by A. J. Aalto
The guy in the pawn shop was a good six feet tall, looked about forty, and rolled in at about three hundred pounds, so I took a header on Footer.
I replied to Hood with, Gotcha, and a smiley face emoticon to show him everything was okay. I could easily imagine Rob’s unhappy sigh; it was becoming quite familiar.
I was as subtle as possible about retrieving my gun and covering its holster up with my leather jacket, then hit the shop and my first whiff of the shop assaulted me: old linoleum, dusty products, quiet desperation, and something from my childhood that I pegged as canned vegetable soup. My flesh only crawled a little at the atmosphere of the place; most of the people who had crossed the threshold were just down on their luck, but there was also an undeniably dark element that the Blue Sense was picking up, causing a boiling current in my veins like fire ant toxin. Trying to feign cool, I wandered around, casually whistling Black Sabbath’s “Iron Man,” browsing in the front window at the various items, and moving to peer into a jewelry case at the prices of some old watches. I felt the guy’s eyes on me the whole time; they reminded me of Claire’s: cold and assessing. I glanced over my shoulder at him and confirmed I was being closely observed.
Giving him a hey-bro up-nod, I stepped back without looking where I was going and backed into a display rack laden with winter clothes. Every scarf assaulted me with vivid images and flashes of lives lived, cold winds against which throats were bundled, laughter bubbling under fabric, flesh squeezed too roughly, the edges used to wipe tears. I flailed to shed their onslaught and was instantly ensnared. I fought back even as I was falling with the rack. It clattered to the ground with me, a spectacular, colorful swath of fluttering wool, silk, and cheap cotton blends tangled around my crazy-long ghost hair.
“Help! I’m being gangbanged by a scarf rack!” I yelped, my boots pedaling and kicking at the air. “Sir? Sir! I can’t!”
He took his time coming to extract me, but to his credit, he didn’t grumble about my messing up his display. Clearing scarves from my face and arms, he offered one massive tattooed slab of forearm for me to clutch and then pulled me to my feet. The feel of that much man-meat close by was deeply intimidating, and I was reminded of my diminutive size. He wasn't the implacable six-five bulk of Constable Schenk, but, at a guess, I might have been the size of one of his legs.
“You’re the wrong kind of person to carry a gun,” he said almost sociably.
I straightened and shifted my jacket to cover my holster. “But I need it.”
“In my store?” He quirked one unimpressed eyebrow but didn’t look too concerned about my ability to shoot him.
“I’m not an idiot, mister, uh, sir. I know where I am.”
“Rob Footer. And if you did, you wouldn’t be here.” His lips twitched into a lopsided smile and he returned to stand behind his counter, putting his granny glasses back on the bridge of his nose so he could read some numbers in a book. “Also, you want a better jacket.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
“Sure thing, sugar.” He scanned the numbers and made an entry in a column with his pen. “What’s wrong with your throat?”
I touched the gauze and noticed it had slipped off the burn a little; I patted it into place. “This demon king I know likes breath-control edge play.”
“Uh huh,” he said, not believing me one bit.
“I’m gonna walk it off.” I sucked my teeth and rocked back on my heels. “That’s how I roll.”
Footer stopped making notes and looked at me for a long beat, reassessing. Finally, he said, “It’s nice you got a day pass from the psych ward, but why come see me?”
It was a decent burn, and I smiled ruefully. “Nice. Can I use that one?”
“Be my guest. What you lookin’ for today?”
I pointed at the faded grey barbed wire tattoo covering half his face. “Where’d you get that ink done?”
He grinned, showing an alarming number of white teeth. “Riker’s Island.”
Urg. “Is that a tattoo parlor with a sinister name, or the actual prison?” The Blue Sense told me he was mildly amused by my fear, and that didn’t exactly make me feel better. Time to change the subject. “I’m looking for background on a trumpet you sold recently.”
“Ugh.” His pleasure died instantly and he clicked his pen reflexively, click click clickity click. “Fuck that thing. Carnival trash. Glad to be rid of it.”
I took out my mini Moleskine and golf pencil. “Did it play itself? Did it smell funny?” I pointed my pencil at him and dropped my voice to a whisper. “Did you get the impression it was watching you?”
“You sure the doctors on the Ding Wing know you’re loose?” he asked.
“Everyone knows I’m loose.” I heard it, and backpedaled with a very clever, “Erm, answer the question.”
He continued sourly, “Just had enough of the creeps. And coming from me, you might imagine that’s saying a lot. I deal with the basic element, you know? Folk who you wanna keep on the other side of the counter. But these two.”
“A man, very skinny and super twitchy?” I confirmed. “Smelled like peanut butter?”
“Yeah, sketchy little tweaker, looked like he just lost his peels,” he said. I wrote that “peels” bit down, hoping Hood could translate. “And the woman. Street meat. Grubby.”
Beau’s dream woman? Grubby? Definitely not a mermaid. Come to think of it, probably not a narcissist, either. Whew. “Was she… human?”
He gave me a sour look that said the question was stupid, so it was safe to assume that if she was Pestilence, she didn’t bust in on her pale horse, buzzing with carrion flies and dripping pus from weeping sores; just a regular gal out shopping in this small-town, back-alley pawn shop.
“The grubby girl,” I said, worried. She’s been looking for him, all right. Dammit. “When did she come in?”
“I didn’t see her,” he said. “But I heard. Gotta ask Solmes. He was the one here at the time.”
“When is he in next?”
“Not until tomorrow. He’s out sick.” He clicked his pen a few more times. “Hope he didn’t take her out back or anything. He said she looked like a germ factory, you know?”
Uh oh. With dread, I asked, “You got a problem with flies, maggots, roaches, or other beetles since she left?”
“I run a clean establishment.” Then, to clarify, he said, “No bugs.”
I nodded. “You were here when the little guy bought the trumpet, though?”
“Yeah. He couldn’t wait to get it. Practically slobbering over it.”
“Got any info you can share with me? Phone numbers, names, addresses?”
He let the glasses fall off his nose, his nostrils flared, and his eyes flashed. I braced for a backhand or something, but all I got was a chuckle. “Where do you think you are, sugar?”
“Why is everyone calling me honey and sugar and sweetheart lately?” I put on my ugliest scowl. “Do I look like a sugar-sweet honey to you, pal?”
His shoulders bounced once. “You’re kinda cute.” Then he added, “But you want that kind of info, get the fuck out and come back with the sheriff and a warrant.”
I closed my notebook and tipped it at him. “I understand. Thanks for this, anyway. I’ll be back to talk to Mr. Solmes.”
“Just Solmes. Don’t ever call him mister. He’ll make you dance on the blacktop.”
I nodded that I understood. I didn’t, but it sounded like scary prison lingo and I recognized the tone. “Maybe I should look in on Solmes and make sure he’s okay,” I suggested.
Footer didn’t look like he liked that idea. “If I send you to his place--”
“He’ll make you dance on the blacktop?” I finished. He glared at me for using his slang; maybe I hadn’t earned the right to do that. I smiled an apology. “Okay.” I gave him my card, and belatedly regretted that they still said Bare Hand Services on them, and my home address as an emergency alternate in case clients had a crisis. “If you think of anything else, don’
t hesitate to contact me.”
He looked at my card for a long beat and then laughed in disbelief. “You sure you want me to have this?”
“You gonna show up unannounced in the middle of the night?”
“Never touched a woman in my life, sugar.”
The Blue Sense reported solid truth. Whatever had landed Mr. Footer in Riker’s, it hadn’t been an assault against a woman. “Well then, I see no harm. Besides,” I thought, thinking of my elegant, undead companion with a lopsided smile, “I have a really kickass security system.” Then something clicked. “Did you call the trumpet ‘carnival trash’?”
He scowled again. “Uh huh. Old thing. Had bright paint on it at one time. Cardinal red, canary yellow, almost all scraped off, and I got the impression that was on purpose. Too bad. Some collectors pay big bank for circus band instruments.”
“But trumpets?” I cocked my head. “Isn’t the calliope—”
“Y’ain’t never heard Entry of the Gladiators on the trumpet when the lions or the elephants enter the big top?”
I had to admit, I hadn’t been to a circus or carnival in years. Decades, perhaps. My fear of clowns kept me far away. I shrugged. “You’re sure this trumpet was used in a circus band?”
“Nope,” he said. “But that stuff has been in and out of here a few times, and that's my educated guess.”
I jotted that down, too, and then lingered to check out a few knives in the front cabinet. I bought a double-edged boot dagger in a brown leather sheath for a great price. When he took my cash, he leaned a bit closer than necessary to hand me change and said, “Guy in the silver truck out front. Hasn’t come in. Friend of yours?”
I didn’t look. “Blue Jays cap?”
“Bulky coat and bad wig.”
Weird. “It’s fine. Not worried.” I studied Footer’s face tattoo again. “Out of curiosity, if you were going to add to that, who would you go see?”
He fished under the counter in a box then gave me a business card for a tattoo parlor in Denver called Crown of Thorns Ink. “Ask for Elvis.”
“Thanks.” I took a third look at his face tat and finally saw the barbs wrapping his forehead, got the Jesus/crucifixion connection, and smiled my goodbye.
I strode to my car without so much as a glance at the silver truck, feeling the weight of eyes, summoning more psi to taste the air around me; cold and empty, it offered nothing. Maybe not the best day for a pedicure, I thought, craving the safety of home. Driving back through the shadier part of Ten Springs, I passed the Ten Springs Motor Inn and left town behind to start for Shaw’s Fist, speeding in and out of the mountain passes toward Lambert’s Crossing. Hanging two cars back, the silver truck was my shadow all the way to the cutoff for Shaw’s Fist Road. He was either really shitty at being stealthy, or he wanted me to see him in order to rattle me. I kept driving past my turn, heading further west, swung back toward town, feeling more than a little unnerved and not wanting to lead him directly to my cabin if he didn’t already know where it was. Harry would be in a VK-Delta for hours yet, and I’d be putting him at risk if I brought this asshole to my house. Better to play cat and mouse.
My Buddy wasn’t giving up today. I passed a runaway truck ramp and considered pulling in for a confrontation; I heard Batten in my head, then, advising: don’t fuck everything up, Snickerdoodle. “No,” I muttered out loud, “I’ll leave the fucking everything up to you, Kill-Notch.” But the thought of Batten, like a jerky angel on my shoulder, kept me thinking smart and not sassy, and I kept on driving, hunting for a better destination.
I headed back to rocking downtown Ten Springs to swing into the safest place I could think of. I angled the Buick in next to an older white SUV with LAMBERT COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT stamped in navy along the side with a jaunty blue and yellow stripe. My heart was hammering as I wondered what this guy was going to do next and what he wanted from me. I put my car in park but didn’t turn it off, prepared to either bail and run into the building or drive off. The silver truck cruised past the lot and slowed into one of the spots in front of the Indian Gourmet and Saloon. He also left his motor running and didn’t get out.
I waited. Mouth dry, I went through my glove box, throwing papers and bags of herbs and a matchbox and pencils aside on the passenger seat to grab a pair of the leather gloves Chapel had returned to me; I yanked them on, wanting the protection in case I had to get up close and personal again.
I waited. He waited.
I watched him in my rear-view mirror, getting more anxious by the moment, under the impression he was watching me, too. Seeing stars, I realized I’d been holding my breath and exhaled harshly.
“Come on, motherfucker, make your mo—”
A hand slapped my window. I jumped with a high-pitched squeal, making war-fists at the driver’s side door. Chief Deputy Morgan Sally tipped his chin so he could look over his sunglasses and motioned for me to roll down my window. My breath exploded from my lungs and my wrung-out nerves threatened that I might throw up.
He ducked his head in. “Problem, Ms. Baranuik?”
“Yes, thank you, deputy. A fucking heart attack,” I said, putting a hand to my chest. “Trying to kill me?”
“No, ma’am,” he answered amicably. “Rough morning?”
“Stalker.” I grit my teeth. “I thought he’d give up the chase if I parked here.”
He glared over the top of his sunglasses across the street. “Silver truck?”
I suddenly felt stupid, like I was overreacting. “Know what? Let’s drop it. I’m just going to go home and drink myself into a coma.”
“But it’s only Tuesday,” were Deputy Sally’s thoughts on that. “Want me to have a word with him?”
“Hood said I should keep my distance,” I said.
He nodded in agreement with his boss. “You should. Absolutely.”
I objected with a throaty, indignant spluttering. “You don’t know. Maybe I’m a ninja who can totally handle this.”
“Funny thing is, Ms. Ninja, I’ve got a sudden, fierce hankering for some tandoori chicken and a mango lassi. Hungry?”
I checked my mirror again and saw we’d have to walk right by the silver truck to get in the door. “I’ve never eaten there. I don’t know what to order. I’m afraid of spicy food. What if it melts my face off?”
Deputy Sally’s jaw was clenching in a familiar way as he stared down the silver truck. The driver didn’t seem to care that he had the full, undivided attention of an unhappy cop in uniform. He just idled there.
“You plank with no hands,” he reminded me. “Eat with no tongue. Bet your taste buds are mad swole.”
Point: new guy. I let him have it, chuckling ruefully. “They might get swollen if I eat that stuff.”
“I’ll help you order.” Deputy Sally opened my car door and amended, “If you want.”
I stuffed Batten’s letter and all my glove box detritus back in their compartment and turned off the Buick. “Okay. But if I suffer later, I’m telling Rob to fire you. I'll make sure he hears me hurl and flush, too.”
“I’m sure the sheriff will give that serious consideration,” he deadpanned, and did a perfect eyeroll-with-lash-flutter combination. When I got out of the car, he asked, “Got a concealed carry permit for that?”
“Footer was right. I do need a better coat,” I grumbled, covering my holster with an annoyed flap of my leather jacket.
“I can’t let you walk around with that if you—”
“I’ve got one, jeez,” I said, showing him my wallet card. “You’re no fun at all, Stretch. I had high hopes, but I guess we’re not destined to be besties after all.”
“How about you leave your gun here.” A statement, not a request.
I squinted up at him. “But I don’t wanna.”
“You won’t need it if you’re with me,” he vowed. “Let me catch the heat if there’s any to catch, yeah?”
It was said with a healthy dollop of authority, and made a lot of sense, so I put my gun
in the trunk and locked the car. I waved at Jill through the plate glass but she was busy on the phone and didn’t notice. Then I turned and hurried to catch up to my lunch date.
The truck didn’t move. The driver turned it off and ducked his head to play on his phone, making a good show of being busy. The floppy hair played across one cheek, but I had no doubt it was My Buddy. His disguise was fairly lame, and he just looked like a Muppet version of himself. The temptation to open the driver’s side door and yank him out of the truck by his uvula was almost impossible to resist, but Morgan Sally was strutting into the restaurant without a backward glance. I figured I didn’t want to spend the night in the local lock-up for assault, so I followed him in.
The restaurant had a rustic interior that was an interesting blend of bright Eastern décor and cowboy flair. The smells were spicy BBQ and curry, and my stomach approved. Deputy Sally was already at a booth; since I’d just eaten breakfast, and I wasn’t accustomed to eating so often these days, I certainly wasn’t in the mood for brunch. Sally, on the other hand, was already ordering, and the waiter was delighted with the amount he was requesting.
I slid into the booth across from the deputy. “I hope you’re hungry,” I told him, “because I’m not having any of whatever any of that is.”
“Sit on this side with me,” he said. He was using his cop voice, a tone I recognized and no longer instantly objected to, now that it wasn’t coming from Batten. I went to the other side to wedge myself into the little booth beside him. He explained, “Don’t want your back to the door.”
I nodded and ordered a coffee. “My Buddy’s pretty ballsy. He’s still sitting there even though I’m with a deputy.”
“He’s pretending not to watch you.”
“Uh huh,” I said, taking out my Moleskine and jotting down the license plate number and a detailed ID of the guy. I wrote Tuesday and stupid Fozzy Bear wig and underlined it three times. “He’s also pretending not to take pictures of us.”
I felt something on my shoulder and realized with a jolt that Morgan’s arm had landed around me. I stiffened and cut my eyes up at him disapprovingly. He was looking across my head at the waiter and the clock and just casually claiming me in a way that irritated.