Badass and the Beast: 10

by Shrum, Kory M.

  Bull, I’d said.

  Our capers—or whatever the proper terminology was—began to wind down. We had the loot, now we just had to flip it at the best rate. That part didn’t need me so much, and rarely did it require Bomber. Landry would meet with various buyers and merchants, sometimes indoors, sometimes not.

  We didn’t like to watch that part, Bomber and I. We’d hang back in the shadows and I’d talk to him like a person. He’d pretend to listen, and together we drowned out the shouts, punches, and whatever other negotiation tactics Landry pulled. Sometimes she’d come back with scraped knuckles, or a cut on her cheek. Other times she’d come back with blood on her coat and one of her drill bits missing.

  During those days, Landry let me stay in her den. She’d run her generators before bed, heating the cavern before we had to turn in. By flickering lamplight, I’d read the book I carried in a hidden a flap of my guitar case—The Blue Castle by L.M. Montgomery—or I’d try to teach Landry some of the songs my dad had taught me. But when the metal coils glowed white hot, she’d kill all the lights. She never used fire in case someone smelled it and traced it to the cave. There was honor among thieves, but nobody let a Scrapper go if they caught one. The payout was too good.

  In the dark, Bomber would curl up near my head. I didn’t mind his musk. He even let me hold onto his bushy tail like a doll.

  And we’d talk, Landry and I. Each of us trying to be the last to fall asleep.

  “Did you know you can be a professional Scrapper in Spain?” I could barely see her in the fading light from the coils.

  “You mean, like, a professional thief?” I asked.

  “No, like legit,” she said. “Los Mequinos, they call’em. They’re practically worshipped over there.”

  “Why?”

  Landry’s covers rustled in the dark. “Who do you think built The Great Flying Armada? Doctor Dolittle?”

  “Scrappers?”

  “Of course Scrappers. Those airships helped us win the Great War. Turned the tide,” Landry explained. “And the Soviet Union? They ain’t got any Scrappers—not a one.”

  “How’s that possible?”

  I heard Landry shrug. “Who knows? But they take in any Scrapper they can get their hands on.”

  “Why?”

  “Some people say they’re trying to build a rocket that’ll go to the moon.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “Maybe.”

  I stroked Bomber’s tail. “How come they don’t do that here?”

  “Build a rocket?”

  “Treat Scrappers better,” I clarified. “How come they’re illegal here?”

  Silence for a moment. “I think it’s because people are scared. The government’s scared. Everyone’s afraid of what Scrappers can do. They just see us as threats. Criminals.”

  I cleared my throat. “Well.”

  “Well what?”

  “Well, if the shoe fits.”

  “No, they make us like this. It’s their shoe that fits,” Landry went on. “I was a criminal the day I was born. Because I was born. At least when I’m stealing, I give ‘em a reason to lock me up.”

  “Couldn’t you just do something else? Be something else?” I suggested. “You’re a Scrapper, sure—but who’s gonna know if you keep it to yourself?”

  Landry huffed. “Try it some time.”

  I ate my words, swallowed them whole. Who was I to talk? I wasn’t much different than Landry. In fact, the last few days, I’d been exactly the same.

  “How does it work?”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “Scrapping,” I said. “How do you do it?”

  “I don’t know. How do you…play your guitar?” she answered. “Or breathe?”

  “Well, do they know how it happened?” I pushed. “I mean, Scrappers haven’t been around forever, have they?”

  “Doesn’t seem like it,” she answered. “People think it has something to do with that explosion over Siberia.”

  “Then why wouldn’t Russia have any Scrappers?”

  “Who knows?”

  I was going to stroke Bomber’s tail raw with all the thoughts running through my head.

  “Landry?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Tomorrow’s Thursday.”

  “Yep.”

  “Are we gonna get the money?”

  “Go to sleep, kid,” she mumbled.

  We managed to hit a few more spots but, by late the next day, the opportunities were drying up. Landry and Bomber had even resorted to the Hungry Fox routine at a few of the joints, but the cash registers seemed to be as much for show as the businesses themselves. Anything worth stealing was kept in those damn saferooms. I felt like a Scrapper myself for how much I hated them.

  The thrill of the heist was definitely gone now as the time ran out on Lois’s clock. All that mattered was the takeaway, and Landry kept pretty tight-lipped concerning our balance. She’d unloaded just about as much of the goods she was going to.

  We found ourselves back on our usual rooftop. My fingers churned in my pockets waiting to hear the grand total.

  She looked me in the eye. “I don’t think we’re gonna make it.”

  She might as well have shoved me off that roof. “Are you sure? How much do we have?”

  “Not two grand,” she answered.

  I felt lightheaded. “How? How’s that possible?”

  “There’s not much of a market for electronic valuables.” She twiddled her fingers. “Go figure.”

  “There’s gotta be more places we can try,” I pleaded. “We can try the Hungry Fox, only I’ll play Bomber’s part. That’s gotta be good for some cash, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe,” she said, but she didn’t mean it.

  It was like my strings had been cut. I wanted to crumple to the ground in a heap. “This can’t be happening.”

  “Listen, we did pretty well,” Landry said. “What if we just split it?”

  “Split it?”

  She nodded. “Each take a cut and go our separate ways?”

  I stared fire at her. “This was for Lois. To get her outta the mess you got her in.”

  “Yeah, fine.” She turned away and looked out at the sunset.

  I stared at the back of her coat, breathing through my mouth to hide the sniffling. “You said you’d help me.”

  Her head cocked. “You know, there is another place on the list I didn’t bother with. Bad part of town. Too risky.”

  “And?”

  She spun around. “And, I guess because we’re in a pinch I could give it a try.”

  “Then let’s go!”

  “Alice,” she said. “You can’t come with.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. It’s an overnighter. I’ll need Bomber,” she went on. “And I’ll need the guitar too.”

  I stared at the case. “I—I dunno—”

  “Come on, kid,” she said. “Look, I can’t rig up another guitar fast enough. Let me take it, do the job, and I’ll meet you at the diner tomorrow. Nine-forty-five. Just before the mobsters showed up last time. Half past, just to be safe.”

  “And you’ll have the money?”

  Landry smiled. “Come on. It’s me. If there’s a drop of blood in the stone, I’ll wring it out.”

  The heft of the case in my arms made it feel like it was a part of me.

  “I gotta get moving, kid. In or out?”

  I chewed on the inside of my cheek. I handed it over. “You have to promise me you’ll be there tomorrow, Landry.”

  She tugged the case from my grip. “This isn’t the schoolyard, little girl. This is the game and we’re the players. There’s no promises, no pinkie swears, no pacts—there’s just my word. Take it or leave it.”

  She headed towards the nearest fire escape.

  “Half past,” I reminded her.

  “With bells on.” She snapped her fingers twice. “Bomber.”

  He didn’t move. Just stared at me with his Hun
gry Fox eyes—no, not exactly. There was something genuine there. All I wanted to do was hold onto his tail.

  “Bomber,” Landry tried again.

  I stared down at him, chewing my lip. “You better go. Make sure she brings back my guitar.”

  The fox looped around once, twice, then chased after Landry.

  This time I didn’t follow.

  Sometime during the sleepless night it became Friday, the ethereal deadline I never thought would actually come. But it did. Not with ringing gongs or a crackling fuse. Just cold and sour.

  The morning was a blur. Without my guitar, I wasn’t even sure what I was supposed to do with myself. My routine was shattered. The smell of cherry tobacco and shoe leather led me back to Fifth Street, but it wasn’t as welcoming as before.

  The diner’s shattered window had been taped up with cardboard. I glanced inside and found all the tables empty except for one.

  Lois sat with her face in her hands, a prisoner waiting for the guillotine.

  I walked inside, tinkling the bell above the door. Lois looked up, her face ashen. When she saw it was me, she flushed. “What are you doing here?”

  What could I say? Well, I’ve been knocking over mobster fronts for almost a week and I think that girl with the fox is going to show up with the money you need.

  Before I found the right words, she said, “You better get out of here. You know what’s coming.”

  “I know,” I said. “I wanted to be here for you.”

  Lois swallowed a lump in her throat. “It’s not safe.”

  Come on, Landry.

  “So?” I replied.

  Please be here.

  The bell chimed.

  Fancy shoes squeaked on the tile.

  No.

  I knew before I looked that there were more of them than before. Double, as a matter of fact. Their leaflet blades clinked and jingled beneath their suit coats. The last mobster through the door silenced the bell with two bratwurst fingers, then tore it free altogether. He flipped the sign from Open to Closed.

  The short man flashed us his slashed smile. “Hello, Mama. Hello, bambina.”

  My insides froze.

  “It’s Friday,” he said playfully, pulling his hands apart as though playing an invisible squeezebox.

  “It is,” Lois replied.

  “And how was business this week?”

  I felt Lois’s hands plant warmly on my shoulders as she stepped in front of me. Shielding me from that horrible smile. “It was not as robust as you thought it would be, I’m afraid.”

  He clucked. “Hear that, gentlemen? Non robusto.” The mobsters all made sounds of regret, shaking their heads. A couple of them took off their hats as if paying respect.

  “Sergio? Il libro, per favore.” The monstrous man at the back, still holding the bell silently in his hand, presented the short man with a book, a journal of some kind.

  He held it in front of Lois’s face. “This is a list of our investments. Our diners, you could say. Ristoranti di famiglia.”

  The pack snickered. The short man opened the book. I recognized the pages instantly. The same kind of yellowed paper, the same handwriting.

  The ledger.

  The man thumbed through it, searching until he found his page. He showed the page to Lois. “Read it.”

  “M-mama Louisa’s. F-fifth and Venice,” she read from the page, lip quivering.

  “And?”

  “And…I?” Lois said. “What’s the I for?”

  “Incendiare,” he answered, slapping the book down on the counter. Lois winced. He handed the book back to Sergio. I watched it hanging at his knees.

  “It means to set fire to,” the man hissed. “To burn.”

  Because I was the only one watching the book, I was the only one to see a silver-furred fox approach the entrance.

  “You see, Mama, sadly we cannot invest in your diner,” the man went on. “You’ll only hinder our business.”

  Because there was no longer a bell, I was the only who watched Bomber squeeze into the diner like he was made of silk alone. His tail slid through last, cushioning the door as it closed. He danced on thieves’ paws until he was poised right beneath the ledger in Sergio’s hand.

  The short man droned on. “And we can’t have anything hindering the family business, now can we?”

  I sucked in a breath.

  Bomber’s jaws clamped on the book with a soft growl.

  “Che diavolo?” Sergio cried. All the men turned in unison, reaching into their jackets.

  With a powerful leap, Bomber and the book plowed through the taped-up window, rolling onto the sidewalk outside. He came to his feet and gave his head a shake. Then he just stared into the diner.

  “Una volpe?” one of the mobsters said.

  Bomber’s eyes met mine.

  Follow the fox.

  While everyone stood frozen, I bolted out the front door, skidding into the street. Bomber bounded excitedly as I joined him, then shot off down the block. I chased after him.

  It was like Jackson Park all over again, but instead of ducking between trees and bramble, Bomber was ducking between boots and ankles. Fortunately, the ice and slush was my home turf.

  The mobsters on the other hand, with their fancy shoes and restrictive suits, could barely keep up. Not a lot of people ran from the mob.

  Apparently nobody else was stupid enough.

  I felt a cold sting in the meat of my right arm. A man in front of me cried out and fell to the ground. I dodged over him, prodding my arm. There was a fresh rent in my sleeve.

  My fingers came away bloody.

  Leaflet blades.

  I flipped my hood up and hunched. Bomber took a turn down an alley. Warm sunlight was replaced by charcoal shadows. He ducked into an open door and I followed him into the dark.

  “Alice? Is that you?”

  “Landry!”

  “You better get under something.”

  I dropped to the floor immediately. Feeling my way around, I scrambled to a wall and reoriented myself to the door. My eyes adjusted enough so that the doorway was at least a square of gray.

  Silhouettes filled the space. They found us.

  “Come out, bambina.” They filed in the room. “We need to have a chat.”

  The door slammed shut. “I’m not much of a talker.”

  It was Landry’s voice, but there was something strange about it. Tinny.

  One of the men lit a match. Landry ignited a pair of flashbulbs. In that split second, I saw the room. Broken down machines. Wall-to-wall scrap metal. Everything from toasters to car axles, desk lamps to industrial winches.

  Tools.

  The flashbulbs ignited again. That’s when I saw Landry in all her glory. Pipes and rods sprung from her back like skeletal wings. Every inch of her seemed to be riveted with car fenders and brass plating. Her hands looked like they’d been replaced with lawnmower engines and drill bits spun at her temples. Cogs and bolts swirled around her like storm debris.

  She looked like the goddess of metal. A force of nature.

  “Un vero demone,” someone whispered.

  “It’s just a Scrapper,” the short man announced.

  It was the last thing he said. The bulbs crackled like lightning. I saw the short man holding his throat as he dropped to his knees. More lightning. Just enough to give Landry a rough outline of the changing situation.

  Then the storm hit.

  Pistons pumped and gears ground. Engines roared like thunder. Punches connected in the dark and rang long after, like cymbal crashes. Prayers I couldn’t translate were screamed. Leaflet blades sang through the air, sometimes careening off metal, sometimes burying wetly in flesh.

  In the dark, Bomber found me, curling up in my arms. I held his tail as the symphony of metal fatigue and shrieks continued. Here and there I caught a whiff of diesel. And whenever the bulbs flashed, I saw a different scene, like watching a zoetrope reel. Chains ending in blunt hooks smashing into faces. Knives clatt
ering to the floor, unthrown.

  And Landry.

  And Landry.

  And Landry.

  And then it was over. No more groans or curses. Just drips in the dark, as if a storm really had passed. I held Bomber close.

  Somewhere in front of me, I heard a breathy sigh, followed by the sound of a tower collapsing. Nuts and screws rained to the ground, pinging and tinkling on the concrete.

  A tiny light appeared in front of me, held by a pair of bloody hands. Teeth caught the light.

  “Abracadabra.”

  “Are you alright?” I cried.

  “Debatable,” Landry whispered.

  I made a move toward her, still clutching Bomber to my sternum.

  “Stay back,” she warned. The light in her hands dimmed. “There’s a lot of wreckage.”

  I stopped. “You came back.”

  “Half-past,” she coughed. “I couldn’t get the money though. Had to improvise.”

  I laughed. “Well turn the lights up. Let’s get you out of here.”

  “No!” she cried. The bulb again grew dimmer. “Alice, I want you to get out of here.”

  My eyes narrowed. “What about you?”

  “I’m going to tidy up a bit.”

  “Sh—should I meet you at the diner?”

  Landry coughed again. “I need to lay low for a couple days.”

  “Okay.” I shook my head. “I don’t really—”

  “Take Bomber with you,” she ordered. “He’ll show you where I stashed your guitar and the money.”

  “You mean my cut, right?” I whimpered.

  She ignored me. “He knows where it is. I’ll come by the diner in a few days after I—after I heal up. Take him off your hands.”

  “Landry—”

  “You can take care of him, right?” she said, softly. “Just for a couple days?”

  I nodded as a few tears pushed up from under my eyes. “Just for a couple days.”

  “Good. Now, go on,” she told me, gruffly. “Get him outta here.”

  Bomber was just a ball of fur trembling in my arms. I struggled to my feet and headed for where I thought the door was.

  “Hey.”

  I turned around. “Yeah?”