Walk on the Wild Side - By Karl Edward Wagner Page 0,116
magazine. “How do you manage to stay so fit?”
“I have this portrait in my attic.” Holsten had used the joke too many times before, but it always drew a laugh. And he was not going on sixty-four, despite the dates given in his books.
“No. Seriously.” Stein would be drinking a Pils next round, worrying about alcohol and insulin.
The tentacles were not really tentacles—only something with which to grasp and feed. To reach out. To gather in those who had foolishly been drawn into its reach. Had deliberately chosen to pass into its reach. The promises. The vows. The laughter from behind the pallid mask. Was the price worth the gain? Too late.
“Jon? You sure you’re feeling all right?” Stein was oblivious to the pallid mask peering over his shoulder.
“Exercise and vitamins,” said Holsten. He gave Stein perhaps another two years.
“It must work for you, then,” Mannering persisted. “You hardly look any older than when we first met you here in London some ages ago. The rest of us are rapidly crumbling apart.”
“Try jogging and only the occasional pint,” Holsten improvised.
“I’d rather just jog,” said Carter, getting up for another round. He passed by the tattered yellow cloak. Carter would never jog.
“Bought a rather good copy of The Outsiders,” said Foster, to change the subject. “Somewhat foxed, and in the reprint dust jacket, but at a good price.” It had been Crosley’s copy sold cheaply to another dealer.
Holsten remembered the afternoon. Too many years ago. New York. Downstairs book shop. Noise of the subway Cheap shelf. The King in Yellow, stuffed with pages from some older book. A bargain. Not cheap, as it turned out. He had never believed in any of this.
The figure in the pallid mask was studying Crosley, knowing he would soon throw himself in front of a tube train. Drained and discarded.
“Well,” said Holsten. “I’d best be getting back after this one.”
“This early in the day?” said Mannering, who was beginning to feel his pints. “Must be showing your age.”
“Not if I can help it.” Holsten sank his pint. “It’s just that I said I’d meet someone in the hotel residents’ bar at half three. He wants to do one of those interviews, or I’d ask you along. Boring, of course. But...”
“Then come round after,” Mannering invited. “We’ll all be here.” But not for very much longer, thought Holsten; but he said: “See you shortly, then.”
Crosley was again coughing badly, a stained handkerchief to his mouth.
Jon Holsten fled.
The kid was named Dave Harvis, he was from Battersea, and he’d been waiting in the hotel lobby of the Bloomsbury Park for an hour in order not to be late. He wore a blue anorak and was clutching a blue nylon bag with a cassette recorder and some books to be signed, and he was just past twenty-one. Holsten picked him out as he entered the lobby, but the kid stared cluelessly.
“Hello. I’m Jon Holsten.” He extended his hand, as on so many such meetings.
“Dave Harvis.” He jumped from his seat. “It’s a privilege to meet you, sir. Actually, I was expecting a much older... that is...”
“I get by with a little help from my friends.” Holsten gave him a firm American handshake. “Delighted to meet you.”
The tentacled mouths stroked and fed, promising whatever you wanted to hear. The figure in its tattered yellow cloak lifted its pallid mask. What is said is said. What is done is done. No turning back. Some promises can’t be broken.
“Are you all right, sir?” Harvis had heard that Holsten must be up in his years.
“Jet lag, that’s all,” said Holsten. “Let’s go into the bar, and you can buy me a pint for the interview. It’s quiet there, I think.”
Holsten sat down, troubled.
Harvis carried over two lagers. He worked on his cassette recorder. The residents’ bar was deserted but for the barman.
‘If you don’t mind, sir.” Harvis took a gulp of his lager. “I’ve invited a few mates round this evening to meet up at the Swan. They’re great fans of your work. If you wouldn’t mind.”
“My pleasure,” said Holsten.
The figure in tattered yellow now entered the residents’ bar. he pallid mask regarded Harvis and Holsten as Harvis fumbled with a microcassette tape.
Holsten felt a rush of strength.
He mumbled into his pint: “I didn’t mean for this to happen this way, but I can’t stop it.”
Harvis was still fumbling with the tape and didn’t hear.