Jonathan Garber slowly walked the length of the plaza. He’d have run it in his younger days, fleet as the animal whose name he’d adopted. He’d always been in a hurry back then, eager to be doing, impatient of delay. Later it would have been a brisk walk, full of the pride of accomplishment – later still an easy pace, with long pauses as he gazed at each building passed, drinking in the feel of the place. For years that had been one of his few remaining pleasures. But it hurt him to look at the old buildings these days. They were going to seed, like he was. Even the pavement – there was grass coming up between the cracks, which would take over soon if more wasn’t done to control it. “Grass’ll cover me by then, too,” Jon muttered.
     It was a thought that called for another beer. He looked around to see where he was. Almost to the Muckraker. Jon curled his lip and kept walking. The Muckraker had been a good place for beer under Old Man Mercadante, but after he died it had gone to hell. The whole world had, really. Let a man get old enough he’d see everything go sour. The only bright thing left in Jon’s memory was Del. Del hadn’t had the chance to get old.
     Funny how things work out, Jon thought. Didn’t much like him when he was living. We were too busy being big shots – two tin-horn gods, with nothing in common except we liked this crummy little town, an’ wanted to turn it into something better. The Consuls, Rita called us – probably ’cause we were so jealous of each other, never letting the other guy get too much pull. But it all worked, somehow. We fought like crazy, but when we worked together we made things happen. I never could’ve saved the plaza if Del hadn’t been there to flatter the town council. Wonder if things would’ve worked better, afterwards, if he hadn’t kicked the bucket?
     Sometimes Jon thought Del’s memory was all that had held the artists’ colony together. Other times he thought that it had died with him, in all the important ways. The synergy, the stuff that made everything work in the early days, had departed, and all that was left was “Do it for Del.”
     Del wasn’t that good, Jon thought. Who buys his paintings now? But he still shined in remembrance like a shooting star – beautiful, ephemeral – never seen again, but never forgotten. Time didn’t mar memories. Memories just got better, as the world got worse.
     Unconsciously, Jon’s feet took him to the Joint. It was a shack of a place – always had been, always would be, but at least it wasn’t going to hell. The Joint had been born in hell. Bad look, bad booze, bad attitude, bad everything, but by some miracle it had the best beer you could get. Jon figured that was how the place roped in its victims: they came for the beer, then graduated to the hard stuff, and rotted their guts out. It was where Ron Standish had drunk himself to death, what was it, nineteen years ago, now? Jon had hated the place ever since. But he kept coming back for the beer. He went in.
     The bartender was surly. “Whataya want, Antelope?” he spat.
     “Gimme a beer.”
     The bartender grumbled, but he gave him a beer. Jon retreated to a corner and drank it. Then he had another. He was contemplating ordering a third when the hair started to rise on the back of his neck.
     Something’s not right, he thought. Then Delwin Radar sat down right across from him, and he knew it...