Sinclair Feldman's Arc

Chapter 3 of 4

Sinclair walked the cracked lot before sundown. Drums in a ring. Wood stacked clean. A pit ready to light. The table was his now, but one chair still scared him. Achilles had said yes to hearing terms. He had not said he would show. He set the shortwave on a barrel and thumbed the dial. Bunker channel, low static. He keyed twice. Waited. Nothing came back. Marcus would arrive on time. Zelda would arrive early. If the third seat sat empty, the deal died in front of both of them. Sinclair found Achilles by the carrier, hands black with grease. He did not ask. He set the radio on the fender. "Sundown. The lot with the drums. I'm not asking you to promise. I'm asking you to carry this. If you're not coming, key it once. I'll clear the table before they sit." Achilles wiped his hands. He looked at the radio a long moment. "I don't key things I don't mean." He clipped it to his belt. "You'll know I'm coming when I'm there." It was not a yes. It was the closest thing Achilles gave to one. Sundown. Sinclair lit the pit. Marcus came first, hat low, eyes counting chairs. Zelda came next, arms crossed, reading the empty seat like a chart. "Three chairs," Marcus said. "Two men." Sinclair did not answer. He watched the gap in the fence. The fire popped. The radio on his hip stayed silent. Silent was not yes. Silent was not no. Boots on broken asphalt. Achilles stepped into the firelight and took the third chair without a word. Marcus's shoulders dropped a quarter inch. Zelda uncrossed her arms. Sinclair sat down across from all three. The seat was filled. The deal was alive. Now he had to close it.