Free And Other Stories by Emma Bull Page B

now.” He begins to back out of the yard.
“Mr. Bossman Sevenday, sir, I’m very, very grateful for the chance
to get you a rock. I mean, the rock.”
    Bossman Sevenday begins laughing
again. “Of course you are, Trickster. You have twenty-four
hours.”
    Street says, “I might need a
little—”
    Bossman Sevenday frowns.
    Street says quickly, “—less time
than that. You never know. Twenty-four hours, that’s plenty. You’ll
have it in a day, at the very latest.”
    “Good Trickster,”
says Bossman Sevenday. And, as he laughs and Street backs away, the
flesh from Bossman Sevenday’s face drips like candle wax from his
skull.
    Street trips and leaps up and runs.
Bossman Sevenday’s laughter follows him around the bone-white
mansion and down the cobblestone drive. The cobblestones sound
hollow like drums beneath Street’s feet. As he reaches the front
gate, he thinks the cobblestones are skulls and imagines people
buried together, packed as tightly as cigarettes. He leaps onto the
gleaming ivory gate to climb it, but it swings inward. He drops
from it, runs into the road, then hears a car racing down the
driveway.
      3
    The silver roadster pulls up beside
him. O says, “Faster if you ride with me.”
    Street doesn’t slow down. “No,” he
puffs. “Way.”
    O says, “I’m not about to take you
back. Not without the rock. If you want to get away from
here—”
    Street jumps over the side of the
roadster and buckles himself into the passenger seat. “Go!” O puts
the speedometer exactly at the posted speed limit. Street says,
“Faster!”
    O says, “If a cop stops us, we’ll
go a lot slower.”
    Street nods. “Right. Good thinking.
I’m cool with that.” But Street breathes fast and sweats profusely.
He knows he doesn’t smell like he’s cool with anything. He says,
“Back there. Did you see anything odd?”
    “Odd?”: O grins.
“Nope.”
    The melting face must’ve been a
freak of the sunlight. The cobblestones must’ve only sounded
hollow. Street says, “Me, neither. Just wanted to show the Bossman
I’m dedicated to finding his rock.”
    O says, “I think he knows
that.”
    “Except I don’t know
what it is,” Street admits. “Or who took it. Or why he expects me
to find it.”
    O says, “Why doesn’t matter as much
as the fact he expects it.”
    “True. You know where
it is?”
    O shakes her head. “If you were
looking for something that people wanted, where would you
go?”
    Street frowns, then
grins.
    4
    Street leads O through Meandering
Market. Today, it’s in a freight lot near the docks. His grin is
back, because people are nodding and smiling, saying, “Howzit,
T-man!” and “Yo, the Streetdog!” and “Tricks baby, lookin’ so
fine!” The impromptu aisles are thick with people who like bargains
and don’t care about sales slips. Street usually moves through the
Market like a prince, perusing each dealer’s wares, looking over
clothes, tunes, shows, tech, gems, and all the sweet distracting
things of the world. Now he’s moving just fast enough not to make
anyone wonder why he’s moving fast.
    The crowd is full of people who
want to be seen in their bright colors and careful hair. Picking
any of them out would be a challenge, but Street’s challenge is
greater. He looks where he thinks no one is, in shadows and quiet
places. He spots the little brown man at the tent and 
aluminum trailer called Pele’s Cafe. Mouse sits on a stool near the
back, nursing a cup of the house java.
    Mouse spots Street just as quickly.
He sets the coffee cup down, looks around, and Street knows Mouse
is doing the math, distance to aisles and number of obstacles and
the length of Street’s stride and the speed of Mouse’s. Then Mouse
smiles at Street, telling Street two things: Mouse figures he can’t
get away, and Mouse would really, really like to get
away.
    Mouse says, “How ya, Tricks? You
and the lady seeking a seat? You can have mine in half a mo, if you
fancy.”
    Street