Warren Eddings sat slumped in a chair in the corner of a coffee shop in Little Lisbon that was, depending on one’s viewpoint, either famous or infamous as a gathering place for unionists and communists. The place was in decline, but it was still considered friendly ground, and Warren Eddings was as safe here as anywhere else in the City.
Frings removed his hat and placed it on the next seat. The inside band was saturated with sweat; Frings’s hair dripped onto his collar. The owner, an ancient man with a tangled beard that hung to his sternum, brought over two tiny cups of espresso. A radio played tinny Gypsy music.
Eddings looked drawn, as if he hadn’t slept in a week. He hadn’t shaved in days, his cheeks and upper lip showing stubble above his beard, which he’d bound with string.
Frings cocked his head, trying to get Eddings’s eye. “Warren. What’s going on here?”
Eddings looked up, lids almost too heavy to keep open. “It’s falling apart very quickly.”
“The Community?”
Eddings snorted, nodding.
Frings said, “I really think that we can get through this.”
“No. It’s not Truffant. It’s the Community. The people, they’re going to end it.”
“I don’t follow.”
“You know how I’ve been trying to tell you that the Community, it’s not ours? We don’t run it; we just try to do what we can to keep it going?”
“Yeah, I get that, Warren. You made it pretty clear.”
“Mmmh,” Eddings said, looking into his cup. Frings took a sip of his and felt the heat in his face.
Eddings said, “The Community, whatever else it is, it’s a religious community—superstitious and religious. People in the shanties are preparing to leave because of some dream that Womé had. A goddamn dream.”
“I don’t—”
Eddings banged his fist on the table. “Open your eyes, Frank. Look around. You think those people need any more convincing their world is going to come down around them? Truffant. Fucking crackers throwing Molotov cocktails at the shanties at night? This dream, it just confirms what they already know.”
Frings nodded.
Eddings took a deep breath, settling down. “They’re going to do one of their ceremonies at the Square tomorrow night. More superstitious bullshit, but maybe it will give them some courage; get them to try to make this work.”
“You going to be there?”
This drew a rueful laugh. “Yeah, I suppose I will. Those are our people, for better or worse, right?”
“I’m going, too.”
Eddings looked up. “Really?”
“Womé more or less invited me to come.”
“Okay.”
They drank in silence for a few moments. Frings thought about what Eddings had said.
“Warren?”
“Yeah?”
“Where’s Mel? I don’t think I know where he went after our meeting last night.”
“He’s safe.”
“You can trust me, Warren. I kept him safe for days.”
Eddings considered this. “He’s at the old rail yard, staying in the Black Comet Line.”