NightRacer

Chapter 5

NightRacer finished searching another forty, maybe fifty houses by evening. Greg watched him from a distance, playing with a com he found. He was sitting on the sidewalk picking his nose when Racer surprised him with a question.

"Why can't you give me a hand, Romeo?"

Greg ignored him, continuing to dig in his nose.

"You hear me?"

"You won't find her here, Chief. She's gone." Greg said.

"Where?"

"She's in the City, I already told you."

"What city?"

"The City. You know-the host's City."

Feeling like the kid's answers were getting more and more cryptic, Racer decided to change the subject. He came closer, looked at Greg's long and pointy shoes-the latest crazy fashion in space-and kept staring until he was sure the kid noticed it.

"What are you looking at?" Greg finally said.

"Your shoes. You look like a clown. How can you walk in those things?"

Greg looked at his shoes. "What? Everybody wears pointy shoes now."

"On the station maybe, but not on a planet. Down here pointy shoes say you're a station rat who can't walk."

"I outran you yesterday," Greg said, and he pulled out a cigar from his breast pocket. From his backpack he pulled a small kitchen blowtorch and started lighting the cigar with it.

"You were just lucky. How old are you, anyway?"

"Seventeen."

"Seventeen? And Hellen is sixteen and a half. Jeez. And you already smoke?"

"Of course. This body," Greg said, slapping himself lightly on the cheek, "is not going to live long. So I have to try all the vices. I regret I didn't try it earlier. They say it takes time to understand it."

"Isn't it weird?" Racer said mostly to himself. "Killing yourself at seventeen, or at sixteen and a half."

"It is." And then, avoiding Racer's eyes, he said in a nonchalant tone, "Racer...sir, I think I've seen an empty syringe somewhere. Do you happen to know where I can find a Jolt?" The cigar in his hand was still lighted, but he never puffed-not even once.

Racer ignored the question. "And both of you decided to throw your lives away. What a waste! Did you even have sex?"

"You as in singular, or you as in plural?"

"You as in you and my daughter, smartass."

"I don't want to talk about it," Greg said with a little smirk.

"I could beat it out of you."

"No, you couldn't."

"Lighten up, kid! I'm not trying to make you confess. I know my daughter's not exactly an angel. It just seems like a complete waste to die without even having had sex once."

"What if we had? Twice. The second time was after we had that wine or Grass juice or whatever. Damn, that was crazy! Even for her. And she wasn't exactly...you know...a virgin."

"Oh? And how would you know the difference between a virgin and a non-virgin?"

"When you're wearing pointy shoes, you have to know," Greg said.

At least he has a sense of humor, Racer thought. "Still, how can you walk in those thing? Or the glove shoes the station rats wear? Those are just socks with toes."