Free Wolf Flow by K. W. Jeter

greedily.
        "So where's your father, then?" The man breathed hard after gulping the water. "Is he going to come back around here?"
        Doot shook his head. "He's off on some job. Hauling something-I don't know." He shrugged. "He's gone a lot. Said he'd be back in a week or so. I'm on my own most of the time. My mom walked out on him a long time ago." Immediately, he regretted saying that last bit, and wondered why he had. This guy didn't need to know shit like that.
        The man didn't even seem to have paid any attention. He rolled on his damaged arm, bringing his face closer. Under the bruises and the dark hair matted with blood, he had sharp-angled features, eyes deep set; maybe in his late twenties. It was hard to tell, with him being so fucked up.
        "What's your name?"
        He felt a flush of embarrassment creep up his throat. "Everybody around here calls me Doot." There was no point in trying to hide it. The guy would find out sooner or later. He pointed with his thumb toward the lobby's door. " 'Cause of that little bike I got. You know-doot, doot, doot?" Now he really felt like a jerk.
        An impatient nod from the man, his eyes wincing in sudden pain. "Listen, Doot." He locked his unbalanced gaze onto him, speaking slowly. "I need you to do me a big favor. I've got to get to a telephone. Right away. And without anybody seeing me. Think you can handle that?"
        This was too weird. He'd never even seen this guy until, what, a quarter of an hour ago? If that. And Christ knew what kind of deep shit he was in. To get worked over like that, and tossed out on the road in the middle of nowhere, the way Doot's father had described it to him that meant the guy had been keeping some unpleasant company. Heavy-type people. So this guy was probably something along those lines, too. Plus all that business about not wanting to go to a hospital-you didn't have to be a genius to figure that one out. The guy was looking to avoid the police.
        The way he figured it, he'd already done his good deed by coming out here and checking up on the guy, bringing up all this food and stuff. His dad had felt sorry for him, because he'd found him out there where he'd been dumped. Well, fine; they didn't owe him anything more. Not to the point of wading hip deep into whatever shit it was that had gotten the guy into this predicament.
        What was the smart thing to do, he knew, was to leave the guy here, with the rest of the sandwiches, and the chili and the Pepsi, and the flashlight and can opener he'd brought along. And go home and think about what to do next. Do not, he told himself, get involved in this dude's spooky business.
        The man's voice poked at him. "Well? Can you?"
        He hesitated a minute, then tried to keep his eyes from going too wide and making him look like a fool. He nodded yes.
        

SEVEN
        
        Aitch had gone down to L.A. with an empty briefcase and came back with it full. Charlie waited for him at the airport gate, actually across the walkway at another gate where nobody was sitting. He could see from there when people started getting off the plane. Somebody in the crowd filling the rows of seats over there was smoking a cigar that smelled as though he'd taken a shit, then set it on fire for some personal reason; that was why Charlie had moved.
        What a bunch of horseshit, to have smoking and no smoking sections right together, separated by some diddly sign hanging from the ceiling. Like that fart smell was going to percolate along in the air, right up to there, and then stop. All the way on the other side of the building, he slouched down in his seat-they were leathery plastic slings, suspended together from a long chrome frame-and looked at the neck of the business suit with the cigar. Put 'em all in their own little room, that was the way, and close the door. Jesus-now the smell was coming over here.
        He picked up a folded