The one thing he never really needed to change was the pair of shoes he wore. This was the thought Colinaude had as he waited to buy a hotdog from a vendor named Lou, informant to both the Eidolon and Peter Cooley, reporter-at-large for the "Traverse Tracks." Lou was among the few who was privy to the knowledge that the Eidolon was in actuality Cotton Colinaude, a feat accomplished by the fact that Lou never took a personal interest in anyone or anything, not even his hotdogs. No personal interest, no undo attachments, no incentive to care one way or another. Luckily that meant he could afford to be selective in what he put his mind to. He thought of himself as a sort of organic robot. He was good with hotdogs, and he knew how to pick winners, and he was loyal to both no matter what, because things happened to work well that way. The man was eighty years old.
Colinaude’s boots, meanwhile, were three months old. As a consequence of putting them through so much work and expecting them to lead the same dual life as their owner, the shoes had relatively short life spans. He had found it better for his shoes to go through them like that, than to try and fit them in around Traverse along with the clothes and costumes. With thieves valuing footwear more than anything else, it came out as more cost-efficient all the way around.
Not that he spent idle time looking at his feet. No, there was some spray-painted wording on the sidewalk that had caught his attention, ‘Bitter Bites,’ that Colinaude could only assume to be a compliment directed toward Lou. "Bitter Bites," he said to himself, smiling.
"New slang," the man behind him said.
"One can only assume," Colinaude replied.
"You have a chance to find out one way or the other," Lou said, indicating it was Colinaude’s turn. "Don’t waste my time now."
"The usual," Colinaude said. "What’s the matter?"
"Cooley’s what’s the matter," Lou said, his tone darker than his skin. He still conducted himself professionally, reaching for a roll, a dog, and the relish.
"Cooley?" Colinaude said.
"Cooley," Lou said, continuing. "I haven’t seen him today. I’ve never seen you before I’ve seen him. The only time he’s ever been anything but usual was because of you. I can only do the math."
"You’re saying something," Colinaude said as he accepted the hotdog and tendered his payment.
"You’re damn right I’m saying something," Lou said, sifting through his apron for change. "Your other friend, he’s been through here. Made a scene of himself. Had some interesting plates. Here’s your return."
"Keep it," Colinaude said. "As a tip." Lou gave him another queer look, but he was already walking away. What did that mean, ‘interesting plates’? And how did Cad make a scene of himself? The only person Colinaude knew that employed more riddles than Hopper was Lou. But the greater concern right now had to be his demeanor, and what he had been implying about Cooley. It wasn’t like the reporter to fiddle around with his routine, not with Lou and not with anything else. He had always been dependable, and that had been a significant reason why. But what to do about this news? Colinaude couldn’t easily track him down now, given he would be out of the office and on the beat.
And Lou himself. For a man who didn’t take things personally, he sounded like he was taking Cooley’s irregularity, which at this point was all that he could be called, seriously, and blaming it on Colinaude to boot. There had to be something else; perhaps connected to whatever he had meant about Cad, his ‘scene’ and his plates. As with the rest of the day to this point, it was proving a lot to chew on. He took a bite of his hotdog.
Colinaude turned around to observe Lou, interested in seeing how deep his agitation ran. If he was grumpy to the rest of his customers, it meant the agitation ran deep, perhaps having nothing to do with Cooley, or himself. If he wasn’t, it meant the agitation was directed at him, which could only begin to confirm that there was something in Colinaude’s suspicions. Not a frown. He decided to walk back over to try and talk Lou through a little more of what was bothering him, carrying his half-eaten dog. The line was smaller than it had been before. Maybe Lou wouldn’t mind, wouldn’t be further irritated.
"Lou," he said.
"What, what is it," Lou grumbled back, though not turning from his work. "In case you are blind, I’m running a business here. I’m busy. Busy. That goes hand-in-hand with the business part. You can’t have one without the other."
"I understand that," Colinaude said.
"Yet you’re still talking to me," Lou said, smiling to the current consumer.
"Because you’re agitated with me," Colinaude said.
"I think that stands to reason," Lou said. "I still don’t see Cooley. Do you, blind boy?"
"No," Colinaude said.
"Then what’s the problem," Lou said, handling the last of the current line.
"I’d like to know," Colinaude said.
"You’re Captain Oblivious," Lou said, finished now, "aren’t you? You don’t know how to read things, do you?"
"Look," Colinaude said.
"No," Lou said. "You look. Scram. Get lost. I mean it."
Colinaude knew enough to see defeat. He walked away, then came back for a new hotdog. "As a customer," he said.
"As a vendor," Lou said, obliging. There was not going to be anything else said. It was a silent, mutual agreement. The half-eaten one was thrown into a garbage bin not far away, and then Colinaude left Lou to his own devices, another conversation that should have been, that wasn’t, and for no good reason. It was another mistake he knew he was making today.
Bitter Bites, he thought. Bitter Bites was right. Suddenly he was not where he had been. Where he had been was on the sidewalk, feet away from Lou’s stand. Where he was now was quite elsewhere. There was no sidewalk and no Lou’s stand. He looked around himself and saw the sky. He looked down and saw a roof, and below the roof several stories to the ground. He was in the same part of Traverse, just several lines up the latitude.
It was an unsettling transition, given that it happened instantaneously. He turned around and found the Alabama Lamb starring back at him. The wind was whipping at each of them, and it occurred to Colinaude that his hotdog had not survived the trip intact. He looked at his hand and found the relish had disappeared. That was too bad, too, because as good as Lou’s hotdogs were, it was with the relish that Colinaude not only preferred them, but considered them as being at their best. Without it, the hotdog he now held was almost like any other one. He might as well have bought it from another vendor. The Alabama Lamb had spoiled his lunch, not to mention kidnapped him and left him standing on top of a tall building, exposed to comparatively bitter temperatures.
He looked at his captor square in the eye, glared at him, and turned away. He still had a hotdog to eat no matter if it had been spoiled. He took his time. He relished it. He was anchoring himself, he figured; he could afford to. He deserved it, this much. He wanted to press his luck. He knew that he had gotten relish around the corner of his mouth, when he had had relish on the hotdog. Some of it had fallen off; some of it was still there. He took a corner of his tee shirt, a blue-and-orange affair, and casually dabbed it away. This accomplished, he patted the sleeve back down, and brushed the remnants off. Some stuck to his hand. He took a moment to examine this. Satisfied with his inspection, he then wiped his hand on his pants, careful not to wince over the slight twinge his shoulder experienced through the action.
He spat next, mindful of his shoes. The hotdog had worked up a thirst, but all he could find was saliva, and he wasn’t in to that. Lou didn’t sell beverages. It was odd of him, but whenever Colinaude asked he’d reply that he was doing a service to the other vendors, given that he was obviously favored otherwise. He was pragmatic like that, and pragmatic in most other ways.
Next Colinaude shuffled his feet, as if getting himself a bearing against the wind. His hair was tussling, but after confinement under the mask of the Eidolon, that was probably a good thing. He folded his arms, unfolded them when that turned out to be bad for the shoulder. Whatever that looked like to the Alabama Lamb, he didn’t care. He shuffled his feet some more, looking down on them. He imagined that made him look like he was preparing to start a race. He’d run his fair share of them. He was no Threshold, of course. There was not much competing with that, but the brevity of the trip to this rooftop was indication enough that the Alabama Lamb could at least compare. Whether that was good enough, or whether Colinaude amused him, didn’t seem to register on the Lamb’s face. He was as impassive as could be. He also had his arms folded, across a broad chest. The arms were equally impressive.
Colinaude did not have a comparative physique, had never cared to. He had no idea where he would have ever found the time to build one, had no idea when most heroes did. Perhaps there was a personal trainer he didn’t know about, or perhaps most heroes competed for Mr. Universe in their spare time, or run gubernatorial races. Maybe they were professional wrestlers. It could be anything, really.
Finally, he’d wasted enough time. "Hello, Godsend," he said.
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