Free Dog Soldiers by Robert Stone

elephants. ”
    “ The poor elephants, ” Converse said. They laughed together in the dark.
    Converse ’ s face was as wet as if he had been immersed. The drink was making him sweat.
    “ It ’ s a Buddhist country. They must have a fantastic traf fic in the transmigrat ion of souls. Elephants and mis sionaries. Porpoises, sappers, lizards. Listen, ” he said sud denly, “ I ’ m cold. Is it cold? ”
    “ It ’ s your fever. Go see the duty master-at-arms across the road. Maybe he can get you a ride to the gate. ”
    Converse stood up and turned his back on the briefcase.
    “ You ’ d better be careful, ” Hicks told him. “ It ’ s gone funny in the states. ”
    “ It can ’ t be funnier than here. ”
    “ Here everything ’ s simple, ” Hicks said. “ It ’ s funnier there. I don ’ t know who you ’ re running with but I bet they got no sense of irony. ” Converse stood over him, a bit unsteadily. He swung his arm in a broad gesture. “ As of now it can rain blood and shit, ” he said. “ I got nowhere to go. ”
    He walked down the wooden steps carefully. His sore right arm swung liberated; he felt gloriously free. As he reached the bottom step, it occurred to him that Hicks was probably a psychopath after all.

 

     
     

    T he last man stood at the window, squinting as though he saw his life ’ s resolution off at a great distance, bathed in light. When the ticket popped out, he spread his thick fingers over the smooth metal surface of the dispenser and groped for it unseeing.
    A true groper, Marge thought. His fingers sought the pink ticket like blind predatory worms; finding it, they came moistly together, pressed it down, and slid it out of sight over the ledge. Marge identified with the ticket.
    Every once in a while, Marge would steal a glance at the faces of her customers but for the most part she watched their fingerwork.
    The last man paused for a moment at the rear of the booth to peer downward through the glass. He had trans ferred the ticket to his left hand; the talented right was al ready in his trouser pocket. Marge was not alarmed. She realized that the man wanted to see her ass. But Marge had hung her sweater over the back of her chair so there was nothing to see. She had not done it out of spite but merely for convenience.
    “ C ’ mon, Jack, ” Holy-o told the last man. Holy-o stood beside the tin doors and took tickets. He took the last man ’ s ticket, dropped the house stub in a wooden box, and closed the doors.
    Holy-o had a trun cheon in which he had carved de signs — animal shapes and what he imagined to be the gods of his native Samoa. The truncheon hung by a leather thong from a screw eye in the oak ticket box. With the doors closed on the last man, Holy-o took his truncheon from its hook and stood out on the sidewalk in front of Marge ’ s booth, cradling the club in his hands like a riot po liceman.
    Marge and Holy-o were waiting for the fellas to arrive.
    The fellas arrived within two minutes of the last man. They double-parked their Thunderbird directly in front of the box office and climbed out briskly. They were well-groomed, clean-shaven young men with olive complexions. They both wore khaki half coats and one of them had a peaked waterproof cap with a belt that buckled in the back.
    “ Hiya, Holy-o. ” They came directly to the door of Marge ’ s booth.
    “ Hiya, fellas, ” Holy-o said.
    Marge opened up while the fellas looked the street over. Sometimes when they came, the fellas would see people whose appearance troubled them. If the troublesome-look ing people were white, the fellas called them hard-ons. If they were black, they called them jigs. The fellas called the regular Third Street peop le and the customers of the the ater mooches or mushes. Marge was never sure which.
    “ Hiya, sweetheart. ” It w as the one with the hat who car ried the bag. Marge slipped her cash drawer out of its place and locked it.
    “ Hi, ” she said. She