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“Yeah, but I’m paying in pennies. Think he’ll mind?”
Someone starts this way, sees me, and heads in the other direction. I take off after him and, when I’m close enough, grab his shirt collar and pull him back.
“Mike. What are you doing here?”
Manimal Mike looks like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar. He has a fluffy tortoiseshell kitten in a pet carrier.
Mike holds up the cat.
“Trying to earn a living. Someone’s kitten’s on the fritz. What, you think I only work for live people? That’s racist, man.”
“Calm down, Mike. I was just surprised to see you.”
“Me too.”
His heart is going a million beats a minute. The smell of fear sweat pours off him.
“Is there something you’re not telling me, Mike? Another reason you’re here?”
I let go of his shirt and he shrugs his shoulder back into place.
“Okay. Sure. You still haven’t come across with my soul. These guys. They’re my backup plan. I buy my way in, let one of them bite me, and I don’t die and I don’t go to Hell. And if I’m dead like them, I can still work.”
It actually makes sense, which is more than I expect from Mike.
“I understand. It’s smart to have a Plan B. Just don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone. Don’t let any of these guys put the fangs to you.”
Mike takes the kitten and walks away.
“Give me a reason.”
SOMETIMES YOU GET lucky. Or maybe the angel in my head is a little psychic. Though not nearly psychic enough. If it was, I’d see the shitstorms coming down the road and have a chance to jump in a ditch or hide in a little country church. Let the hellfire-and-brimstone preacher cleanse me of my sins. With a little luck maybe it would be near a roadhouse with local swill on tap and watered-down whiskey behind the bar. The kind of place that would at least let me smoke a goddamn cigarette while I have my drink. But with my normal run of luck, I’ll shelter from the storm in a dry county where the only good times are judging the pigs at a 4-H show or chicken-fried steak at a Cracker Barrel. Like I said, my angel might be a little psychic but he’s not psychic enough to do me a damned bit of good. Probably there’s nothing psychic about him at all. Probably it’s as simple as he talked to Tykho, but an hour after I get to Bamboo House of Dolls, Declan Garrett walks in. Candy sees him first. She elbows me.
“Salesman of the year twelve o’clock high.”
He comes right over and starts in. Not even a “Hi. Sorry about interrupting your donut with gunfire.” I wonder if he knows his gunman was a windup toy.
“I heard you wanted to see me.”
“I’m fine, Declan. How are you?”
He’s agitated. This isn’t his turf. It’s mine and he doesn’t like it. Carlos is looking at him. I raise a hand to let him know that everything is all right and he goes back to serving other customers.
“Listen, I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot the other day. You’re right: I do have the 8 Ball, and you can have it for the million you promised plus one more thing.”
“What?”
“Who’s the buyer?”
His lip curls at one corner of his mouth.
“What do you care?”
“Indulge me.”
“No,” he says. “You indulge me.”
He sidesteps behind Candy while pulling something from under his jacket. I don’t have to see the pistol to know it’s there.
