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“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.”
Candy strokes the tiger’s ears.
Rose’s breathing and heart spike like someone rigged his scrotum to a 220 line.
“Please don’t touch that,” he says, and crosses the room in a few strides to where Candy is standing. She backs off and goes back to Brigitte while Rose combs the tiger’s fur back the way it was.
“Do you ever make anything besides animals?” says Candy.
She’s setting him up for me to knock down. Rose isn’t relaxed enough to attack, but he’s plenty distracted. I take off my glove and put it in my pocket.
“Like what?” says Rose.
I walk into his workspace balancing the 8 Ball on my Kissi hand.
“Something like this.”
