I chew on the inside of my cheek, and here begins:
The Tale
It’s the part of the con where you tell the mark what they want to hear. It’s easy to overplay this. Most people, especially guys like Pete here, know that if something sounds too good to be true, it probably is. They don’t want a fantasy. There have to be strings attached for it to be believable. And the things is, there are. Just not the strings he’s expecting.
“I guess I could let go of a bull,” I say with a shrug. “It’s not one of the more popular coins.”
A fluorescent light above me flicks on, and for a moment, I lose the thread of the con. My heart is in my throat as I try to pull myself together, knowing that if Pete looks too closely, he’ll notice there’s something not quite right about me. Something not quiteall there.
The light splutters out again and the tension in my body releases. Pete’s eyes are still on the coins, not the translucent sheen to my skin, the fuzziness around my edges.
Internally, I’m breathing a sigh of relief. Externally, I keep a patronizing look on my face as I open my bag.
“But it’s your call, pal,” I say.
Here’s the trick to lying believably: You have to first believe the lie in your body. The bull is the only real obol in the bunch. The rest are what’s left over of the fakes Poppy made. But I’ve spent all week keeping my fakes in a safe and the real one just hanging out in my pocket. So it doesn’t feel weird when I reach in my bag, fingers searching for cool hard metal among the crumbs and tampons and scrap paper, and pull out a coin worth more than anything I’ve ever owned. This is:
The Convincer
Pete’s attention snaps to the coin between my fingers, a hungry gleam in his eyes. I switch out the star and add the bull next to the other coins. If Pete looks close enough, he’ll see the difference, the magical sheen on the bull that the skulls lack. But I’m betting on Pete’s laser focus here, and humanity’s habit of seeing only what they expect.
Pete lays the finger bone on the table, and we’re now to my favorite part:
The All-In
As I shuffle the coins, his eyes are glued to my hands. There’s a sudden chill in the station, but I’m expecting it. I don’t let it throw me. I do, however, peek over Pete’s shoulder and see the thing I’ve been dreading all along: a transit police officer. Time to wrap this up, with or without the score.
I stop the coins, and Pete hesitates.Come on, come on.It won’t be long until I’m noticed. It takes everything in me to keep my leg from bouncing, my gaze focused on Pete. My fingers twitch, itching to fidget. It seems like an eternity, but I have to trust that my fear is slowing time. I can’t snap at him to hurry, and I can’t watch the progress of the thing hunting me. I can only breathe in a count of three and out a count of three.
Finally, Pete taps his finger on the middle coin. I fake a grimace as I flip it over, revealing the bull. And now I present to you:
The Handoff
Trying not to rush, I offer him the coin, hand stretched out, fingers cupped down so I can drop one of the worthless coins in his hand. Pete’s palm is facing up an inch and a half below mine. It’s a quick drop, but just as I release the coin, a pair of narrowed eyes in the crowd lock onto mine, and my fingers slip. The worthless obol falls into Pete’s hand, but now the real one is poking between my ring and middle finger. And he notices.
Pete and I share a single moment of shock. Then I grab the finger bone and make a run for it. At least, I try to.
His hand clamps around my wrist, and he pulls me close, his breath hot on my cheek. “Got ya, sweetheart.”
Behind him, the crowd has parted around a dark figure, but Pete doesn’t seem to notice. I do, though. Tall, lean, a yellow high-vis vest over a police uniform. At least, that’s what it appears to be. It can shape-shift to match its surroundings, but I can sense it like prey senses a predator.
A hellhound. The white blood cells of the Afterlife, seeking and destroying any contaminant, anything that doesn’t belong.
Like me.
In its hand is what looks like a gun, except it’s not a gun. My brain only thinks it is because it’s a weapon. I have to get the hell out of here. Time for:
The Blow-Off
Pete’s grip on me is strong, and even though neither of us is technicallymatterright now, his belief that he can keep hold of my wrist is stronger than my belief that I can break free. I hold the finger bone just out of his reach as he grapples for it and noticebelatedly that we’ve moved under a fluorescent light. My hand has become translucent. His eyes light with understanding, and he goes for my throat. I dart back.
It’s too late, though. The hellhound blurs and is suddenly next to us. It points its gun that’s not a gun at me. Unfortunately, this is:
The Fix
Unfortunate for Pete, that is.
I grab on to his wrist and pull him into the line of fire. A bullet that’s not a bullet hits Pete in the back of the head. There’s no blood. No viscera. No jerk of movement as a small metal bead hits his skull at twice the speed of sound. Because it’s not a bullet. It’s some kind of magic? spell? curse?
