this booby hatch?"
"The play's scheduled to run for a week; why?"
"To put it plain, we're sitting on top of a powder keg and it's about to blow."
They were drawing stares—two tall, attractive, nonconforming strangers—from white shirts passing on the street.
"Keep smiling at 'em," whispered Frank.
"Makes you wonder what they're so damn happy about," she said, smiling and nodding pleasantly. "They've kept us under lock and key since the moment we arrived. Not that that's such a bad idea with actors. How long have you been here?"
"About an hour."
"Do you have any idea what the hell is going on?"
"They're stealing rifles from the U.S. Army, for starters."
"Rifles? For these people?"
"And every last one of 'em's a few shovels short of a funeral."
A stout middle-aged black woman approached and planted herself in their way, holding out a copy of the printed regulations. "Excuse me, friends," she said with a deranged grimace, "but it is against the rules for visitors to walk around The New City without an escort."
"Thank you, ma'am; the Reverend told us it was okay," said Frank, smiling right back at her.
"We just spoke with him," said Eileen, grinning like an idiot. "He sends his love."
The woman stopped in her tracks, poleaxed; they stepped, around her and continued on.
"No smoking, either," the woman called after them, less confidently.
Eileen waved and flicked her cigarette over her shoulder.
"So I wanted to suggest," said Frank, "that if you had a mind to remove yourself from the premises before Uncle Sam comes looking for his guns and the shit starts flying—excuse the expression—I'd be more than pleased to get you the hell out of here."
She stopped to look at him. Yes; genuine American sincerity.
"That's a very kind offer, Frank."
"My pleasure."
"But I'm afraid I can't leave at the moment. Not without Jacob."
"The old man."
"He's not that old. Does he look that old to you?"
"He's not your husband, is he?"
"No."
"Good," he said, with the first authentic grin she'd seen since they'd left the hotel. "Then we'll bring Jacob along."
"I'm afraid it's not going to be as simple as that," she said.
He looked at her. "Not for me either, exactly."
She glanced around