“Do you have children, Mr. Shaw?” he asked suddenly.
“Hm?”
“Do you have children, Mr. Shaw?”
“No.”
“If you ever do, I can’t recommend this type of book enough, but I’m sure it’s very uninteresting to you now.”
“That it is.” He glanced at the tablet. The approval had come through. “We’re done for now. I’ll locate and eliminate Charn as soon as I can.”
Granger frowned. “I’m not sure that’s his real name. It may be a nom de plume, if you understand.”
“Expense accounts are for such things. Thank you.” He rose and left the author sitting at the table as the middle-aged lady dropped off his mug of coffee and a cinnamon roll.
Chapter 3
A Knock on the Door
The knock on the door was unusual enough. With the exception of Father Darren and people delivering something, he never had visitors. That, added to the fact that he had been tailed by a private eye a week or so back, made Shaw doubly suspicious. He had the option of the custom-made peephole, or accessing the hidden door camera on his phone, but he was near the door and just used the peephole. A woman, 40 or so with a round face framed by dark hair, was standing outside. She was lovely, and tense. Her hand was in her purse.
I do believe I’ve been made. There’s likely a pistol in that purse. How exciting.
The door was reinforced and bullet-proof. He stood behind it confidently and called out with his eye still to the peephole, “Shaw here, what may I do for you?”
“I’d, I’d like to hire you, Mr. Shaw.”
“Oh?” Why so nervous, lady?
“May I come in?” She appeared to be ready to pull out whatever was in her purse.
“You’ll have to give me a moment.” He walked back to his coffee table and picked up one of his Sigs. He decided at the last moment to ask questions instead of shooting first. He could easily call it self-defense, as her hand was almost certainly on a pistol in her purse, but he was really in no danger.
He unbolted the door and opened it fast, extending only his right hand holding the Sig out. She noted the Sig without alarm, but her shoulders slumped.
“Please remove your hand from your purse and place the purse on the floor inside my apartment, ma’am. I’m a cautious man, given my line of work.”
She recovered her composure, removed her hand as instructed, and slid the purse off her shoulder. “I suppose being a professional killer does that.”
“Yes, I suppose so. Put your purse just inside my door.”
She did as she was told, and he shut the door, bolting it again. There was an H&K USP in her purse. He checked the chamber and ejected a metal-jacketed .40-caliber hollow point. He smiled at it. At least she meant business. He removed the magazine and the slide, popped the spring out, and dumped it all back in her purse, then set the purse atop his bookshelf. He checked the peephole and saw her still standing there, indecision on her face. He unbolted the door and opened it wide, holding her again at gunpoint.
“Won’t you come in, ma’am?” he invited her cordially.
She appeared to think it over and then stepped inside. As Shaw moved to close the door, he saw Father Darren standing in his own doorway with his mouth and eyes wide. The priest recovered himself and said, “Gordon, is this true?”
“I’m afraid so, Mike. Please excuse me. I have business.”
“Not her, Gordon?”
“No,” he laughed, “only for pay.” The hurt look on the priest’s face was comical.
He shut the door and turned to see that the woman was standing by his window, looking out over the view of downtown visible from it. She turned as the door closed and absently picked up the replica of King Tut’s dagger off the coffee table. She examined it a moment, noted the bloodstains, and set it down again with disdain.
“You didn’t come here to hire me, ma’am. You came to kill me. Why?”
She looked him full in the face. He could respect that. She wasn’t afraid at all. “George Sanders, Mr. Shaw. I came because of George Sanders.”
She was angry, on the verge of something. He wasn’t sure if it would be tears or a physical attack, but he felt secure and amused behind his gun.
“That was a bit ago. Yes, I remember. I was paid to do it. It wasn’t personal. Would you like to hire me to kill the man who paid me to do it? That’s not an uncommon thing, you know. I can’t tell you who he is, but if you already know, LEI wouldn’t charge nearly as much…or have you already had him offed? I would have, by now.”
“You killed my husband yesterday, and it will always be yesterday. How can you live with yourself?”
She was holding it in well. Her wrath and grief were both contained, if only just.
“The money is good,” he said, nonchalantly. “So there’s that.”
“It doesn’t mean anything to you?”
“Everybody dies, anyway. It’s only natural to make a business of it. It’s just business. You want to hire me, or not?”
The look she gave him was appraising. “You’re pathetic.”
“Maybe, but I’m good at my job, and I’m rich.”
“How’d you know I was here to kill you?”
“I don’t get many visitors, and I look carefully through my peephole before I answer my door.”
“I should have just shot you through the door.”
He laughed. “Try that next time, Mrs. Sanders.”
“I’ll go now.”
“As you wish.”
“Don’t use that saying. It’ll ruin a good movie for me.”
“As you wish.”
“My purse?”
He fetched it down and handed it to her.
“My gun?”
“It’s in there.”
She looked, nodded, and opened the door. “Goodbye, Mr. Shaw.”
“Try hiring someone next time, Mrs. Sanders.”
She left, closing the door behind her.
Chapter 4
Information
Shaw woke to the ding of text message, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and picked up the phone. He stopped on seeing his hand. It was a regular human hand not the hand of a man lizard. He’d had that dream again in which he was a reptile in a supermarket looking to kill. He rubbed his eyes again, the dream fading.
The message from Brenda at LEI was about his current job.
He ordered the Philly; she ordered the club. They both got glasses of sweet tea with lemon. He got the jalapeno chips. She got a cookie. They sat in her car, because he didn’t approve of eating in vehicles and wouldn’t do so in his.
Brenda was average looking, a dirty blond with freckles, a tad overweight, but not by much. She wasn’t his type, though she was very efficient at her job. Too smart, was his issue. Working with smart women was one thing but taking them to bed was another.
“I’m too smart to sleep with?” she asked, incredulous.
He shrugged. “Yep. I don’t want to have to think about my relationships, sorry. I just want the entertainment without—”
“Complications. Yeah, I got you. Shank, I’ve been wondering for three years why I can’t get with you, and it’s because I can think my way out of a problem. That’s infuriating.”
“I’ve
asked you not to call me that.”
“Yeah, but I get away with it because you need me, so I’m good with it.”
He took a long drink from his sweet tea and said, “You have information for me about Charn?”
“Yep. So we couldn’t just be friends with benefits?”
“Too complicated, Brenda.”
“Seriously? A fling now and then?”
“Charn?”
“He has a pooka.”
“A what?”
“An Irish or Celtic fairy type. It’s invisible most of the time, can assume a variety of shapes, and can be extremely dangerous. Pookas are generally not harmful, just mischievous, but this one is attached to Charn, rather than running around Ireland playing tricks on travelers and confounding ghost hunters. It might well kill to protect him. It’s on the watch list.”
“The watch list?”
“I shouldn’t have mentioned it. It’s over your head. Actually, it’s over mine, too. At any rate, you’ll need some special gear to deal with it. You may consider it a bodyguard, so it’s acceptable collateral damage.”
“The rumors I’ve heard of special shooters for special assignments? The Trashmen?”
“Stuff you and I shouldn’t know. We should drop it.”
He opened his bag of chips and put one in his mouth thoughtfully. He’d suspected, as had others he knew, that LEI was involved in things other than the murder business at times. It was interesting, he supposed, but how interesting could it be? Kaval wasn’t his area, and keeping an eye on magical creatures sounded tedious. There might be a lot more involved, but keep life simple, Shaw. You’re good at what you do. Keep doing it. Let others handle their mysteries.
He took out his phone and ran a search for the term “pooka.”
“You don’t use password protection on your phone?” she asked, amazed.
“Too much bother. Why would I, anyway? I never leave it where anyone can get it. It’s on me or behind my locked door. Why would I add hassle to my life?”
“Sorry I asked,” she said.
She ate her cookie while leaning against her door and frowning at him. “Too smart,” she mumbled, scoffing. “Who the hell do you have a relationship with then, Shank?”
Breaking out of his musing, he said, “I don’t really do relationships.”
She almost spit her bite of cookie out of her mouth. She pointed a finger at him and shouted, “Whores? You do hookers and call girls, don’t you, Shank?”
He nodded, thoughtfully eating another chip.
“I damn well should have seen that coming.”
“Maybe you should’ve. I get all the sex and none of the complications. It can be great sex.”
“Yeah, but they don’t give a damn about you. That’s kinda sad.”
He shook his head. “I don’t need anyone to care for me or to care about, Brenda.”
She sighed.
“What kind of equipment?” he asked. “I have some fairy-detecting glasses in my personal kit, as well as active kaval-detecting glasses. Is there anything else?”
“They can use illusions,” she said. “Your detection glasses won’t see through illusions; they’ll just allow you to see there’s kaval in use. We have a set you can rent that’ll see through illusions and detect fairies. That’s what you’ll need. It’s flesh and blood, so bullets will kill it. Where did you get equipment like that?”
“From a private source, paid for with my own money, thank you.”
“Well, be careful with what I’m giving you, and never mention it to anyone. Most contractors don’t believe in kaval, or even know about it, of course. I’d never have brought this stuff to you, except you know about it through your own experience.”
She reached into her back seat and pulled a pair of what looked like night vision goggles out of a box. “Here they are. There’s a manual that goes with them.”
“Add it to the expense account,” he said.
“Will do.”
They finished eating in silence. She stared out the windshield; he perused the manual. There was a second booklet on Irish fairies, as well.
“Thank you,” he said a bit later, opening the door and stepping out.
“You’re welcome, as always. Watch your caboose,” she said sourly.
“Will do.”
Chapter 5
Among the Masses
Shaw was still reading up on pookas when the phone rang. It was Harold Johns. He picked up.
“Johns?”
“Hey, Shaw, old buddy,” Johns’ light voice piped in like a memory.
“How’s the security business?”
“It’s great, just great. You won’t believe what I came across the other day on an unlicensed shooter trying to take out one of my clients—an “S” code Kriefhoff Luger 9mm. It still fires. Had it at the range the other day. It’s gorgeous.”
Shaw smiled. “How much do you want for it?”
“Good old Shaw, always straight to the point, and always interested in Nazi paraphernalia.”
“They were efficient killers. How much?”
“Ten thousand, I’d say.”
“Sounds fair, given the current market. When do you want to meet? I’m not busy now.”
“What, now?” Johns laughed.
“Sure.” Damn straight, now, old buddy. If it’s an “S” code, I want to see it now.
“I’m a married man now, Shaw, and a daddy. I can’t just pop out any time I want.”
“What the hell is your wife for?”
“Yeah, good point, but still.”
“Run an errand for her. Don’t you need something from the store?”
“Well, maybe,” Johns said in a more optimistic tone. “Let me ask.”
“You do that.”
Shaw waited, hearing half the conversation as Johns inquired if his wife needed anything. A deal was struck. He could go out if he took the older child with him, leaving his wife with just the infant. He agreed.
“Meet at the Walmart across from Wolfchase in about half an hour?”
“I was thinking of a place with alcohol, myself.”
“I have a three-year-old with me.”
“Couldn’t it wait in the car?”
“Shaw, no.”
“Walmart it is, then.”
“See you in half an hour, old buddy.”
Shaw took a loving look in his gun safe at the antiques already there, including another Luger, and then grabbed a jacket, a wad of bills from the other safe, and headed out the door.
The Walmart was fairly busy, and he resigned himself upon arrival to going in among the seething mass of humanity. First, he called Johns.
“Where in this vacation getaway might I find you?”
“In the back right. I’m in the baby section looking at diapers, of course.”
“Of course.”
He soldiered on into the store. Johns was indeed looking at diapers. Shaw found him and the three-year-old, a girl, staring at mondo boxes of poop catchers. The toddler in the cart seat ducked her head, kicked her legs in the air, and looked away when Shaw rounded the corner of the aisle and joined them. Johns’ hand shot out excitedly. They shook. Johns’ grip was as iron as ever.
“The last time I saw you,” Shaw said, “you were standing over the corpse of a pro wrestler whose ass you’d kicked for the fun of it before putting a bullet in his brain. Kids, diapers, these little nipple things they suck on, these aren’t you. This is pitiful.”
“Nah, I really enjoy it,” Johns said without the least hint of defensiveness.
Shaw looked hard at the girl. Her blond curls had fragments of food in them, spaghetti by the looks of it. She regarded Shaw curiously but suspiciously.
“Well, you’re not particularly good at it. Look at it. It’s filthy. You’re supposed to keep it clean. Isn’t that what all of this is for, keeping babies clean?”
“Ah, a little dinner in the hair is par for the course. I didn’t notice because I was excited to see you. Sh
e’ll get a bath before bed. Never fear.”
“Ssgetti,” the child declared, pointing at her head.
“That’s right, baby girl. You’re a mess, like the man says. Haven’t you any self-respect?”
“Ssgetti!” she said emphatically.
Shaw gave Johns a direct and significant look.
“It’s good to see you, buddy,” Johns said. “I miss us having each other’s sixes. We were a hell of a good team.”
“Fifteen jobs, wasn’t it? Back in the early days, when ‘philanthropists’ wanted to end gang violence the efficient way?”
“One hundred and thirty-seven kills between us, ninety for pay, and the rest in self-defense.”
“We’d have been dead if the ‘hoods had known how to shoot.”
“Those were the best days, challenging, thrilling, dangerous. I miss them.”
“We make more money now,” Shaw observed. “Have you made your, uh, selection, Mr. Diaper aficionado?”
Johns laughed. “Yep, the more expensive brand is the safer bet.”
They made their way to the checkouts, where Johns bought the diapers and a treat for the girl. Shortly, they were tooling the basket across the parking lot to John’s truck.
“No minivan?”
“Angela drives the minivan. I get a truck.”
“I’m glad you’re able to keep a token fragment of your man card. What’s its name?”
“Her name is Angelica,” Johns said, stressing the pronoun.
“Angelica,” Shaw said, “your father is a stone-cold killer. Can you say, ‘Stone-cold killer?’”
She looked up at him seriously.
“I don’t think I want her repeating that to her mother, Shaw. I’m in security these days, and that’s all she ever needs to know.”
“Stone-cold killer,” the child repeated with startling clarity.
“Good job,” Shaw said, holding out his hand for a high five. She shied away from touching him.
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