it was the one the tribe used for the people to the west, with whom they traded their woven mats and baskets and cloth for axes and wedges and pestles and the like, fashioned from flint. They were good at flinting, the Red People. They were good at building, too, at carving and shaping and piling pieces of the endless red sandstone, so that a cave on a cliffside, if it were big enough, could be turned into a dwelling with many rooms. Perhaps more important, such a dwelling could easily become a kind of fortress, protection against the dreaded raiders from the north.
The concept of a home as a defensive structure, however, was only a vague one in the minds of most of the tribe, for home to them meant a convenient cave or copse of trees in the cold season; when it was hot and dry, just about any place near water would do. It had been Saan who had convinced them of the value of the cliff site as a permanent home and as a means of protection – a place that could be defended. Saan was the one who led the trading delegation west each spring to the confluence of the two rivers, where other peoples gathered to barter and exchange. Before Saan, his father, Lo-Tov, had been the leader and before that only a few could remember, for the elders were all dead now. Killed, all of them – Saan, too – by the raiders from the north.
Taas had accompanied the trading delegation the previous spring. He was young, and it was his first time. Although he had not been allowed to enter the Red People’s dwelling place, he had seen it from the outside, and despite his youth and limited experience the value of the protection idea had impressed him. So had the discussion between Saan and the elders of the Red People. Not that Taas had understood all of it, but he did grasp the notion that they, the Red People, were the motivators in getting all of the southern tribes to defend themselves. And when Saan later pointed out to the rest of the tribe that if all the peoples in this part of the desert were too strong for the raiders from the north, the raiders would simply stop coming, Taas, along with all the others, had embraced the idea.
But before they could act, there was yet another raid, the one that had taken Saan and all the elders, and it left Taas as the only one in the tribe with more than just a vague idea of what the defense project was all about. That’s why it was he who worked with The Stranger when he came, and why it was Taas, now, who was arguing with him up on the wide ledge that projected from the cave. The two had spent several days piling stones artfully across the front of the cave, so that a half-finished wall with space left for a single entrance now reached as high as Taas’s chest. It was a strong wall, for The Stranger had taught Taas how to use stones that fit naturally and, when they didn’t, how to use the flint axes to change their shape. He’d taught the women and children how to make mortar, which, twice a day, they brought up from the river in the reed baskets they were so good at weaving and pushed into the joints between the stones, although as yet they had no idea whatsoever why this was necessary.
From below, their work to prepare the next batch of mortar was suspended now as they watched the dispute. It made them very nervous. They were unused to dealing with other people, and had watched their visitor’s every movement with wary suspicion. From what they could tell, watching the two gesticulate, the disagreement had to do with the entrance. The Stranger had taken a long, narrow piece of red sandstone, shaped it with his flint axes into a rectangular design and laid it across the entrance. Then he’d begun further construction of the wall across and above it. Taas, who was almost at the point of stamping his feet by this time, would point at the stone emphatically, an expression of complete frustration on his face, and then wave the same hand back and forth over his head, palm down, and parallel to the ledge. He would then stoop awkwardly from the waist several times. In response, The Stranger, too, would touch the long stone and, just like Taas, would stoop awkwardly and raise his hand above his head palm down. But his gesture ended with a hard slap to the top of his head.
Their motions had been repeated often enough now to appear almost ritualistic, but as the mutual frustration mounted, the gestures were becoming progressively more animated. The situation was turning dangerous and needed resolution.
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The Stranger and Taas obviously disagree about the height of the entranceway. It should not be difficult to understand what Taas is asking for, but what is The Stranger’s reasoning for wanting to top it at its current height?
Setting Up the Hit
He didn’t say hello. Just, “You’re late. You were supposed to call half an hour ago.”
She tried to explain. “I got held up at th–”
“You work for me.” The cut off was abrupt and rude. “When I say you’re to call, you call. Doesn’t matter what’s going down, becau–”
“We’re supposed to meet him at 5:00.” She could play this game, too. He didn’t frighten her. She knew the hit wouldn’t come off without her. “It’s now ten to four. Are we going to discuss the set-up? Or maybe you want to make me go stand in a corner someplace until I learn to behave?”
A long pause. The sound of slow breathing into the receiver. Finally he said, “What’s the name of the restaurant?”
“It’s called The Lemon Tree. Corner of Chapel and Max.”
“Chapel and Max!” He was really upset this time. “That’s right by the Standard Life building! The sidewalk’ll be jammed there at 5:00. All those clerks and secretaries!”
“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” She was annoyed now, too. “Look! You said the shooter will be on foot. Those secretaries and clerks you’re so worried about have just put in a day’s work and they’re going to be tired and walking heads down. There’s snow on the way so nobody will be strolling. What do you want already? You want a nice empty street, so the shooter can really stick out? Besides, you hired him. Is he a pro or what?”
Another tense pause. Then, “This Lemon Tree ... Fancy, but not too fancy? And it’s light menu, right?”
Deliberately, she waited just a little bit longer than necessary, and then spoke just a touch more slowly than needed. “It feeds the downtown office crowd. Mostly fast lunches. Upscale wraps, rabbit food, stuff like that. Closes at 7:00, so they don’t even have a dinner menu. Nobody takes your coat and fusses. None of that ‘Hi! I’m your waiter’ blather.”
“But it takes reservations, surely? We need a table at the door, or the shooter walks right on by.”
This time she almost lost it. “Are you nuts! Reservations? You want me to hang a flag on myself or maybe carry a sign so we can make sure the restaurant will remember us?”
“I didn’t get most of that! You’re breaking up.”
Yeah, sure, she thought, but bit her tongue. They hadn’t liked each other from the beginning, but a job was a job and squabbling would get them nowhere.
“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “Traffic’s bad here. Can you hear me now?”
“All clear now.”
“We don’t need a reservation. I’ll be across the street from The Lemon Tree in about half an hour. There are two tables for four right by the door, so when one’s free – that won’t be a problem, guaranteed – I’ll grab it. He’ll be on time – apparently he’s a punctuality freak – so you join me by five to five, right? So we can make sure he sits in the only seat with its back to the door?”
“As we planned,” he replied. His voice was much calmer now, too, as though the need to cooperate had occurred to him at the same time. “And when I see the shooter,” he continued, “I excuse myself and go to the restroom. You get up to find a waiter.”
“Right. That covers it. See you, then, in ...” She looked at the clock on the dashboard, “... in fifty-five minutes.”
He didn’t say good-bye either.
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The