The Age of Cities by Brett Josef Grubisic Read Free Book Online Page A

them himself. That was as unlikely as being shanghaied. The Port-Land’s secret identity was an exciting prospect, immensely more so than the absent elevator operator. Mother would love this story.
    His eyes adjusted to a room aglow as if lit with dwarf jack-o’-lanterns. Winston sighed at the familiar bar decor—mirrors, wood, stains, the pungent residue of beer and cigarettes—and felt keen disappointment. There were no hoarse and colourful women and not even a single wayward reeling drunk, only quiet men at tables or at the bar bench. Though he had no clear picture how a junkie might act, he detected nothing suspicious. A wall of locomotive engine car pictures framed in heavy carved wood was the single unusual element he could spot.
    Dickie led him far from the doors to a murky corner near the back wall.
    â€œ Dickie est arrivé, ” an arch voice announced.
    â€œMr. Wilson, may I introduce you to the gang? Clockwise from here”—he gestured with an open palm—“Ed Barnes, then Johnny Schmidt. Our last member is Pierre, though we call him La Contessa with utter respect.”
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    To Winston’s eye, Dickie’s gang closely resembled a motley crew. If the Port-Land was a front, these men gave no clue to its true purpose, looking neither extraordinary nor mysterious. Ed was a chubby drunk, anyone could see it, no doubt acting the foolish delinquent at parties with lamp shade props and off-colour jokes. He was unshaven and had a drinkhound’s bleary focus. Johnny reminded Winston of Dickie, ill at ease and fussy. He wore too many rings and had hair heavily laden with pomade. Oily charm and an easy smile, like Liberace in Sincerely Yours. Reminiscent of a Saturday matinee gangster, he was shifty-eyed, as though expecting policemen to burst through the doors with tommy-guns ablaze. Older than the other men and wearing a faded and disheveled suit, Pierre appeared to be dozing. The air about their table was thick with aftershave and cigarette smoke. Winston noticed that the table was strewn with glasses, cigarette packages, matchbooks, and ashtrays. The waiter must be lazy, Winston thought, deserving fewer tips than he already received.
    Johnny stood, leaned awkwardly across the table, and offered his hand to Winston. “Welcome aboard,” he said.
    The table was silent, expectant. Winston, who felt that he had already been speaking for hours if not days, also understood that he needed to say still more. He looked around the room.
    â€œThis place is certainly off the beaten track,” he remarked.
    â€œYeah, well.… We’ve been loitering in this dump for years. It’s not respectable but we like it. It suits our needs,” Johnny explained.
    Ed stood now and extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Wilson. How come we’ve never seen you before?”
    â€œCall me Winston, please.”
    â€œSomeone forget to look in the mirror today, Ed? Charmant ,” Dickie interjected.
    â€œYou know me, Dickie.” Ed’s smile was embarrassed.
    Dickie turned to Winston. “Ed’s a veritable Cro Magnon, been shaving since he was ten. Has to shave his nose, I swear. Honestly, he gets five o’clock shadow at noon.” He made a sweeping gesture. “Almost requires a scythe.” Winston had already noticed Ed’s low hairline.
    Winston could not think of a word to add. To fill the silence he uttered a tentative “Oh.” He borrowed one of the wooden chairs from an adjoining table and sat down.
    â€œMr. Wilson is from the Valley. He’s practically a farm hand.” Apparently Dickie tolerated lulls for only so long, Winston concluded. He looked around hoping to catch the waiter’s eye.
    â€œI’m a librarian, actually. Other than buying the occasional sack of potatoes at the Wong place, I’m afraid I’ve never been much of a farmer. My mother and I made a deal: she tends to the carrots