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“Beautiful work,” he says. “Incredible detail. And these materials. Brass-and-platinum skin over a core of surgical steel and cinnabar. You see these tiny sapphires by the base?”
He holds it up. There are a few blue specks on the 8 Ball’s belly.
“Someone’s charmed them. That’s what gives it a low-level magic signature. It’s gorgeous work. Does it have a name?”
“Qomrama Om Ya.”
“Never heard of it. I like animals.”
“If it helps, the guy had a raven in his room. Good work. Very convincing.”
Mike looks up from the magnifier.
“You didn’t happen to check under the tail feathers, did you?”
“You mean, did I look at the bird’s ass? No. It never crossed my mind. I’d go back and try, only by now the ass is probably blown halfway to Las Vegas.”
Mike goes back to the 8 Ball.
“Too bad. Lots of people sign their work in places most people don’t look. That way if the bird changes hands and needs repairs, they can find the original builder.”
“That’s truly fascinating. I’ll look under your ass if it’ll help you tell me something I can use.”
“Wait,” says Mike. “Gotcha. Right there.”
He hunches over the magnifier, holding the 8 Ball closer.
“I know who made it.”
“You sure?”
He crooks a finger at me and I go around to his side of the table. The 8 Ball is huge in the magnifier. He uses one of his delicate tools to point to a single sapphire stud.
“You see that little mark etched around the sapphire? That’s the alchemical symbol for verdigris. Only one Tick-Tock Man signs his work with that. You’ll love him. He’s a total asshole. Atticus Rose.”
“Do you have a number for him?”
Mike does a sarcastic little laugh.
“Are you kidding? Rose is a golden eagle riding a gumdrop thermal over Candy Land. On a good day I’m a snail crawling across that grease pit out front. Eagles don’t give their business cards to snails.”
“You’re not a snail, Mike. You’re at least a ferret.”
“Thanks,” he says like he actually means it. “Anyway, like I was saying, we don’t move in the same circles.”
“Who would know him?”
“The high-and-mighties. Someone who can pay the equivalent of a Lamborghini for a parakeet. Someone like Blackburn. Maybe his government or showbiz buddies. You ever party with them? Me neither.”
I take the 8 Ball back from Mike. It’s hard for him to let go. It’s like he’s fallen in love and doesn’t want to see his girlfriend carried off by a highwayman.
“I don’t party with people like that, but I know someone who might. Thanks, Mike.”
I’m halfway to the door when Mike calls after me.
“Hold up. I’ve been thinking about Kasabian.”
“Don’t do that. You’ll get lesions on your brain.”
