A Devil in the Details

by K. A. Stewart

  I glanced over the tables, looking for Nelson Kidd. It was a sure bet he’d be in a ball cap and sunglasses. Famous people always think that hides their identity, like Clark Kent with his glasses. Kidd would also be wearing a long-sleeve shirt or jacket, despite the beautiful spring weather. It would hide his mark of shame.

  Sure enough, I spotted a man who fit the criteria sitting in the farthest back corner of the restaurant—an older man, with a cap for the local ball team, probably purchased at the airport or hotel gift shop. He wouldn’t dare wear his own team’s logo, not for this. He had on a sweatshirt and khakis, and he watched the restaurant with short nervous glances but never made eye contact. That was my man.

  Waving the hostess off, I headed that way. Mr. Baseball Cap and Shades looked up as I got closer, and despite the dark glasses, I could almost see the wheels of his mind working as he compared this man walking toward him to the description he’d been given. Six foot two? Check. Blond ponytail? Check. Scruffy red beard? Check, and if I didn’t shave soon, Mira was gonna get grumpy.

  He was still uncertain until I walked up and stuck my hand out to shake. “Mr. Kidd.”

  “Mr. Dawson.” He shook my hand finally, but he still made my name sound like half a question. You know, one of those “Please God, is this really the man I’m waiting for?” sort of questions. I was pretty sure it was the T-shirt that really worried him.

  I slid into the empty side of the booth without being invited, then nodded toward his left arm. “Let me see.”

  He took the time to remove his hat and glasses first, stalling as long as he could. He looked older than he did on his television appearances, the lines on his face carved deeper and longer by stress and constant exposure to the sun. His face looked downright leathery. His hair had more silver strands than blond, but you’d never be able to see it in the bright sunlight. One day, he would look up and have snow-white hair, as though it snuck up on him. It was buzzed into the same crew cut he’d probably had since high school.

  My steady gaze seemed to make him uncomfortable. Honestly, that’s why I do it. Funny how the soulless always seem afraid to meet another person’s gaze, as if they’re afraid we can tell, just by looking. Most of the time, I can. It’s something in the eyes.

  He finally rolled the sleeve of his sweatshirt up, taking care to keep his inner arm turned away from anyone’s wandering gaze.

  I took firm hold of his wrist so I could get a good look and ignored his meek attempt at a protest. The mark was there, burned stark and black into the skin. It could easily be mistaken for some tribal tattoo, so popular just a few years ago, but I knew better. Sinuous curves led into sharp angles that didn’t quite follow the laws of physics. It seemed to ripple as I looked at it, my eyes simply not designed to grasp all they were trying to take in. If I stared at it long enough, I’d end up with a blazing headache. I released him and sat back in the seat.

  Some of the sigil I recognized; some of it was new to me. That’s not to say I can actually read the demon script, only that I’d encountered similar things before. He was someone’s property; one in a herd of cattle, no doubt. His was fairly complex, indicating first the strength of the demon he was bound to, and second the number of convolutions involved in his contract. Kidd must have struck a helluva hard bargain. That tattoo would have hurt like hell, burning in (no pun intended).

  “All right, the way this is going to work is you’re going to do a lot of talking, and I’m going to do a lot of listening. Then I’m going to do a lot of talking, and you’re going to do a lot of listening, okay?”

  Kidd only nodded mutely as the perky waitress came by, and he pushed his sleeve down quickly.

  “Hi. Can I get you guys started with drinks or an appetizer today? We’re having a lunch special on boneless buffalo wings!” Her name tag said BRIT. She looked like a Brit, with bleached blond pigtails and way too much enthusiasm about her menial job.

  “A Coke to drink. And I’ll have the rib eye, medium rare, with fries.” Hey, I had to go to work right after this, and I hadn’t eaten yet. Besides, Kidd would be picking up the tab. If I hadn’t had to work, I’d have ordered a beer, too. My theory is, if you can see your hand through the beer, it’s too light, and Chino’s had a great dark ale from their microbrewery.

  Waitress Brit jotted it all down, nodding like a bobblehead. “And for your second side?”

  “More fries.” I’m a simple man. I like French fries.

  “And you, sir?” She looked to Kidd expectantly, and he kept his face turned toward the window. I wanted to tell him that the odds of Waitress Brit recognizing him were slim, but who was I to deny a man his delusions of his own fame? After all, I’m a legend in my own mind.

  “Just coffee, please. Regular.” At the bar, the construction workers broke into raucous cheers, and Kidd flinched.

  Waitress Brit didn’t seem to notice. “Right, one coffee, wired. I’ll be right back!” She bounced off, her pigtails bobbing behind her.

  We sat in silence until she brought our drinks, and then I waited longer as Kidd added sugar and cream to his coffee until it turned a nice pale mocha color. “All right. Tell me what happened.”

  The old ball player stirred his coffee and finally sighed. “Are you a baseball fan, Mr. Dawson?”

  “I am. Since I was a kid, actually.”

  “Then you know me and my career. You are not new to your business, as I understand. I am sure you can already guess what happened. I was getting old. The new players coming in every season were younger, stronger, faster. Arizona was the first team to keep me for more than two months, and the only one to let me do more than warm up in the bull pen. All I ever wanted to do was play ball, and nobody was going to let me anymore.” He sipped from his cup.

  “One night, I was standing out on the mound after a game, just watching the empty stadium and contemplating whether I would retire or take the bump to the minors. All I could hear was the echo of the grounds crew, already back in the tunnels, and the hum of the lights. It was so still. . . .” For a moment, he was lost in the past. I had seen that look many times, on many faces. “I thought I was alone, but then this man walked out of the visiting dugout. He had on a suit, clean- cut. I just figured he was someone’s agent or lawyer. He had that look.” Kidd paused there, and I could see a shudder run through him.

  “And then he started talking. It was like his voice was piercing right into my skull. Like . . . there aren’t any words to describe what it was like.” His eyes, when he finally looked at me, were wide and shocky. Even now, years after he must have made his bargain, that memory threatened to unhinge him.

  “Drink your coffee, Mr. Kidd.” I pressed the cup into his hands, and he clutched it like a lifeline. “I know what they sound like.” I had spent more time conversing with demons in the past four years than I wanted to think about. The voices stayed with me long after I banished their physical forms. It was like an oil slick in the mind, a sickly rainbow taint gliding over crystal clear water. No amount of showering would get rid of it, but I’d tried, in the beginning.

  “You ever just suddenly realize that someone isn’t human, even though that should be impossible?” He shook his head, dropping his gaze again. “Yeah . . . I suppose you have.”

  “And he made you an offer you couldn’t refuse.” It’s cliché, yes, but it’s amazing how often it applies.

  Kidd seemed to think about that before shaking his head again. “No. I could have refused. I mean, that’s what free will is about, right? There’s always a choice? I chose what I did with full knowledge of what I was doing. At the time, I thought, hey, I’m not a religious man, so what does it really matter? And my game came back, and we went to the series and it was everything I dreamed it would be.”

  “So what changed?” Normally, they came to me when they were sure they were dying and only had Hell to look forward to. I get a lot of cancer patients.

  “My daughter had a baby about seven months ago. My first grandchild. A little bo
y.” He smiled faintly, and I had to return it. What can I say—my daughter is the light of my life. I understood completely. Kidd’s smile faded, though, quickly. “He screams when I try to hold him. He’s inconsolable. My wife keeps trying to tell me that’s just how babies are, but . . . He knows, doesn’t he, Mr. Dawson? Just a baby, but he knows.”

  The conversation paused as Waitress Brit brought my lunch and refilled Kidd’s coffee, though he hadn’t had more than a sip. I cut into my steak to make sure they’d cooked it right—I loathe overcooked steak—but it was perfect and red in the center. “Yeah . . . he knows,” I said, talking around my first bite. “Children and animals, Mr. Kidd. They’re not fooled by all the masks and shields. They know. If it’s any consolation, by the time he’s about fifteen or so, he’ll be just as jaded as the rest of us, and it won’t matter anymore.” The fries were good—hot and seasoned perfectly. I didn’t even bother with ketchup.

  Kidd watched me with a dazed look as I wolfed down the food. I knew the feeling. Once upon a time, I couldn’t have eaten while discussing these things, either. Now . . . I’d grown a bit more practical.

  “So, now you have decided that you don’t want to go through with it. You want your soul back. Realize, once we start this, there’s no going back and you only get one shot.” He nodded, gazing deeply into his coffee. “Here comes the part where I do all the talking, so listen carefully.”

  I nibbled on my food as I talked. I’d given this speech before. I think it’s even gotten better over the years. “I have a wife, Mr. Kidd, and a five-year-old daughter. My wife runs her own small bookstore, and my daughter is starting kindergarten in the fall. I tell you all this so you understand my motivations for what I’m going to say next.”

  Although he still wouldn’t look right at me, he was actually listening. You can tell when someone isn’t.

  “My base rate is a hundred grand, paid up front. And it goes up from there if things get sticky. This is nonnegotiable.” Before you start thinking I’m a total dick, let me tell you that it is only nonnegotiable for people who have the money to begin with. I wouldn’t turn down someone who couldn’t pay, but those who can . . . well, they can share the wealth.

  Unfortunately, too many of my recent clients fell into the “no pot to piss in” category. Kidd’s hundred would be just enough to pay off the last round of hospital bills and get us back on an even keel.

  “I charge money so that I can put a third of it in an account to support my wife and child when I get killed. Make no mistake, I will die one of these days. It may be tomorrow; it may be ten years from now, but it will happen.” Well, ideally that’s what I would do with it. In practice, most of my fees tended to go to cause number two.

  “Another third goes into an account to cover my medical bills, because this job comes with crappy health insurance, and I will get hurt. I have yet to be challenged to a game of tiddlywinks.

  “The rest goes into maintaining my weapons and armor, because that stuff isn’t common, or cheap.” I sopped up some of the steak juices with my fries. Damn, those were good fries.

  “What I want you to understand, and I mean really understand, is that you are asking me to risk my life because you made a mistake out of greed or vanity or pride. If I die, my wife is a widow, and my daughter is fatherless, all because of you. Your job, over the next twenty-four hours, is to think that over real hard. You have to decide if you can live with yourself after something like that.” I wiped my mouth and tossed the napkin on the table. “I’ll call you tomorrow afternoon to get your decision.”

  Waitress Brit popped up with that “Do you want dessert” grin on her face, and I just shook my head as I slid out of the booth. I swear, her pigtails actually wilted. She was crushed. “Bring him the check.” I glanced to Kidd. “And you’d better tip well.”

  The clock above the bar said one thirty. I had to be at work by two.

  As I passed the bar, I noticed the construction workers had vacated, and the television had gone from arena football to the weather. A round fellow in glasses gestured wildly at a map with arrows all over it. “This looks like the largest storm front in the last ten years. We can expect high winds, damaging hail and lightning, and possible tornadic activity, starting early Friday.”

  Damn. That was going to ruin Mom’s party.

  The bright sun seemed determined to make a liar out of the weatherman, and I felt compelled to whistle a jaunty tune as I walked to my truck. Then I noticed a man standing by the back bumper, obviously waiting for me, and my musical urges died between one step and the next.

  He stood up straighter as I neared, but it didn’t hide that he was a good five inches shorter than I. He was clean-cut and baby faced, and his gray suit probably cost as much as my house payment. He seemed young, and when I checked his shoes, sure enough he was wearing loafers. I always assume people do that when they’re not old enough to tie their shoes yet. The thought made me smirk to myself, and the man gave me a puzzled look.

  “Mr. Dawson.” He offered his hand, which I ignored, and a plastic smile, which I did not return.

  “Don’t lean on my truck.”

  “Sir?”

  “Don’t lean on my truck.” I proceeded to do that very thing. “I don’t know you, so you don’t get to touch her.” Okay yeah, I made the first hostile move. But he looked like a lawyer. I hate lawyers.

  “Ah.” He eyed the truck warily but took a step away, wiping his hand on his trousers as if she’d contaminated him somehow. Losing points left and right, my boy. “My name is Travis Verelli. I represent the interests of Mr. Kidd.” He offered me his business card, which I took and read carefully. Ugh, he was worse than a lawyer. He was an agent.

  “And is there a reason you’re lurking out here by my truck, Mr. Verelli?” I had to squash the urge to call him something snide. Junior and Skippy were the two favorites at the moment.

  “Mr. Kidd asked that I wait outside while he met with you.”

  “Good puppy. What do you want now, a treat?”

  The smile he was fighting to keep wavered at the edges. “I would like to ask you to leave my client alone.”

  That earned him a raised brow. “And does Mr. Kidd know you’re out here asking me that?”

  His smile turned into a distasteful grimace. “Mr. Kidd is well aware of my opinions of his . . . situation.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest and shook my head in amusement. “And just what do you grasp as his ‘situation’?”

  His eyes hardened, and I mentally tacked another five years onto his age. “My client is no longer a young man, Mr. Dawson. And at times I believe he is . . . confused about certain things. This would make it easy for someone unscrupulous to take advantage of him, and I intend to prevent that.”

  I couldn’t help but snicker. “Let me get this straight. You think he’s going senile, and you are protecting him from the big bad world. Doesn’t hurt that your income is protected, too, so long as no one knows the old man’s gone batty.”

  “I have my client’s best interests in mind. You, on the other hand . . .” A bit of petty triumph gleamed in his eyes. I wanted to smack him. “I have done some investigating into your background. I have connections, Mr. Dawson. You have minimal discernible employment for the last four years, and yet you consistently deposit large sums of money into several bank accounts. You have been hired repeatedly as a ‘security consultant’ by people who have had their own security forces for years, and you seldom remain on the payroll longer than a month. It leaves me to wonder just what services you are performing.”

  “I give windows a sparkling, streak-free shine.” I said it with a straight face, and he glowered.

  “I have been dragged all over the country in the last few months, dealing with Mr. Kidd’s . . . we’ll call it a dilemma. I do not now, nor will I ever, believe these delusions of his, and if you will not stop feeding them, I will be forced to take legal action.” He said it with the same menace I might use when threatening to run
a sword through someone’s guts.

  Did I mention I don’t like being threatened? “You take whatever action you like. I’m doing nothing illegal, and you’re going to make me late for work. Good day, Mr. Verelli.” I slid into the truck and slammed the door before he could answer. Slimy little weasel. He’d piss himself if he ever saw the things I’d seen.

  I gave him a finger-fluttering wave as I pulled out of the parking lot, and I could feel his scowl all the way down the block.

  5

  I had to walk seven blocks from the designated employee parking lot just to get to work. I’d be so much happier once they finished the new parking garage, but that project had languished in limbo since the early freeze last fall. I personally believed the contractors had made off with the money, never to be seen again. Management kept insisting that construction would resume in the summer, but in the meantime, we were left with a roofless shell of a garage, piles of rusting construction supplies, and rivers of yellow clay mud every time it rained. When it wasn’t raining, the wind blew clouds of dust into all the shops, coating everything in a fine yellow powder. I mostly watched the weather to see if I was going to be slogging through muck or eating grit on any given day. So much for Sierra Vista, the latest and trendiest in outdoor shopping meccas.

  Don’t ask me why a shopping mall in Kansas City, Missouri, was named Sierra Vista when there isn’t a mountain in sight for hundreds of miles. I wasn’t consulted. I suppose the faux sandstone façades and orange clay tile roofs could be reminiscent of a quaint Hispanic village. Y’know—one with a Starbucks on the corner and a Japanese steakhouse at the end of the block. I passed a day spa, a Victoria’s Secret, two competing comedy clubs, and the garish neon sign proclaiming the newest restaurant to be named Moonlight & Roses. The hot pink moon and violently purple roses were bright enough to sear through eyelids, even in the daylight. I was never going to get the ghastly sight out of my head.