Larque on the Wing Read Online Free

belly paler than his mushroom-top of a Stetson.
    â€œListen,” the Pickle Park cowboy said in a choked voice, “I’ll pay you.”
    In that moment Shadow made up his mind that he was never going to be one of these aging suppliants. Never. Somehow it was going to be different for him. He would not grow old.
    At the same time, the scornful words that had rushed to his mind went unspoken, because he sensed something. This man—this round-faced, sad-eyed man—hid some power that called to Shadow like the hidden lightning calling from the clouds.
    â€œNo,” Shadow said softly.
    â€œPlease.”
    â€œNo, you won’t pay me.” For some ineffable reason that had nothing to do with pity or kindness, he intended to service this middle-aged closet queen. “Come on.”
    Because his would-be lover seemed uncomprehending, he reached out and grabbed him by the wrist to lead him toward the shadows between the two concrete-block buildings coyly marked “Pointers” and “Setters.” But when his fingers came in contact with the man’s pulse, revelation like electric shock went through him, rooting him where he was. Somehow via his own hand he knew this man’s soul, and it was lonesome and visionary and yearning. Like his own.
    Shadow whispered, “You want to be a hero.”
    The other gave a nervous smile. “Yes.” His mouth was small and triangular, like a baby’s. An inappropriate mouth. Everything about his appearance was inappropriate to who he really was.
    Shadow said quietly, “You want to fight for justice. You want to leave your mother and spend your life among men someplace where you can stand tall, wear a code of honor at your hip, be adored by tenderfeet everywhere. You want to speak little, ride hard, love a stallion. You want to have courage. You want God to come to you in a sunset and touch your shoulder with his gun barrel.”
    The round-faced man understood now that Shadow had not merely noticed his getup, his boots and jeans and vest and Stetson, his fantasy. He stood agawk. Shadow got moving, in a different direction this time. Cowboys do things right. “Drive,” he told the middle-aged man, shoving him toward his Buick. He got into the passenger side.
    The man drove. A dozen hungry eyes watched the two of them go. “Where?” the Stetson asked when they were out of the Pickle Park.
    â€œYou choose. Some motel.”
    â€œMotels are too risky.”
    â€œI am asking you for an act of courage.”
    The stranger swallowed, nodded, and turned toward Soudersburg.
    â€œWhat is your name?” Shadow asked him after awhile.
    â€œArgent.”
    It was a dreamed-up name, of course, used only for adventures like this. Probably changed as often as Shadow changed his. Yet in a way it was more true than the man’s real name, whatever that might be. “Okay, Argent,” Shadow agreed, low-voiced. “Is this the place?”
    It was. “Cabins,” the wooden sign proclaimed. “Kitchenettes. Color TV In Every Room. Vibra-Beds.” Argent went and rang the bell, brought down the owner’s sleepy wife from her bedroom over the office, made the arrangements. Inside the small cold-floored room, with the door locked and the blinds drawn, Argent did not go at once to the chenille-spread bed, but looked at Shadow in the light. He took off his oversized Stetson—another act of courage, for the hat concealed a balding head.
    â€œWhy are you doing this?” he asked Shadow. “You are beautiful. Way out of my league.”
    Not yet knowing the answer, Shadow went to him and kissed his babyish mouth. With half-lidded eyes Argent gasped, but so far Shadow himself felt no reaction—except in his hands, which lifted to Argent’s plump shoulder blades, their finger bones buzzing and tingling like Shadow’s mind. An image was growing, growing, glowing like heat lightning in the shadows