<<< Back Table of Contents Next >>> 4 Behind the Veil Anton stood at the counter of Deb's Diner, nursing a cup of coffee as he looked out the window. He was alone in the place, watching the wet street outside without really seeing it. He'd gotten the job two days after his arrival in Portland. The diner was just down the street from his hotel. A dark-haired kid came in with a burst of activity, after saying goodbye to a man in an overcoat who ambled off down the street. Through the window, Anton watched the older man's retreat. The kid sat at the counter and lit a skinny, hand-rolled cigarette. He was dapper in a corduroy jacket, hair wet from the drizzle. He had intense eyebrows that almost grew together, and fur on his upper lip. He smoked with exaggerated gestures, spilling ashes on his lapels. "Mind if I sit here a minute?" he said. "Not personally. But the owner doesn't like people coming in without paying for something. You want a coffee, maybe?" "Want to buy me one?" "Why would I do that? I work here." "I'm supposed to meet someone in ten minutes, but it's raining out." "I can see that." "I need somewhere to sit, so I won't get wet." "Look, why don't you put fifty cents on the counter. I'll pour you a coffee and you can sit." "I don't drink coffee." "It's for cosmetic purposes, get it?" "Oh, yeah. That I understand." Still, he made no effort to pull out any money. Anton decided to ignore him. He busied himself with refilling the mayonnaise tin, scraping down the grill. "Are you new here?" the kid said after a while. "I ain't seen you around." "You keep track?" The kid grinned. "I've got to." He gestured up the street. "You live in that hotel there, don't you? The Windsor." Anton shrugged. "For about three weeks." Anton glared at him. "I told you! I know all about this town." He took a drag on his cigarette, nearly dropping it, and brushed the ashes from his coat. "You hitchhike?" "No, bus." "When I came here from Arizona, I hitchhiked all the way. Fourteen hundred miles." "Oh, yeah?" Despite himself, Anton was impressed. "Do you like it here?" The kid shifted on his stool, a full-body shrug. "It's okay," Anton answered for him. "Yeah. I got warrants on me back home, that's why I came here." Anton perked up at the word "warrants." "They won't catch me, though. They don't know what I look like, or nothing." Anton considered this. "I was reading about this guy who worked in the gas chambers back in World War Two. After the war he moved to Cleveland, where he was a car mechanic. He changed his name, and no one knew it was him for thirty years." "See what I mean?" "They found him, though." "They won't find me." There was another silence, which this time Anton broke first. "Is it a small town, where you're from?" "Not like here. This is the city. They've got a lot of weed back there, though. A lot. Fields and fields of it." "Is that what you did, grow pot?" "More than that. Stuff you don't want to know about. My dad was a coke dealer, and lots of other stuff. He died when I was seven, so I kind of took over the business." "When you were seven?" "I tried, but there was trouble and I had to leave town." "So you came here? Hitchhiked?" "I was eleven then. I lived with my aunt for a while in Tucson." Anton shook his head. "But why Portland? Do you know people here?" The kid got off his stool and gestured for Anton to follow. "Come on. You're new here, I'll show you around." He was already at the door. "Hey, I'm working! I can't just leave when I feel like it." "Why not?" The kid glanced around the diner. "You can do better than this." "If I leave, I'll be fired, you know that. I'm not making much money in this job, but it helps keep things together 'till I can get gigs." He bit his lip. He'd said more than he'd intended. The kid returned to the counter with a triumphant grin. "I said you can do better." Anton was furious. "What do you care? Why are you so eager to help me all of a sudden?" The kid leaned toward him, his eyes dark pools of sincerity. "Because it's the right thing to do. And because I can." He turned away again. At the door he shot back, "You're right, it's still too soon. You want to find your own way, and who can blame you? But don't be so sure I can't help. Don't be so sure I don't know how. Ask people about me. Ask them, 'Kliff, is he connected? Is he someone who'll call you in the middle of the night with an idea? Or is he some junky, some dumpster diver?' You know, we're not so different maybe. You're not so innocent as you pretend, and dude!—I'm not here to waste time." The door clicked shut as Kliff vanished into the rain. Cascades of water crashed against the diner's windows and the roofs of parked cars. Low, dark clouds, frayed by the wind, moved swiftly through the streets. "Now, that's an aggressive rain," Anton thought. He went back to wiping the counter. • • • The neighborhood where Anton lived and worked depressed him. He felt under the weather and forgot to shave. "I'm starting to feel like a lowlife," he thought. At night after work, he went to clubs and cafes in the part of town called Zombieland, a warehouse district along the river where an alternative scene had developed in recent years. Its exotic desolation appealed to the undesirables in Portland's midst, the sort who are drawn to art as to a scab that won't heal. Zombieland was a fashionable, yet highly suspect place, where violent and degrading back-alley transactions added a sense of danger to the cultural refinements one could sample there, like finger food at a party: designer piercings, latex undergarments, dances performed nude on small shrine-like stages, Buddhist tea rooms where poems were read. It made Anton feel like he was swimming in an aquarium of rare fish, who must be fed ambrosia or they would die. While he was there, he became an exotic fish himself. He was attractive enough to be let in anywhere, but this life of appearances didn't appeal to him. The popularity he'd known all his life was confirmed by strangers who picked him out on the street, or whenever he entered a room. Still, whatever pleasure this might have given him was dampened by being a short-order cook in the city's worst diner. As Becky would have reminded him, "You've traveled two thousand miles to get the same job you could have gotten back home." The sting of her imagined reproach made him bite his lip. He was a kid from the Midwest, a grease monkey changing tires at the local gas station, a cornfield boy with pimples and big feet. He carried this image within him as a symbol of his innocence of the city and its ways. All he knew about Portland came from direct observation, and he knew better than to trust that. "I'll bet they're tossing me curve balls all the time," he told himself. He felt like the real event was always leaving the room just as he walked in. He could tell it had been there by its afterglow, its influence on people, but the source of the fascination remained a mystery to him. He thought of the city as an infinitely complex puzzle, a series of nested spheres carved out of jade. It would always defeat his attempts to understand it. If he jumped in too soon with his conclusions, he would be reacting to surfaces rather than penetrating the mysteries they concealed. So he remained off to one side, watching. One night in a bar, someone nudged his elbow and whispered, "There's Boyd Franklin of Enemy Airspace." He shifted his head for a better look. Boyd Franklin was famous from the hardcore days, but he remembered the name for another reason. At the age of ten, he'd sent the man six dollars for a tape about alien abductions and germ warfare that had never come. At the time, he'd blamed his mother for intercepting the mail, but now, looking at the man, he felt he'd been unfair to her. "Here's Boyd Franklin in the flesh," he thought. "An ordinary asshole. A man who resents his bit of genius, because he has to use it to make a living. Myself, I'd love to have that privilege." The exotics and freaks of Zombieland interested him only briefly. His main reason for being there was to figure out what he could do with his music. What he found was discouraging. The talented musicians had no ambition, and the ambitious ones had no talent. Either they didn't trust their own gifts and shackled themselves with self-doubt, or they jumped into the arena before they were ready, with no idea of what to say. No one was doing the kind of raw, experimental stuff he'd hoped to find in the big city. "Maybe I'm looking in the wrong places," he told himself. "Or then again, maybe this is it." He was already tired of hearing people his own age complain that they had nothing to do. "Stop whining!" he wanted to say. "Two or three committed people could change things in this town." But he kept these thoughts to himself. One night, he snuck into a construction site and plugged in his amp. For a couple of hours, his music vibrated through the concrete and steel skin of the building. His heart left his chest and whirled in the air above him, pulsing with an electric fire that got brighter as his playing grew in intensity. The fire started to shape itself into an arsenal of weapons—rifles, machetes, grenades—with which to demolish his foe. He armed a squadron of phantom horsemen and sent them into battle. The sight of so many young men riding off to die in his name was inspiring, even if they were just demons. In the end the fire died down, and his heart fell back into his chest. The kingdom he'd been constructing collapsed into silence, and the city's roar took back the night. • • • Kliff had been following Anton's efforts to find musicians he could work with, but he was growing impatient. "He's too arrogant for his own good. He doesn't think he's met anyone on his level, and he's right. But the ones he wants aren't hanging around Zombieland waiting for him. He's got to go looking for them. He's got to learn where they are." He figured that the best way to get Anton's attention would be to help him put together a band. What Anton needed were other musicians like himself, self-taught prodigies with nothing to lose. Maybe he would find such people on his own, but that would take time. Meanwhile, precious opportunities were being lost. It was his duty to step in. He went back to the diner, picking a moment when it was empty and about to close. As he went in, a bell jangled against the glass. It was a cat bell on a string that Anton had put there to alert him to customers. Each time the door opened, the bell swung wildly back and forth, making a racket. Deb, the owner, had seemed puzzled by it at first, but she'd never said anything about it, and now it was part of the decor. Anton was busy scraping down the grill when Kliff came in. Hearing the bell, he looked up sharply. Recognizing Kliff, his frown deepened. "Are you hungry for it yet?" Kliff said. "Hungry for what?" He wiped his hands on a rag. "I'm closing now, you know." "I can see that." "Hungry for what?" "You know, the invisible world behind the veil. The place where dreams become real." Anton winced. "You mean like Disneyland?" Kliff shook his head violently. "I'm not getting through." He jabbed a finger at Anton. "If you could cross over into the world of signs and omens, would you do it? Haven't you ever wanted to step behind the curtain and see how things really work? If you could strip away the lies everyone else sees, think of the time you'd save. Obstacles would vanish and you'd go straight to your goal." A vein throbbed at Anton's temple, a tendon in his neck tightened. "It's not that easy, you know." "I never said it was easy! But it makes more sense than what you're doing now." Anton returned to his work with added fury. The grease in the deep fryer was dirty, so he began to drain it. He removed the wire baskets, dropping them in the sink. He poured soap in the mop bucket and filled it with water. Kliff's voice rose over the din. "Do you like working in this rat hole, Deb's Diner? I guess you think it suits you. You'll spend the rest of your life here, right, serving these people coffee? Or do you want to play music, like you came here for?" Anton stopped what he was doing. "What difference is it to you?" "Pay attention, dude! I'm trying to be your friend and get you out of here. So far, you haven't found the right musicians, or even a place to play. You're new here and you need help, and I know people you should meet." In a flash of paranoia, Anton wondered if Kliff had been spying on him. Had Kliff been in his room, looking through his journal? Had Kliff been in his dreams? Kliff seemed to read his thoughts. "I keep my eyes and ears open, that's all. I've seen you in the clubs. I've heard people talk. And what I've learned is, you want to start a band. You're talented, and you're not afraid to use it. You'll look good on stage, too. But there's only a handful of musicians in this town you could work with, and most of them are busy with other things. I know the ones who will do it, and who'll be good for you. I can get you free rehearsal space. And I know all the cool parties, and how to get food without paying." "You're doing all this out of friendship? That's what you said." "Doesn't it seem like a friendly thing to do?" "But what do you get from this?" "It's what we do in this town, help people. Maybe where you're from, they do the opposite. I've heard of that. In extreme cases, it can lead to lynching. Here in the city, we give each other a hand up." "Where I'm from, they taught me not to talk to strangers," Anton said wryly. "The city's a dangerous place for sheep like me." Kliff clucked his tongue. "On your own, you'll spend months or years learning what I already know. You'll get there in the end, but think of the time wasted. Even if you don't believe me, what have you got to lose?" Anton could see that Kliff, who made his living on the street and knew his way around, might know a thing or two that would help his musical career. Still, he was wary. His instinct was to do everything for himself, so he wouldn't owe anyone any favors. Yet he enjoyed taking risks if they led to something he wanted. "All right, let me see that rehearsal space you mentioned. If you know any musicians I can jam with, bring them along. To be honest, I've hardly played since I got here." They agreed to meet at the Windsor Hotel on his next day off. "We'll walk around, I'll point things out," Kliff told him. "Bring your instrument." He left, and Anton locked the door behind him. He wanted no more intruders on this dark night. • • • They stopped in front of an old brick factory that resembled those around it, except for a spray-painted mural along the wall, stenciled markings on the sidewalk, and a pirate flag flying from an upstairs window. Kliff pummeled the door with his fist, and rang the buzzer in long bursts. There was no response. After a while, he rang again. Choosing a moment when no one was in the street, he yelled up to the window. Finally, someone opened the door. A girl with spiky blond hair peered out at them. Recognizing Kliff, she opened the door to let them pass. The entryway was dark and cluttered, uninviting to guests. She vanished down a long corridor, returning to whatever task they'd interrupted. Kliff guided Anton up a stairway to the second floor, through a window under which a milk crate had been placed to help them over the sill, across a rooftop with skylights looking down, and through another window into a long, empty room they crossed together. The sound of African drumming, guitar riffs, and bursts of song led them on. Finally they arrived at a place where people were gathered in their cast-off and reworked clothing, their wild and matted hair, sitting in a rough circle in the middle of the floor, drumming, juggling, playing chess, hunched over sketchpads, drawing on their shoes, or passing a blown glass pipe. Someone handed Kliff the pipe. He took a hit and passed it to Anton. Anton followed his example, inhaling a cloud of fragrant smoke and passing it around the circle. "Now we're all guilty," he thought. He slipped his bass from his shoulder and set it against the wall. They moved to take their place in the circle, sitting crosslegged on the floor. "This is Anton," Kliff announced. Several among them offered their hands. "Sasha." "Emily." "Sebastian." "Blake." In the corner, a game of chess was underway on a board of painted slate. A girl with vibrant red hair wrapped in a scarf played a tune on her flute, accompanied by staccato, high-pitched drums. Blake stood up, dusted off his jeans, and went into the next room. Soon he returned with an amp and a shiny black guitar. As he was setting up, he nodded to Anton, indicating the amp. "There's another one in there, if you want to plug in." Beyond the doorway was a storeroom filled with junk and spare parts. A dismantled motorcycle engine lay on the floor. There was a set of stage lights, and an ancient sound board with the guts missing. Anton found the amp and returned. Blake had already begun to play. Anton listened with one ear as he set up. Blake had a dark soul, he decided, in contrast to his own pale fire. There was a quiet eloquence in him, like moonlight on a reflective pool. His style blended Jimi Hendrix and the Velvet Underground. His raven-black hair fell in waves past his shoulders. His black T-shirt and jeans were set off with shades that he wore even indoors, under fluorescent light. His snakeskin boots had silver tips. Blake started slowly, building the song's texture layer by layer. Anton added a firm foundation, then broke into a series of arpeggios that leapt from chord to chord without losing their balance. Sasha, the guy with the staccato drums, hit the accents, and the scarlet-haired girl wove through it with her flute. Blake looked over as if to say, "I didn't know you could do that with a bass, but I like it." He went off on a high-wire act of his own, scaring himself with his notes before touching down gracefully at the end of a line with a grin. "I never tried that before," he said. "And I never tried this." Anton did something tricky and new. "But I didn't come here to show off, I came to rehearse. Kliff said he'd show me a place to play, is this it?" He took a look around. "It's better than what I've got now, I'll admit. I've got nothing." Kliff liked this show of attitude. Anton was the type who stepped in and took charge. He was no random kid from the Heartland, he was here with a job to do. That was a good tactic for someone new on the scene, he reflected, if you had the talent to pull it off. Act cocky so people think you're bluffing, then follow through in a way that makes your bragging look modest. But how often could this be repeated? There would be higher expectations each time. No one, no matter how brilliant, could stay ahead of the curve forever. Anton played a riff that sounded like a helicopter's ominous approach. "Anyone want to hear a new song? Blake, would you do something like this"—he demonstrated—"between here and here, and then"—he demonstrated again—"this is the basic theme from then on. I'm sorry to butt in like this," he told the others, "but I really want to do this song." I wish I was a priest, A man in a velvet coat, Standing on a frozen lake. I want to be a grinning skull, Hanging from a virgin's neck. I want to be crucified, Not nailed to a cross but tied there. He worked through the song with Blake, stepping him through some difficult transitions he'd devised. As a result, the session turned from a loose jam into a real workout. They went over certain sections three or four times until Blake was satisfied with his own playing. Anton was impressed with Blake's quiet, studious disposition and surprising ear. Blake did more than capture his melodic ideas, he transformed them on the spot into something of his own. "Sure beats my hometown band," he thought. For his part, Blake was happy to find someone with skills to match his own, along with focus and dedication. He'd been enjoying himself until now, but it had been just a way to kill time. "Now things will get interesting," he thought. He released an inspired, almost accidental stream of notes. The afternoon passed quickly, with continuous drinking, weed smoking, and musical accompaniment from the others in the room. Through it all, Kliff leaned back on his elbows, grinning and feeling pleased with himself. Once the mutual tryout was over, the contestants collapsed in exhaustion on a part of the floor that was covered with carpet and large, scattered cushions. For the first time, it occurred to Anton to study his surroundings. Although the building had been designed for industrial use, it had a lived-in feel. "What sort of place is this?" he asked. "It's a squat," Kliff said. "Don't you have squats back in Iowa?" He'd read about squats, but had never been sure what one was. "That's like—a group of people, right, a political commune?" Blake told him, "A squat is where you take over an empty building to live in, that's all." "Is that legal?" "Not exactly," Kliff said. "But it ain't exactly illegal, either. It depends on the situation. Like, here in this place, we got a sponsor." "You mean the owner lets you stay?" "Nah, we got an outside sponsor. The bottom line is, nobody's making us leave, and we don't pay rent." "How do you know you won't get kicked out?" "It could happen. Who knows? But we've got friends outside the squat. They donate supplies, or put in a word with the building inspector, or give us a write-up in the local paper. They keep the cops off our back. So it's a support system for us, but there's more to it than that. We're the innocents in this picture. If the whole thing collapses, we just walk away. Who are we? Addicts, perverts, runaway kids. The ones deeper in will never get caught." Anton was troubled. "You make it sound like a conspiracy." Blake stepped in smoothly. "A squat can be a roof over your head, but it's also a community, a network with roots all over society. Most of our supporters are artists and activists like us. They help us, and we help them. Others can't be involved publicly because of their position. Then there's the 'tourists' who hang out here because they think it's cool, but would never lift a finger for us if there was trouble." Anton wondered if he was a tourist. If he came here every day to rehearse, he would be part of the community. Would he help out in a crisis, or just run away? Kliff seized the opportunity. "You should move in with us. I think it suits you. We've got plenty of space, as you can see. It'll be great for us, because we can start doing shows. It'll be great for you, too, because you can quit your job and devote all your time to your music." Anton liked the idea. "To think I was ready to go for months or years without meeting anyone who understood what I was trying to do." He'd often dreamed of being part of a community like this, but only after a long struggle. Chased from town to town like the prophets of a new religion, he and his friends would sleep under bushes, one step ahead of the angry mob, until they finally found a place to settle down together. Instead, he'd walked into a situation he could join without effort. He was surprised, almost resentful, that others had gotten there before him. "We've had our eye on you since you first got to town," Kliff told him. "It's part of my job to look out for new arrivals. I spotted you at the bus station, but I stayed in the shadows for a while before I introduced myself. I would never have brought you here if you didn't fit the profile. You're not just anyone to us, you're someone we can use." Anton shifted uneasily. "Is this some kind of cult?" Kliff laughed. "It's a free zone, not a cult. Ask people why they came here, and you'll get a different answer from each one. There's only one thing we have in common. We don't wait to ask permission. When we see something that needs doing, we do it. We need you, or someone like you, for the same reason you need people to hear your music. Without new blood we'll die out, just like your music will die out unless it's heard. We're in this together, dude. You've probably noticed the world is full of scary motherfuckers nowadays. Our aim is to take back the territory, share it among our own." Anton considered what he'd heard. A community that broke the law but didn't fear the police, that had powerful backers who wouldn't show their face, that profiled its members but wasn't a cult. It made his head spin. Blake nudged him with an elbow. "I think dinner's on." They were the only ones left in the room. They stood up and put away their equipment. Blake convinced him to leave his bass in the storeroom for the time being. "You'll be moving in soon, right?" They retraced their steps until they came to the stairway they'd used on the way in. They went up another flight, and found themselves in a room dominated by a huge, round table. It was made of thick wood that had split down the middle, and was patched together again with scraps of lumber. A door in one corner led to a small kitchen. Most of the people Anton had met earlier were there, along with a few new faces. Kliff greeted his friends around the table, drawing Anton forward. Someone passed them a bottle of wine, and they each took a long swallow. Kliff put his hand on Anton's neck and drew him closer. "Don't be offended," he said in a whisper. "I'm just happy is all." Grinning, he pressed his mouth to Anton's ear. "I do like you, it's true. But more to the point, I'm glad there's someone from outside—fuck, from Iowa!—who can relate to what we're doing. That makes it all worthwhile." "It's always worthwhile. Even in Iowa." Anton was feeling a little drunk himself. He tapped Kliff's chest. "I'm cool with it, you know. It's just that everything is changing so fast for me right now, I'm beginning to lose my place. A month ago, I was a small-town kid without a thought in my head, or so I thought. Then for no reason, I took the next bus out of town. And ever since I got here, I feel like everything that's happened to me was meant to happen. Like meeting you at the diner, or deciding to live in the squat. I can deal with that, sure, but it freaks me out. Honestly, it's a lot of changes." • • • When they returned to the squat two days later, Anton had his duffelbag over his shoulder. He had no regrets about leaving the hotel, or his job at the diner. Catching sight of the pirate flag flying from the window, something tightened in his chest and he felt joy. He put his arm around Kliff, drawing him in. "We're home!" Kliff flashed a grin. "You were right about this," he said, letting Kliff go. The city was beginning to reveal its promise. Suddenly he was among musicians, artists, people with something to say. "Raised in your cage, filled with your faulty vision"—he'd seen this stenciled on a Zombieland sidewalk. His new companions shared this vision. They would rather live as refugees in a hostile culture than give in to its illusion. Creative action drew them together. They invented their own reality, defined their own relationships. Kliff stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out a shrill whistle. A face flashed in an upstairs window, then vanished. They waited for the door to open. Kliff's expression clouded over. "Don't thank me yet, it's too soon." Anton gave him a puzzled look. "Someday, you may wish you'd never started down this road." "But it's what I want!" "I know, that's why I'm helping you. But one thing leads to another." "Isn't that the point?" From inside, they heard wood grating against metal, and a solid thump. The heavy beam that barred the door had been removed from its brace and set on the floor, and now the door swung open. Anton recognized Doreen, a high-spirited southern girl he'd met on his first visit. She greeted them with paint-smeared hands. "Back so soon?" she asked him. Noticing his duffelbag, she squealed and gave him a kiss. The door swung shut behind them, the beam was replaced. They were in cool semi-darkness, the confines of the castle. "What have you been up to?" Kliff asked her. "Painting," she said, embarrassed because it was obvious. She spoke in a Mississippi drawl, which she was afraid would make her sound stupid. "Women with long torsos and small, pointed breasts." Anton licked his lips. "I'd like to see that." "Would you, now? Just come up to my studio once you're settled in." She pinched him hard on the cheek and vanished up the stairs. "Oww!" He rubbed at the smear of paint she'd left. "This way," Kliff gestured. "I found you a private room." He led Anton down a corridor that ran along the front of the building, past a row of former offices. Turning through a doorway covered in thick plastic strips, they emerged into huge room filled with winches and hoppers, conveyor belts and bins. Anton stopped in his tracks. "What's this?" "It was a coffee factory once. There's still some of the stuff around." He opened one of the hoppers and beckoned Anton over. Anton peered inside, watching as Kliff stirred the coarse brown powder with a stick. "Smells funky. It's been here for years." He wrinkled his nose and backed away. "They moved to Honduras, but they kept this place for tax purposes. It's been sitting empty all this time." He pointed to a ladder that led to a metal catwalk. "This way." He started climbing. At the foot of the ladder, Anton stopped. He'd spotted something shiny in the corner of his eye. It was a group of sculptures made from copper wire and machine parts, clearly salvaged from the devices around them. They were intricate yet grotesque: human forms twisting and struggling against unseen forces, their guts visible like exposed clockworks. "Who did these?" he said. "They're beautiful." Kliff was at the top. "Oh, that's Cynthia's stuff. C'mon, I'll show you your room. You can explore later all you want." Anton handed his duffelbag to Kliff, and climbed up himself. The catwalk took them to the back of the building, where there were a series of small storerooms. Boxes of papers were scattered about, along with broken-down chairs and other debris. One of the rooms showed signs of recent life. A thin mattress lay on the floor, along with piles of clothes and dirty plates. "Here?" he asked. Kliff shook his head and pointed up. "One more level." He opened a door to reveal a set of stairs at the end of the building. "This place is huge!" "You'll be a little isolated up here," Kliff said as they climbed. "If there's ever a police raid, you'll be on your own, pretty much. On the other hand, the building folds in on itself, so you're right across from the rest of us. You'll be close enough to hear the ruckus, but you can get away unnoticed. There's two escape routes—over the roof, or down these stairs to the street." At the top landing now, he threw open the door. They were in an attic room with a peaked roof and skylights, some fifty feet long. Besides some dust and cobwebs, and a couple of wooden benches, it was empty. Anton whistled. "This is for me?" Kliff grinned. "The way things work around here is, if you can use something, it's yours. But once you start to slack off or not care, someone will come along and take it. Keep it in circulation, we like to say." He shuffled his feet in the dust. "It's true, though, I did save this place for you. So far, no one's even thought to look this far into the house." <<< Back Table of Contents Next >>>