“My… what?”
Wolfwood
tosses me his best gold-plated smile.
“Your partner? You know… that
person you work with on jobs like this because running right in without anyone
watching your back is really stupid?
Not that other kind of partner you may have been…”
“Oh,
is that how the two of you are defining it?”
“Well…
maybe not exactly.” Midvalley smirks,
jabs Wolfwood in the ribs once as though to be certain he has his
attention. “Close enough for religious
work, though.”
“If
you say so,” Wolfwood mutters
It’s
been two days, and corpses aren’t exactly the kind of things anyone wants to
keep around in heat like this. They
must have put Victor in the ground by now.
Black desert beetles, spiders with bodies that glisten like raw meat are
already picking apart his softest spots: eyes and lips, the jagged charcoal
edges around the bullet wound in his face…
“I
haven’t had much luck with partners,” I hear myself say abruptly.
The
corner of Midvalley’s mouth scrunches up like a bit of stiff cloth. “That sounds ominous. What d’ya do? Eat ‘em?”
“Calm
down, Patch.” That smile Wolfwood
throws around so casually… it’s going to get him killed someday. Or maybe just some poor fool who falls for
it. All depends on how he uses it. “It’s just for this job. It’s not like you two are gonna have to shop
for curtains and pick out engagement rings.”
“Give
me a break already.”
Midvalley
just laughs lazily. “Poor thing.” He claps me on the shoulder. “Come meet the lucky victim, why don’t you?”
I shrug his hand off, but I know already that any excuse I give him, he won’t really be listening to me. Like a bad father, he has a nasty habit of that.
It’s
the most obnoxiously, painfully familiar thing in the world, sweeping the saloon
with my eyes, trying to pinpoint which barstool or lonely corner table
Midvalley will lead me to – which rugged, scarred, silent new man he will
introduce me to – a moment in advance.
A moment is all I’ll need to know him, because a life like this one
forces people into plaster casts, fades them like old photographs. There are only a few ways to live on this
planet, fewer ways to live well, and my 24 years have been enough to see them
all more times than I care to.
And
already such a thorough silhouette has taken shape in my mind, that when we do
stop, Midvalley swinging his arm around in an exaggerated gesture of
presentation, it takes me a moment to realize what’s happened.
A
curl of smoke from Wolfwood’s cigarette drifts in front of my face, and through
the haze blue eyes meet mine. The boy
who springs from his chair to meet us can’t be any more than sixteen, maybe 120
pounds soaking wet. Beneath a few
spikes of pale bangs his face is more sunburn than tan, turning the dusting of
freckles over his nose magenta, like a splatter of cheap makeup.
I
get all this before the first blink, because that’s what I’ve been trained to
do, and by the time the boy is on his feet, thrusting his hand in my direction
and presenting a smile that’s impossibly white against his pink skin, I’ve
already turned away.
“This
supposed to be a joke, Midvalley?”
Because I’m not laughing yet.
And, trust me, I’m not about to get it, either.
He
snorts softly, and when he speaks again he’s all business. “Don’t be such a raging bitch,
Dominique. This is Marlowe. Your partner.”
I
glance back and I think maybe… just maybe that was all some strange trick of
the light and when I look again Midvalley’s not going to be referring to this
green kid who couldn’t look me straight in the eye if he stood on a chair.
But
it’s the same boy, the same dirty blond hair, the same eerie blue eyes even if
they’ve dimmed a little now, sheepishly.
“Hi.” His fingers curl nervously
in the hem of a blue flannel shirt.
“Miss… umm… Cyclops.”
In
the moment of awkward silence that follows, all the reasons I hate kids stomp
abruptly across my conscious in full formation like a tickertape parade.
“My
name’s Dominique.” But before the kid
can apologize – I just know the next thing out of his mouth’s going to be an
apology, and he’s already got enough strikes against him – I glance back to
Midvalley. “And, it’s funny, because I
don’t remember signing up for the daycare program.”
“Ah,
your maternal instincts will kick in sooner or later, Patch.” With a soft chuckle, Wolfwood slides easily
out from behind us to ruffle Marlowe’s hair.
“Isn’t that right, kiddo?”
“Do
you really think so?”
His
chuckle becomes a full-blown snort of laughter. “Ha. Not a chance.”
“Dominique.” Midvalley still sounds serious, and it’s not
going to be worth it to push him any further when he’s like this. Once he’s made up his mind, it’d be easier
to hunt sharks in the desert than it would be to get him to change it. “I think you’ll find him more than qualified.”
Damnit,
if Midvalley wants me dead, he should just say so. I’m certain there are more humane ways to go about it than
this. “That’s not the point…”
His
eyes narrow, paper-cut thin. It’s cute,
that he still thinks he can intimidate me.
But before he can speak again, the kid darts forward, planting himself
between us. It’s so ridiculous I can’t
even laugh, this little snotnosed green rookie with his hands clenched into
fists at his side, looking like he’s about to hold back a sandstorm all by himself…
“It’s
okay, Miss Dominique,” he says brightly.
“I’ll stay out of your way. I’m
really quiet; I promise.”
Wolfwood
chokes ungracefully on laughter.
“That’s right, kiddo. Way to win
her over.”
It’s
too late. The tension’s gone now,
broken like a bone, and already Wolfwood’s taking Midvalley’s arm, peeling him
away. He leans close, whispers
something in his ear, and then Midvalley chuckles quietly, too. “It’s the Rat Cellar Saloon, that’s where we
meet in Babylon. See you around,
Patch.”
And
he turns away smoothly, lifting a hand to me over his shoulder. Beside me the kid – Marlowe – sighs. “Wow, Miss Dominique, you were really gonna
fight him.”
“Who
says there was going to be a fight?”
He
straightens a little, and his eyes grow even wider. “Not me. Well, I mean… I
could just tell… Right?”
“You’re
strange, kid.” I shake my head. I suppose he’s right; I would have fought if
I had to, but that’s just the way things are.
If I wanted to change it, I wouldn’t even know how, and to hear Marlowe
talk like that… he might as well be trying to tell me that he’s found a place
where naked Legato Bluesummers grow on trees.
“Come on. We’re leaving. And if I hear any complaining, I’m leaving
you for the vultures.”
It’s
time I went back. That’s just the way
things are, too.