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I come out in a room that reminds me of Garrett’s. A generically elegant place, but a little more old school than his was. The wood looks like wood instead of veneer and the paintings look real instead of like overpriced prints.
Rose has two adjoining apartments. One for living and one for a workspace. The guy is either loaded or his rental agreement is so old it’s written on parchment and he pays for it with shells and brightly colored beads.
He must be one of those genius types, like Tesla. Guys who would rather live in a hotel than have their own home. Live somewhere they know the sheets and towels will always be clean and where they can get a grilled-cheese sandwich from room service at four A.M. Because we’re in Bel Air, I want to hate his setup, but the truth is, I understand the addiction. I love squatting in the Chateau Marmont. Plus, I never told anyone, but part of me is happy that so many of my clothes end up burned, slashed, shot up, or generally too bloody to deal with. It’s a great excuse never to do laundry. I can deal with fighting in the arena in Hell, but laundry and dishes put the fear of God in me.
I can hear Rose in his workroom, so I stay out of sight in his living quarters.
At three on the dot there’s a knock. Rose goes to open the door and I get my first look at him.
He’s an older guy but not over the hill. In his early sixties maybe. Long, salt-and-pepper hair combed back from his forehead and over his ears. I see lab coats on the wall, but he knows company is coming, so he’s wearing a pressed, old-fashioned, forties-style high-waisted blue suit and tie with a diamond pattern down the center. He could have stepped right off the set of Out of the Past.
He opens the door and there are Candy and Brigitte, carpet-bombing him with their wiles. Old Rose can’t help but smile.
“Knock knock,” says Brigitte.
“You must Mr. Blackburn’s friends.”
“You bet,” says Candy. “Can we come in? We don’t bite.”
“Of course. Please come in.”
Rose stands aside and Candy and Brigitte walk in like they already own the place. Old Atticus looks like he’s about to hand it over to them.
“Would either of you ladies care for some coffee? If you’d like something stronger, I keep whiskey in the apartment. If you’d like wine I can have some sent up.”
He speaks in a deliberate flat drawl. Not southern. Maybe Okie. I had some cousins from Oklahoma. All I remember about them was that they pronounced theater with a long a.
“No thank you. You have a lovely workshop,” says Brigitte.
That’s an understatement. It’s a little slice of Heaven compared to Manimal Mike’s jerry-rigged setup. The space is clean and stocked with every tool in this world and probably a couple of others. There’s enough room for several people to work at once. Rose must have assistants because there are at least a dozen animal familiars around the room, some fully built and others just steel and gear frames.
“Thank you,” he says. “May I give you ladies a tour?”
Just like I thought. Atticus, a professional recluse, can’t help but want to show off his toys. He brings them over to a table where a half-constructed tabby cat lies curled up near unsewn swatches of fur.
Watching them like this isn’t fun. It brings bad old feelings. This is how my hits in Hell used to go. I’d come through a shadow into someone’s home and wait, sometimes hours, for them to get relaxed or distracted, and then quickly, quietly, I’d cut their throats with the black blade. Things only got messy if they had a bodyguard or a hapless, soon-to-be-dead friend strolled into the slaughter scene. No one ever got away. I was a slave and a killer and I was good at it. I don’t want to be any of those things today, so I stay put and take deep breaths, letting the memories fade away.
Speaking of people who need to crank things down a notch, Rose’s heart is doing its own tap dance. Brigitte got good information. This boy likes wide-open spaces. Even with two not-very-large women in the room, he’s uncomfortable.
“Thank you for seeing us so quickly,” Brigitte says to Rose.
“Of course. Any friends of Saragossa are welcome.”
“What’s this?” says Candy. She’s across the workroom on her own, lost in Rose’s mechanical zoo. Nearby is what looks like a wild dog with broad stripes down its back.
“That’s a Tasmanian tiger, young lady. They’re extinct. If you want one I’m the only Tick-Tock Man in the world who can give you an exact copy of an original, capturing both its spirit and its wild soul.”
“It looks expensive.”
“Very expensive,” says Rose.
Candy looks at Brigitte.
“Mom, can I have one if I’m good?”
Brigitte laughs.
“Maybe for your birthday, dear.”
