"Don't wet your pants, it's just a little ways."
Beer-gut stopped beside a Chevy van that once had been white. Now it was grey, and matted with rust. He slid open the side door, bent over, and reached inside. He said, "Should be around here someplace." He straightened up. He had a Softball bat in his hand.
Sextant said quietly, "That's not the tool I was looking for."
"I know that, sweetheart." Beer-gut tapped the bat against his leg. "But this is what you're gonna get."
Sextant stood very still. He heard the scrape of shoes on gravel behind him, and he knew that the other two were there. He said, "What is this?"
"It's time to teach you a lesson, faggot." The bat went tap, tap, tap. "You don't belong here. You got told that, didn't you?"
"Now, look…"
"You got told to get out, but you wouldn't. You think you can come into a decent place like this and go prancing around…"
"Look, let's just say that you won the bet. I'll give you the fifty."
"Fuck your money, and fuck you, faggot. This isn't for money, this is for what's right and what's wrong." A torrent of filth poured out of his mouth as he worked himself into a rage.
Sextant said calmly, "Now I'm sure you're not a fireman. A fireman would never use such language. A fireman is a noble creature."
Beer-gut raised the bat. "God damn you…"
Behind Sextant, somebody said, "Hey, stop talking so much and pop him one."
Beer-gut swung. Sextant moved inside the arc of the swing, and put his left fist into Beer-gut's belly. He turned his shoulder, and put his weight behind it. Beer-gut's eyes widened, and he doubled over. He dropped the bat. Sextant chopped down at his neck with the edge of his right hand. Beer-gut went flat on his face.
Sextant whirled to face the other two. They came charging at him awkwardly. He laughed. He waited until they were close enough, and then moved with the grace of a dancer. He kicked the first one in the pit of the stomach. He took out the second one with the same chop he had used on Beer-gut. They both went down. The second one lay without moving. The first one twitched and groaned. Sextant put two fingers to the side of his neck, pressed, and the groaning stopped. He straightened up, and looked around. He saw nothing but darkness, and heard nothing but the faint sound of the music from the tavern. He nodded in satisfaction.
He loaded the three men into the van, climbed in, and slid the door shut. He found the interior light, and flipped it on. There was a coil of greasy rope on the floor, but he preferred the fishing line he had in his pocket. He bound the three men hands and feet, and looked around for rags. There were none, but there was an old newspaper. He made wads out of the paper, and used the wads for gags. He checked the eyes of the three men; they were still out. He settled back to wait.
While he waited, he scrubbed at his face with a handkerchief, trying to remove the makeup he had used. Now that it had served its purpose he wanted it off as quickly as possible for, despite the masquerade he had just performed, he was not gay. Nor was he straight. He was a man without sexual interest, and had always been so. It was a drive that he lacked, but the lack did not bother him. He felt in no way incomplete, for he had his own compensations.
After a while he realized that the scrubbing was getting him nowhere, and he put the handkerchief away. He would need some cream and a proper wash. He sat back and waited. Beer-gut was the first to open his eyes. He looked around wildly, and strained to get free. He managed to raise his feet a few inches, and bang them on the floor. He did it twice.
Sextant said, "Stop that or I'll hurt you."
Beer-gut stopped, but his eyes were still wild. The other two came around slowly. They also strained, and then slumped back.
"Let me have your attention," said Sextant. He spoke in a low, calm voice. "We have something to discuss, and I'm going to take those gags out of your mouths, but you're going to keep your voices low, and you're not going to make any noise. Is that understood. Nod if it is."
They glared at him without moving. He sighed, and murmured, "I thought not."
He put his hand on Beer-gut's upper arm. He did something quickly with his fingers. Sweat popped out on Beer-gut's face, and he made a strangled noise behind the gag. Sextant did the same to the other two, and got the same result.
"I can give you that sort of pain any time I want to," he said. "And I should also mention that I enjoy doing it. Now, are you going to play nicely?"
Three heads nodded. Sextant flipped the wads of paper out of their mouths. They were breathing heavily. Beer-gut was the first to speak.
"Who the hell are you?"
"Just a guy who likes firemen."
"Shit, you ain't no faggot. Ain't a faggot alive can hit like that."
"Don't be too sure of that."
"Well, are you?"
"You'll never know."
"What is this?" asked one of the others. "What you want with us?"
"Actually," Sextant said brightly. "I want to offer you a job. All three of you."
It took a moment for that to sink in. Beer-gut spluttered, "A job? You did this just to… you said a job?"
Sextant nodded.
"Mister, this is one hell of a way to run an employment agency."
Sextant did not smile. "I had to be sure of what I was getting. I need three animals, three thoroughly loathsome creatures without a scrap of moral sensibility. I think you'll do nicely."
"That's just calling names," said Beer-gut. "You let me loose, and we'll see who calls names."
"You were loose when I took you out. Do you want to try it again?"
After a moment, Beer-gut shook his head. "You can hit, that's for sure. What's this job you're talking about?"
Sextant told them. He told them in detail. By the time he was finished, all three were grinning broadly.
"Are you sure you won't have some coffee?" asked Violet Simms. "I have it hot in the kitchen."
"Thanks, but I really have to be going," said Martha. "We have a long drive ahead of us."
"What time will you get to Hightower?"
"Late this afternoon."
"With the roads all icy, yes. You'll have to drive slowly."
They sat in the Simms living room, an orderly place that had been dusted and polished to perfection. Lila was out in the van with the other kids. The four from the Center had been drilled for two days, learning their cover stories pat. Martha had been pleased and impressed by the way they had taken the news of their assignment. There had been no explosions of juvenile excitement, nor, as far as she could tell, had there been any signs of anxiety. They had been told in detail the nature of the mission (there had been some debate with Sammy over that), and they knew that their job was to provide a ring of warning and security around Lila. They had reacted with an air of cool professionalism that was partly assumed, but also the result of their training. Even Chicken had kept himself under control, although he had been visibly disappointed when he learned that they would not be carrying weapons. Now they were out in the van with Lila, with instructions to make her feel welcome, while Martha chatted with her grandmother.
"We'll be driving slowly," Martha assured her, "and the radio says that the weather looks good further north. There's nothing to worry about, really."
"I know that, Martha." They had known each other only fifteen minutes, but they were using first names. Martha had that way with people. Violet reached out to touch the younger woman's arm gently. "I can see that you're a responsible person. It's just that this all came up so quickly. I'm still not used to the idea."
"We can thank the post office for that," Martha said briskly. She had no wish to dwell on the subject. "Lila should have received her notice weeks ago, along with the others."
"Well, it all worked out," Violet conceded, "and she's thrilled to be going. I'm sorry to be such a worrier, but it hasn't been easy for me, raising my daughter's child."