Wizard of the Pigeons. Megan Lindholm

the dreary men in overcoats perched on their benches. Strange, how they looked like scavengers, but were not. They were not even survivors, except in the briefest sense of the term. Wizard was. He inspected his clothing. He could now pass for anything from a car salesman to a food service supervisor. Almost.

      From the pocket of the tan overcoat he drew a small vinyl case. Once it had protected someone’s pocket camera. Now it housed a straight razor, neatly folded; a small bar of hotel soap; a sample size bottle of Old Spice Lime cologne; a small toothbrush and a comb. He washed, brushed his teeth, and shaved quickly but carefully. Finished, he rinsed the straight razor and dried it carefully before folding it shut. He had found it long ago and cherished it because it never needed a new blade. There was the added bonus that while his shaving in public restrooms occasionally drew more than a passing glance, as long as he had used the straight razor, no one had ever bothered him about it. He used the cologne very sparingly; it was not easy to obtain, and was nearly as important a prop as the newspaper. On his way out of the terminal, he snagged yesterday’s Seattle Times from one of the plastic chairs.

      It took an effort of will to rein his mind away from last night’s visitation. No sense in focusing on it. Not until he had seen Cassie and asked her advice. She would know all about it and what to do. He hurried down the street, looking as preoccupied as he was. His tan overcoat flapped convincingly against his polyester slacks. The November day was damply brisk, stinging his newly shaven cheeks. The city smelled almost clean.

      On Second Avenue, a neon Keystone Kop beckoned to him with an offer of coffee. He turned toward Duffy’s. It was a little place, sandwiched between more prosaic businesses. It was not his ideal milieu, but he thought he could handle it, even on a day like this. He entered the narrow little shop.

      It didn’t offer much cover. It was set up as a cafeteria. One took a tray and pushed it along shining steel rails past displays of carrot cake and potato salad and weeping Jell-O and sandwiches, to where one could order a hot sandwich or a warmed sweet roll, if one wished to do so and one had money. Wizard didn’t and hadn’t. He wanted coffee. And here they refilled your cup for you. If you had a cup. He squinted his eyes and looked down the short row of small tables pushed up against the wall. They had red-checked table cloths, their tops weighted and protected by sheets of clear plexiglas. The scarred hardwood floors and aged red brick walls looked ashamed of the huge colour TV mounted high in one corner of the café. At least today it was turned off. A sign near it proclaimed that Duffy’s was OPEN FOR KING DOME EVENTS. Wizard hastily scanned the tables. He had to be settled before he was noticed.

      There were no promising openings. For one thing, there weren’t enough customers. It was the wrong time of day, and the help was busy restocking the shelves and cases. He was on the point of retreat when luck struck. As if in response to a mental command that Wizard hadn’t sent, a man rose abruptly. He gulped his coffee down while standing, shrugged into his tan overcoat, and strode out, giving the door a shove it didn’t deserve. Wizard instinctively stepped out of his way, then dodged in behind him. The coincidence of the overcoats was too much to resist. In two steps Wizard had the man’s mug and half of a cinnamon roll he had left. One more step backed him up to the next table; he settled himself quietly. No one in the place glanced at him. Good. He was now established. He kept the overcoat on and concentrated on being unremarkable.

      A girl came in from the back, bearing a hot pot of coffee. Smiling, she poured down the line of little tables. A frown divided her brows for a moment when she came to the table where Tan Overcoat had been sitting. She paused fractionally and glanced about. Then her head went up, her jaw firmed, and her waitress smile returned. She stepped to Wizard’s table and poured for him.

      The steaming coffee sloshed down, drowning the white interior of the brown mug. He breathed deeply of the aroma. As soon as she stepped away, he wrapped both his chilled hands around the mug and lifted it like a chalice. It was a bit hotter than drinking temperature, but this early in the day it didn’t deter him. He took down half the mug, feeling it hit his empty stomach and spread its warmth. Setting the mug down with a sigh, he added sugar from the dispenser and turned to the cinnamon roll. It was poor fare, being too sweet, too stiff, and lacking in raisins. But it made a comfortable little cushion for the next draught of coffee.

      Wizard had just lifted his mug in signal for a refill when disaster fell on him. The Tan Overcoat stepped back into the door. He did not have to turn to see him. His shadow fell on the floor beside him. Wizard drew his folded newspaper from his pocket and began to shake it out. He sheltered in the sports section as the man took another step and then another. The storm broke over the table he had vacated and Wizard had cleared.

      ‘Can’t wait to get me out of your life, can you?’ Tan Overcoat’s voice was like a bellowing bull as he slammed a set of keys onto the table. ‘Well, you can bring me another goddam cinnamon roll and a fresh cup of coffee. You can kick me out of your apartment, but you got no right to steal my breakfast!’

      In two quick steps the waitress stood before him. Her eyes flashed, and she seemed to relish this confrontation rather than fear it. Small and steady she stood before him, clutching her coffee pot in front of her like the shield of Truth and Virtue. ‘I never touched your damn breakfast!’ Her hand swooped down to snatch up the keys. ‘And that’s another reason why I want you out; you never give anyone a chance to explain anything. You jump to conclusions and then you jump on me. I’m sick of it! Find a new patsy, Booth. I’m done with you!’

      The older man behind the counter didn’t even look up from the meat he was slicing. ‘Lynda. Can it. This is neither the time nor the place. Booth. I don’t want no trouble in here. You can have a reorder or your money back. Take your pick.’

      ‘Screw you!’ Booth snapped at the man, who never flinched. ‘And you too, bitch. I’m glad to be gone.’

      The glass door wheezed shut behind him. The stirring in the room simmered back to a near normal level.

      ‘Lynda,’ the counter man said reasonably. ‘One more scene like that in here, and I’m letting you go. Get two more carrot cakes out of the freezer, would you?’

      ‘Sure, Dan.’

      For an instant before she left, Wizard thought he felt her eyes on him, touching and finding him. But when she came back to thunk the carrot cakes down on the back counter, she paid no attention to him. Her trim back was to the customers as she clattered out another order. He watched with admiration as she loaded one hand with three plates of food and deftly scooped up the coffee pot with the other. She moved gracefully down the line of tables, filling cups, landing two of the plates without disturbing the third, remembering the creamer for coffee for one and artificial sweetener for another. Then she was by his table, filling his cup from a freshly brewed pot. He kept his face behind the paper, carefully shielding himself, until he heard the incredible thunk of a loaded plate being placed on his table. He twitched the paper aside to see what was going on, to find himself impaled on her eyes.

      He swallowed drily and tried to maintain his identity. ‘I didn’t order –’ he began, but she cut in.

      ‘Eat while it’s hot,’ she told him softly in a voice that knew everything. Then she moved on to the next table.

       Steam was rising from a golden waffle. A scooped ball of butter was melting in the centre, surrounded by a ring of gently warmed strawberries that were in turn ringed by an edging of whipped cream. His stomach leaped with hunger. He turned to look after the waitress, but she didn’t look at him. I do not see you at all, her straight back told him as plainly as if she had spoken.

      Such a thing had never happened to him before; he did not know what to feel or how to react. Ashamed, to have been caught? Humiliated, to be considered a charity case? Should he be too proud to accept it, should he rise and stalk from the café? But he was hungry, and the coffee was hot, and he could not remember when anything had ever smelled so good to him. Lynda disappeared behind the counter and his trembling hand picked up a fork. He tasted a tiny bit of the whipped cream and then began to eat as he had not eaten in days. Whole bites of sweet food, washed down with gulps of hot coffee. It was hard to restrain himself from gobbling. In a remarkably short time he was finished, and felt almost heavy with the unaccustomed