The Coming Part 3

"That zero is mayor? I should've stayed in Texas."

"You know him?"

"Knew him." She touched his arm and whispered, "When he was police commissioner," raised one eyebrow, and walked on.

He watched her go. Interesting walk: "She moves in circles / and those circles move." What illegal thing might she have been involved in? He had no doubt that Cam was on the take, but Luanne had seemed so prim and shy as a student. Oh, well. Probably a leather-underwear-and-handcuffs prost.i.tute on the side. Some of the quietest people had bizarre private lives. He had met one or two, pursuing his own private life.

Suppose this thing does turn out to be creatures from another planet, landing on the White House lawn on New Year's Day. How would that change things? Would the Europeans lay down their arms in celebration of the universality of life? Sure.

It would all boil down to what they brought along with them. The threat of absolute destruction might indeed unify humanity against the common enemy, but what good would unity do against an enemy who could crack the planet like an egg?

Maybe they would bring the truth, and the truth would make us free. As it had so effectively in the past.

He wished he were older. At sixty it was hard to have a sense of humor about dying. Maybe in another thirty years.

He studied the various coffees and invested in a moderately expensive blend: an ounce of Blue Mountain with three ounces of French roast. It made more difference to Rory than to him. She had perhaps one cup a day at home, and liked to savor it. He drank it constantly, fuel for music, but not the real stuff. Coffee-est or MH Black Gold. One good cup of real in the morning and then twenty cups of anything black and strong.

He turned around and paused, looking at the thirty or so stands, remembering which ones had what.

He checked his list; crossed out coffee, added green peas and smoked ham. Make a nice soup and let it cook all day. Bread and salad, already on the list.

His day for young women. "Good morning, Sara."

"Buenos, Maestro." She was the bartender and co-owner of Hermanos Mendoza-the Brothers Mendoza, who had gone north in a hurry twenty years before, leaving behind a stack of unpaid bills andtheir name.

Sara always touched her neck when she said h.e.l.lo to you. She had been in a terrible fire a few years back, and even after they rebuilt her face she'd had to talk through a machine in her throat for a while.

She still wore long sleeves and high necklines. Her face looked sculpted, less mobile than you would expect.

She shifted a large bag of onions so some of the weight was on her hip. "So how's the music business?"

"Lento, as we say. Slow. You want to buy a song?" Actually, he realized, one was forming in his mind. The first few notes of a mock-bombastic overture. A greeting for the aliens.

"If I could afford a song from you, I wouldn't be tending bar."

"There you go." He sang to the tune of the last century's "The Teddy Bears' Picnic": "If I could afford a tune from you / I wouldn't be tending bar."

"Wow. You just make that up?"

He smiled. "Trade secret."

"You take care." She shifted the big bag of onions onto her shoulder and walked away. Completely different from Luanne, her walk was stiff and mannish. It was probably from the fire; months of immobility and then walking in braces. Brave girl, Norman thought.

Sara She could feel his eyes on her b.u.t.t, every man's eyes. One more operation. Cut through the scar tissue, give her two b.u.t.tocks again. Then learn how to walk again like a woman.

Not covered by Medicare. Rebuilding a womanly b.u.t.t was not covered; it was "cosmetic." If you wanted cosmetic surgery you had to save up for it. They had paid for this so-called face and the two hard sponges on her chest. They opened her l.a.b.i.a up and gave her pubic hair again, which of course is not cosmetic because who sees it?

n.o.body had, not socially. Not until she could afford the last operation. She kicked open the door to the bar with unnecessary force.

"Nuestra Senora de las Cebollas," said Jose, the morning man. Our Lady of the Onions.

"Hey, next time you carry 'em and I'll cut 'em."

"Sure you will." The bar's big specialty was the onion flower: a machine slices the onion carefully in a crossed dice, three quarters of the way through. Then when somebody orders one, you just dip it in light spicy batter and deep-fry it for a few minutes. It opens like a flower in the cooking and turns sweet.

All very delicious, but someone had to peel a few dozen onions before eleven, and it wouldn't be Sara. "I'll take over the coffee. You get on the onions."

"Let me take a leak first."

"Oh G.o.d, yes. Don't pee on the onions."

"Flavor of the week." No customers, which wasn't unusual at nine sharp. Jose had crowds on the half hour, five-thirty, six-thirty, seven-thirty, eight-thirty. Things were calm by the time Sara came in.

She put on an ap.r.o.n and took a cloth to the machines. They had a hundred-and-fifty-year-old cappuccino monster that still worked, and Jose liked to mess with it. Sara didn't. She made cappuccino with the milk jets on the espresso machine, and n.o.body complained. When everything was shiny, she made herself a cup and sat down.

"Chee-wawa," Jose said, coming out of the men's room. "I work like a dog since dawn and my boss comes in and drinks coffee."

"Some bosses drink blood, Jose. Be grateful."He popped an orange drink and sat next to her at the small table. "Que dia."

"Already? What's happening?"

"Oh, the usual. Drunks, b.u.ms. Invaders from outer s.p.a.ce."

"We get 'em all."

"No, I mean verdad. People from outer s.p.a.ce."

"Really. What did they want? Beetle juice?"

"No, I mean verdad! You don't watch the news."

"How could I watch the news when I don't have a cube at home?"

"Okay. A good point."

"So what about these invaders?"

Jose poured the orange drink over ice and squeezed a half lime into it. "Government bulls.h.i.t, you ask me."

"It was on television?"

"Yeah, some woman at the university. She got some message from outer s.p.a.ce. We got aliens on the way."

"Hold it. This is really true?"

"Like I say, government bulls.h.i.t. Next week they come up with some alien tax we got to pay."

"Did you record it?"

"What I record it with? You leave a crystal here?"

"It was on CNN?"

"I guess, I don't know. Whatever was on."

"You're a big help." Sara got up and started doing the tables. Wipe each one down with a cloth, reposition the silverware. "I mean really, it's real?"

"Your friend the musician's wife, the professor? She was on the cube."

"Oh, yeah. Dr. what's-her-name Bell. The astrologer." She sat back down. "So really. It's really real."

"Would I bulls.h.i.t you?"

"All the time. But I mean, this is real."

"Verdad. Really real."

"Holy s.h.i.t. Do you know how big this is?"

"Yeah, yeah. That's all they talk about, all morning."

She sipped her coffee. Then she drank half of it in two gulps. "Holy s.h.i.t."

"I wouldn't get all worked up over it. It's just the government."

"Jose, look. The government doesn't always lie. What could they gain from this?"

"Alien tax."

"Oh yeah, sure. But I mean, don't you see? We're not alone! There are other people out there."

" 'Course there are. I knew that all the time."

"Oh G.o.d, of course. Your tabloids."

"So what's wrong with my newspapers? They're right? That's what's wrong with my newspapers?"

"Just ... just let's go back, about three squares. You saw this on the cube."

"Bigger than s.h.i.t. Like you say, CNN."

"CNN. And it wasn't a joke.""No way. Verdaderamente."

Sara was strongly tempted to go to the bar and pour herself something. Not so soon after dawn, though. She sat back in the chair and closed her eyes.

"You're thinking."

"Happens." After a moment: "So have they called out the army yet? NASA going to blow them back to where they came from?"

"Not yet. They're not due for another three months."

"Nice of them to tell us." The door banged open and w.i.l.l.y Joe flowed across the floor and onto a bar stool, the one nearest the men's room.

"Cup of espresso, Senor Smith?" Jose said. He nodded.

Sara checked her watch. "You're two minutes early."

"It's the G.o.dd.a.m.n aliens. Screwin' everything up." While the espresso machine was building up pressure, Jose punched "No Sale" on the antique register and took out a pink five-hundred-dollar bill.

"Hey. Be obvious," w.i.l.l.y Joe said.

"I'm an obvious kind of man." He put the bill under the saucer in front of w.i.l.l.y Joe.

"I could make you real obvious. You don't watch your f.u.c.kin' trap."

"Yeah, yeah." He poured the coffee, making a sound like a chicken, just audible over the machine hiss.

"Jose ... " Sara warned.

He served the coffee. "It's okay. Senor Smith knows I know his boss."

"You know too many people, genie. Get you some trouble someday."

"Enjoy your coffee, sir," he said with a broad smile. "I hope it is done to your liking."

"You boys want to put your d.i.c.ks back in? Customers coming."

"You watch your mouth too, lady."

Sara turned and made a sign only w.i.l.l.y Joe could see: right thumb rammed up through left fist. "Y tu madre," she mouthed, her face turning red.

"Yeah, well, f.u.c.k you, too." He turned back to his coffee. Two women and two men came in, suits from the federal building. Sara took their orders and pa.s.sed them on to Jose.

At exactly nine-thirty, the mayor strode in. He said h.e.l.lo to Sara and Jose and one of the suits, Rosalita. He sat down two stools away from w.i.l.l.y Joe and ignored him.

"Cafe con leche, Mr. Southeby?" Jose said.

"Oh, let me be daring. The chocolate one."

"One chococcino, coming up."

Sara brought him a place mat and setting. "So what about these aliens, Cameron? You made it all up, confess."

"Ah, you see though me like a window, m'dear," he said theatrically. "Anything to keep from raising taxes. Tourists by the planeload."

She patted his shoulder. "Send some of them here," and went on to seat two new customers.

Jose brought the hot-chocolate-with-espresso, and ground a scatter of fresh chocolate on the top. "