'You ever been to Dallas before?' Glen Wilson asked his partner in a subdued voice.
The two men walked slowly, purposefully, down the street, eyes catching every facet of the subdued activity.
'Me? Nah,' replied Sam Spongier. 'Unless you count changing planes in the airport. You ever ride those little trolleys ?'
'Um. Yeah, couple of times. Kinda fun at first, no driver and all. Irritating, though, when they stop for no apparent reason.'
They skirted a dishevelled old man, slumped asleep against the wall, legs sprawled onto the sidewalk, brown bag cradled in his lap.
'I was just thinking,' Wilson continued, 'I've seen a few boots and hats, but except for the fact that it's damn awful hot, it's hard to tell where we are. I mean, look at this. Bars, strip joints, porny flicks. The only women you see that aren't hookers are with some guy hustling 'cm off somewhere else. Just a little seedy piece of anywhere, USA.'
'You're right about that,' Spangler agreed. 'They do move a lot of produce through here in the daytime, I guess.' He flicked a rotting cabbage with the side of his shoe. It rolled up against the barred storefront. Behind the bars were partitioned tables waiting the next day's yield.
'You're also right about the heat. Feels like I'm wearing a blanket. Told you we should've gone native, jeans and T-shirts. Would have fit right in and been a damn sight cooler than these suits.'
'Hey, better than that,' Wilson shot him a quick smile, 'I coulda dressed as a wine and sat around taking it easy and you coulda come in drag and walked the streets 'til something happens. You might've made a few bucks.'
Spangler smiled back and swaggered a few steps. They reached a corner and turned to cross the street, waiting for the light. Wilson looked up at the buildings around them. The tallest ones of the main commercial area were a few blocks away. Around them, the buildings ranged from two to ten storeys in height, the upper storeys mostly dark as midnight approached. Once across the street they turned and headed back in the direction from which they had come. Wilson glanced at his watch.
'Five minutes?'
Spangler nodded confirmation. 'Beats the hell out of me how they can know where something is going to happen, and when, to the second, and not know what. Screwy damn assignment.'
They walked on in silence, checking their watches more frequently as the assigned time approached, unconsciously walking more slowly, watching more carefully. Finally they stopped. Wilson noticed the digits on his watch which indicated seconds as they flashed to zero-zero, signalling the onset of the final minute during which the unspecified, but potentially dangerous event should occur. He tried to simultaneously register the numbers on the watch as they swapped places, second by second, and the urban visage around them. Thirty seconds later, he realized he had been holding his breath as he strained for any clue. He stared at the watch and exhaled, more loudly than he had intended.
The sound of his released breath mingled with and covered the onset of a strange whistling roar. The two agents glanced suddenly at one another and then turned to look down the street, trying to fix the location of the noise. It seemed to rise rapidly above the buildings.
The roar diminished, to be replaced by a hoarse cry. In the-middle of the next block a man emerged onto the sidewalk and stood there, his frantic screams tearing the night.
A hole appeared in the concrete foundation of the basement of the Poodle Lounge. Twin punctures followed in the keg of beer immediately above it. As the pressurized brew began to spurt a frothy spout, another hole was ripped in the floor of the bar. Chaos ensued there as the quiet atmosphere was split by the sound of smashing glass shelves and bottles, as if someone had suddenly taken an axe to the racks behind the bar. As the bartender spun to stare in disbelief, a new hole had already been drilled in the ceiling above his head.
Upstairs at Crazy Lil's they played out the quiet midweek evening. The smoky room was dominated by a small oblong stage surrounded by seats for patrons. At the four corners of the stage were pillars which supported a canopy with mirrored undersurface and ruffled trim, the whole thing a grotesque parody of an old four-poster bed. Along one wall a screen was mounted for entr'acte movies. Opposite were a pair of coin-operated pool tables. At one of these, a tough— looking pair played eightball, studiously ignoring the woman working on the stage.
The audience was sparse. Three young cowboy-types in boots, jeans, and carefully sculpted straw hats. One of these boasted an unlawful eagle feather, the emblem of little britches rodeo days, not long past. A few bored salesmen sat each by himself, their common predicament being insufficient grounds to bring them together. The only spirit came from two stray out-of-town convention goers. One of these had just crooked a finger and gestured with a dollar bill. The dancer had interrupted her gyrations to pause in front of him, pelvis outthrust, as he worked the bill under the strap of her g-string. That position was one of precarious balance and left her unprepared for what happened next.
She felt as if the floor were suddenly thrust up under her, as with the rapid rise of an elevator. She fell backward heavily on to the stage. As she tipped, a large ragged gash was torn along the length of one of the four canopy posts. The post snapped and splintered. Deprived of symmetrical support, the mirrored canopy sagged and then twisted as the remaining three posts tilted in unison.
The dancer stared upward in numb shock and saw her image grow. With a burst of panic she realized the canopy was collapsing upon her. She flung her arms over her face and shrieked. The men seated along the perimeter recoiled frantically as chairs and bodies went sprawling. The young cowboy with the eagle feather made an aborted move towards the woman, but he was too far away. The canopy crashed down putting an abrupt end to her screams.
The bouncer-cashier-projectionist, who had been sitting on a stool by the entrance attempting to read a paperback western in the dim light, dropped the book when the first post splintered and stood as if paralysed, watching the collapse of the canopy. In the stillness which followed, he took a few tentative steps towards the stage. All he could see of the dancer was one leg. A shard of mirror the size and shape of a pizza slice was embedded in her thigh, its shiny surface obliterated by a pulsing gout of arterial blood. The man paled, raced for the door and clattered down the stairs towards the street shouting hysterically.
Across the alley and down the block rose one of the taller buildings in the neighbourhood. It was vacant save for a ianitorial staff scattered over several floors. As the patrons of Crazy Lil's joined the hysterical employee on the adjacent street, a small tunnel was punctured in the rear corner of the-building where the left side and rear walls joined. This tunnel proceeded rapidly but methodically down through the wall passing with equal ease through concrete and reinforcing bars.
A minute or so passed uneventfully, then fractures began to radiate from the tunnel into the surrounding concrete.
The building settled slightly, amplifying the unequal distribution of stress along the wound and increasing the rate of fracturing.
Inside, in a corner of the building, a weary man guided a buffing machine slowly back and forth. He stopped suddenly as he felt, a shift in the floor. The unguided buffing machine dug more heavily on one side and skittered away from him. He grabbed for it and quickly shut it off. He stood, listened and felt through his feet the barely perceptible vibrations of rupturing concrete.