Free One-Eyed Jack by Elizabeth Bear Page A

sidewalk. The desert itself was my enemy, but at least the mountains ringing the valley gave me a long anticipation of sunrise and cut the sun’s descent short when it slid down the sky in the West. Headed for California and points out to sea.
    The skinny kid with the eyepatch troubled me, but I didn’t know why I ran. Hell, I didn’t quite know what I was doing in the MGM to begin with, other than staying out of the sun: they’d be unlikely to hire an Elvis impersonator. I needed a club, a cabaret. Someplace that wouldn’t expect afternoon shows.
    I could live by murder and theft. When I exhausted the resources Sycorax had left me.
    But that doesn’t put you on a stage, now does it?
    But the kid. Thousand-dollar suit jacket bought off the rack, and a cheap high-school dye job. Scarred urban combat zone boots peeking out from under his pinstriped trousers. Hell, maybe he was a rock star. It wasn’t like I’d been keeping track.
    Except he’d been sitting at his table pretending not to talk to a couple of mismatched ghosts, and he’d practically leaped over it to give chase when he’d seen me. And then I’d run smack dab into the media ghosts I’d seen earlier, and they’d been all buddy-buddy with another pair, who also didn’t belong in Las Vegas, all of them dressed as if it were forty years ago and most of the country watching television in black and white.
    And I could swear I’d seen that eyepatch kid’s profile somewhere, before.
    If I couldn’t have a milkshake, I was ready to kill for an explanation. But since I didn’t see a way to get either, I went out looking for gigs.
    I got a little interest, too, even with my shift requirements. It was good to know, after so long, that I could still lay down a tune, and by the time I finished my third cold call I was feeling pretty good about myself. The manager stood me a beer, and I sat down in a booth beside the juke box to pretend to drink it and retie my shoes.
    I found myself tidying the saltshakers while I watched a dark-haired girl who was far too young to be in a bar. Any bar, and the guy she was with wasn’t quite old enough to be her father. He didn’t look like anybody’s father, anyway; in fact—
    —in fact, he looked a lot like one of the media ghosts I’d ditched in the MGM Grand. The shaggy yellow hair, at least, and his profile when he turned just right. This one looked dazed, though, his eyes not quite tracking as he watched his skinny, no-doubt-about-it-hired-for-the-evening companion play with her French fries. What kind of a stoner John buys a hooker a meal and watches while she draws in the ketchup?
    Maybe she was his kid sister, after all. Even if they didn’t look a thing alike.
    “She’s trouble, Ace,” Jesse whispered in my ear. But I ignored him, or pretended to.
    I didn’t like him to know how much of a comfort it was, having him there.
    She looked up at me and lifted an eyebrow, then, and I saw the glow of city lights in her eyes. “Evening, King,” she said. Soprano, no breath control.
    “Name’s Tribute.” I abandoned my beer on the table when I walked over. The blond man scooted away from me at her hand gesture, and didn’t quite offer a grunt by way of acknowledgment. He was all twisted up inside himself like macramé—any fool could tell—but when he tracked me with a scared sideways glance I could see the lights shimmering in his eyes, too. Interesting. They really didn’t look like they went together, if you know what I mean.
    “Funny sort of a name,” she said. “I’m Angel. This is Stewart. He’s a local.”
    “And you’re not?”
    Her eyes sparkled when she dimpled at me. She reached out and laid one hand on my arm. Her bitten fingernails were painted chipped, glittering green. “I’m from Los Angeles. And I hear you’re looking for a job.”
    “I might be.” I was trying to sound casual instead of wary, and I wasn’t sure I succeeded. There were thirteen fries on her plate, and