A Dangerous Breed

by Glen Erik Hamilton

  But on the third week, when we were breaking out into different teams for the spring show, Ms. Nasgate had a different plan.

  “Costumes?” I said.

  Yvette Friel next to me laughed. Enjoying my pain.

  “You’ll be good at it, Van,” Ms. Nasgate said. “I saw how quickly you sewed on that button during our orientation week. Very deft. Imagine what you can do with a machine.”

  Jesus, had that been some kind of audition? I kicked myself for doing the job so fast. “Yeah, but . . .”

  “No nonsense about costumes being just for girls,” she replied, though I wasn’t going to say that. Think it, maybe.

  Ms. Nasgate turned to our group of ten. She’d had the students move our desks into rough circles for each team. Theater in the round, which we’d just learned about, as she gave instructions.

  “We’ll start with fixing some of the basic pieces that need some TLC. In theater, we always try to repair and modify, not to replace. It’s cheaper and it requires more ingenuity.” She showed us plastic storage bins labeled vests and petticoats and other costume bits. “Then we’ll move into using those pieces to design costumes for the show.”

  Damn it. A whole month of frills and frocks.

  Yvette was whispering something to her friend Kayla, both of them glancing my way. They noticed that I had noticed.

  “You should really wash your hands first,” Yvette whispered to me, like she was sharing an important secret. And of course I was dumb enough to look at them, which prompted more laughter. They weren’t wrong; I had dirt under my nails. Not the point.

  I guess my disappointment showed, because halfway through stitching a rip in a pants seam, Ms. Nasgate called me to her desk. She brushed the ends of her scarf behind her shoulder. She always wore a silk scarf around her neck, and the scarves always had gold in them, I guess to go with her short straw-colored hair.

  “I know you’re not happy with this assignment, Van,” she said. “Do a good job, and I’ll let you take your pick of teams for the senior variety show.”

  “Okay.”

  “You really might be good at costuming. Your mother was.”

  That brought me up so short I almost fell over. “What?”

  “That’s right. She had my class and she volunteered for one of her graduating class’s projects. A quilt that used to hang in the library, with squares from every student who worked on it. You’ve seen that.”

  I was struggling to keep up. Teachers just didn’t mention my mom out of the blue like this. Sure she’d been in a lot of the same classes as I took now. But she was dead, which always made people nervous. Plus I knew she’d been pregnant with me while in school. That really closed teachers’ mouths, at least around me. Pregnant during her last year, because she’d skipped a grade and graduated just after she turned seventeen.

  Which meant . . .

  “When she was on the senior project, was she, um . . .” I put my grimy hands out like a pregnant belly, praying that Yvette and Kayla weren’t watching.

  “She was. Never let that slow her down much. Now finish fixing those trousers, and I’ll ask Marli to walk you through setting up a sewing machine before end of class.”

  “Wait. You said the quilt used to hang in the library?”

  “Oh. I’m afraid it went missing last year. I’m very sorry.” Her face fell. Maybe realizing no one had thought to mention to me that something my mom had made was just hanging there all this time.

  “Missing like stolen?” I said.

  Ms. Nasgate hesitated. “We’re not sure.” Which meant yes.

  I went back to my seat. My fingers worked on the stitching while my brain tried to picture what the quilt had looked like. I kinda remembered it, hanging above low shelves near the dictionary stand, but who looks at junk on the walls in the library? I hadn’t even clocked that it was gone. It wasn’t like I spent a ton of time there, anyway.

  Kayla and Yvette were already slacking off, talking through plans for the party Yvette was going to throw this weekend after the school’s midwinter carnival. I knew about her parties, though no way I’d ever been to one. If you weren’t rich or in Yvette’s drama clique or able to help her popularity in some fashion, forget getting on that list.

  Mom had made a quilt. Or at least part of one. I wished I’d known that before. And why the hell would somebody steal a quilt? Some of those antique ones from like Amish people went for a lot of money—Dono had considered taking a quilt during a house score last year before rejecting it as too traceable—but this was a fucking high school project. Who cared? I mean, shit.

  My fingers tightened on the needle and it slipped and jabbed me through my jeans. It hurt. I didn’t mind. Pain could be better than feeling.

  Fifteen

  After dropping Cyndra off with Addy I invested two hours casing Ceres Biotech. My eyes tracked the patterns of movement around the building while my brain gnawed bitterly on the problem of finding a way into the cryobank on its fourth floor without getting myself or any of the Ceres employees killed. I didn’t doubt that Bilal Nath meant what he’d said. If I couldn’t crack Ceres by stealth, he’d resort to force. The security guards were armed. They might be dumb enough to resist. It wasn’t tough to imagine the ever-angry Saleem going to town with his Steyr, cutting through any opposition like a scythe.

  When I got the message from Elana Coll, the distraction was a relief.

  Meet Neapolitan lobby at 4. Dress right.

  Dress right? I guessed Elana meant I should look like someone who belonged at a four-star hotel. I didn’t own business clothes. The best I could manage would be chinos without noticeable stains and a better shirt than the flannel I had on now.

  I was due to meet Willard at noon. He’d chosen to combine business with his midday meal. That meant Zane+Wylie’s steakhouse downtown, and me picking up the tab.

  The hostess at the Z+W reception was too classy to look askance at my barn jacket and workboots ensemble.

  “Reservations?” she asked.

  “Loads,” I said, scanning the tables on either side of the elongated bar running down the center of the restaurant. The guy I was looking for was easy enough to find. I just looked for a wall wearing a suit and tie.

  Willard was the kind of size that people remembered, long enough to tell their grandchildren about. He was tall, sure, and broad and thick in an ancient world sort of way, when muscles came from hard labor and harder warfare. But beyond those stats there was a solidity to Willard, a colossal weight of presence that made him more awe-inspiring than any individual statistic.

  He had chosen a seat at the back, taking up a full half of a four-top table. On the wall behind him a giant black-and-white photograph formed a mural. The photographer had captured a trio of cowboys riding away from the viewer in three-quarter profile. Willard’s suits were custom-made, by necessity. This one was houndstooth in brown, giving his shoulders the look of a fence that the horses had just leapt.

  “How’s the prime rib?” I said, sliding into one of the chairs opposite.

  “Lean,” Willard rumbled, “like my prospects.”

  “What happened to that roadshow casino you were running?”

  He grunted. “Some muttonchopped little jagoff in Portland lost forty grand in one night and went crying to daddy. A city councilman. So low on the political ladder that a quick donation kept my name out of the official record. But it wiped half my capital. No more traveling circus for the foreseeable.”

  “Menu, sir?” the waiter asked, looking as selectively impartial as the hostess.

  “A shot of rye straight up, please,” I said. Dr. Claybeck’s liquor selection was about my only good memory of that night. Willard nodded assent. The waiter left, pants cuffs flapping in haste.

  “The card games will come around,” I said. “People need their vices.”

  “Your vice seems to be the same as your granddad’s.” Willard cut into his ribeye. “Crazy schemes.”

  “Don’t tell me you
never made a profit with Dono.”

  “I made out fine. But I also flirted with a fucking ulcer.” He swallowed his bite of steak. “Ceres Biotech. We might have some headway there. Ceres built their new headquarters on artificial landfill and on the water. That raised the hackles of some local activist groups. They pushed the city’s environmental review board, which forced the members to put the building plans under a microscope. And then they had to share those plans with the EPA and Public Relations, given the stink. So there’s no shortage of copies floating around City Hall.”

  “Blueprints?” I said.

  “Blueprints, electrical, hazmat evaluations. A lot of it is public documentation. A citizen could put in a request and get most of it in two or three months.”

  I saw where he was heading. “How much to get it today?”

  “Three large to the right guy. He’ll spread it around a little. I’ll pick the papers up from him late tonight.”

  Crime really didn’t pay. “All right.” I put an envelope on the table, which Willard made disappear with superb dexterity for a guy with hands the approximate size of shovel blades. “That’s your eight. Take the palm oil from that and I’ll make it up on the back end.”

  Willard took another small bite, his lantern jaw barely moving to chew. “And what are you gonna do, while I’m attempting all this legwork?”

  “I’ll be talking to a couple of people. Ondine Long was the one who gave my name to Bilal Nath. I want to know why.”

  He lowered his fork. Willard didn’t give away much—he was probably a hell of a poker player, along with running illegal gambling joints—but his misgivings were plain enough.

  “Bad on top of worse,” he said.

  “You know, that might be the first time I’ve seen you nervous.”

  “Ondine’ll kill you before Bilal Nath can if she thinks you’re any kind of risk.”

  “So I’ll have to count on my charm.”

  “Stupid.” Willard frowned. “Ondine’s not why you’re hiring Elana.” It sounded like an order.

  “No. I wouldn’t put your niece near Ondine.”

  “Elana.” He made a rumbling sound in his throat, half sigh and half growl. “I got her a straight job last summer. This guy owed me a favor. His firm was a headhunter for pharmaceutical reps. You know those women who talk doctors into buying products? Elana’s smart, attractive, knows how to read people. I figured she’d be good at it.”

  “She turned it down?”

  “No, she signed on. Took it serious. She memorized the shit out of the product catalog in just a couple of weeks, and the clients fucking loved her. Then she quit after two months. She said of all the things she’d ever done, pushing drugs was the lowest.” Willard drank the last of his wine. “Maybe she took the job just to prove she could do it. To me or to herself. I dunno.”

  “I’ll find Ondine on my own.”

  “She moved somewheres out by Broadmoor, I think. But tonight she’ll be at SAM.”

  “Sam’s a boyfriend?”

  “SAM. The art museum, genius.” He pointed in its direction, just a handful of blocks away. “The trustees are throwing some big gala for benefactors or some shit tonight. Ondine goes every year. Hell, you can find her name on the wall of diamond-level donors, or whatever they call it.”

  If Ondine was attending an event surrounded by the wealthy and powerful, it wasn’t for the pleasure of their company. Patronizing the museum at her level must mean elite privileges, special access. And special influence.

  “I’ll talk to her there,” I said.

  Willard actually laughed. It sounded like a stump grinder in action. “They wouldn’t let you onto the front steps. It’s black-tie, Van. Do you have a tuxedo?”

  I’d never even worn a tuxedo. My expression confessed as much.

  “What I thought,” Willard said. “Plus it’s invitation only. God knows how much you have to donate to get on that list. Forget it.”

  “Who does your suits?” I said.

  “Go to hell.”

  “Just a tux off the rack will do.”

  “You say the words off the rack to my guy, he’ll kill you. Or himself, or both. This’ll cost you.” When I didn’t flinch, Willard grumbled again and took out his phone.

  “I need a business suit, too,” I said, remembering Elana’s text.

  “Jesus. You really have to find the limit, don’t you? Hang on.”

  He began texting someone. The waiter brought the bill in a calfskin folder. I had just enough in my wallet to cover it.

  Sixteen

  I made a quick stop at the Barracuda to retrieve more cash from another of my hiding places, this one inside the driver’s seat. The address Willard had given me for his tailor was off Blanchard, close enough that a fast walk would get me there sooner than driving. Lines of pedestrians snaked to and from their holiday plans, everyone’s urgency matching my pace. I skirted the light at 4th Ave to the next block.

  Forty yards behind me, a weighty guy in a zip-front running jacket and matching black pants jogged across Stewart to beat the traffic. Active wear or not, he didn’t look like jogging came natural to him. His jowls bounced a bit as he hustled along.

  I turned onto 3rd. He did, too, matching my pace exactly. A block later I paused at Virginia as if deciding which way to go. Jowls stopped, instantly preoccupied with his phone.

  He wasn’t alone. Another man, this one with a shock of sandy hair looking like a lit matchstick atop his puffy blue hiking coat, had halted abruptly on the other side of the avenue. He gazed with furious interest at the window display for an eyeglass store.

  When I moved, they moved. I rounded the corner onto Virginia and immediately sprinted to stretch the distance between us.

  Bilal’s people? These were white guys, and excepting his wife, Aura, all of Bilal’s soldiers I’d seen so far were South Asian. I considered leading the two men on a roundabout chase, maybe corner one and get some answers, but I was in a hurry.

  At the next block a thick column of people had formed outside the Moore Theatre, waiting for entry. The marquee read: dec 30 / 2 shows: crater + skating polly. I wasn’t clued in to the bands, but they had drawn a big enough audience that the line for the matinee filled the sidewalk from wall to curb, all the way down the block and onto the next. I dove into the first rows.

  “Hey,” a woman said.

  “Sorry, dropped my keys somewhere,” I said, shuffling past and removing my barn jacket while keeping an eye on the corner. My pursuers appeared on the opposite sidewalk. I kept my head down as they scanned the streets, the crowd of theatergoers, and then the streets again with increasing desperation. I kept up my sham of searching the pavement as I edged farther back into the throng.

  After another thirty seconds Jowls pointed, and his lean partner speedwalked down Virginia toward the water, in the direction they’d last seen me going. My friend in the tracksuit took a more deliberate route, walking along the avenue for a closer look at the crowd. But the mass of people had started to move, and I let myself shuffle along with it, no one giving a damn if I was cutting in line so long as they got inside themselves.

  Jowls gave up and hurried after his partner. A little extra exercise for him tonight. I waited until he was out of sight, then bolted up the avenue.

  Who were these guys? They could be cops—Jowls had that plainclothes vibe, not quite matching the vibe of the civilians around him—and they knew at least the basics of tailing someone, even if they needed more men or more practice. But there was no reason for cops to be following me.

  At least no reason that I knew.

  Which flipped me back to the other side of the coin. Bilal might have wanted me followed, to make sure I was complying with the plan to break into Ceres Biotech. Maybe he’d hired help, knowing his men would be recognized. I might not be the only one building a team.

  The more worrisome question was how they had tracked me here. Had they been watching the car? Or Willard? I kept to the shadows, metaph
orically speaking, on my way to the bespoke tailor.

  His shop was called Giuseppe’s, and it was shaped like a wide hallway between two much grander Belltown stores. The wizened Italian guy who unlocked the shop for me either spoke little English or was so angry at being rousted from his home to fit me for a tuxedo he refused to speak. He just pointed.

  I put on the black tux with the notched lapels he had indicated. He pinned the hem and the sleeves within a flat minute, and disappeared with the jacket and pants into the back of the shop.

  By the time I’d used my phone to read what I could learn about the Seattle Art Museum gala online, Giuseppe had returned, placing two zippered clear garment bags on the counter along with a pair of black patent-leather shoes. He hadn’t asked my shoe size. He hadn’t measured me for a shirt, either, and I could see the top edge of a white collar on a second hanger under the tux.

  I glanced at the second garment bag. A two-button suit in light wool, in slate blue with a subtle gray check paired with another white shirt and a tie the color of rust on iron.

  “Should I try them on?” I said. Giuseppe’s glance was withering. It softened marginally when I put fifty hundred-dollar bills beside the register.

  As he locked the door again, I surreptitiously opened the zipper and glanced at one of the suit sleeves, to make sure I wasn’t being conned. There had been no sound of a sewing machine from the back room. The cuffs had been hand-stitched, each loop precisely the same distance from the last. The old tailor would be hell at lockpicking if he chose to change professions.

  I took a circuitous route back to the Barracuda, buying a pair of shoes to match the blue suit and slipping out the back of the store. Spent ten minutes checking the surroundings before approaching my car. And another twenty examining both interior and exterior with a penlight for tracking devices. I wasn’t certain that Jowls and his matchstick buddy had started tailing me at the car, but if they knew my ride and were trying to find me again, the Barracuda would be an easy choice. I even checked my own hidden compartments, in case they’d used those against me.