He speaks in a deliberate flat drawl. Not southern. Maybe Okie. I had some cousins from Oklahoma. All I remember about them was that they pronounced theater with a long a.
“No thank you. You have a lovely workshop,” says Brigitte.
That’s an understatement. It’s a little slice of Heaven compared to Manimal Mike’s jerry-rigged setup. The space is clean and stocked with every tool in this world and probably a couple of others. There’s enough room for several people to work at once. Rose must have assistants because there are at least a dozen animal familiars around the room, some fully built and others just steel and gear frames.
“Thank you,” he says. “May I give you ladies a tour?”
Just like I thought. Atticus, a professional recluse, can’t help but want to show off his toys. He brings them over to a table where a half-constructed tabby cat lies curled up near unsewn swatches of fur.
Watching them like this isn’t fun. It brings bad old feelings. This is how my hits in Hell used to go. I’d come through a shadow into someone’s home and wait, sometimes hours, for them to get relaxed or distracted, and then quickly, quietly, I’d cut their throats with the black blade. Things only got messy if they had a bodyguard or a hapless, soon-to-be-dead friend strolled into the slaughter scene. No one ever got away. I was a slave and a killer and I was good at it. I don’t want to be any of those things today, so I stay put and take deep breaths, letting the memories fade away.
Speaking of people who need to crank things down a notch, Rose’s heart is doing its own tap dance. Brigitte got good information. This boy likes wide-open spaces. Even with two not-very-large women in the room, he’s uncomfortable.
“Thank you for seeing us so quickly,” Brigitte says to Rose.
“Of course. Any friends of Saragossa are welcome.”
“What’s this?” says Candy. She’s across the workroom on her own, lost in Rose’s mechanical zoo. Nearby is what looks like a wild dog with broad stripes down its back.
“That’s a Tasmanian tiger, young lady. They’re extinct. If you want one I’m the only Tick-Tock Man in the world who can give you an exact copy of an original, capturing both its spirit and its wild soul.”
“It looks expensive.”
“Very expensive,” says Rose.
Candy looks at Brigitte.
“Mom, can I have one if I’m good?”
Brigitte laughs.
“Maybe for your birthday, dear.”
Candy strokes the tiger’s ears.
Rose’s breathing and heart spike like someone rigged his scrotum to a 220 line.
“Please don’t touch that,” he says, and crosses the room in a few strides to where Candy is standing. She backs off and goes back to Brigitte while Rose combs the tiger’s fur back the way it was.
“Do you ever make anything besides animals?” says Candy.
She’s setting him up for me to knock down. Rose isn’t relaxed enough to attack, but he’s plenty distracted. I take off my glove and put it in my pocket.
“Like what?” says Rose.
I walk into his workspace balancing the 8 Ball on my Kissi hand.
“Something like this.”
I toss the ball at Rose. He catches it. Clutches it to his chest like a life preserver.
“How did you get in here? Get out before I call hotel security.”
I look at the girls.
“You know, people used to have pride. They’d keep a baseball bat by the door and hit you themselves. Now everyone has hired goons. What happened to the American can-do spirit?”
Candy and Brigitte snigger. Rose doesn’t move. He’s looking at my funny hand. I go to the hotel phone on the wall. Pull it out of the wall and crush it like a soda can in my trash-compactor fingers.
“Sweet Jesus,” whispers Rose.
I can read Rose like the Sunday funnies. He’s on the edge of panic. There are way too many people in here, but he’s conflicted. Who does he ask to go? The pretty ladies or the crazy man with the mechanical meat hook? He’s afraid of me but he’ll weep bitter tears every night if he passes up the chance to get a better look at my Kissi arm.
I use it to take back the 8 Ball. Wave it in front of him.
“Focus. Where did you see the real 8 Ball? Who did you make the fake one for?”
Candy and Brigitte stroll around the room playing with Rose’s tools. Running their hands over his animals’ fur and feathers.
“The sooner you answer, the sooner we’ll be gone,” I say.
He glances at the 8 Ball and shakes his head.
“I’ve never seen that thing before in my life.”
“It has your mark on it.”
“Then it’s a damn fake.”
Candy tosses Brigitte a wriggling koi. She catches it, laughing as it tries to squirm out of her hands.
“If you think we’re being unreasonable, think about it from my point of view. Not only did I lose the real 8 Ball, but your goddamn fake almost got me killed. Right now we’re going to play volleyball with every kitty cat and titmouse in here until you fess up and tell me who has the real ball.”
“I don’t know.”
“Who wanted the fake one?”
“It’s all lies.”
I stop for a minute. Is there a chance I’m torturing the wrong guy? I’m good at reading people, but Rose’s heart rate and breathing are off the chart. His pupils are the size of baked hams. But I’m still not convinced he’s all that innocent.
“Please. You people have to leave.”
Reset and try another approach. I pull up my sleeve and show him my whole Kissi arm. Rose’s vitals slow. He’s back in his own zone. He’d love nothing more than to dismantle me piece by piece.
“I’ll let you look at it if you want. Examine the hell out of it and see how it works. Just tell me about the Qomrama.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
There it is. The microtremor in his lips when I said the 8 Ball’s name.
“You’re lying. Who was the fake one supposed to kill? Garrett? Or the buyer? Who was the buyer?”
Candy has a diamondback curling around her arm. It looks delicate and pricey.
“Declan Garrett,” says Rose.
The idiot from Donut Universe. Good.
“And who showed you the real Qomrama?”
“I never saw it. Just pictures. And diagrams in books they gave me.”
Shit. Rose is telling the truth. I can feel it. He never saw the real 8 Ball. Maybe whoever commissioned the fake one might never have seen it either. Just knew about it in an old book and had Atticus run him off a mobster clone. If that’s true, then chasing Moseley, getting shot, and almost getting blown to refried beans was for nothing. Still, there might be something to salvage.
“Who hired you to make the copy?”
Rose can’t take it anymore. There’s too many of us. We’re too loud. I might kill him with my creepy hand and Candy and Brigitte might fuck up his life’s work. He turns away. I think for a second that he might be crying. But he’s not. When he turns back he’s fished a small box, like a cable remote, from his pocket. He punches in a code with his thumb. A second later Candy slams into one of the worktables as someone blurs by her, heading for me. I step aside at the last second and let Kid Flash fly by. When he turns, color me surprised.
It’s Trevor Moseley. Upright, clean, and completely uncrushed by a number 2 bus.
Moseley comes at me like a flat-footed tornado. All fury and power but not really knowing what to do with it. I slip his first couple of punches, then give him a quick pop in the kidneys. The asshole doesn’t even react. He was doped when we danced our first waltz and I guess he still is.
I go down low, giving him a good target. Moseley takes the bait, and when he throws a kick at my head, I grab his leg and plant a boot into his balls.
I don’t know what Moseley is on, but I want some of it. I’ve still got hold of his leg when he springs off the other and slams me on the side of the head with his foot. The world spins and I flop down flat on my ass. Moseley grabs something bright and sharp from a worktable and comes at me. I pull the na’at from under my coat, swing it like a whip so it wraps around his arm. Flick the grip so the na’at goes rigid, then twist it to break his arm. It works. A little too well. His arm snaps clean off, spewing blood, hydraulic fluid, gears, and cams all over the floor.