by Devon Monk
Other friends, like my best friends, Zayvion Jones and Allie Beckstrom-Jones would be all about helping us solve this fuck up.
But Zay and Allie had stepped away from magic and its responsibilities almost two years ago to start a family of their own.
There was no way in hell I was going to put them or my little goddaughter, Rami Jo, at risk.
Other possible people who could handle this job included Detective Paul Stotts. He was a good cop, and had navigated the shitstorm of all the secret magic deeds coming to light with ease. He was a good magic user even though he’d never been a part of the Authority. But since he had also married Allie’s best friend, Nola, I didn’t want to drag him into it.
The more I thought about it, the more I decided that all my old contacts, the people I’d fought beside and fought for, the people I loved, weren’t the people I should reach out to now.
They’d done their part. They’d paid their prices to keep innocent people from being hurt by magic. Some were still paying the price.
Which is what brought me here, sitting in my car across from a place I’d sworn I’d never return.
Jak’s Antiques and Hardware was a crumbling brick building that might have been a firehouse back when wagons were pulled by horses. It was built alongside the Willamette River and just like any rocky outcrop, had snagged the dregs and flotsam carried by that river for over a hundred years.
Jak had been a friend back when I was young and running hard down the wrong side of the law. I owed Jak for keeping some things quiet, and hell, for a half a dozen other things, including letting me hole up in a storage room for a month or three.
But when I’d last been here, things had gotten messy and complicated.
Seemed those two words best described my life.
I finished off my cigarette. Mostly to give myself time to think of someone—anyone—else besides Jak who might have the information I needed.
“Fuck it.” I shoved on the car door and stepped out into the gusty wind coming cold off the river. “If charm don’t work, bribery oughta.”
I stuffed hands in my hoodie pockets and crossed the street to the side entrance of Jak’s shop. The bell above the door clanged and the smell of apple pie hit me so hard I had to swallow to keep my tongue in my mouth.
The shop was hoarder chic. Mismatched shelves groaned beneath bits and bobs that piled all the way up to the bare fluorescent lighting. Aisles—and the floor on which to walk—were more of a suggestion than a rule. Even the ceiling carried kites, model airplanes, and something that looked like a canoe tied up against it.
It would take a week with a backhoe—or maybe a few gallons of gasoline and a match—to clear this place out. But for all that it was a mess, there was a sort of organized whimsy to the joint, as if it had long ago decided to unbutton its trousers, let down its hair, and just have a good laugh at the world.
The front of the shop to my right opened up a bit for the larger pieces displayed there. A half-dozen car fenders and stack of boxed headlights broke the monotony of the carefully arranged, free-standing glass cases that glittered with old jewelry and antique toys.
And behind a counter that looked like it had been hammered together from pieces of a barn door, was Jak.
“Shamus Flynn,” Jacqueline “Jak” Hill’s gritty alto called out. “You better start running before I start shooting.”
“Hey, Jak. Since when do you carry a gun?”
Jak was a big woman, with soft dark skin and hair cut into short curls on the top of her head. She gave off an Aretha Franklin vibe and dressed like she belonged on stage: currently a deep ruby blouse with shiny sequin thingies glittering across the front of it. I’d found boxes of vinyl records in her basement once. She’d sung with some of the greats at an early age.
I’d asked her about it, and she’d told me it was none of my business. She never spoke of it again.
“Since when you come poking around my place?” she asked.
“Long time, right?” I asked.
“Not long enough.”
Ouch.
“I probably owe you an apology.”
“Probably? Boy, you owe me more than that.”
“I’m good for it.”
“You ain’t good for nothing.”
I hadn’t stepped out from between the crowded aisles yet. The avalanche of dust-covered skin magazines and pinups on my left would make a decent bullet shield if she had decided to buy herself a gun. Not that I could die, exactly, but bullets hurt like a mother.
I gave her my best grin. “We both know I’ve always been a good for nothing. And we both know I’ve made mistakes. How’s Claire?”
She was silent, studying me with a deep suspicion I didn’t remember in her. Measured me long enough the dust from the magazines was starting to make my nose burn.
“You stay away from her.”
“I have.”
“Stay away from her husband.”
“Didn’t even know she was married. You like him?”
“She likes him. That’s good enough for me.”
I nodded, waiting to see if she believed me enough not to blow my head off.
“They have kids. Two.” She leaned her wide shoulders back just a bit, the chair she sat in creaked.
I strolled forward. “Really? So I should be calling you Granny Jak?”
“You should not,” she chuckled. “Come here, Shame, and let me see you.”
I walked to the counter, leaned my elbows on it and waggled my eyebrows. “You want a piece of all this handsome?”
She tipped her head up as if she were looking through bifocals, even though she wasn’t wearing glasses, and I saw the softening age had given her face since I’d known her.
Still, her gaze was sharp. Maybe with anger. Maybe bitter disappointment.
Her hand shot out snake-quick and fingers tipped with long, glossy, pink nails caught my chin and moved my face side-to-side.
“What have you been doing to yourself, boy?” she asked.
“Living hard.”
“Mmm-hmmm,” she said. “And? All that nonsense with magic I heard about?”
“Did that too.” I hadn’t meant for those words to come out with so much regret.
Her eyes flicked to mine, just as startled as I was at the emotion I’d bared.
“You in something you need out of?” she asked.
“No. I’m good.” At her doubtful look, I added, “Now. I’m good now. Living with a guy and his boyfriend. It’s...” I inhaled, exhaled. “Annoying, and crazy. Better than I deserve.”
She humphed and let go of my chin. “That wicked heart of yours always got you into more trouble than you deserved. You need a haircut.”
I grinned and leaned back. She had told me that every day I’d known her. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed it until now.
“Grandbabies, eh?”
“Boy and a girl. And another on the way.”
I nodded. Tried to imagine Claire’s babies with her bright brown eyes and dimples. Old sorrow shifted deep inside me, nothing but a ghost of pain from a man I could no longer be.
A man who had never been good enough to treat Claire right.
“Her husband got a name?”
“He does. Is that why you came here today? Checking up on him?”
“No. I came because I need your help.”
She laughed, one loud hoot. “You have some balls, Shame Flynn. Asking me for help? After all I did for you? After all you did to us?”
“I’d understand if you tell me no.”
Even. Calm. I wasn’t trying to manipulate her—I’d done that enough in the past. I’d never wanted to lie to her, but that hadn’t stopped me. Nor had I meant to break her heart.
“All right,” she said, “then I’m saying no.”
I nodded. “Well. It’s been good to
see you, Granny. Take care, eh?”
I turned and waded through the aisles to the door. I’d find another way to get the records, though I had no idea how I was going to do that.
I pushed open the door.
“Hold up,” she said.
I turned, one foot out, one in. “What?”
“Come here.” She waved her hand over her head in a rolling motion, charm bracelets clacking and chiming. “You just going to walk out on me like that after all these years?”
“You did just tell me no. Plus, you threatened to pull a gun on me.”
“That never stopped you before.”
I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling. A taxidermied pig up there stared back at me. “Well, things are different now.”
“And by things, you mean you?”
“Yes,” I said. “And you. I’m not the one carrying a gun.”
“You should be. Neighborhood’s not what it used to be. None of it is what it used to be.” She sounded tired of it all and I wondered what life had done to her in the time since we’d last talked. Then she called out more gently: “Come here.”
I shut the door, walked back to her counter.
“You look like a man who’s seen the bottom of his own grave, Shamus.”
I tipped my head to one side in a sort of shrug. “Something like that.”
“And now you’re desperate enough to darken my door.”
“I wouldn’t say desperate.”
She sniffed and raised one eyebrow. “All right. So tell me what you want my help for.”
“I need some records.”
“What sort?”
“IDs on a couple dead guys.”
“And you think I can do that for you?”
“Yes.”
“I retired from all that. Years ago. Years.”
“I know.”
She glanced out the window that was surprisingly whole, clean, and cornered with delicate stained glass in the shape of lilies.
“I suppose it’s an important thing to bring you back here to me after all this time,” she said.
“Very.”
“Show me what you have.” She turned back to me, her expression carefully closed down.
I pulled out my phone, opened the photos of both victims, turned the screen her way.
“This all you got? Go to the morgue. They’ll run down dental records and give you what you need.”
“I need more than their names. I want to know who they are, and more importantly, who they were associated with. I need to know groups, businesses, friends, family and if they had enemies or unsettled debts.”
“Do I look like I work in a police department?”
“You look like you know every underground handshake deal, favor, and bribe of every cop, social worker, lawyer, insurance agent, reporter, and federal employee in the entire Pacific Northwest.”
She grunted. “Not any more. I retired.” She didn’t make eye contact. As a matter of fact, she was sweating even though it wasn’t all that warm in the room. Was she that nervous talking to me?
Was she that afraid of me and what I’d become?
It made me wonder what she’d heard about magic. What she’d heard about me. Last I knew, word on the street was that I’d kicked some psychopath’s ass for trying to kill me, my mother, and my friends. Word on the street was that the cops didn’t have enough evidence to press charges against me.
Which was true, if a little light on specifics.
But Jak knew me. I didn’t kill innocent people. As far as she knew that psychopath who had nearly killed me was the only person I’d ever killed.
So why was she so nervous?
I gave her a smile. “You mean you don’t go to the races and play poker with all your old cronies? You can’t kid a kidder, Jak. I know you love your vices, love your friends, and love taking their money even more.”
She shook her head. “Boy, you got a long memory.”
“Only for best things in my life.”
“And a candy-coated tongue.” She paused again, then: “Fine. I’ll find out who they are. Where were they found? When?”
She pulled a pen and a crossword puzzle book out from under the counter, and turned to a half-finished puzzle.
I gave her the streets and times, which she scribbled in the margins, her charm bracelet clacking softly against the counter with each stroke of the pen.
“How did they die?” she asked.
“Death certificates should say heart attacks.”
“How did they really die, Shamus?” She lifted her pen, waited.
“I can’t tell you.”
“Then I can’t help you.” She closed the book, tucked it back under the counter.
I weighed the consequences of saying more. What were the odds any of this would get tracked back to her?
She was the cagiest researcher I had ever known. Most people didn’t know about my past with her. Since she was only pulling together IDs and basic info, and she had no connection to the Authority or magic of any kind, I didn’t think she would trigger any attention.
But then, I’d been wrong before.
“This is a messy thing,” I said. “I don’t know why they died, so I don’t know who’s behind it. There are too many unknowns for me to tell you more. I’m not going to put some baby’s granny in danger.”
She grunted. “All right. I’ll let it go for now. You know I’ll find out what you don’t want to tell me.”
“Maybe. But if you do, I want you to be quiet about it.”
“Don’t you go insulting me. I know more about this city than anyone. You don’t see me talking.”
“I know. That’s one of the things I like about you. How long will it take?”
“Come back tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Jak.” I pressed my cool hand over the natural heat of hers. Felt the faintest brush of magic at the contact and the bitter-sweet taste of orange peels filled my mouth, which was all kinds of weird.
She jerked just slightly at my touch but I didn’t let go.
“You are a saint,” I said without pause.
“I hope not. All the saints are dead.” She pulled her hand away and then patted mine fondly. “Are you still messed up in all that magic business, Shame? Those people who did those terrible things?”
“The Authority is disbanded now.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“There isn’t any magic left to be messed up in,” I lied as Death magic stretched and gnawed on my insides. “No one can access it any more. All those people who used to do terrible things retired, permanently.”
“I heard...things. Things you people did with magic.”
“Oh?”
“If even half are half true, you should have told me what you were involved in.”
“Kind of ruins the > secret’ part of > secret organization’ doesn’t it?”
“I would have understood, you know. If you got tied up in things that weren’t exactly legal. I would have understood that. Tried to help you.”
I didn’t answer for a moment. She wouldn’t have understood all the things I’d done. The terrible things. She would have been angry. “Water under several bridges by now.”
“Did you ever do that mind thing to me? Take my memories away?”
That mind thing was a spell known as Closing. Only a few magic users could do it. People like Terric and Zayvion. I’d never been good at it. Closing took Faith magic to fuel it and I was crap at Faith magic.
“I never have. No one has. I swear.”
“And Claire?”
“And Claire.”
She nodded, leaning back again to study me. “I’m taking your word on that since that’s all I got.”
“It’s enough,” I said. “It’s true.”
“Well,” she said. “Good. Good then. Now get o
ut of my shop. I got a game to get to.”
I leaned over the counter and planted a quick kiss on her soft, warm cheek. Her perfume smelled of jasmine. Not even a hint of oranges.
She chuckled and pushed me away. “Devil.”
“Saint. See you soon, Granny.”
The shop door opened. A man walked in like he owned the place.
He was about my age, dressed in a button-down shirt and tie, casual jacket. Dark curly hair, dark eyes, wide, flat mouth. That flat mouth stretched into a sell-you-a-car smile that did nothing to hide the dark circles under his eyes, and something just this side of anger in his stride.
“Hey, Mom. How are you today?”
Jak went a little stiff. Or maybe I imagined it. She smiled right back—a genuine smile.
“Greg, I didn’t know you’d be coming by today. Is Lolly—?”
“Fine. The same,” he said a little too quickly.
Jak exhaled quietly and eased back in her chair.
“Claire wanted me to check that we were still on for dinner tonight,” he said. “She’s making lasagna from scratch all the way from pasta to pesto.”
“Didn’t I say I’d be there?”
“You know how she is,” he said. “Needs to hear yes more than once.”
I should have walked out. Left Jak to the family life she didn’t want me involved in.
Too late. Greg nodded at me. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“Not at all,” I said. “Have a nice day.”
I started across the shop. Didn’t get very far.
“Wait,” Greg said. “Is your name Flynn?”
I stopped, turned. “Have we met?”
“No.” He closed the distance between us. “Greg. Greg Padgett. I think you were a friend of my wife’s years ago. Claire?”
“I remember Claire,” I said. “Haven’t seen her in years. How is she?”
We shook. There was something in that contact, something that made me want to pull away.
Jesus. How jealous could I be? I hadn’t been serious with Claire, even though she’d wanted to be serious with me. But that didn’t make the instant dislike I had for the guy any easier.