Goldenland Past Dark Read Online Free Page B

She always wore nylons, even in muggy weather, and around her neck hung a locket, as heavy and round as an ancient gold coin, which she never took off. She fingered it thoughtfully now. “Tonight’s events are his fault, are they not? He should be the one to wait.”
    Al snorted. “Hotel, sure. And how we gonna pay for that?” He shook a forkful of pancake in Brunhilde’s direction. “I’m not gonna blow the last of my dough on room service.”
    “We have the cashbox. Schoenberg keeps it in the Cadillac’s glove compartment. Have you not seen him put it there?”
    “And the key?” asked Vlad.
    “I believe Nepenthe could help us get it open.”
    Nepenthe sat up a little straighter. She cracked her knuckles inside her gloves.
    “I believe our minds will be clearer in the morning. If Schoenberg has not arrived, we can discuss then what it is we should do.” Brunhilde looked around the table. Most everyone seemed to agree. Here in the warm, dry diner, clashing swords and leaky tents seemed very far away.
    Webern looked down at his plate. He rubbed the French fry into the little top hat he had drawn until it became an unrecognizable smear.
    “I don’t know if we should,” he said. His voice sounded plaintive and whiny, even to him—a boy’s voice, not a man’s. “Dr. Show trusted us with that cashbox. It’s not like he’s dead. At least—I mean, he’s coming back. He’ll be pissed off if we go through his stuff, especially if we take his money.”
    “His money? His money?” Brunhilde exhaled sharply, the ghost of a laugh. “Webern, when was your last paycheque?”
    “I dunno. Same as yours.” Webern peeked up at the faces scrutinizing him from around the table. They gazed back, not hostile but not smiling either. Nepenthe flipped her veil back down; he couldn’t read her expression. Brunhilde’s arms were folded, and her eyes probed him. He imagined her pulling his German name off like a mask, exposing the American underneath. “I just—listen, okay, it’s not his money. But it’s not ours either, not really. It’s the circus’s. If we just blow it all on a bunch of hotel rooms, that’s it, we’re sunk.” Webern shaped his hands into an airplane and, with a low whistle, nose-dived it into the table.
    “It’s the circus’s money, sure.” Nepenthe shrugged. “But what if Dr. Show doesn’t come back? How long are we supposed to wait, Bernie?”
    “Longer than a couple of hours, anyway. You said he’d meet us here.”
    “He told Enrique that, yeah. But I’m not sure we can hold him to it, under the circumstances.” Nepenthe lowered her voice. “Think about it, kiddo.”
    “Yes,” said Brunhilde. “Schoenberg may not have had a chance to make his escape. But let us be honest with each other. Even in the best of times, when has he really kept his word?”
    Vlad and Fydor exchanged a glance. Eng touched his forehead to the diner’s floor. Hank sighed, and in his arms, Ginger mewed plaintively. Even Al gave a reluctant nod. Webern pushed his plate forward on the table. It was true, of course—Dr. Schoenberg certainly hadn’t kept all of his promises, at least not lately. He baited them with luxuries he could never afford, fame that eluded them with every measly audience that half-filled the bleachers in their big top. And now he was getting himself killed over a sword he’d most likely stolen from a psycho named after another planet. But he still seemed inherently honest, despite it all. He’d rescued Webern from an empty life in a town filled with the skeletons of houses. Was that really enough, though? When had he kept his word?
    “I can think of a few instances.”
    The circus performers turned in the direction of the voice. There, in the diner’s doorway, stood Schoenberg. His top hat and tuxedo dripped with rain, and a fresh bloody slash marked his cheek. But he held a sword. His dark eyes blazed. Walking out of the kitchen with a coffee pot in her hand, the waitress saw