Eric Flint's Blog, page 264

A Call To Arms – Snippet 01

A Call To Arms – Snippet 01

CHAPTER SIX

The buildings at the intersection of Fourteenth and Castillon were, in clockwise order, a café, a small-appliance repair center, a breakfast/coffee shop, and a specialty food mart. All were still closed at seven in the morning, though the breakfast shop was getting ready to open. The lack of traffic was probably why Khetha’s people had chosen this particular place and time.

There were good reasons, as well as ominous ones, why the Supreme Chosen One might not want witnesses to the rendezvous. Fortunately, Llyn had reasons of his own for going along with that strategy.

He’d had a private bet with himself that, despite Pinstripe’s statement that he would be picked up, that he might instead be hustled into one of the buildings on or near the corner. Zinc-plate dictators like Khetha liked to think they were being clever.

But in this case, security concerns apparently outweighed the urge to impress the visitor with the Supreme Chosen One’s cunning. The ground car that pulled up to Llyn’s side as he reached the corner was large, heavy-looking, and had the traditional darkened windows of such errands. The door opened as it rolled to a halt, and a large figure in the shadows beckoned to him.

Llyn climbed in. The inviting hand changed position, turning palm-upwards in silent command. In equally silent compliance, Llyn handed over his uni-link, stood still for the quick weapons wanding, then reached behind him and pulled the door closed.

They were rolling again almost before door was completely shut. “Nice vehicle,” Llyn commented, peering across the darkened interior. Aside from the large man sitting beside him, there was only one other person in the rear part of the car, a thin man occupying a drop-down jump seat across from the two of them. An opaque barrier blocked the view of the driver and whoever else might be in the front. “I appreciate not having to go with the bag-over-the-head routine.”

One of Khetha’s mid-level associates would probably have made some polite but neutral comment. A higher-level associate might have tried a gentle probe, a casual question as to whether Llyn did this sort of thing often. Simple, low-level guards would say nothing.

Llyn’s companions said nothing.

Which was as Llyn had expected. A clever despot, as opposed to one who merely though himself clever, might have sent someone to sound out the mysterious visitor during the drive. That could have been inconvenient, on a number of different levels. Not only might a competent intermediary have smelled the proverbial rat before Llyn ever got to Khetha himself, but it might also have left a potentially embarrassing witness out of easy reach. But Llyn’s warning about Khetha letting only the most trusted people in on this had apparently trumped the dictator’s good sense. It appeared he had alerted only his most trusted henchmen to the meeting.

The probable bonus was that there was now a good chance he’d alerted all of his trusted subordinates. That would put them all in one handy spot when the time came. It was so convenient to deal with someone predictable.

Of course, if Khetha brought his closest cronies he would also have a of number of armed and dangerous men in attendance. But that, too, was perfectly fine with Llyn. He’d had a week to read everything the Cascan archives had on Canaanites in general and Khetha in particular, and he had a pretty fair feel for how this meeting would be staged and formatted.

The first tick on that mental checklist was Khetha’s eagerness overcoming caution and cleverness, embodied in the fact that the drive turned out to be short. Barely fifteen minutes after leaving the rendezvous the car pulled to a stop. The man across from Llyn opened the door and stepped out, glanced around, then motioned the passenger to join him. Surreptitiously crunching the outer coating on the pill he’d tucked into his cheek before leaving his hotel, Llyn did so.

He found himself in a tunnel running from the street to what was probably an underground parking garage. He was still looking around when the other man from the back seat exited and closed the door, and the car took a sharp left into a curved connecting tunnel, presumably heading back to the street.

The thin man got a grip on Llyn’s arm and headed down the tunnel, walking briskly toward an unmarked door halfway down to the left. Llyn followed in silence, the third man bringing up the rear. As they approached the door it opened, and Pinstripe and Blue Shirt, Llyn’s tails from the previous day, stepped out into the tunnel. Pinstripe gave the area a quick scan as the newcomers approached, then gestured them inside. Beyond the door was a short hallway leading to another door, this one clearly heavily armored.

The outer door behind Llyn closed with a solid-sounding click. Pinstripe brushed past them to the big door, with Blue Shirt now playing rearguard, and pulled it open.

Beyond the door was a small room, metal-walled and probably soundproof, with a long table in the center. At the far end of the table sat a man in a muted military tunic with rows of medals plastered across his chest: General Amador Khetha, the Supreme Chosen One himself. Just around the corner of the table to the general’s right was a second man, considerably more plump, dressed in casual civilian garb. Both were watching Llyn closely as he and his escort stepped into the room. Standing behind Khetha were a pair of large men, one on either side, their hands folded loosely in front of them in standard bodyguard stance. They were watching Llyn even more closely and suspiciously than the general. A third chair waited at the near end of the table, clearly intended for Llyn.

On the far left side of the room was a short table holding a steaming samovar and a row of mugs.

Llyn suppressed a smile. Tick number two on his list. The Canaanites had a whole spectrum of hospitality rituals, which varied according to the social and economic status of the two sides of a meeting. The samovar-and-tea setup was reserved for first meetings between strangers who might be expected to become associates in business or politics. The subtle nuances would be lost on someone who wasn’t intimately familiar with Canaanite etiquette, but all indications were that Khetha had clung to the customs of home with the deathgrip of an involuntary expatriate. Llyn had guessed that Khetha would follow that pattern, even though the dictator would have no way of knowing whether or not his guest understood all of the implications.

Or perhaps this was a test, something Khetha had deliberately set up to see just how thoroughly Llyn had researched his hoped-for associate and Canaanite culture.

Ultimately, though, it didn’t matter. There were other approaches Khetha could have taken, and Llyn had plans to cover each of them. But the samovar gambit would certainly be the easiest to play off of.

It was always so gratifying when the fish baited his own hook.

Up to now, Khetha and his men had had most of the initiative. Time to even things up a bit. “Good morning, General Khetha,” Llyn said briskly as he stepped to the table and sat down. The pill had started to kick in, and he could feel his heart pounding almost painfully in his chest. “I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice.” He cocked his head. “I’m sorry. Should I be addressing you as ‘Your Worship’?”

The plump man bristled. But Khetha merely smiled. “‘General’ will do,” he said. There was movement to Llyn’s right and left as his two companions from the car took up guard positions to his sides. From behind him came more sound of movement, and reflected from the wall behind Khetha he caught a fuzzy glimpse of Pinstripe shoving the door closed, leaving him and Blue Shirt outside in the corridor. “Please don’t assume my presence here means I necessarily have any interest in doing business with you,” Khetha continued. “You’re here simply because you intrigue me.” A faint, unpleasant smile touched the corners of his lips. “You had best hope you continue to do so. Let’s start with your name.”

“I’m afraid that would mean nothing to you,” Llyn said. “More well-known, at least in the upper-level circles where the true decisions of the galaxy are made, is the name Pointer.”

The man at Khetha’s side snorted. “I believe that’s a breed of dog.”

“Correct,” Llyn said, inclining his head to the other. “And be assured that I’ll be as doggedly persistent in my service to you as my four-legged namesake.” He shifted his attention back to Khetha. “But first things first.” He reached into his jacket.

And froze, warned by the sudden movement at the corner of his eye. Carefully, leaving his hand where it was, he looked at the guard to his left.

The man had brushed back the right-hand flap of his jacket and was gripping the butt of a side-holstered pistol. A Paxlane 405 10mm caseless, Llyn’s brain automatically identified it.

 

Raising Caine – Snippet 01

Raising Caine – Snippet 01

Chapter Fifteen

Near gas giants; all systems from V 1581 to GJ 1248

The bridge of the Arbitrage was packed tight with the Lurkers’ crew. Only the two low-breed aspirants to Elevation, Jesel and Suzruzh, were absent, ensuring that the Aboriginals remained locked in their quarters. Nezdeh rose into the microgravity. “We have finalized our plans.” She nodded toward Idrem.

He activated his beltcom’s projector: eight wire-thin arms emerged from the top of the unit. A moment later, a crude, semi-flat holograph was floating a meter above it. The image was a stylized Aboriginal graphic depicting the refueling operations of the Arbitrage. “Attend. This ship was to conduct two to three more days of fuel harvesting here at V1581.4. It was then scheduled to break orbit and head for its prearranged shift point to Sigma Draconis, here.” Idrem gestured toward a pulsing cross-hairs symbol, far beyond the heliopause. “It would have taken them five weeks to reach this point at an approximate velocity of zero point two cee: a total of thirty-eight days from now. Keeping to that schedule would prevent the Aboriginals in this system from suspecting that the Arbitrage has been seized.

“However, we may no longer do so.” Idrem brought up a schematic of the shift-carrier. “In addition to minor damage that our attacks inflicted upon this hull’s fuel handling capacity, we also destroyed one of the tanker/tenders when the Aboriginals attempted to ram us with it.”

Tegrese frowned. “So the Aboriginals back at the second planet will detect and inspect this refueling delay.”

“They would notice it eventually, but we will be sure to report it before then.”

Zurur Deosketer sounded skeptical. “Will the Aboriginals trust a report that does not come from the captain of record?”

Brenlor smiled. “No, but fortunately, the Aboriginal captain will make the report.”

“The Aboriginal captain is dead.”

“His voice is not.”

Idrem expanded upon Brenlor’s response. “The Aboriginals record all communiqués. So, once we have recalibrated the comm array on the Red Lurker to emulate the Arbitrage’s, we shall send a damage report and revised mission timeline using edited clips of the voice of the dead captain. The Aboriginal force back at Planet Two will have questions. But given the transmission delay of almost twenty minutes, it will not seem unusual that some other member of the command staff would answer. Accordingly, Kozakowski will reply as we instruct.”

“Consequently, the Arbitrage shall resume her current timetable with a four or five day delay. But she shall never arrive at Sigma Draconis.” Idrem waved his hand over his beltcom: a glittering three-dimensional array of the stars within fifteen light years floated before them. He pointed toward one incarnadine chip: it pulsed as his finger neared it. “Our present location.” He moved his finger until it rested on an orange-yellow dot, which also bloomed. “Sigma Draconis; just under 8.3 light years. But our actual destination is here” — he pointed at a more distant, dual-lobed red spot — “GJ 1230. It has other names as well, all equally uninspiring.”

Tegrese squinted, frowned. “It is almost twelve light years from this system. How shall we reach it? This wretched hull can barely shift two-thirds of that distance.”

“That is true, presuming it is unaided.” Brenlor smiled. “I told you at the outset that six other Aspirants, soon to be Evolved, would join us. What I neglected to mention is what they would be bringing with them.” He swept his hand over Idrem’s beltcom.

A new image appeared next to the three-dimensional star map: a blocklike spacecraft, as uninspiring to the eye as the Aboriginal star names were to the ear. But the Ktor reacted as if it was an object of surpassing beauty, just as Nezdeh had known they would.

“A shift-tug!” Ulpreln almost laughed. “An old one — almost two centuries, from the look of the thermionic radiator grid — but still, that should give us ample shift range.”

“Almost twelve and a half light years,” Brenlor confirmed. “She and the six huscarls manning her are in this system already. She will rendezvous with us in four weeks.”

Vranut folded his arms. “And how is it that a Ktor tug happens to be in such a convenient location, Brenlor?”

Brenlor seemed to approve of Vranut’s cynicism. “An excellent question. And here is the excellent answer: it was part of our Earth-related operations more than a century ago.”

Vranut’s eyebrows elevated slightly. “It helped position the Doomsday Rock?”

“No, it was not part of our own House’s covert forces. The Autarchs ordered the tug to support the Dornaani Custodians in their monitoring of the Aboriginals. It was listed as lost due to shift-drive failure.”

Nezdeh waved a hand at the fuel skimmers in their berths. “Our one irremediable operational weakness is the Arbitrage’s damaged, and primitive, refueling technologies. We will expend considerable time taking on hydrogen between shifts.”

“Yes,” Vranut countered carefully, “but we will also require less time to preaccelerate, once we have rendezvoused with our tug and its anti-matter drives.”

Nezdeh nodded. “Our per-system turn around time will shrink to approximately ten days. Technical intelligence estimates that the Slaasriithi turn around is twelve days. With that two day advantage, we should be able to overtake our target and so, begin to both restore and avenge our Extirpated House.”

Tegrese pointed back at the red speck that was GJ 1230. “We shall restore our House by traveling there? An uninhabited system? And in pursuit of what target?”

Nezdeh chose to ignore Tegrese’s borderline insolence. “The target is a Slaasriithi shift-carrier carrying human envoys to Beta Aquilae. Destroying that ship will simultaneously derail any rapid alliance between those two polities while also creating an incident which shall provoke open war.”

Vranut’s eyes had remained on Nezdeh. “I have a question that I hope you will not consider impertinent.”

I hope so, too. “Proceed,” she said.

“So: I understand that destroying this Slaasriithi ship will damage or at least delay an alliance between two of our adversaries. But how does that facilitate the resurgence of House Perekmeres?”

Nezdeh nodded. “Your question is perceptive, not impertinent. Bluntly, we have patrons back in the House Moot who have assured us that such an event would be a political disaster for House Shethkador, which has been entrusted with managing affairs in this salient. A significant decrease in the fortunes of House Shethkador will create an opening for the restoration of House Perekmeres.

“You may have been too young at the time of our Extirpation to know just how tirelessly House Shethkador schemed to effect our downfall. They are now the dominant voice in the House Moot. But their preeminence is built upon their supposed skill at destroying enemies from within rather than upon battlefields, and for reclaiming clandestine operations which threatened to spin out of control or become politically injurious.” Such as the folly of our own Hegemons’ Doomsday Rock scheme, unfortunately. “House Shethkador’s support in the House Moot would diminish if it stumbled in its current efforts to control the war’s political backlash. Logically, it is in their interest to calm the post-war waters by lulling the other species of the Accord back into apathy and indecision. So, conversely, it is in our interest to stir those waters as violently as possible.

“Moreover, if a small band such as ourselves can successfully ruin House Shethkador’s tortuously subtle plans by striking directly against our collective foes, it not only proves the tenuousness of Shethkador’s control over this salient of operations, but will solidify support for us and our boldness. The Houses that now aid us covertly will become our overt champions. Houses that are currently undecided will decide in our favor. It will not mean the downfall of House Shethkador, but it would at least cost them their preeminence and a few sacrificial scapegoats. Conversely, the value of our Perekmeres genelines will soar, and we may be allowed to fully reconstitute our House. If not, then at least as a First Family within another House. And from there — well, we Perekmeres have never had a paucity of ambition.”

The group’s feral smiles dimmed as Idrem introduced a sobering note. “Our patrons, some of whose identities we cannot confirm, assert that it would be advantageous if the elimination of the Slaasriithi ship and the Aboriginal envoys could be carried out in such a way that the cause of their destruction was a mystery, or, better yet, appear to have been caused by each other.”

“The latter scenario is preposterous,” Vranut objected. “There is no reason for the two species to betray each other, and every reason for them to become allies. Quickly.”

 

A Call To Arms by David Weber, Timothy Zahn and Thomas Pope

I will be posting Snippets of A Call To Arms by David Weber, Timothy Zahn and Thomas Pope starting later today.  Eric Flint has requested that I start the snippets with Chapter Six as Baen has posted Chapters One thru Chapter Five of it.

To see those chapters visit http://www.baenebooks.com/p-2830-a-ca... and Click on Sample Chapters.

Raising Caine by Charles E. Gannon

I will be posting Snippets of Raising Caine by Charles E. Gannon starting later today.  Eric Flint has requested that I start the snippets with Chapter fifteen as Baen has posted Chapters One thru Chapter fourteen of it.

To see those chapters visit http://www.baenebooks.com/p-2838-rais... and click on Sample Chapters.

 

 

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 34

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 34

“His name is Gary Hacker. He lives outside the city, on a small plot of land on the outskirts of Buckeye.” He gave me the address. “He won’t want to speak with you. Tell him I sent you.”

“What should I talk to him about?”

“Like I said, it’s not my story to tell. But he’s a were, and I think you’ll find what he has to say pretty illuminating.”

“All right.”

“Don’t take a lot of time with this. You’ve only got two more days until the phasing starts.”

“Do you really think I need you to tell me that?”

A small laugh escaped him. “Probably not.”

I drank the rest of my water and stood. “Thank you for the name.” I patted my gut. “And for the lesson in magic.”

“Your friend, is she all right?”

“How’d you know it was a she?”

Amaya grinned. “I saw you on the news, remember? You were angry, ready to take on an entire army of weremystes. And I saw as well the way you came charging in here, despite my guards, despite my reputation. We do those things for the ones we love, and I happen to know you are in love with the blogger, Billie Castle.”

I didn’t like that he knew her name, that he had found it so easy to learn so much about me, but I probably shouldn’t have been surprised.

“She’s alive,” I said. “But she’s not in great shape.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Truly. I know what it’s like to have your enemies strike at loved ones.”

Pain lurked behind the words; I wondered what had been done to him. “Thank you,” I said, unnerved by the sympathy I felt.

I walked toward his front door, curious about this new name he had given me, and belatedly aware of how lucky I was to be leaving his home alive.

It seemed he was thinking along the same lines. “Jay.”

I halted, faced him.

“I don’t care who’s in the hospital or how many times you’ve been blown up. Don’t ever come to me in anger again.”

Another warning. This one I was likely to heed. I nodded and let myself out of the house.

#

I returned to the hospital and managed to get in to see Billie for a few minutes. She looked better than she had; she had more color in her cheeks, and she admitted to me that she had eaten a bit.

She begged me to bring her something from Solana’s, until I reminded her that it had been destroyed by the explosion.

“Then anyplace. I want fajitas, Fearsson, not braised beef tips.” She made a face, and I laughed.

“I’ll do what I can.”

“I also want to know why all the nurses keep referring to you as my husband.”

I winced, rubbed the back of my neck. “It was the only way I could get in to see you. They don’t allow just anyone in this part of the hospital, and I wasn’t willing to wait until they moved you. So . . .” I shrugged.

“So, you claimed you were my husband?”

“Yeah. I don’t know your social security number by the way. That really is information you should share with the man you marry.”

Her laughter was like the sweetest music.

“I think Kona would say that you’re a piece of work.”

I nodded. “Yeah, she would.”

Before we could say much more, her nurse — a different one — shoed me away, telling me I was welcome to come back in the morning during regular visiting hours.

I would have liked more time with Billie, but at least I knew that her condition was improving, and that she was being taken care of, even if it was by Nurse Ratched.

I went by Nathan Felder’s house, where I picked up my check, and then made my way home. I only stayed long enough to grab a change of clothes before driving out to my Dad’s. I would have to make the trip back into town first thing the following morning to keep my appointment with Patty Hesslan, but I didn’t feel comfortable leaving him alone for too long.

When I got to Wofford, he was out in his chair, sitting in the dark, wearing the same clothes he’d had on the day before, and smelling a bit ripe. I saw no evidence that he had eaten anything.

I fixed him a bowl of cereal, filled a glass of water, and sat with him as he ate and drank, listening to him rant about the burning and the pain and how he didn’t matter. He mentioned my Mom again, and told them to stay the hell away from “the boy.” I smiled at this; I couldn’t help it. It wasn’t that I found it amusing in any way. Far from it. But I was touched that in the deepest throes of his madness or his suffering — whatever this was — he took it upon himself to protect me.

The rest of it sounded like so much nonsense, of course. It was the same stuff I’d heard the day before, and two days before that. He was flinching again, but the food and water seemed to help, and I took some comfort in the fact that he appeared to be no worse than he’d been yesterday.

I didn’t like to overuse his sleeping medication — the doctors had warned me that, given his history as an alcoholic, he could develop an addiction to the pills. But he wasn’t going to sleep in this state without some help.

Once the pill took effect, I put him to bed. I showered and shaved, lingering in front of the mirror to scrutinize the deepening bruise along my jaw, the purple under my skin blending into the fading purple glow of Amaya’s spell. At last, exhausted, I settled down on the floor of my Dad’s room, as I had the previous night. Weary as I was, though, I lay awake for a long time, reliving the explosion at Solana’s, and thinking about the spell I’d felt prickling my skin. There had been two spells, of course, one working at cross-purposes with the other. The first blew up the restaurant; the second protected me from injury, despite the potency of that first casting. I couldn’t imagine the power and skill necessary to weave two such spells together, although I thought it possible that Etienne de Cahors might have pulled it off, had he still been alive.

Which begged the question: Had the spells been cast by one myste or two, or even several? If both spells had come from the same “person” — and I used the term loosely — I might well have been dealing with a being who had more in common with Namid than with me. If they had come from two or more sorcerers, I was facing some sort of conspiracy. Lying in the dark, listening to my father’s snoring, I wasn’t sure which possibility frightened me more.

I slept later than I had intended, and woke to find my Dad stirring as well. He sat up in bed, pushed both hands through his white hair. At the sight of me on his floor, he frowned.

“You’re here.”

“I didn’t want you to be alone all night.”

“I’m alone every night.”

I shrugged, peered up at the sky through the window. It was another clear, sunny day in the desert; it was going to be hot as hell. “You haven’t been yourself lately.”

I chanced a glance in his direction and saw him nod.

“You stayed the night before, too, didn’t you?”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Thanks.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Better. I don’t expect it’ll last, but right now I’m okay.” He narrowed his eyes at my jaw. “You don’t look so good.”

I raised a hand to the bruise. It was tender, a little swollen. “I’m all right.”

“I should see the other guy, right?”

 

Balticon 2017

I was just invited to be the Guest of Honor at Balticon over the weekend of May 26-29, 2017.  That takes place in Baltimore, if you haven’t figured it out already.

The reason for the invitation so far ahead of time is because Balticon also agreed to host the 1632 series minicon that year as well.  Next year, in 2016, the 1632 series minicon is being hosted by Fencon in Dallas over the weekend of September 23-25.

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 33

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 33

Chapter 12

I swept out of the ICU, and took the stairs down to the ground floor, unwilling to wait for an elevator. Billie’s questions had set my thoughts churning again. I still had questions of my own, of course, but I wasn’t thinking about them now. I was unhurt because someone had decided to protect me. Billie was lying in a hospital bed looking like she had been run over by a truck because that same someone wanted to send me a message. My Dad was suffering in ways he never had before, and though I couldn’t prove it yet, and didn’t understand what was being done to him, I no longer had any doubt that he was a victim in all of this, too.

Some goddamned sorcerer was screwing with me and the people I loved. I was scared and pissed off, and I’d had enough.

Nothing else could explain the decision I made in that moment. Because it was pretty stupid.

I drove back into North Scottsdale, to Ocotillo Winds Estates. When the guy at the guardhouse asked me who I was and who I was there to see, I told him. He called ahead to the mansion and after a brief delay raised the barrier that blocked the gate and waved me through. I hadn’t been paying as much attention as I should have to the route we followed the previous night, but after taking a few wrong turns, I made it to Amaya’s place.

The guys with the MP5s were waiting for me, their expressions far less welcoming than they had been when I showed up with Luis, Paco, and Rolon. They surrounded the Z-ster, weapons held ready, faces like stone.

“Get out,” one of them said. “And keep your hands where we can see them.”

I unlatched the door, pushed it open with my foot, and climbed out, my hands raised.

“I have a Glock in the shoulder holster under my left arm,” I said.

“What else?”

“That’s it.”

The man gestured in my direction with his head. “Revísenle.” Search him.

One of his friends strode toward me, grabbed me by the arm, spun me around, and shoved me against my car. Pressing the muzzle of his submachine gun against the back of my neck, he pulled the Glock from my holster, and frisked me. He was thorough and none too gentle; it was probably a good thing I hadn’t lied about having a second weapon. When he was finished, he gave me one last shove and backed away.

“Turn around,” the other man said.

When I faced him again, he pointed toward the front door of the mansion. Two more guards waited for me there, both of them also holding MP5s. I almost asked if they’d bought the family pack, but decided I’d be better off keeping my mouth shut.

“Go on. Jacinto is waiting for you.”

“Thanks.”

I walked to the door, my hands lowered but plainly visible. The guards let me pass, saying not a word, but eyeing me in a way that made the back of my head itch. I could almost feel the sight beams tickling my scalp.

Amaya was in the living room, sitting in one of those plush chairs, one arm resting casually over the back of it, the other hand holding a tumbler filled with ice and what might have been tequila.

“Hello, Jay.”

I glanced around the room. It was empty except for Amaya and me. It really did seem that he had been expecting me, even before the call from the guardhouse.

“I saw you on television today. Tough words. I guess you’re going into battle with me after all, eh?”

“What happened today? What was that?”

His eyebrows went up, an expression of innocence I wasn’t sure I trusted. “You were there, not me. Why don’t you tell me what you think it was?”

“It was magic.”

“The media is calling it a bombing, though they don’t seem to know what kind of bomb could do that kind of damage without burning the place to the ground.”

“It was a spell, and it came with a warning.”

He sat forward, interested now. “Someone spoke to you.”

“Yeah. A woman. She said not to push too hard, whatever that means.”

“Fascinating. I suppose it means you’re already making progress.”

“Maybe. But a friend of mine is in the hospital, and I want to know what the hell is going on.”

“I told you last night–”

“You told me shit last night! You gave me Regina Witcombe, but I’ve since learned that I could have gotten her name from any number of people.”

“And yet you didn’t,” Amaya said, ice in his tone. “You knew nothing about her except that she was rich. So don’t tell me that I gave you nothing.”

“How do I know it’s not you?” I said. Probably not the smartest road to go down, but I wasn’t thinking all that clearly. “You send me out to find dark sorcerers, talking like you’re trying to make the world safe for the rest of us. But how do I know this isn’t anything more than a turf war, an attempt by one dark myste to get the jump on another?”

He glared back at me, his eyes as black and hard as obsidian. “Did you see the magic?”

“What?”

“On the restaurant. Did you see it?”

“Yeah,” I said. “It was–”

A blow to the gut doubled me over, stole my breath. I almost retched. Amaya hadn’t moved.

Before I could straighten up, something hit me again. The jaw this time. It felt like a cross between a fist and a cinder block. I was catapulted backward, my feet might even have left the floor. I landed hard on my back, the breath pounded out of my lungs.

Amaya sipped his drink, still comfortably ensconced in his chair.

“There’s magic on your shirt where I hit you,” he said. “Also on your face. What color is it?”

I raised a hand to the side of my face, dabbed at the corner of my mouth. My hand came away bloody. The residue of his spell shone on my stomach. It was dark purple, the color of desert mountains at dusk, and it was as opaque and glossy as wet paint.

“What color?” Amaya asked again, his voice like a hammer.

“Purple,” I said.

“And what color did you see at the restaurant?”

“Green. I owe you an apology.”

“You certainly do.”

I climbed to my feet, crossed to the bar and filled a glass with ice and water. Then I walked to the chair next to his, and dropped myself into it. “The magic on the restaurant was transparent as well; it was like looking through the glass of a wine bottle. Does that mean anything to you?”

“No,” Amaya said. “You’re sure it wasn’t a trick of the light?”

“Pretty sure. I saw the same thing at the airport, on James Howell and on the cockpit panels.”

He glared. “So, you lied to me yesterday.”

I said nothing, but stared back at him.

He flashed a grin, though it faded as quickly as it appeared. “The same myste who struck at the airport issued this warning to you.”

“Apparently.”

“Very interesting indeed.”

“I need more information, Mister Amaya. You said last night that the dark mystes were capable of doing some terrible things. I’d like to know what you meant.”

Amaya regarded me for another moment before getting up and walking to the bar. He unstoppered a glass decanter and poured himself more tequila. “Some things are not mine to tell,” he said. “But I can give you another name.” He smiled back at me over this shoulder. “Someone a bit more accessible than Regina Witcombe.”

I pulled out my pad and pen, drawing another grin.

“You know, they have devices now, things that you can use for taking notes, taking pictures, even making phone calls.”

“Well, maybe after you’ve paid me for this job, I’ll be able to afford one.”

 

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 32

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 32

I dug out my wallet and flipped it to my driver’s license. “She kept her name,” I said, as the doctor peered at my picture. “She’s a blogger and has a big following. She couldn’t afford to change it.”

“Of course,” she said. She met my gaze again. I slipped the wallet back into my pocket, feeling guilty.

“Your wife hasn’t woken up yet. If all goes well, she should begin to come around soon, but with head wounds and concussions, things are sometimes slower. Don’t be worried if she takes a bit of time to wake up. Because of her head injury, the surgical and anesthesia teams took every precaution with her anesthesia. You should also know that even after she does wake up, she’s going to be woozy for a time, and a little disoriented. In fact, it isn’t uncommon for patients with brain injuries to exhibit some short term memory loss.”

“Of course.” I was struggling to keep up, but belatedly that got my attention. “Wait. Brain injury? Is she all right?”

“All things considered, she is doing well. She has a concussion, some stitches in her scalp for superficial lacerations, and of course the broken arm. The orthopedist put a plate in to set the bone properly, but he was able to do all the hardware internally, so no external fixator or screws. This should mean a faster healing time and less chance of infection.

“She also has two broken ribs. One of them punctured her lung, causing a pneumothorax — a collapsed lung — which could have been much more problematic. Fortunately, it was only a partial collapse and we were able to treat it in time. We inserted a chest tube and she’s already breathing on her own, so I believe she’s going to make a full recovery. But between the pneumothorax and the concussion, she’s had a rough time of it. She’s going to be staying with us for a little while.”

“I understand. Thank you, Doctor.”

“You’re welcome. If you have questions, or if she does once she’s fully conscious, have the nurses call for me.”

“We will. Again, thank you.”

The doctor nodded to the nurse, who said, “This way,” and led me into the ICU area.

It had been a while since my last trip to an intensive care area in any hospital, and things had changed. We walked between rows of beds, each one in its own glass cubicle, each one surrounded by banks of monitoring equipment. Within some of the glass enclosures, curtains had been drawn. The nurse stopped at one of these, opened the door and pulled the curtain aside, and gestured for me to enter.

I stepped through, and stopped, swaying, my knees almost buckling.

Billie lay on a bed that made her appear tiny. Her head was wrapped in a light gauze that was stained with patches of blood. Her arm, which rested on several pillows, was in a double splint and swathed heavily in what looked like the sticky purple bandaging usually used for sports injuries. A plastic tube snaked from an oxygen tank to a nasal cannula that had been looped behind her head, around her ears, and under her nose.

The nurse placed a gentle hand on my back.

“It’s always hard the first time you see someone like this. But she’s better off than she was when they brought her in.” She steered me to a chair. “Let her know you’re here, hon. Talk to her.”

I nodded, swallowed. But I had no idea what to say. I’m sorry I got you blown up. I’m sorry we can’t even have a lunch date without one of us almost getting killed.

“Billie,” I said, my voice shaky. “I’m right here, and I’ll be here when you wake up. Okay?”

The nurse patted my shoulder. “That’s good, hon. That’s good.” She left me there, closing the curtain and glass door behind her, and giving Billie and me what in a hospital passed for privacy.

I sat and stared at Billie, waiting for her to wake up, turning questions over in my head, and feeling rage at my own impotence build like steam in a kettle. Why would the same weremyste who killed James Howell go to such lengths to keep me alive? What did Dimples and Bear do with the homeless man’s blood? What was happening to my father? What did all of this have to do with Regina Witcombe and Jacinto Amaya, and why were so many mystes suddenly so interested in me? I felt more certain than ever that all of it was connected, but the result reminded me of a modern art sculpture gone wrong; everything seemed to jut in random directions. There was no coherence, no story line.

All the while, as my thoughts churned, Billie remained as she was. Despite the doctor’s warning that she might not wake for some time, I began to wonder if something was wrong, and if I ought to call the nurse back to check on her. When at long last she stirred, her eyelids moving ever so slightly and her uninjured hand shifting, I whispered a quick “Thank God,” and sat forward in my chair.

“Billie? Can you hear me?”

She shifted her head maybe an inch and winced even at that. “Fearsson?” It came out as a croak, but it sounded like music to me.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“‘M thirsty.”

I hesitated. “Let me get a nurse.” I slipped out of the cubicle and hurried to the nursing station. The woman who had brought me in was there with a couple of other nurses. “She’s awake,” I said. “She says she’s thirsty.”

“I’ll bet she is,” the nurse said, walking with me back to Billie’s bed.

It turned out there was a large plastic carafe bearing Banner Desert’s logo and a long flexible straw sitting near the bed, already filled with ice water. I hadn’t noticed. The nurse told me to let Billie have some. “But slowly at first,” she said. “Not too much.”

Billie took a small sip, and slipped her tongue over her dried, cracked lips.

“How do you feel?” A stupid question, I know, but it was all I could come up with.

“Like I got blown up.”

“Sounds about right.”

Her eyes slitted opened at that. “Are you okay?”

I wondered how much she remembered from the restaurant, but we’d have plenty of opportunity later to talk about that. “Yes,” I said. “I’m fine. Are you in a lot of pain?”

“No. Drugs, I think. Where are we? Wha’ hospital?”

“You’re in intensive care at Banner Desert Medical Center. You have a concussion, a broken arm, a couple of broken ribs, and you even had a collapsed lung.”

“Holy crap,” she mumbled.

“No kidding. You’ve been out for a while. But the doctor says you’re going to be okay.”

“Guess it’s a good thing I have insurance.”

I laughed. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Where did you say we are?”

I glanced at the nurse.

“That’s normal,” she mouthed.

“Banner Desert.”

“Tha’s right.”

That was how our conversation went for the next several minutes. We talked about nothing at all. She asked me to list her injuries again, and she wanted to know how long she had been unconscious. The more we talked, the more lucid she grew. Her eyes opened wider, her speech cleared. She sipped more water but told the nurse in no uncertain terms that wanted nothing to do with food, at least not yet.

The nurse eyed the instrumentation by her bed, which monitored her blood pressure, heart rate, temperature, and a host of other things I didn’t pretend to understand. She didn’t seem too alarmed by anything she saw, but after a time she told me, “She needs some quiet time. I don’t want her getting too tired.”

“I understand. I have . . . A few places I have to go.”

“We’ll take good care of her. Oh, and Mister Castle, don’t worry if her bed is empty when you get back here. We need to test her lung capacity, and also do some further scans: neurological — we want to see how she’s doing with the concussion.”

“Of course.” To Billie I said, “I have to leave for a little while. I have things to do. As soon as they let me come back, I will. All right?”

“I’ll be here.”

I smiled, stood.

“Fearsson?”

“Yeah.”

She made a little motion with her hand, beckoning to me. I bent closer to her.

“Did she just call you Mister Castle?” she asked, her voice as soft as a spring breeze.

I nodded, my cheeks burning. “Yeah. That’s a long story.”

“Okay. Then tell me this: how is it possible that you’re not hurt at all?”

I looked her in the eye, not wanting to scare her, but also unwilling to lie to her. I’d had to keep things from her early on — stuff about magic and the phasings and Namid — and that had almost ended our relationship before it got started.

“You already know the answer,” I whispered.

“Magic?”

“Magic.”

“But–”

“That’s all I know right now. But I’m going to find out. I promise.” I kissed an unbandaged spot on her forehead. “I’ll see you soon.”

 

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 31

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 31

“What the hell, Jay?” he asked, as soon as I was inside with the door shut. “You come around here, lookin’ like you been through a war, and you ask Q about dark magic out where everybody can see and hear. That’s crazy.” He shook his head. “Q’s not even sure it’s safe to talk about it inside.”

I wanted to ask him who he thought would be listening, but he stopped me before I could get the first word out. A moment later, magic buzzed the air. Q glanced around the shop, the walls of which now glimmered with orange light.

“Wardin’ spell Q came up with,” he said, pride coloring his voice. “It should muffle our voices a little.”

“Who are you hiding from? Who do think might be listening to us?”

He shook his head. “Q don’t know.”

“You never know, until I pay you.”

“This time Q really isn’t sure. There’s strange things happenin’. People are talkin’ about new powers. Not new mystes, mind you, but new powers. Q ain’t never heard that before. He’s not even sure what it means. Mysties are scared, though. Q’s sure of that.”

“I don’t doubt it. What can you tell me about Regina Witcombe?”

Q’s eyes narrowed. “Who’ve you been talkin’ to, Jay?”

I shook my head. “I can’t tell you that.”

He frowned. “You do that a lot,” he said with quiet intensity. “You come here askin’ Q all sorts of questions, and expectin’ answers. Today especially, covered in dust and blood, and refusin’ to explain yourself. And then Q asks a question of his own, and suddenly you’re all secretive and shit. That can bother a man, make him feel used.”

“First of all,” I said, “you’re not paying me for answers.”

Q’s gaze slid away, but he chuckled, deep in his chest. “Well, that’s true. And second of all?”

“Second, if I tell you, it could get both of us killed. And no, I’m not exaggerating.” I paused to gesture at myself. “All of this, the blood, the dust — it’s because there was a magical attack on a restaurant I was at. When you hear about it on the news, they’ll call it a bombing, but I know better. It was directed at me.”

“You look all right. A mess, but all right.” He nodded toward the blood. “Unless that’s yours.”

“It’s not. It’s from the woman I love.”

“Shit, Jay. Q’s sorry. She gonna be all right?”

“I hope.”

“How do you this magic bomb was for you?”

“Because a voice told me it was. She said it was a warning.”

“She?”

I nodded.

“Well, all right then. Regina Witcombe is that rich woman, right? The one whose husband died on a boat?”

“That’s right.”

“Thought so,” he said. “Yeah, there’s some who say she’s into the dark stuff. Q’s heard no proof — rumor, nothin’ more. But it comes from sources Q trusts.”

I found this oddly comforting. As much as I didn’t want to be caught up in anything having to do with dark magic, that ship was already way, way out to sea. And I found it reassuring that Jacinto Amaya had been straight with me.

“What do they want, Q? Whoever is using this dark magic, what are they after?”

“Well, that’s the question, ain’t it? Used to be, they was happy to cast their spells and make themselves more powerful with blood and such. But they’re changin’ now. There’s talk of mystes makin’ war on each other.”

Jacinto had mentioned that, as well.

“A war for what?” I asked.

“Q don’t know. But there’s rules, things mystes ain’t supposed to do. You know that as well as Q does. Dark mystes don’t like those rules. Someone with money, power — like that woman you’re askin’ about — she’d be someone Q would want on his side, when the fightin’ started. You know?”

I wasn’t sure what a war between mystes would be like but I had a feeling that I’d seen a preview of it today at Solana’s. I felt queasy.

“All right, Q,” I said, handing him the twenty. “Thanks.” I stepped to the door.

“Brother Jay.”

I stopped, expecting his standard parting line: Brother Q has one favor that he’d ask of you; Please don’t tell a soul that you heard it from Q.

But when I faced him again, his expression was still as grim as it had been.

“A couple of months ago, you mentioned to Q that you had a runemyste who was trainin’ you.”

“I remember.”

“You need to ask him about this stuff. Q only knows so much, but a runemyste — he might be able to help you.”

I wanted to tell Q that Namid didn’t respond well to pointed questions, and that the laws of his kind prohibited him from interacting with our world in a meaningful way. But I kept these things to myself.

“I’ll give that some thought,” I said instead, and left.

#

I went back to my house and changed my clothes, faltering with my shirt in my hands, my eyes drawn to the blood. I was going to toss it in the hamper, but I reconsidered. The blood had set; it wasn’t coming out, and I never wanted to wear that shirt again. I threw it in the trash.

Before putting on another, I crossed to my mirror and examined my arms, my back, my chest. Not a single mark. I wasn’t even sore. I thought again of my confrontation with Mark Darby at the loading dock behind Custom Electronics. Twice now, a magical spell of unknown origin had kept me from harm. This second time, the sorcerer who protected me was the same one who had saved the passengers aboard flight 595, and who had killed James Howell.

Why would a weremyste who used dark magic care about saving my life? Yes, she had conveyed a warning as well, but had she also blocked the bullets from Mark Darby’s pistol? Were she and her friends tormenting my Dad? Were they behind the killings Kona and Kevin had been investigating?

I pulled on a clean shirt and called out, “Namid!”

He didn’t like to be summoned, and usually I would have respected his wishes, but I had too many questions, and Q was right: if anyone could help me, it was the runemyste.

But he didn’t materialize. I called for him again. Nothing. I hadn’t expected that.

Unsure of what else to do, I drove to Banner Desert Medical Center and after getting the runaround for some time, found out where Billie was — still in surgery — and where she would be when they were finished with her — probably the trauma center in Tower A on the second floor.

The receptionist had nearly as many questions for me as I did for them, and it didn’t take me long to realize that no one was going to let me anywhere near her unless I was family. So, I lied, told them we were married, but that Billie kept her maiden name for professional reasons. At some point she and I would laugh about it. Or she’d be royally ticked off.

The receptionist gave me a clipboard with enough paperwork on it to make me feel like I was back on the police force, and sent me on my way.

I went up to surgical waiting, with its bright lights, plastic plants, and rows of patterned chairs, and found the room overflowing with people who looked as worried as I felt. There were no seats available, no windows to look out, nothing to do but lean against a wall, fill out forms, and wait. Eventually I must have closed my eyes, because some time later I jerked awake, and almost toppled over.

“Mister Fearsson?”

Hearing the nurse say my name, I realized this wasn’t the first time she’d called for me.

“Yes,” I said, straightening and stepping away from the wall.

“You’re Miss Castle’s husband?”

“That’s right.”

The nurse nodded once, but eyed me doubtfully. Or maybe I was imagining it. I’d never been a very good liar.

“Can you come with me, please?”

I followed her out of the waiting area and past a sign that said, “Pardon our appearance,” and described a bunch of renovations taking place in the Intensive Care Departments. We walked through a series of corridors, all of them lined with heavy plastic tarps. At intervals I saw step-ladders laying on their sides or propped against walls, and gaps in the ceiling where panels had been removed. I saw a few workers and heard others above me, crawling around in the space above. At last we came to a pair of twin wooden doors marked “Intensive Care Unit.”

The nurse halted outside the doors and asked me to wait there.

She went into the ICU and reemerged a few moments later with a doctor, an Indian woman who appeared to be about my age.

“Mister Fearsson?” she said, her accent light.

I nodded. My mouth had gone dry.

“I am Doctor Khanna. I am the hospitalist here. Miz Castle, she is your wife?”

“Yes,” I said, lying yet again. At some point I was going to pay for this. I held up the clipboard. “Still doing the paperwork.”

“Do you have identification?”

 

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 30

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 30

Chapter 11

I picked my way through the rest of the clutter and stumbled out onto the sidewalk, fragments of glass crunching beneath my feet. There were more injured here, men and women, and even a small child. They lay on the bloodstained cement, as they would after a true bombing. Collateral damage: a cold phrase meaning people who had gotten between me and the weremyste who had issued that threat.

I turned so I could see the front of the restaurant and drew a sharp breath through my teeth. Magic clung to the shattered brick and splintered wood, glistening in the sunlight: as green as spring grass, as clear as dew, save for the faint oil-like sheen I had first noticed at the airport.

“Sir, can you tell me what happened here?”

I wheeled at the sound of the voice. A reporter, young, blonde, pretty, held a microphone inches from my face. A cameraman stood at her shoulder, lens trained on me like a weapon, white light shining in my eyes.

“Were you inside the restaurant when the bomb went off?”

“I don’t know what happened,” I said, blinking in the glare.

“You’re covered with dust and bits of wood and glass. Were you inside?”

“Yes.”

“Is that blood on your shirt?”

I dropped my gaze. There was blood on my t-shirt and some on my jeans as well. “It’s not mine. It’s my . . . it came from a friend.”

“Is she all right?”

I shook my head.

The reporter’s eyes had narrowed. “I know you. You’re that private detective, aren’t you? Jay Fearsson?”

“I have to go,” I said.

I pushed past her and the cameraman. I should have known it wouldn’t be that easy to get away.

“Were you here investigating another crime? Another killing?”

A crowd had gathered, and I couldn’t plow my way free.

“Do you think the bomb was directed at you?”

I couldn’t help myself: I rounded at that, glared at her, then tried again to get away.

“Mister Fearsson do you have anything to say to whoever is responsible for what happened today?”

I should have kept going. I should have ignored the question and bulled through the mass of people. But I was thinking about Billie, and about all the other people who had been hurt because some weremyste wanted to send me a message.

I whirled, glared right into the camera. “Yeah. Watch your ass, because I’m coming for you.”

This time when I tried to leave, people stepped out of my way. Maybe they had heard me; maybe they saw the rage on my face and decided they’d be better off letting me leave. I stalked off, knowing that I had screwed up, and that there wasn’t a damn thing I could do now to take the words back. I could imagine the way it would look on television. Kona would be pissed at me, and Hibbard’s head would explode. But at least the woman who had whispered in my mind would know what I thought of her warning.

I avoided the other reporters who were converging on the place, and slipped away from the crowded block before too many more police arrived and made any quick exit impossible.

When I first reached Mesa, I’d been annoyed that all the good parking spots were gone, but now that worked to my advantage. The Z-ster was far enough from the restaurant that I had no trouble putting some distance between myself and the scene on the street.

I needed more information about dark magic and its practitioners here in Phoenix. The night before I’d as much as told Amaya that Etienne de Cahors was the only dark sorcerer of consequence the city had seen in years. Less than twenty-four hours later, I could almost laugh at how naïve I had been. Almost. The ringing in my ears, and the fine white dust coating my clothes and skin kept me from seeing the humor. That, and Billie’s blood.

As a cop, I’d had a network of informants on whom I relied for information when other sources dried up. Some of them were lost to me now that I was no longer on the job. But I was still plugged into the magical community. At times in the past I had taken my questions to Luis Paredes, but given his ties to Amaya, I knew I couldn’t trust him now. Instead, I drove into Phoenix’s Maryvale precinct.

Maryvale’s neighborhoods included some of the roughest beats in all of Phoenix. It was a relatively small precinct, but it accounted for a disproportionate share of the city’s violent crime. It was home to gangs, small-time drug dealers, prostitutes, and one Orestes Quinley.

Orestes, who went by the name Brother Q, owned a small shop that specialized in what the non-magical world would call “the occult.” In fact, he had named his place “Brother Q’s Shop of the Occult,” which might have been the worst name for a business I’d ever heard. He sold herbs, oils, crystals, talismans, books on witchcraft and magic, and a host of other goods that a weremyste might need. He was a myste himself, and while he might not have been as skilled as I was, I sensed that he had more power than he cared to admit. I’d busted him long ago, when Kona and I still worked in narcotics. He did a little time, though probably not as much as he should have, and soon was back on the streets. Any time Kona and I encountered something we couldn’t explain during an investigation, I went to Orestes, at first because Kona and I figured he must have been working with whoever we were after. With time, though, he became a trusted informant, and even now, a year and a half removed from my resignation from the force, I still turned to him when I encountered a name I didn’t know or a residue of magic I didn’t recognize.

I could have used any number of words to describe Q: quirky, eccentric, weird; Kona called him certifiable. But I liked him, and more than that, I trusted him. Despite the fact that I was the one cop who had busted him and made the charges stick — or maybe because of it — Q and I were good friends.

But yeah, he was pretty weird.

I pulled up to his place in the 813 beat, which was as rough a neighborhood as you could find in Maryville, and found him sitting out front on a folding chair. Orestes claimed to have been born in Haiti. He spoke with a West Indian accent, and wore his hair in long dreadlocks. He had on a pair of baggy, torn denim shorts, a tie-dyed Bob Marley t-shirt, beat-up sandals, and a pair of sunglasses with tiny round lenses that couldn’t have done a damn bit of good against the desert sun. He was slouched in the chair, accentuating his paunch, and his chest rose and fell slowly. It took me a minute to realize that he was sleeping.

I opened the car door and got out without making a sound. And then I slammed the door shut.

Q started, straightened up. When he saw me, a big smile lit his face. “Brother Jay, Brother Jay, Brother Jay. What brings you to Q this lazy summer day?”

Like I said: weird. Q often referred to himself in the third person, which was strange by itself, but on occasion, for no discernible reason, he also spoke in verse. I didn’t know why or when he had started doing this, but I wasn’t sure he even noticed anymore. I didn’t think he could stop if he tried.

I walked toward him and he peered at me over the narrow rims of his glasses, his smile melting. After a few moments, he pulled off his shades altogether. “What the hell happened to you?”

“You’ll hear about it on the news. Suffice it to say, I’ve had a crappy day, and I’m not in a mood to screw around.”

“Fair enough.”

I blew out a long breath. None of this was Q’s fault. “I’m sorry. How’re you feeling, Q?” I asked.

When Etienne de Cahors went on his final killing spree a couple of months ago, he did serious damage to Q’s shop, and the one-room apartment above it, and came close to killing Orestes in the process. The shop still needed repairs, but Q looked better.

“Brother Q is feelin’ fine. How are you doin’? Q sees you got those casts off your arm and leg.”

“Yeah, I’m better, thanks.” I reached for the extra chair Q kept by the shop entrance and paused, waiting for his permission.

He nodded. I sat.

“Q assumes this isn’t a social visit,” he said, setting his glasses back in place.

I reached for my wallet, pulled out a twenty, and held it up for him to see. But I didn’t give it to him. Not yet.

“What do you know about dark magic?”

He regarded me again, his gaze lingering on the blood stains, his lips pressed thin. “Enough to understand you shouldn’t be askin’ about it out on the street.” He pushed himself out of his chair and stomped into the shop. I followed, half expecting him to shut and lock the door in my face. He didn’t.