Read Fiddle Game for Free Online Page A

chuckled. “But you’re right, too. There is a lot of that going around. A lot of damn heathens in this valley of sorrows.” He took the pot off the fire and stood up, offering his hand. “I’m the Prophet,” he said. “No doubt, you’ve read my work.”
    “No doubt.” His hand was frail, almost bird-like, but his grip was firm. “Listen,” I said, “I need…”
    “I knew you were coming here.”
    “Of course you did.” I turned to watch the alley behind me. I was still clear, but I absolutely did not have time for this kind of crap.
    “Yah! told me.”
    “Well he would, wouldn’t he? Listen…”
    “A man in a shitload of trouble, said Yah! A man in need of sanctuary. A man with a riddle.”
    “Right. I don’t suppose Yah told you what to do about him?” I didn’t bother to ask if Yah had told him all that before or after he saw me out of breath and looking over my shoulder.
    “Yah! does not meddle in the affairs of Caesar.”
    “What the hell does that mean?”
    “Twenty bucks to hide in the truck for an hour.”
    “Seems like sanctuary is a pretty good business.”
    “It has a trap door in the floor and spy holes in all four sides.”
    “Deal.”
    While he unhooked the padlock on the flimsy door, I reached in my wallet and pulled out two twenties. “If trouble is still following me,” I said, “it’s going to be here a lot sooner than an hour. When that happens, I could use a bit of diverting bullshit, okay?”
    “I am a prophet and a holy man, brother.” He straightened up and solemnly laid a palm against his breast. “Bullshit, I got.” He took the twenties and ushered me inside.
    I stepped into a cluttered space lit by a tiny plastic skylight that doubled as a vent. When the Prophet closed the door again, I could see that each wall had not one, but two spy holes, one with a wide-angle lens, like a hotel or apartment door, and one that was just a plain hole. There was a four-legged stool on the floor, and I put it by the back door, planted myself on it, and looked out. The Prophet went back to reading his book and cooking his potion. When I didn’t see any other action for ten minutes or so, I looked around the interior a bit. The trap door was easy enough to spot, if you were looking for it. It was off to one side, presumably to miss the drive shaft. That’s if the truck still had a drive shaft. It looked like it hadn’t moved for several decades and if it did, about half a ton of junk would immediately wind up on the floor, along with the flimsy roof. It smelled like dust and brake fluid and old, damp paper. Somehow, that seemed right for an ersatz holy man’s cave.
    I looked again at the spy holes. The plain ones were about an inch in diameter and just down and to the right of those with the fish-eye lenses. Just the right size and location for a gun muzzle, I thought. Did my man the Prophet go in for holy wars? I was about to turn away from the hole and have a closer look at the cabinets on the walls, when I saw something move outside.
    The big Chevy nosed into the alley, bouncing heavily on its springs, stalking, sniffing. It straightened out and cruised straight at us, taking its time.
    “Tally ho,” I said through the hole.
    “Trust in Yah!” said the Prophet. “And keep your ass down.”
    When the car got within twenty feet of my hidey hole, it stopped. The driver’s door opened and a shape emerged. And emerged some more. A bigger shape than the phony cop, by at least a hundred pounds. Apparently, Wide Track Wilkie hadn’t abandoned me, after all.
    “Praise Yah!” said the prophet.
    “What’s he done for me lately?” Wilkie wasn’t big on chit chat, as a rule.
    “He has led you to me.”
    “Yeah? Well, you better hope he doesn’t tell me to stay. I’m looking for a guy might have run by here fifteen minutes ago.”
    “Might have. You can build a universe on ‘might have,’ pilgrim. Perhaps you’ve read my theological work on islands of alternate