by Butcher, Jim
“And your mom is going to think less of you for being single? A career woman?” I regarded her skeptically. “Murphy, don’t tell me you’re a mama’s girl under all the tough-chick persona.”
She stared at me for a moment, exasperation and sadness sharing space on her features. “I’m the oldest daughter,” she said. “And . . . well, the whole time I was growing up, I just assumed that I’d be . . . her successor, I guess. That I’d follow her example. We both did. It’s one of the things that made us close. The whole family knew it.”
“And if your baby sister is all of a sudden more like your mom than you are, what? It threatens your relationship with her?”
“No,” she said, annoyance in her tone. “Not like that. Not really. And sort of. It’s complicated.”
“I can see that,” I said.
She slumped against the vending machine. “My mom is pretty cool,” Murphy said. “But it’s been hard to stay close to her the past few years. I mean, the job keeps me busy. She doesn’t think I should have divorced my second husband, and that’s been between us a little. And I’ve changed. The past couple of years have been scary. I learned more than I wanted to know.”
I winced. “Yeah. Well. I tried to warn you about that.”
“You did,” she said. “I made my choice. I can handle living with it. But I can’t exactly sit down and chat with her about it. So it’s one more thing that I can’t talk about with my mother. Little things, you know? A lot of them. Pushing us apart.”
“So talk to her,” I said. “Tell her there’s stuff you can’t talk about. Doesn’t mean you don’t want to be around her.”
“I can’t do that.”
I blinked. “Why not?”
“Because I can’t,” she said. “It just doesn’t work like that.”
Murphy had genuine worry on her face and actual tears in her eyes, and I started feeling out of my depth. Maybe because it was a family thing. It seemed like something completely alien, and I didn’t get it.
Murphy was worried about being close to her mom. Murphy should just go talk to her mom, right? Bite the bullet and clear the air. With anyone else she’d have handled the problem exactly that way.
But I’ve noticed that people got the most irrational whenever family was around—while simultaneously losing their ability to distinguish reason from insanity. I call it familial dementia.
I may not have understood the problem, but Murphy was my friend. She was obviously hurting, and that’s all I really needed to know. “Look, Murph, maybe you’re making more of it than you need to. I mean, seems to me that if your mom cares about you, she’d be as willing as you are to talk.”
“She doesn’t approve of my career,” Murphy said tiredly. “Or my decision to live alone, once I was divorced. We’ve already done all the talking on those subjects and neither one of us is going to budge.”
Now that I could understand. I’d been on the receiving end of Murphy’s stubborn streak before, and I had a chipped tooth to show for it. “So you haven’t shown up at the reunion, where you’d see her and have to avoid all kinds of awkward topics, for the past two years.”
“Something like that,” Murphy said. “People are talking. And we’re all Murphys, so sooner or later someone is going to start giving unasked-for advice, and then it will be a mess. But I don’t know what to do. My sister getting engaged is going to get everyone talking about subjects I’d rather slash my wrists than discuss with my uncles and cousins.”
“So don’t go,” I said.
“And hurt my mom’s feelings a little more,” she said. “Hell, probably make people talk even more than if I was there.”
I shook my head. “Well. You’re right about one thing. I don’t understand it, Murph.”
“ ’S okay,” she said.
“But I wish I did,” I said. “I wish I worried about my uncle’s opinions, and had problems to work out with my mom. Hell, I’d settle for knowing what her voice sounded like.” I put a hand on her shoulder. “Trite but true—you don’t know what you have until it’s gone. People change. The world changes. And sooner or later you lose people you care about. If you don’t mind some advice from someone who doesn’t know much about families, I can tell you this: Don’t take yours for granted. It might feel like all of them will always be there. But they won’t.”
She looked down, so that I wouldn’t see a tear fall, I guess.
“Talk to her, Karrin.”
“You’re probably right,” she said, nodding. “So I’m not going to kill you for shoving your well-intentioned opinion down my throat in a vulnerable moment. Just this once.”
“That’s decent of you,” I said.
She took a deep breath, flicked a hand at her eyes, and looked up with a more businesslike face. “You’re a good friend, putting up with this crap. I’ll make it up to you sometime.”
“Funny you should say that,” I said.
“Why?”
“I’m scouting out a money trail, but the information I’m after is apparently on the Internet. Could you hit a few sites for me, help me get my hands on it?”
“Yes.”
“Gracias.” I passed her the addresses and gave her a brief rundown of what I was looking for. “I’m going to be out and about. I’ll call you in an hour or two?”
She sighed and nodded. “Did you find the vampires?”
“Not yet, but I got some backup.”
“Who?” she asked.
“Guy named Kincaid. He’s tough.”
“A wizard?”
“No. One of those soldier of fortune types. Pretty good vampire slayer.”
Murphy arched a brow. “Is he clean?”
“As far as I know,” I said. “I should hear from our wheelman tonight. With luck, I’ll find the lair and we’ll hit them.”
“Hey, if it just so happens that we have to go after them on—”
“Saturday,” I finished for her. “I know.”
I left, and told the pup my theory about familial dementia on the way down the stairs. “It’s just a theory, mind you. But it’s got the support of a ton of empirical evidence.” I felt a quiet pang of sadness as I spoke. Family troubles were something I hadn’t ever had. Wouldn’t ever have. Murphy’s problems with family might have been complicated and unpleasant, but at least they existed.
Every time I thought I had gotten through my orphan baggage, something like this came up. Maybe I didn’t want to admit how much it still hurt. Not even to myself.
I scratched the pup’s notched ear as I walked out to the Beetle. “My theory is just theoretical,” I told him. “Because how the hell should I know?”
Chapter Twelve
I swung past my apartment to grab lunch, a shower, and some clothes without so much blood on them. A beaten-up old Rabbit had lost a game of bumper tag with a Suburban, and traffic was backed up for a mile. As a result, I got back to the set a few minutes late.
A vaguely familiar girl with a clipboard met me at the door. She wasn’t old enough to drink, but made up for a lack of maturity with what I could only describe as a gratuitous amount of perkiness. She was pretty, more awkwardly skinny than sleek, and had skin the color of cream. Her dark hair was done up in Princess Leia cinnamon rolls, and she wore jeans, a peasant-style blouse, and clunky-looking sandals. “Hi!” she said.
“Hi, yourself.”
She checked her clipboard. “You must be Harry, then. You’re the only one left, and you’re late.”
“I was on time this morning.”
“That makes you half as good as a broken watch. You should be proud.” She smiled again to let me know she was teasing. “Didn’t I see you talking to Justine at Arturo’s party?”
“Yeah, I was there. Had to leave before I turned into a pumpkin.”
She laughed and stuck out her hand. “I’m Inari. I’m an associate production assistant.”
I shook her hand. She wore some light, sweet scent that I liked, something that reminded me of buzzing locusts and lazy sum
mer nights. “Nice to meet you—unless you’re stealing my job. You’re not a scab, are you?”
Inari grinned, and it transformed her face from moderately attractive to lovely. She had great dimples. “No. As an associate gofer, I’m down the ladder from you. I think your job is safe.” She checked a plastic wristwatch. “Oh, God, we need to get moving. Arturo asked me to take you to his office as soon as you got here. This way.”
“What’s he want?”
“Beats me,” Inari said. She started a brisk walk, and I had to lengthen my steps to keep up with her as she led me deeper into the building. She flipped to a second page and took a pen from behind one hair-bun. “Oh, what would you like on your vegetarian pizza?”
“Dead pigs and cows,” I said.
She glanced up at me and wrinkled her nose.
“They’re vegetarians,” I said defensively.
She looked skeptical. “With all the hormones and things they put in meats, you know that they’re having a number of very bad effects on you. Right? Do you know the kind of long-term damage fatty meats can do to your intestinal tract?”
“I choose to exercise my status as an apex predator. And I laugh in the face of cholesterol.”
“With an attitude like that, you’re going to wind up with bulletproof arteries.”
“Bring it.”
Inari shook her head, her expression pleasant and unyielding. “Everyone decided they wanted to stick with veggies when I order. If someone has meat, the grease will get all over the rest of the pizza, so they settled on veggies.”
“Then I guess I will too.”
“But what do you want on yours? I mean, I’m supposed to make everyone happy here.”
“Kill me some animals, then,” I said. “It’s a protein thing.”
“Oh, you should have said,” Inari replied, smiling at me. We stopped in front of a door and she scribbled on her clipboard. “Some extra cheese, maybe some beans and corn. Or wait. Tofu. Protein. I’ll fix you up.”
Bean-curd pizza, good grief. I should raise my rates. “You do that.” The puppy stirred in my pocket and I stopped. “Here, there’s something you could help me with.”
She tilted her head at me. “Oh?”
I reached into my pocket and drew the pup out. He was sleeping, every inch of him completely limp. “Could you keep my friend company while I talk to Arturo?”
The girl melted with adoration the way only girls can, and took the pup, cradling him in the crook of her arm and crooning to him. “Oh, he’s so sweet. What’s his name?”
“No name,” I said. “Just watching him for a day or three. He might be hungry or thirsty when he wakes up.”
“I love dogs,” she replied. “I’ll take good care of him.”
“Appreciate it.”
She started to walk away. “Oh, Harry, I almost forgot. What do you want to drink? Is Coke okay?”
I eyed her suspiciously. “It isn’t noncaffeinated, is it?”
She arched a brow. “I’m health-conscious, not insane.”
“Dear child,” I said. She gave me another sunny smile and jounced off down the hall, holding the pup as if he were made of glass. I went into the office.
Arturo Genosa was inside, sitting on the corner of a desk. His silver hair looked rumpled, and a half-smoked cigar smoldered in a thick ashtray beside him. He summoned up a tired smile for me as I came in. “Hey, Harry.” He came over and gave me one of those manly Mediterranean hugs, the kind that leave bruises. “God bless you, Mister Dresden. Without you there, I think we would have lost them both. Thank you.”
He kissed me on either cheek. I’m not a kissy-huggy type, really, but I figured it was another manly European affection thing. Either that or he’d just marked me for death. I stepped back and said, “The girl going to be all right?”
Arturo nodded. “Going to live. All right? That I don’t know.” He waved a hand at his neck. “The scars. They will be very bad.”
“Tough on an actress.”
He nodded. “In the phone book, your ad says you give advice.”
“Technically I sell it,” I said. “But that’s really more for—”
“I need to know,” he said. “Need to know whether I should stop the project.”
I arched an eyebrow. “You think that’s why these people have been attacked?”
He picked up his cigar, fiddling around with it. “I don’t know what to think. But I was nowhere nearby. This could not have been an attack on me.”
“I agree,” I said. “And it was the Evil Eye. I’m sure of it.”
“Mister Dresden, if a man threatens me, then it is nothing to face it. But this person, whoever he is, is hurting the people near me. I no longer choose only for myself.”
“Why would someone want to stop your film, Mr. Genosa?” I asked. “I mean, pardon me if this insults you, but it’s a skin flick. There are lots of them.”
“I don’t know. Maybe it is the business end,” he said. “Small entrepreneur, maybe could be a threat to more entrenched businessmen. So they lean. Apply pressure. Quietly, you understand.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you just told me that you think you’re being persecuted by a covert pornography syndicate.”
Genosa put the cigar in his mouth, rolling it around. He drummed his fingers on the desk and lowered his voice. “You joke, but in the past few years someone has been buying the studios a little at a time.”
“Who?”
He shook his head. “It is hard to say. I have investigated, but I am not a detective. Is there any way you could—”
“I’m already on it. I’ll tell you if I turn up anything.”
“Thank you,” he said. “But what should I do today? I can’t allow any of these people to be harmed.”
“You’re racing the clock, right? If you don’t finish the film, your business is kaput.”
“Yes.”
“How long do you have?”
“Today and tomorrow,” he said.
“Then you should ask yourself how willing you are to let ambition get someone killed. Then weigh it against how willing you are to let someone scare you out of living your life.” I frowned. “Or maybe lives, plural. You’re right when you say you aren’t choosing only for yourself.”
“How can I make that choice?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Look, Arturo. You need to decide if you are protecting these people or leading them. There’s a difference.”
He rolled the cigar back and forth between his fingers, and then nodded slowly. “They are adults. I am not their father. But I cannot ask them to risk themselves if they do not wish to. I will tell them they are free to leave should they choose, with no ill will.”
“But you will stay?”
He nodded firmly.
“Leader, then,” I said. “Next thing you know, Arturo, I’ll be buying you a big round table.”
It took him a second, but he laughed. “I see. Arthur and Merlin.”
“Yeah,” I said.
He regarded me thoughtfully “Your advice is good. For a young man, you have good judgment.”
“You haven’t seen my car.”
Arturo laughed. He offered me a cigar, but I turned him down with a smile. “No, thank you.”
“You look troubled.”
“Yeah. Something about your situation doesn’t sit right with me. This whole thing is hinky.”
Genosa blinked. “It is what?”
“Hinky,” I said. “Uh, it’s sort of a Chicago word. I mean that there’s something not right about what’s going on.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “People are getting hurt.”
“That’s not it,” I said. “The attacks have been brutal. That means that the intentions of whoever is behind them are equally brutal. You can’t sling around magic that you don’t really believe in. That isn’t something a simple business competitor would come up with—even assuming some hardball corporate types decided to start trying a supernatural angle inst
ead of hiring fifty-dollar bruisers to lean on you.”
“You think it is personal?” he asked.
“I don’t think anything yet,” I said. “I need to do more digging.”
He nodded, expression sober. “If you stay here, you can keep protecting my people?”
“I think so.”
He pressed his lips together, expression resolved. “Then I will tell th—”
The door flew open and a living goddess of a woman stormed into the office. She was maybe five-foot-four and had brilliant, lush blond-highlighted red hair that fell to the small of her back. She wore only high-heeled pumps and a matching dark green two-piece set of expensive-looking designer lingerie, translucent enough to defeat the purpose of wearing clothing at all. It ably displayed all kinds of pleasant proportions of tanned, athletic female.
“Arturo, you Eurotrash pig,” she snarled. “What do you think you are doing, bringing that woman here?”
Genosa flinched at the tone, and did not look at the woman. “Hello, Trish.”
“Do not call me that, Arturo. I’ve told you over and over.”
Genosa sighed. “Harry, this my newest ex-wife, Tricia Scrump.”
And he let this gem slip out of his fingers? Shocking.
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Trixie. Vixen. It’s been legally changed.”
“Okay,” Arturo said mildly. “Now what are you talking about?”
“You know full well what I’m talking about.” She spat the words. “If you think you are going to split this feature between two stars, you are sadly mistaken.”
“That isn’t going to happen at all,” he said. “But with Giselle hurt, I had to find someone else, and on such short notice . . .”
“Don’t patronize me.” Tricia ground her teeth. “Lara is retired. Re. Tie. Urd. This film is mine. I am not going to let you use my drawing power to fuel a comeback appearance for that . . . that bitch.”
I thought about pots and kettles.
“It won’t be an issue,” Genosa said. “She has agreed to a mask and a pseudonym. You are the star, Tricia. That has not changed.”
Trixie Vixen folded her arms, geometrically increasing her cleavage. “Fine, then,” she snapped. “As long as we understand each other.”