Not My Spook!

by Tinnean

  Or I could go looking for a new place to live. Not that the attic apartment wasn’t nice, but with another WBIS agent living downstairs, I really needed something with a bit more privacy.

  What I decided to do was go house hunting.

  III

  TALK about a wasted day. I hadn’t liked any of the open houses I’d checked out. Too big, too small. Too finished, too much of a fixer-upper. Too far from work, too close to the neighbors.

  I wasn’t in the mood to have dinner at home, and I didn’t feel like going anywhere special. I decided to stop at McDonalds and order a Big Mac, fries, and a Coke.

  A bunch of seven- and eight-year-olds were running wild. It was a birthday party, and the parents who were trying to control them looked frazzled.

  Whoever was wearing the Ronald McDonald costume didn’t look too happy, either.

  I found a seat as far away from them as I could get, but it still wasn’t far enough. One runty kid with a sandy brown cowlick, ears that must have gotten him teased a lot, and thick, Coke-bottle glasses—huh, something weird about those glasses—climbed onto the seat next to mine. He turned his placemat over on his table and began to draw.

  “I shouldn’t be at this party,” he murmured, and I looked around. There was no one else near us, so I assumed he was talking to me.

  I used the fact that I had a mouthful of two all-beef patties to keep from answering him.

  “My… mother asked Henry’s mom to invite me. She doesn’t think I know, but I do. The kids in my class don’t really like me.”

  In spite of myself I asked, “How come?”

  He shrugged. “I’m the new kid. And we move a lot. Just when they start getting used to me, we have to move again.”

  “Tough.”

  “That’s the way it is. I’ll hear her pulling out the suitcases and I’ll know they’re getting—” He bit off his sentence and hunched over his drawing. “I mean I know we’ll be moving.”

  I gathered up the wrapper, took a last sip of my Coke, and rose to leave. As I did, I happened to get a look at what he was drawing, and I let out a low whistle. I’d be damned if it wasn’t a sleeker, more sophisticated version of that renewable energy source that started the whole thing between Quinn and me. “You’ve got talent, kid.”

  “You think so?” He seemed startled. “No one ever pays attention to what I draw.”

  “Then they’re idiots.”

  “That’s what I always thought!” He grinned, and I was startled to realize he wasn’t as nondescript as he’d first appeared. Sure there was a gap between his front teeth and a hint of a whistle when he used esses, and he’d need orthodontics in about five years. But—

  His grin vanished, and the unexceptional little boy was back.

  “Are you as smart as”—your actions—“this drawing leads me to believe?”

  “Smarter! I have to be careful what I draw in public. Hey, do you know what this is?”

  “Yeah, I know what it is.” The WBIS scientists would probably sell their souls for specs like these. “May I have it?” I could be polite when the need arose.

  “You want this?” He shrugged. “Sure.”

  “Thanks.” I put my tray down and took the placemat. Unbelievable. I folded it into quarters and slid it into the inner pocket of my suit jacket. “What’s your name?”

  He hesitated for a second, staring into my eyes. “I hate my name. The kids in my class think it’s so lame.”

  I waited patiently.

  His mouth drew into a tight little line, and I just kept myself from laughing. Oh, no, kid, you can’t out-stubborn Mark Vincent.

  “John Little,” he finally said, his glare almost defiant.

  “And they call you Little John?” The fact that he was so short probably made them think they were being clever.

  He nodded and shrugged. “It sucks, but if they knew what my name really was, they’d—” Abruptly, he turned so white I thought he was going to keel over.

  “It’s okay, kid. You want to tell me?”

  “I’m not supposed to!” But he did, and then he panicked. “Why did I do that? I’m not supposed to tell anyone!” He began shivering.

  “Listen to me.” I crouched down so that I was at eye level with him. “I told you it was okay, right? I keep a lot of secrets, and this will be just one more.” What the fuck kind of parent would saddle their kid with a name like that?

  He began to calm down. “All the kids would laugh at me if they knew. That would be even worse than them laughing because of my ears.”

  “Fuck ’em.” His mouth dropped open, and I tugged my earlobe, drawing his attention to it. “There’s nothing wrong with your ears. And if they laugh, that just makes them assholes.”

  He giggled. “Ma would be so mad if she heard you say that.”

  “Well, if she named you that—”

  “Oh, no! It was—” His voice hitched and now he looked like he was going to cry. He lowered his voice. “I know you can make me tell you, but please don’t make me! Ma says it’s—”

  I rested my hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay.” I stood, took a card from my wallet, and wrote on the back. “If you’re still of the same mind when you turn eighteen, you call that number.”

  His eyes grew huge behind the thick lenses of his glasses. “And I’ll get to….” He nodded toward the pocket that held his drawing.

  “Yeah.”

  “Gee, thanks, Mr.—” He turned the card over. “Mr. Wells.”

  I’d make sure someone at Huntingdon was aware of this smart kid.

  A woman dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt approached us. It was hot for long sleeves.

  “Sweetie, I hope you haven’t been bothering this man.”

  I stared at her, waiting for her eyes to skitter off mine.

  They didn’t. I was able to read in them what she hadn’t said. You’d better not have been bothering my son.

  “You’ve got a talented kid, lady.”

  “I gave him one of my pictures, Ma.”

  She turned pale. “May I have it back, please?”

  “I’ll keep it, if you don’t mind.”

  “They’re just doodles.” She sent him an apologetic glance, which I was sure she didn’t realize I’d seen.

  “Yeah.”

  She was protecting her son. That was something I’d first observed with Portia Mann. Before that, I’d thought it was like Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny—something kids were told, but which wasn’t really real.

  I took my wallet from my pocket, pulled out a bill, and gave it to the kid. “Would you get me an apple pie? Get something for yourself and your mom too.”

  “I love apple pie! That’s my favorite!”

  “Yeah? Mine too.”

  “Ma likes the McDonaldland cookies, though.”

  “That’s fine. You can get them for her. And you can keep the change.”

  “Ma?”

  She worried her lower lip, then nodded. “All right, sweetie.”

  As soon as the kid had walked away, I asked softly, “Witness protection?”

  “Oh, God, if only—” She struggled to get herself under control and give me a cool smile, but it wavered around the edges. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Didn’t she? “Look. The kid is smart; maybe smarter than you realize. This sketch?” I tapped my pocket. “There are people who would do some really bad things to you in order to get their hands on him.”

  “Because he can draw things like that.” She knew; it wasn’t a question. “I’m quite aware of… of my son’s intelligence. And why am I even talking to you about this?”

  I had that kind of face. “Don’t worry about it.” The kid was on his way back. “Listen. I’ve given him my business card. If whoever you’re running from starts breathing down your neck, call the number on it.”

  “Here, Ma.” The kid handed her the box of cookies, and he didn’t wait from her to ask him what to say. “Thanks very much, Mr. Wells.”<
br />
  “You’re welcome.” I took the apple pie, which was really like a turnover. What the fuck I was going to do with it? The only time I had dessert was when I was with Quinn. I wound up putting the package in my pocket.

  “Would you mind if I saved my pie for later too, Mr. Wells?”

  “It’s your pie, kid.”

  “Sweetie, they’re going to do face painting now.”

  “Okay, Ma. Thanks again, Mr. Wells. Bye.”

  “Bye, kid.” I met his mother’s cool eyes. “Miss.”

  She nodded. She had herself under control now.

  I turned away, but I could feel her watching me as I crossed to a trash container. I dumped my trash, and when I glanced over my shoulder, she and the kid were gone.

  I left, idly wondering if he’d ever call the number on the card.

  IV

  IT WAS almost eight by the time I parked my car and let myself into my building.

  I wasn’t exactly looking forward to staring at four walls or even seeing what Robert Osborne had to say about the classic movie that was about to air, so on the spur of the moment, I decided to talk to Theo, my landlord.

  I’d been raised on coffee that came already ground and in a can—Maxwell House, Chock full o’Nuts, A&P. If my old lady wasn’t hungover, and if she was feeling ambitious, she’d brew a pot. Otherwise it was instant from a jar. It didn’t matter to me, as long as it had caffeine.

  Quinn, on the other hand, preferred fresh-ground coffee, so I’d read up on it and bought an electric grinder. I’d given some thought to picking up a French press, but it sat there on the shelf trying to look innocent. Innocent, my ass. What it was really trying to do was intimidate me. Fucking French gadget! Well, that would be the fucking day.

  And the only reason why I didn’t buy it was because I didn’t want Quinn choking on a mouthful of coffee grounds.

  I went with a stainless steel percolator instead, and once I had the equipment, I bought a pound of beans and practiced.

  Quinn’d had a point. Even cheap beans made pretty good coffee. Who knew?

  Once I found a texture I was good with, I was ready to buy better beans. I figured Theo could tell me the best place in DC to get them.

  I pressed the doorbell, amused to find “Big Spender” had been replaced with “Isn’t It Romantic.”

  Had that been some of my agent’s work? I wouldn’t have expected something so schmaltzy from him.

  I observed the distorted eye in the door viewer, and then Matheson opened the door. His hair was disheveled, his mouth was puffy, and he was slightly out of breath, but his eyes were alert. “Mr… Mr. Vincent. Won’t you… won’t you come in, sir?”

  On the table by the door was a 9mm. I nodded in approval.

  He was shoeless, dressed in faded 501 jeans—unbuttoned—that looked as if he’d been poured into them, and a T-shirt that read “Mom, Dad, I’m Gaelic.”

  “Interesting shirt, Matheson.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He tucked it in and did up his jeans. “It’s a birthday gift from my brother.”

  His half brother. That was right, his birthday was today. “Happy birthday.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Am I interrupting something?”

  He blushed, looked away, and cleared his throat, but didn’t say anything.

  Shit. I probably had. Well, I’d keep this short. “I’d like to talk to Theo for a minute.”

  “Of course. Theo!”

  “Who is it, babe?” a voice called from the kitchen.

  “It’s Mr. Vincent.”

  “Vince!” Theo strolled in, drying his hands on a dish towel. His clothes weren’t disheveled, but then he’d had some time to tuck away whatever needed tucking, as well as to catch his breath. “I haven’t seen you in a while. We were just going to have some cake. Would you like a slice?”

  “No, that won’t be—”

  “C’mon, Vince. Don’t be a pain in the ass.”

  “Bascopolis—”

  “Theo, you’re gonna get me killed!” Matheson whispered.

  “Look, Vince. You’re here now. Have a piece of cake. It’s Wills’s birthday!” Shit. We weren’t going to sing “Happy Birthday” now, were we? “I made it myself. Strawberry shortcake,” he wheedled.

  “With real whipped cream, Mr. Vincent.”

  “Only the best for my guy.” Theo winked at him.

  “All right.” I had a weakness for real whipped cream.

  “I’ll just get an extra plate and cup and saucer, sir.”

  Theo stood there for a few seconds, watching Matheson’s ass as he left the room. He licked his lips, and his mouth curled into a grin.

  “You know where the dining room is, Vince. Go on in and grab a seat. I’ll be right back. I want to give Wills a hand with the cake.” He sauntered back to the kitchen.

  I came to a halt just inside the room. Strung from one corner to another were crêpe paper streamers, and tied to them was a rainbow of balloons.

  Theo had done this for Matheson?

  One end of the long mahogany table was set with two cups and saucers. Pointy party hats with elastic string to hold them in place lay beside them.

  Scattered at the other end of the table were opened boxes, surrounded by torn wrapping paper. A few of the boxes had the Beau Brummel logo imprinted on them. I’d bought silk pajamas for Quinn from the exclusive men’s shop, back when we were still fucking with each other’s minds. As well as being exclusive, it was expensive.

  I walked over to see what Theo had bought for his lover. Lounging pajamas, silk boxers, a lavender dress shirt with ruffles down the front, linen handkerchiefs with his initials monogrammed on the corner. There were DVDs—none of them porn—and a couple of books that looked like they might be.

  Dammit, I should have brought something. I thought for a second before pulling my Glock out from under my arm, cycling a shell through the chamber and ejecting it. Once I had it in my hand, I went to a corner where the crêpe streamer hung down about a foot and a half and tore it off.

  Theo bustled in, licking his lips. He was carrying a tray that held three plates with very large slices of cake. “We already sang ‘Happy Birthday’, but we can sing it again if you want.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Jesus.

  Theo saw the bullet with the big crêpe bow, and his jaw dropped.

  I pretended not to see and picked up a book; I tapped it with my forefinger. “My boy comes in sore because of this, I won’t be happy, Bascopolis.”

  “Wha—huh?” He blinked when he saw which book I held, and then grinned at me.

  Matheson came in, a smear of white on his mouth.

  “Uh, babe?” Theo tapped the corner of his own mouth. “Whipped cream.”

  Matheson smiled at him, and I watched Theo watch him as he licked it off.

  “If you’ll have a seat, Mr. Vincent?” Matheson put a cup and saucer before me. He saw the book in my hand and turned red. “Oh, shit.”

  “It’s okay, Wills. As long as I don’t send you in to work sore, Vince’s got no problem with it.”

  “Oh, shit.” Matheson turned an even brighter shade of red. He grabbed up the tray and started to back out. “Uh….”

  “Wait! You’ve got another present!” Theo was trying to keep from laughing, and I scowled at him. “Vince brought you something!”

  “Thank you, sir. That wasn’t necessary, but I—”

  “Wait until you see it!” Theo had given up and was laughing outright.

  “It’s not that funny,” I said. “Here.” I thrust the bullet at Matheson.

  He looked at it, looked at me, then looked back at his “gift” again. He bit his lip and coughed. “Th-thank you, sir. It—it’s what I’ve always wanted.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “I’ll just… uh… get the coffee and cream and sugar.” He started to leave the room again.

  And Theo once again watched him, a soft light in his eyes, then shook himself and patted m
y shoulder. “It’s the thought that counts, and that was a nice bow, Vince. Now, what did you need to see me about?”

  “What do you know about coffee beans?”

  Matheson paused in the doorway. “I know four ounces of the kind Theo likes costs almost ten dollars.”

  I kept my jaw from sagging. “Forty dollars a pound?” What the fuck did they use for fertilizer? Gold?

  “Yes, sir. If I didn’t love him so much—” He cleared his throat. “Sorry, sir.” He hurried out.

  Theo stared after him, a peculiar expression on his face. “I can’t believe it, you know.”

  “Neither can I. Forty dollars a pound?”

  He frowned at me. “No. I can’t believe he—he says it so easily. It doesn’t matter what I’ve done. He just looks in my eyes and tells me—”

  “Theo, don’t worry it to death. Now, about the coffee.” I was hoping I could get him off the subject.

  “Does he even understand, Vince? Maybe he thinks what I did was glamorous or… or something,” he finished weakly.

  Who did Theo think I was, Dr. Ruth? But I could see he was expecting me to offer some words of wisdom. “What’s got your shorts in a twist?”

  “We’ve been living together a few months now. He’s like a kid in a candy store: everything is so new to him, and he’s willing to try it all. He treats me great, the sex is fantastic….” He ignored my pained expression. I really didn’t need to know the state of my agent’s love life. “It’s just… I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, y’know? Kind of ‘if it seems too good to be true, it’s because it is’? I know how lucky I am, but… every once in a while it hits me: this is a guy who’s never really lived….”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I mean, he’s almost like a virgin bride.”

  I started to choke, and Theo scowled at me and poked my shoulder.

  “You know what I mean. He’s lived at home, and he’s lived with me. Oh, sure, he’s gone to college, worked a white-collar job, but does he even know what the real world is like?”