It was nothing but a couple dozen shabby houses and rusty trailers forming two intersecting streets. But the aura of bright lights glowing from each window and the rock 'n' roll music being broadcast over a public address system and the rare sounds of people laughing made them approach Savvytown with awe, like children on their first visit to Disneyland.
"Music, for Christ's sake," Molly said. "It's been so long since I've heard a stereo I wouldn't care if they played Donny and Marie Sing Porgy and Bess."
Fifty feet down the road at the entrance to town, two armed men stood on either side of the road. The one on the right wore his long, black hair in two braids with a leather headband around his forehead. He wore the familiar denim vest of the Devil's Dancers along with a few crow feathers in his headband. Eric studied him for a moment and frowned; he was no more an Indian than Flex was a cowboy. He was leaning against a telephone pole from which no wires were strung, lazily twirling his homemade spear like a baton. One end of the spear had a long serrated knife lashed to it; the other end boasted a huge two-pronged stainless steel carving fork,
Across the street stood one of the riders who'd been with Flex earlier. His hair was chopped short, but his beard was thick and full. Ten feet in front of him he hada mouse tied on a twine leash attached to a stake in the ground. The mouse darted in frantic circles around the stake while he flipped his knife into the dirt, trying to come as close to the mouse as possible without killing it. His last throw had been a little too close and one of the mouse's feet was severed. The mouse squealed, hopped away.
When Eric and the others were within twenty feet, the knifeman called over his shoulder. "Hey, Flex. Your boyfriend's back."
The man with the spear laughed and sang, "Your boyfriend's back and there's gonna be touble, hey na, hey na, your boyfriend's back."
Flex stepped out of the shadows, his gun in one hand and an open bottle in the other. As Eric got closer he could smell the tangy scent of homemade liquor. This was stronger than most. Flex took a long swig, clenching his eyes tight against the taste, afterwards smacking his lips repeatedly. "What'd you come for, Slim? No, no, don't tell me. Um, the girl, right? If I don't hand her over, you and your gang of desperados is gonna take her. Am I close?"
"We don't want the girl and we don't want trouble."
Flex smiled, but his eyes grew colder. "That's good, Slim. You're a smart man. A little low on guts maybe, but smart. And it's the smart ones that die of old age. Right, Lido?"
"Yeah," the man with the spear said.
Flex bolstered his gun. "So, what do you and your tough gang want here?"
"Information."
"Information!" he roared, stepping in front of Eric. He was six inches shorter, but the breadth of his chest and thickness of his legs put him about fifteen pounds heavier. "Shit, man, we got the greatest fucking town since Sodom and Gomorrah. We got whores of both sexes who'll let you fuck 'em any way you want. We got booze so strong we use it to strip paint. We got a goddamn stereo system that Hugh Hefner would envy. And we got gambling. Blackjack, poker, three card monte. You name it."
"Just some information."
"Information, huh?" Flex scratched his beard, glanced at Tracy, Rydell, Molly, and Season. "Guess you don't need no pussy, considering how much you're packing. Even got yourself a young stud for variety, huh. Slim?"
"It's the spice of life," Eric said.
"What?"
"Variety. It's the spice of life."
"Spice of life? Hmm, that's pretty good. Never heard that before."
"Oh, brother," Molly groaned.
Flex gave her a sharp look. "A fucking smartass nip, huh?"
"Chink," Molly said. "A fucking smartass chink."
He grinned, looking her up and down, "I like you, smartass."
"That makes one of us."
"You got balls, girlie, maybe more than your old leader here. You know, I fucked a lot of girls, but I don't think I've ever fucked a chink before. Have I, Lido?"
Lido thought it over. "There was that dumpy broad in Bakersfield. No, she was French."
Rydell stepped toward Flex. "I think we've heard enough of your mouth, buddy."
Flex laughed, looked at Eric. "Whoa, Slim. You've got yourself a handful here. No wonder you're so easy going. But between you and me," he leaned his head toward Eric, his breath staggering, "I'd keep a muzzle on your friends, or I'm gonna yank their lungs out and piss in the hole in their chest."
"Right."
He reached up and patted Eric on the cheek. "Good boy."
Lido and the knifeman laughed.
"Now, Slim, back to business. It don't matter what you want in this town, you got to pay for it. You want food, booze, whores, water. You pay. You want information, you still gotta pay."
"How much?"
"For that, you talk to the man himself. Savvy."
Eric was truly surprised. The boss of Savvytown was nothing like what he'd expected.
"These are the people I was telling you about," Flex explained, a tone of deference even in his voice. "The ones we found with the runaway. The Jew girl."
They were all crowded into the trailer, standing in front of a beat-up metal desk. A fluorescent desk lamp provided the only light in the room, a wedge of light like the opening in a dense layer of clouds where the sun pokes through. Behind the desk, a bespectacled, timid-looking man sat, a NY Yankees hat jammed low on his head. He reminded Eric of Wally Cox. He was smiling, not maliciously. But friendly.
"I take it you're the spokesperson?" he asked Eric, His voice was nasal, forced at high pressure through his nose.
"Yes."
"You looking for a reward?"
"Pardon?"
"For giving the girl back. You come for a reward?"
Eric shook his head.
"They want information," Flex offered.
"Information?" He leaned back in his chair, gazing at Eric a full minute. "What kind of information?"
"Private."
Savvy grinned. "Okay, Flex, I'll call you if I need you."
Flex hesitated, looking confused. "Okay. Don't need to worry about this one," he nodded at Eric. "He's a sweet pea." He growled out a laugh and left the trailer.
"He's afraid of you," Savvy said.
"I know."
"I'm impressed. Flex doesn't scare easily."
"Maybe. Anybody else been around here lately that put a scare into him?"
"Tsk, tsk." He wagged a finger at Eric. "That question falls in the realm of information. And that'll cost you."
"How much?"
"Depends."
"On what?"
"On what you've got."
"Not much."
"You'd be surprised," he said, looking at the women with an appraising eye. "It depends on what you're willing to part with. And that depends on how badly you want the information. You might as well sit down while we negotiate."
Eric sat on the metal folding chair next to the desk while the others crowded onto a torn leather couch.
"That's real leather," Savvy said. "A little worse for wear, but real goddamn leather. Two thousand buck easy." He opened his desk and pulled out a battery-operated tape recorder, depressed the play and record buttons. "Hope you don't mind, but I like to tape these conversations."
"For your legal department?"
Savvy laughed. "That's very funny, Mr…"
Eric didn't answer.
Savvy looked annoyed, stabbed the pause button. "You don't have to give me your real name, man. Any name will do. For the record." He started the recorder again, pointed a finger at Eric like a disc jockey cuing a speaker.
"Ravensmith. Eric Ravensmith."
Savvy circled his thumb and finger for an okay sign. "No, this isn't for my legal department. You've already met my legal staff, headed by Mr. Flex Olsen. They handle all my litigation now. No, this is for my biography."
"Is everybody here crazy?" Molly asked.
Savvy laughed. "Good question. And your name?" He pushed the recorder toward her.
"My name is Molly Sing. Homeroom teacher is Mrs. Meador. And I want to be Miss America because-
He punched the pause button angrily. "I'd like to indulge you your fun, Ms. Sing. But batteries are precious."
"You seem to have a lot of electricity," Eric said.
"Wait." He started the machine. "What was that question?"
"You seem to have a lot of electricity."
"Yes. We have several generators. And lots of fuel. In fact, we have-"
Tracy laughed.
"Something amusing, Ms.?…" He aimed the recorder at Tracy.
"Uh, Tracy Ammes. And yes, something is amusing. You and this recorder business. We came here for information, not some ridiculous game. Name your price and we either accept or go on our way."
He looked at Eric. "She speak for you, Mr. Ravensmith?"
"Makes sense."
Savvy nodded, adjusted the glasses on his nose. "Let me explain a few things to all of you. A little history, so to speak. You've probably guessed that my real name isn't Savvy. It's Salvadore Pascalli. Sounds like a fun guy, right? Well, I always wanted a nickname as a kid, you know, something the whole gang called you until only your mother used your real name. But I didn't hang out with other kids when I was young. I studied. When I wasn't doing homework, I was doing piano lessons. So while everyone else in the neighborhood was called Butch or Stinky or Knuckles, I was called, if anybody bothered, Salvadore. Sad story, huh? Gets sadder." He propped his feet on the desk top, pointed at his shoes. "Alligator leather. Illegal now, I think."
"Why don't you check with your legal staff?" Eric said.
"I'll do that. Anyway, back to my life. My parents' nagging about school finally paid off, because I was off to Harvard with a scholarship where I stayed until they gave me my M.B.A. Not bad for a kid named Salvadore, am I right? My parents thought it was wonderful too. They wanted me to do something for the Italian people, to show the world we weren't all Mafiosa. Jesus, they hated the Mafia so much that you weren't allowed to say Francis Ford Coppola in their house." He chuckled, leaning closer to the recorder to make sure the laughter was picked up. "After that it was the usual. Early success marketing Bambino's Frozen Pizza."
"You worked for them?" Season said. "Their pizza tastes like shit."
Salvadore looked offended. "We went to number three in the market while I was there. Another couple years and we'd have been number one. We were buying TV time for the next Super Bowl. That would've taken us over the top." He noticed his voice rising, calmed himself. "But that was a hundred years ago. No wife, no kids. Company man on the executive rise. Until Mother Nature fooled us all. Stuck a firecracker up our ass and said, 'Surprise!' Then it was every man for himself. For real. And you know what, I liked it. It was like starting all over again, only this time the way I wanted. Because I've got news for you-you, too, Mom and Dad, if you can hear me out there on Sullivan Street in Manhattan-I wanted to be in the Mafia. I would have gladly joined them if they'd only asked. But they only ask guys who already have nicknames. Mumbles, Icepick, Trashman."
Eric nodded. "So you gave yourself a nickname, hooked up with some biker lowlifes, and started a little Las Vegas of your own."
"Just learning from history. What's that old saying, 'A page of history is worth a volume of logic.' I just tore a page out of the right book. Because no matter how bad things get, people are going to want certain things. We provide them. Gambling. They buy chips with food, equipment, parts, batteries. Sometimes they fix something and we pay them off in chips. Or we got whores. Men have sold us their wives and daughters for a couple cans of chili and a bottle of booze."
"Yes," Tracy said sharply, "we've seen one of your samples."
"That's right. You ran into what's-her-name, Roth. We have better."
"Why do you do that to them?" Rydell asked. "Shave their heads."
Savvy shrugged. "Just good business. We shave their heads for two reasons. Because they're easier to keep clean that way in terms of lice and such. Like the army. And second because we can identify them if they try to run away."
"Just good business practice, right?" Eric said.
"That's right. And if they run anyway, my surgical staff, headed by Dr. Flex Olsen, severs the Achilles' tendon in one leg. That keeps them gimpy for the rest of their lives. They run twice, we cut the other leg and they get around on crutches. That's what's going to happen to the girl you met. But we also have a real good doctor, used to be a plastic surgeon, to provide medical treatment. That's one of our biggest moneymakers."
"When we were walking down the street," Tracy said, "we saw some tails or something hanging from the doors of some of the trailers. What's that?"
Eric answered. "They weren't tails. They were human hair."
"He's right," Savvy acknowledged. "The very same hair from the women inside. When we cut it we save it to hang from the door. That's how our customers identify them."
Tracy started to say something, but shook her head as if words were useless.
"Actually, you'd be surprised how men get turned on by bald women. If we ever get back to the mainland, it might catch on."
"If we ever get back," Tracy said, "they'll hang you."
"Now you see, that's where you don't understand history. And that's why this," he tapped the recorder, "is going to be so valuable. Hell, my autobiography will be a best-seller. Probably have a movie deal before we even land. I might even become a kind of folk hero. Can't you see it in Time? 'Brought pleasure to a hopeless people.' No fucking TV movie here. Feature film. Starring Jack Nicholson or whoever wasn't in Malibu snorting coke when it went under water."
"Where's Fallows and Cruz?"
"What makes you think I know these guys?"
"Your boys were riding their horses. We've been tracking those same horses for more than a week."
Savvy smiled, tugged on the bill of his baseball cap.
"How much?" Eric asked.
"Well, you don't get a nickname like Savvy and a town named after you by giving anything away."
"How much?"
"Well, I like those crossbows, but we have plenty of weapons already. I might take one of the women."
"Like hell!" Rydell jumped to his feet.
"Sit down," Eric told him. He did.
"The oriental's cute," Savvy continued, ignoring Rydell. "But we're overstocked there right now. Since the influx of Vietnamese refugees, hell, I can't give 'em away. They don't look so good bald anyway. The blonde's nice, big tits and all, but her arm's damaged." He smiled at Tracy. "That leaves her."
Eric stood up. "No deal."
"Don't be so fucking selfish. That still leaves you with two. One for you and one for the kid."
Eric nodded at the others; they all stood.
Savvy pressed a button on his desk and the front door opened. Flex climbed in with his gun out and pointed at Eric. A song by Blood, Sweat amp; Tears drifted in with him, cut off when he kicked the door shut.
"Flashes a light outside," Savvy explained, nodding at the button. "Hope I didn't interrupt you, Flex."
"Naw, I was just waiting for that Jew girl to finish with a John so's I could cut her other leg. Didn't get around to it yet."
"That will have to wait until tomorrow, Flex. Looks like we can't do any business with these people. Would you escort them out of town?"
"Right." Flex gestured at the door with his gun. "Want me to kill 'em?"
Savvy laughed. "If I left things to you, we wouldn't have a business. Just because we couldn't reach an arrangement now doesn't mean they won't deal in the future. You've got to look at everyone as a potential customer, Flex."
"Yeah," Flex grinned. "Like with dope."
"Right. Which, by the way, ladies and gentlemen, we do have a limited supply of if you want. Some habits survive even the worst disasters."
Eric picked up his crossbow, started for the door.
"I think you can leave the bow, Mr. Ravensmith. A consulting fee for taking up my time and that of my staff."
Eric turned, faced Savvy. "I think not."
Flex's face erupted with anger. He jabbed the gun sharply into Eric's ribs. "You heard him, turd. Don't start groping for your guts now, pardner."
The movement was so simple it was lyrical. Eric's arm brushing Flex's gun aside, the spinning elbow to the jaw, the edge of his hand chopping the wrist. Tracy snatching up the gun as it slid across the floor and aimed it at Savvy. Flex thudding to his knees. Eric with a fistful of Flex's beard, yanking him to his feet, then punching him back to his knees. Flex's left eye closing. A tooth flying out of his mouth, bouncing across Savvy's desk. Flex in an unconscious heap.
"Now," Eric said.
Savvy smiled nervously, adjusted his glasses. Sweat was beading above his lips. "Perhaps you do deserve a reward for returning my property this morning."
"Tell me about Fallows and Cruz."
"They were here. Couple days ago. They've been here before, done some trading. This time they stayed a day, traded their horses and three women-"
"What women?"
"That girl you saw, her twin sister, and their mother. Actually, the horses were worth more in trade. He took some supplies: water, food, ammunition, clothes. His men had the run of all the girls for a few hours." He shrugged. "That's about it."
"What about the other woman? And the boy?"
Savvy swallowed, wiped his sweaty forehead with his sleeve. "Yeah, he had another woman and a kid. I offered him plenty for her, but he turned me down. Said he had something special in mind for her."
Eric swung his crossbow up. "How were they? What kind of condition."
"They didn't look too bad. Really. The woman was a bit thin and tired, but the kid looked pretty fit. Considering."
"Considering what?" Tracy asked.
"Considering the kind of animals they're traveling with. When those guys are done, I can't use some of my girls for days. They're maniacs."
"Which way they heading?"
"They didn't tell me where they were going, but when they left here they went south."
Eric stepped over Flex and opened the door. The others filed out ahead of him. He nodded at the whirring tape machine. "Your batteries are dying," he said, and left.
They had to walk all the way through town to pick up the southern road. But the sights and sounds that had delighted them when they'd entered disgusted them as they left. The laughter was drunken, the sounds of sex violent, the music cynical. And beneath it all, like the pounding bass theme in a horror film, the rumbling of unseen generators.
Once outside town, Eric scouted ahead, tracking Fallows' troops. Savvy had told the truth; they were marching south, toward Baja. He could almost feel Fallows' presence, like a thick summer heat, invisible yet cloying. Hearing about Annie and Timmy had been enough to revitalize him. Energy pulsed hungrily through his veins, looking for escape, release. Soon, he told himself. Soon.
When he got back to camp he knew something was wrong. They sat around with guilty and sullen faces, like children who have broken a family heirloom.
"Well?" Eric asked, hands on hips.
"What?" Season asked.
"Let's not waste time, okay? It looks like another speech is coming on, so let's hear it so we can get moving. I'd like to put a couple miles between us and that town before we make camp."
Tracy stepped forward. "We aren't going with you, Eric."
"What?" Eric hadn't expected this.
She saw the shock on his face, hesitated.
"She's right," Rydell jumped in. He spoke quickly as if each word burned his tongue. "We talked it over while you were scouting and decided to go back to Savvy town."
"Back to Savvytown? For God's sake, what for?"
"We're going to try and get that girl out, the one we gave them this morning. Roth. That Savvy character said they'd cut her other leg in the morning, we want to help her first. And if we can, her sister and mother. We owe her that."
"What the hell are you talking about? You'll get killed. Those guys have at least one gun, probably more stashed around. And Flex and his bunch aren't nervous about using them. They won't debate the ethics of when and where to shoot. They'll blow your fucking heads off and use them as paperweights."
"Maybe. But we're willing to take the risk."
"You don't have the right. Because it's not your Jives you're risking, it's Annie's and Timmy's. If you get yourselves killed, you've also killed their chances of escape."
Tracy held up her hands. "You're right, Eric. That's what I told them too. I was against it completely. At first." She took a deep breath. "But maybe they're right too. Maybe this girl's life is just as important as Annie's. Or Timmy's. Even if we don't know them."
"Oh Christ. What kind of moral garbage are you dishing up? She was your friend; took you in when you didn't have a home."
"That's true. That's how I know if she were here, she'd be standing with us, not you."
Eric didn't want to think about that. "You'll all be killed. You know that?"
Molly shook her head. "Not the way we figure it. We go in now, while it's still dark. They won't be expecting anything. We knock out the generators, create a lot of confusion. Then we steal the girl. With luck, maybe her sister and mother too."
"How are you going to find her?"
"What?"
"The girl. How will you know where to find her?"
Molly shrugged. "Search, I guess. Call her name."
"Search. You're going to search through a dozen houses and trailers, not knowing who's standing behind which door with a gun or a spear or a knife? Sure, call her name. I'm sure after all you did for her this morning she'll be glad to come running, filled with trust."
"We'll find her, don't worry," Rydell said.
Tracy's voice was calm, a little sad. "It doesn't sound good, but we have to, Eric. If we're going to live with ourselves, we have to try. You can come if you want."
Eric said nothing.
"I didn't think so. In your place, I probably wouldn't either. In any event, if we make it, we'll pick up your trail and catch up later. We still want to get Annie and Timmy."
Eric sighed. "You can't change the world. Or destroy evil. Or win one for the Gipper. Or any of that noble shit that's polluted your brain. Even if your grandest hope came true and you leveled the town, banished wrong-doers from the kingdom, won the day for chivalry and the American way, you haven't changed anything. They'll just go somewhere else and start over. There are probably a dozen places like this right now up and down this miserable strip of land. You can't save the world."
"We don't want to save the world, Eric," Tracy said. "Just our fair share."
Eric swung his pack onto his shoulders. "She's probably not on the street we walked down. I'd try the cross street first." He walked out of camp, following the road south.
"Should we split up?" Season whispered.
Rydell shook his head. "Not yet. First let's knock out the generator. Then we'll split. Molly and I will take the east end of the street, you and Tracy take the west. We'll meet in the middle. If we haven't got them, we'll head north, you two go south. We'll hook up again south of town, where we left Eric."
The mention of Eric's name chilled them a little, as if they just realized how alone they really were. They had watched him walking ofi into the night after his wife and son, getting smaller and smaller. Disappearing into black.
"Let's do it," Tracy said.
They all nodded, trying to generate enthusiasm like a basketball team slapping hands. But the fear was greater than they'd imagined, some many-tentacled alien lodged in their throats, wrapped around their legs, chewing on their stomachs. They went anyway.
Entering town was easy. They abandoned the road and sneaked in at an angle, dodging from brush to brush, tree to tree. The foliage was denser here, more lush than they'd been experiencing the past few days. Farther to the south they'd seen groves of green trees.
"We'll just follow the sound," Rydell instructed. The generator hummed loudly, but with all the music and noise it was hard to gauge a direction.
"Why don't we just follow the wires?" Season suggested, pointing up at the wires running to each trailer and home.
"Some physicist I am," Rydell said.
They crawled along the backs of trailers, behind houses, through the dark unkempt yards, their eyes fixed on the wires strung sloppily overhead. Finally they discovered the source. A small wooden shack between two trailers.
The loud rumbling inside left no doubt and Tracy put her hand against the wooden wall. "I can feel the vibrations. This is it."
"Okay," Rydell said excitedly. "Let's kill the lights."
Suddenly a loud click echoed behind them. The unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked.