The Cloud Atlas

“Pick up the gun, Belk.” And I did, though doing so gave me an almost physical sense of things flying out of control. I blinked, hoping to regain my balance, but it only made me dizzier.

“Now we're going to shoot.”

I was surprised, and disappointed, that he was so obviously not worried that a man he had just struck, twice, might be interested in shooting him.

He held up the glass, and looked at me until I returned his gaze. “A moving target.” Then he pointed down the bar. “Ready?”

I nodded, adjusted my grip. Circle, study, plan.

Gurley made as if to toss the glass in the air, but then rocketed it down the bar, a line drive. It shattered against a far wall before I had a chance to do anything, let alone shoot.

“You didn't even fire, mon petit ami,” Gurley said with a smile. He knocked the bar. “Another glass.” I drew a breath, found a glass, set it up. “Ready?” he said. I nodded and raised the gun. Another line drive down the bar, even faster this time. I almost squeezed the trigger, but held off when I realized I was far too late.

“C'm'ere,” said Gurley. I leaned over. He took the gun from my hand and, holding the barrel, smacked the side of my head with it. For a second I couldn't see, and when my vision finally blinked back, I realized my right eye was already swelling shut.

“Second lesson,” Gurley said. “Are you looking at me?” I assumed I was, and stared more intently. “Second lesson,” he repeated. “Never, never let a man take your gun.” He gave it back to me, and raised his hand to strike again. Reflexively I aimed the gun at him. The hell with circling. Training can only take a man so far.

Gurley whistled low. “Third lesson,” he said, hands halfheartedly in the air. “Never aim a gun at a man unless you plan on shooting him.” I held my aim for a moment and then lowered the gun. “Good,” Gurley said. “I'd hate for us to get off to the wrong start.” He knocked the bar again. I set up a third glass. It rattled as I put it down and we both watched my shaky hand struggle for a second to release it. “Ready?” he said. I nodded. He reared back to pitch the glass down the bar.

I shot it out of his hand.

He staggered backward. His hand was miraculously not injured, and honestly, I don't think I was prepared to deal with the consequences if it had been. He studied his hand, as if trying to remember whether he'd ever picked up the glass, and then let a smile seep across his face. He reached across the bar and, as I flinched, clapped me on the shoulder.

“Nice, god, damn, shot, Belk,” he said. “Maybe we'll make a warrior out of you yet.” He bared his teeth; perhaps he thought he was grinning. “I'll be gone again, two days,” he said. “Thus you can understand my eagerness to meet you tonight.” I must have looked woozy because he eyed me carefully. “Belk? Listen, now: you have two whole days to come to your senses. Meet me at 0800, two days from now, Building 520.” I nodded this time. He smiled. “Building 520,” he repeated. “And bring your gun, if you like.” With that, he turned on one leg, wobbled, found his balance, and walk-swayed out of the bar.

CHAPTER 6

ELEVEN P.M., THE STARHOPE HOTEL.

It had taken me some puzzling over the dollar that Lily had pressed into my hand before I decided that what she'd scribbled on the back was an invitation. But to what?

I stood outside the building, looking up at the windows of Lily's “office” on the second floor, thinking about Gurley Lily, and Lily's bare legs. Would another man be there tonight? Would another interrupt us?

And yes, innocent that I was, I even thought about her advertised business, those careful and correct palm readings: after all that had happened so far, I was more interested than ever in learning my future. Especially if that future included sex.

I apologize: there are certain words a priest can't say, like sex, or the proper names of various parts of the anatomy, or the improper names, or, of course, the full raft of obscenities, carnal and otherwise. I can't say these words not because I lack the nerve, but the audience. These are things people can't hear me say; that's why it's a pleasure to talk to Ronnie now, who apparently can't hear me at all.

Whom else could I tell what it was like to stand outside that hotel, looking up, sweating hormones, the tart, metallic taste of blood from the fight with Gurley only now going stale in my mouth?

Whom else could I tell that of everything I felt, the sharpest feeling was fear?

Damn right I was scared. Scared of Gurley? Maybe I thought that then, but that was a fleeting fear. You can't be scared of a car that loses control on the highway. There's no time, no reason: you just concentrate on staying alive.