Moonshine

by Rob Thurman

  “It’s nice to meet someone with an identical life philosophy, isn’t it?” Robin raised his newly filled glass to her in salute.

  I quickly reached for a roll and took a large bite. It wouldn’t be the smartest thing to give myself away with a shit-eating grin. I had no idea how Promise’s five husbands had shuffled off this mortal coil, but I did know I wasn’t looking to find out. Niko was making his serene way through his salad. It was impossible for him to be oblivious to the conversation, but that didn’t stop him from pretending.

  Chewing and swallowing the bread, I said softly, “Bwok, bwok.”

  The precisely placed sharp kick to the side of my knee had the nerve there tingling as Niko calmly took another bite of his salad. His movement hadn’t even rippled the water in the glittering crystal glasses on the table. As I hissed in pain and rubbed my knee, I noticed Promise’s and Robin’s attention had turned from each other to me. Not the happiest turn of events for yours truly. “Surely it wouldn’t be such an injustice to slide a portion of his split my way,” Goodfellow drawled.

  On that, Promise agreed with Robin, not the disputed fifty percent, but one hundred. “No injustice at all,” she murmured as she rang a painted nail on the rim of her wineglass.

  I gave my knee one last massage and scowled. “As always, everyone’s against me.” Deciding a change of subject was my only hope, I demanded, “Where the hell’s the real food?” A long time coming, apparently, as the waiter ignored me as thoroughly as he’d slobbered to do Goodfellow’s bidding. I might be a dark and brooding figure of mystery, albeit in a bad tie, but apparently the dark and brooding don’t have a history of tipping well.

  After putting me in my place, Robin and Promise eventually came to a figure that they were both satisfied with. Not that it stopped the squabbling between them. Only a well-placed sword and stake were likely to do that. Aside from Niko, the two of them had little in common . . . beyond the supernatural thing. Goodfellow was vainer than hell and showy as a peacock, bragged to infinity, and talked even beyond that. He was a walking, talking, screwing party and he was coming to a town near you. Promise was in all those things the exact opposite. She was calm tranquillity, an enigma in silk. She rarely spoke, and when she did it was never about herself. Everything I knew of her was from direct observation and the grapevine. I had the feeling, though, she might be a little more forthcoming with my brother. There was something in their shared glances. . . . You only had to see it to know.

  Robin saw it too. He didn’t want to, but he did. And when we left Niko and Promise, before dessert as commanded, I caught him looking back wistfully. Affection toward someone other than Niko didn’t come easily to me. Still, I raised a hand and awkwardly gave Goodfellow’s shoulder a squeeze. Envy shifted from melancholy to rueful resignation and he shrugged. “They’re a good match. Dull and duller.”

  I knew all about sour grapes myself. “Too dull to live,” I agreed. “Besides, only the undead could deal with Nik’s snoring.”

  We’d reached the street and he exhaled, then looked up at nonexistent stars. “I was to be married once, did you know?”

  Surprisingly enough, no, I didn’t know. That was a story he hadn’t told me before, a miracle in and of itself. Add the combination of Robin and marriage to it and my mind reeled. “Really? You? No shit?”

  “Really.” The corners of his mouth tugged upwards. “Me. I shitteth you not. It was in Pompeii. Cyrilla.” There was a thread in his voice, one of softness and reverence I wouldn’t have guessed he had in him. Or maybe I simply thought he wouldn’t let anyone see it in him. “She had a way of tolerating my gloriousness that brings you and your brother to mind.”

  “Gloriousness?” I grinned.

  “Gloriousness . . . eccentricities.” He rocked back on his heels. “One and the same.”

  “You and monogamy. There’s a helluva concept. So, why didn’t it happen?” Sometimes your mouth is faster than your common sense by barely a second. It’s a nasty sensation. The mind does flip-flops, flailing mentally to recapture the words, but it’s too late. They hit the air as garish as neon and then there’s no taking them back. There’s only mumbled apologies. “Sorry. I didn’t think.” Pompeii. Even a lazy student of history like me knew about Pompeii.

  “Don’t worry. It was a long time ago.” From the tight set of his jaw, long was a relative term at best. He began to walk, and I followed along beside him. “Sometimes I lie in bed and try to recall her face . . . the feel of her skin against mine.” He paused, eyes distant, before shaking his head slightly. “I can’t. I remember she had black hair that fell in long curls over her breasts. I remember that her eyes were brown and her skin pale gold. I remember the color of the paints . . . but I can’t see the picture.” Matter-of-fact, he added, “Someday Niko will be that to me as well, a beautiful shadow long passed from this world.” He shook his head briskly, did a Goodfellow lightning change of mood, and asked cheerfully, “How goes it with your girl? Georgie Porgie pudding and pie? Discovered what flavor she is yet?”

  Cinnamon ice cream, I thought instantly before I could rein in my traitorous imagination. I hadn’t kissed George. I might never kiss her, but I knew without a doubt what that kiss would taste like. “How about we don’t go there?” I countered grimly.

  “Oh, I beg to differ. How about we do?” His grin was simultaneously wicked and cajoling. “I’m in pain, mortally wounded. Distract me from my grief that I shall never know the size of Niko’s most infamous sword.”

  “Jesus, Loman. I just ate. Cut it out, will you?” Still walking, I watched as his hand, featherlight and hummingbird swift, drifted out to one side and returned with a plump wallet that had belonged to a heavy-jowled businessman. Robin liked to keep up his skill in petty larceny. The original trickster, he said it paid to stay in practice . . . for the good of his magpie soul if nothing else. I would’ve checked the silverware every time he came to the apartment except for the fact we had nothing in that department worth stealing.

  He thumbed through the wallet and gave a self-satisfied smile at the wad of cash that peeked free. Tucking it away, he clucked his tongue. “Come on. Tell Uncle Robin.” There was a bit of a bounce to his step now, my troubles being more interesting than his own. “Of course, they do say abstinence is the best policy . . . ‘they’ being people who aren’t getting any and want to spread the woe. You, on the other hand, are already all about the woe. Lighten up, kid. Do the deed already. We’ll hit a place on the way home, stock up on every prophylactic known to man.”

  “It isn’t disease that concerns me, Hef,” I snapped darkly, stopping in midtrek. “It’s a helluva lot worse than that. So lay off already, all right?” What I had so far managed to keep out of the limelight with Nik, Robin had managed to provoke out of me with very little effort. He was gifted in that respect.

  “Well, it should concern you. Crimson creeping crud on your privates is nothing to sneeze at.” An appraising gaze took me in as the people jostled past us. “So then what—ah,” he said with quick comprehension. You could say many things about the puck, but one thing you couldn’t say was that he was slow on the uptake. “Another potential consequence, but with a twist.”

  Yeah. A twist of Auphe thrown in for kick and flavor. What fun. What fucking fun. I walked on and zipped up my leather jacket to have something to do with my hands. It was a warm spring night and the leather only made it warmer, but the jacket hid my gun and my newly cleansed-of-bodach knife. Trailing after me, Robin folded his arms and offered lightly, “A potential consequence isn’t a certainty. If you’re careful—”

  “There isn’t going to be a certainty. There isn’t even going to be a potential.” I cut him off without emotion. Down went the jacket zipper, then up again. It was better than impotently clenching my fist. “I was lucky.” Yeah . . . if you could call it that. “Next time it might not happen that way. You really want to try to find day care for a flesh-eating baby? I think they charge extra when your kid goes cannibal dur
ing nap time.”

  “I see your point,” he admitted with a wince. “Regardless, I think the chances are low. If the precautions failed and if there was a baby, who’s to say it wouldn’t be like you? Melodramatic and sullen, yes, but obviously no Auphe.”

  I shook my head and walked into the side street- cum-alley that cut between Canal and Walker. It was a shortcut, if one didn’t mind the small workout that went along with it now and again. “I’m not like you, Loman. I’m not a gambler, not even with the little things, and this is no little thing. The Auphe line dies with me.”

  He considered for a moment, the streetlights bright on his curly head. “Well then, I see two options left to you. First, find your healer friend Rafferty, and . . .” He scissored two fingers together with a snip-snip sound.

  I had the feeling that Auphe DNA wouldn’t let a minor thing like a vasectomy stop it, but it was a thought. “The second?”

  “George. She is a psychic,” he pointed out with a patience that wasn’t usually part of his kinetic personality. “Why don’t you ask her what would happen?”

  Another thought, one I’d come up with on my own long before. “Maybe,” I said noncommittally. The trouble was I didn’t know if George would tell the truth. She wouldn’t lie, but that didn’t mean she would tell me what I wanted to know. George had an outlook on life that was completely at odds with my own. What should be, will be, and vice versa. There were no good moments without bad ones. No joy without sorrow. No pleasure without pain. No light without darkness. Yeah, it was all very Zen, I’m sure. She was so reconciled . . . so at peace with the world. That is to say, so not like me. If a bouncing baby killing machine was the result of us being together, she would accept it. She would know . . . without a shred of doubt . . . that was the way things were meant to be. Must be.

  I didn’t know any such goddamn thing.

  “Until you decide what to do, I can think of one thing that might help tide you over.” Goodfellow had stopped in the middle of the alley to remove a silk tie every bit as fashionable as mine had been cheap and ugly. He put it in his pocket and then removed his suit jacket.

  “And what’s that?” I asked with a healthy measure of skepticism.

  “There’s only one surefire substitute cure for a rabid case of horniness. . . .” My glare had him choosing his words with more care. “Ah . . . lovesickness. One cure for lovesickness.” He rubbed a dusting hand over the nearest garbage can lid, then laid the jacket over it and went to work rolling up his sleeves.

  “Yeah? What?”

  His predatory grin bared white, even teeth. “A good fight.”

  The guy slithered out of the shadows behind us. Not much illumination from the streetlights penetrated this narrow bottleneck of brick and concrete.

  I rolled my eyes at Goodfellow, who naturally stood smack-dab in what little light there was as if it were his own personal spotlight. “They say don’t swim right after you eat. I’m sure the same goes for kicking ass.” I’d known someone was in the alley. Someone usually was. It was the price of a good shortcut.

  “You came.” The man was still only a hulking shadow, big from his outline, with a voice weaned on brutality and alcohol. “He said and you came.”

  I frowned. Either this guy was nuts, a good possibility, or someone was keeping a close eye on either Robin or me. I’d take nut job any day of the week over that second choice. “Yeah, we came. What the hell is it to you?”

  “Your repartee is scathing, as always,” Goodfellow snorted. “Who needs a blade when you can simply run him through with your razor-sharp wit?” Needed or not, a blade appeared in his hand. It was short but sturdy, a modern version of a Roman short sword. “Why don’t you and your overly stuffed stomach take a seat and allow me the pleasure?”

  “Knock yourself out,” I grunted. There was no place to sit that wouldn’t result in a wet or garbage-stained ass, so I leaned against the alley wall to watch the show. Goodfellow had issues of his own. I didn’t begrudge him the first psycho mugger to take them out on. I could always grab the next one. “But make it quick, would you? This place reeks worse than that cologne you bathe in.”

  “It’s two hundred an ounce and an olfactory work of art, you philistine.” He gave an idle swing of the sword, the metal an arc of glittering silver. “And take that from someone who knew quite a few of the bastards. Now let me work.”

  Our new pal still hung in the shadows’ darkest depths. I couldn’t see if he was armed or not, although I imagined he was. I did know chances were good he didn’t have a gun. If he had, it would’ve already been out and pointed between Robin’s eyes.

  Goodfellow tilted his head lazily, casual and curious as a cat. “So, friend, what is it you want? Money? Perversities? An interview with New York’s most eligible bachelor? Speak up.”

  “He said and you came.” The hulking figure moved closer, one slow methodical step at a time. “He said. He said.” I could now see more of him. A gleaming bald head was dwarfed by the stretch of his muscle-bound shoulders. A black T-shirt that was ripped and worn was stretched tight across the barrel of his chest, and jeans stiff with dirt encased legs like tree trunks. “He said and you came. He said. You came.”

  Crazy or bad steroids, only his pusher knew for sure. Either way I felt better about it. It meant no one was keeping tabs on Goodfellow or myself. “He’s big, Loman,” I drawled. “But not too bright. I don’t think you’re going to get much of a workout here.”

  When I’m wrong, which I’ve already freely admitted is pretty frequently, I’m usually spectacularly wrong. This time wasn’t much of an exception. The nut job didn’t have a gun, no, but he did have a shiny new crossbow. In fact, if I wasn’t mistaken, there was a price tag still dangling from the trigger guard. A meaty fist swept from behind his back to reveal the weapon, which was reduced to a delicate toy by the size of the hand that held it. Delicate it or not, it nailed Goodfellow where he stood.

  The titanium quarrel punctured his upper leg, ruining what I was sure was a shockingly expensive pair of pants. Robin had already been in midlunge for cover when he was hit. The momentum took him on to tumble behind a metal Dumpster. He hit the asphalt hard but with sword still in hand. In the dark, combined with the charcoal gray of his pants, I couldn’t see the blood, but I could smell it. It was an oddly sunny tang in the air, much less coppery than human blood. “You alopecic, bedlamite son of a bitch,” he gritted. “Do you know how much these cost?” Yeah, Robin was nothing if not predictable.

  I’d sought cover myself from the sudden hail of metal, sliding in beside Goodfellow. He was banging his sword against the side of the Dumpster, each blow a punctuation. “I bought these in Rome.” Bang. “Rome.” Bang. “The finest tailor slaved for days.” Bang. “Days.”

  I fished in my jacket pocket and pulled out the linen napkin I’d swiped from the restaurant. We were running low on washcloths at home, and I’d picked up more sticky-fingered habits from Robin than was good for me. “Here. Wrap your leg up before the next suit that tailor makes is for your funeral.”

  He grumbled and cursed but obeyed. While he worked I took my Glock in hand and peered over the top of the Dumpster. Mr. Clean was still coming, step by plodding step. And with every one of those steps he reloaded and fired and there was the ping of metal against metal. Step. Ping. Step. Ping. The intensity of it was creepy as hell, but when it came down to it, it was a situation that could be easily resolved. There was a hiss of breath as Goodfellow cinched the makeshift bandage around his leg. Then he snapped, “What are you waiting for? Shoot the malaka already.

  “Gee, what will your next two wishes be, Master?” I asked dryly. I couldn’t say I’d never shot a human before. I couldn’t even say I hadn’t killed one, but circumstances had been different. This guy was dangerous, but not to the point of a bullet in the brain. My conscience was as underweight and scrawny as they came, but even it would suffer a twinge at putting down a loony.

  On the other hand, it wasn’t as i
f I could leave him running around. Not unless I planned on setting up house behind this Dumpster. I aimed, then popped off two shots. The slugs in his right shoulder and left thigh were the best compromise I could manage at the moment, especially with Goodfellow griping in my ear. Mr. Clean fell in near silence, the only sound a soft grunt as his back hit the concrete. He was alive, albeit with a good deal of his blood pumping free. I discovered that my conscience had no problem with that whatsoever. “Come on, Goodfellow. We better get out of here before the cops show up.”

  With a hand gripping the top edge of the Dumpster, Robin pulled himself up to balance on one leg. “A little assistance here, if you please.” The gesture he made was remarkably similar to the one he’d given the waiter. Demandingly autocratic. If it weren’t for the scent of his blood mingling with the stranger’s in the air, I might’ve let him fall right back on that arrogant ass. Putting the gun away, I slid an arm under his and growled, “Grab your jacket. I don’t want to hear the Rome speech all the way back to your place.”

  Not waiting for the reply that was bound to come, I grabbed a quick look at our attacker. He was still down, the crossbow lying inches from his fingers. Blank eyes stared upward as he mumbled his peculiar mantra over and over, “He said. He said. He said.”

  Deciding to get out of there before the guys with butterfly nets showed up, I swung Goodfellow out into the street and took off at a good clip. I ignored his outraged yelp of pain, but I was less successful with what followed. “Shouldn’t you take the crossbow?” Hopping on one leg, he held the other bent at the knee between us. “You and your cannibal-baby genes may find this world too much to bear, but I personally don’t relish a bolt to the back.”

  It never ended. It honestly never did. “I got him in the right shoulder,” I replied impatiently. “He was shooting with his right hand. Unless he’s ambidextrous I think we’ll survive.” Despite my logical words, I took another look over my shoulder. Yep, he was still down and still nuttier than an all-squirrel buffet.