The Foul Mouth and the Cat Killing Coyotes (The King Henry Tapes)

by Richard Raley

I still didn’t fill it in. It was hard. Damn was it hard. Every bit of anger in me bubbled. The Mancy screamed at me. Draw some anima, King Henry, get the fuck out of here already. Go deal with the Coyotes . . . screw the police, they got nothing on you. You haven’t broken a single law. They haven’t booked you. Just a nice chat. You could leave.

  Nothing to worry about.

  But then I’d really be Suspect Number One.

  All I needed was some cops following me around . . .

  “Back to the store,” Ribera decided.

  “Think we covered it all. Antiques . . . old people . . . teapots.”

  “My question is more this: why is a twenty-two-year-old man running an antique store?”

  “Got to be more questions than just that one . . .”

  Ribera nodded, finally putting the heat on. “Why is an antique store getting shot up by a gang? Which gang are we talking about? Who drove the car that fled the scene? What happened to the truck? And why, Mr. Price, do you look so amused about all this instead of scared for your life?”

  I thought about it. She did have a point. All them machineguns and not a bit of scared in me. I’d just looked at the whole situation like a problem and worked to solve it. T-Bone, I’m pretty sure he really did piss his pants. Me . . . not a bit. Not once had I thought about dying.

  I mean . . . I do have the Mancy, but I think we’ve already established that it’s a paper-shield. My artifacts . . . those were better. I made them, I could count on them. Two-hundred-something bullets and I hadn’t been scared a bit . . . just pissed off. Responses, reactions, clenching those cheeks, throwing myself on the floor not to get hit, yes, but fear?

  Nothing.

  To think I can still be surprised by the depths of how much I got screwed up by my parents and the Asylum. Two-hundred-something bullets and I’d never thought about one cutting through me . . .

  “I’ve always been confident in my ability to protect myself,” I eventually said.

  “You own a gun?”

  “No.”

  “In a rival gang?”

  “No.”

  “Just an idiot who thinks his fists and muscles are going to stop a bullet then?”

  “Like that, yeah.”

  Ribera stood up from her seat, glanced at the window behind her, then shook her head. “Is your store a front, Mr. Price?”

  “No.”

  “Why are you running an antique store of all things?”

  “In this economy?”

  “Pays good, does it?”

  “I’m more than happy to talk to you about my personal life but business is business, you understand. What if all the other antique stores in town heard about my hard times?” Damn, was that hard not to smirk over.

  “You said you were getting out of the antique business.”

  “Seems like a good time, but that don’t mean I’m one-hundred percent on it yet.”

  Ribera changed it up again. “Did you know any of the men who attacked you?”

  “Not my type of crowd.”

  “Did you recognize the truck?”

  “Not that I recall. It’s a big city . . . I suppose we could have driven past each other before.”

  “Can you think of any reason someone would attack you?”

  “Sure, not with machineguns though.”

  “Ex-girlfriends?”

  “Love me some crazy sex . . . but the crazy breakups . . .”

  “How did you survive?”

  “I was on the floor.”

  “Were you alone in the shop?”

  “I think I’ve been very nice about this, but I remind you: I’m the one who got shot at.”

  Ribera finally smiled. Damn, you only had to see that thing once to realize why she rarely did it. “I don’t need reminding about that, Mr. Price.”

  I took a moment to briefly wonder how much trouble I was actually in. I doubt I’d go to jail. I hadn’t done anything worth going to jail over . . . yet. But having the cops up my ass? Probably in my future. More trips downtown? Yup. Cops stopping by my shop? Yup. Ceinwyn being all pissed off at me . . . double yup.

  Ceinwyn . . . wonder what the Learning Council could do about this? I didn’t want to have to call her though. I’d have to tell her about the Coyotes and then she’d be freaking out. If she was at the Asylum I’d have her up my ass in a few hours too.

  My life had to stay open. Cops and Ceinwyn both had to stay away from me. At least long enough for me to have a chat with King Vega and his boy Suit. Of course . . . I had no idea where the Coyotes were at . . . shit . . .

  Who could find out for me?

  Ceinwyn . . .

  Runny ice cream shit . . .

  T-Bone?

  Like he reminded me earlier, he worked on a number of security systems for the cops and sheriffs and stuff . . . he might be able to do some searching for me. Only he’s too much of a polite stand-up guy to actually break any rules . . .

  “Tell me about the backroom,” Ribera said, crossing her arms and staring me down. Nope, not MILFY at all. That face didn’t buy a single thing I was selling. She knew something was strange about me. She wanted to know what it was . . . and what it had to do with gang warfare in Fresno.

  “It’s a workshop. I got hobbies.”

  “What kind of hobbies?”

  “Mechanical, artistic, stuff like that.”

  “Explosives?”

  “No, not explosives. But I admit sometimes something shorts out.”

  “Do you have a permit for that kind of work?”

  “I believe so.”

  “You aren’t sure?”

  “My employer handles all the paperwork.”

  Ribera pulled out a folder from under the desk. She flipped through it, found a paper, and then read a bit aloud for me, “Dale Innovation and Enterprises?”

  “That would be her.”

  “DIE?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The initials . . . D . . . I . . . E.”

  “Huh . . . never noticed that . . .”

  “Are you running a front for gang activity, Mr. Price?”

  “No, I’m not. We going in circles now?” I shrugged. “Could talk about your kid again if you want.”

  “Why would you want to talk about my child, Mr. Price?”

  “Seems more productive then you trying to pin this crime on the innocent victim.”

  Ribera didn’t think so. “No one is innocent.”

  “Shit . . . see . . . .now you’re singing to the choir.”

  “Tell me about the incident last night.”

  I frowned. “Come again?”

  “There was a fist fight a block from your shop the night before last.”

  Huh. Just kept getting worse. “I don’t think I know anything about that.”

  “It was dark, but witnesses seem to recall a truck just like the one blown up in front of your shop.”

  “How about that . . . say, have any of you called my employer yet?”

  “Another officer is as we speak,” Ribera told me. She quirked an eyebrow. “Are you ready to change your story?”

  Yup, definitely getting worse. Now Ceinwyn would become involved. Please let her be in Libya or some other shithole where she’s going to need to charter a plane . . . all I need is a few days . . .

  “Sticking to my story. No idea why this happened.”

  “Do you make bombs and convert automatic weapons for criminals, Mr. Price?”

  “Damn, do I look that much of a badass? I thought I always came across as a petty thief but you got me as a big time.”

  “Are you a thief?”

  “No . . . well, I did steal my principal’s flash drive and put some domination pics of him up on the internet . . . but I was like fourteen at the time, not thinking that’s what you lot are after. Plus, getting him fired was a community service.”

  “This isn’t a game, Mr. Price.”

  “Yeah, I know . . . I got shot at with machineguns, remember?”


  “Your shop isn’t a front?”

  “No.” Not for gangs at least . . .

  “You don’t make weapons?”

  “No.” Only defensive artifacts . . .

  “You know nothing about the altercation near your shop?”

  “No.”

  “Tell me about the girl.”

  “No . . . huh?”

  “Tell me about the girl you had dinner with last night.”

  “What are you, Sherlock-fucking-Holmes?”

  “Machineguns make people remember facts, I find,” Ribera told me.

  I thought about that. “My sister. That’s who the girl was.”

  “You had an argument. She cried.”

  “She did.”

  “She left in a truck like the one outside your shop.”

  “Can’t say I noticed.”

  “Did you threaten her, Mr. Price?”

  My eyes rose up from the table in front of me, locked on Ribera’s. Think you’re something, copper? Think the system works for you? Think you know what I am? Look inside me. See the earthquake made flesh looking back at you. See that landslide just waiting . . . see your house crumbling and all you love and cherish crashing down with it. “I told her that our mother had died.”

  Ribera flinched at something she saw. “Do you want to hit me, Mr. Price?”

  “No . . . I don’t want to hit you . . .” I want to break every piece of metal in this room, especially your fillings. “You’re not going to arrest me,” I decided. “You have some theories you’ve spread out like shotgun pellets, Detective, but not any facts and in real life . . . cops need facts.”

  When I stood up from the table, she stood up with me. “If you’re scared for your safety, Mr. Price, or for your sister’s safety, you need to work with us. We can protect you.”

  “No thanks.” I pointed my finger at her. “A good conversation, wasn’t it?”

  “Don’t do anything you’ll regret, Mr. Price.”

  “Yeah . . . I guess I look how I feel, don’t I?” I wish I could say I grinned at her, but it probably looked more like a full on going-to-eat-your-throat-out snarl.

  [CLICK]

  I barely got all my shit back from the cops before my phone rang. I let it go to voicemail, where it joined four other messages. Three from T-Bone and now two from Ceinwyn.

  “Out of one cell and into another,” I mumbled to myself.

  The cop I’d been handed off to after the interview smiled at me. “Cells are better than dealing with Ribera.”

  “Yeah . . . wish I’d been guilty of something just so I could confess and get her off my back.”

  A wave of a hand, another customer at the window, and I was free to go. Guess I was always free to go, but now even the cops were tired of me. They’d never charged me with anything, guess that’s a plus. But they knew about the fight outside of the grocery store . . . a few minuses and more besides.

  Can’t know it’s me, I figured. Can’t have tape of it. Only been a few hours since my shop got shot up though. The cops didn’t have the tape yet, that didn’t mean one didn’t exist of me pounding in Coyote Nation face.

  So what? I asked myself, walking my way through the rest of the police headquarters and outside into the night.

  Cold night. March in Fresno ain’t winter but it sure as hell ain’t spring either. The air was cold, filled with breezes and gusts and all things air. Above my head the clouds raced west to east, working their way towards the mountains just like usual. To the Asylum.

  Few hours away. I figure you could make it in four or five if you pushed it. Glancing at my phone again I stared at the message box. Five. Important number for the Mancy. Geo. Aero. Hydro. Pyro. Necro. Five. The High Five as the Recruiters called it.

  So what? I asked myself again, standing in the cold air outside the police headquarters, taking in the sights.

  First time I’d ever actually been downtown in Fresno. The County Courthouse, the Police Headquarters, the County Jail, the Sheriff’s Department, and the Fresno City Hall were all in that area. Most looked like flashbacks to the 70s. All brick and concrete trying to form into lazy squares. Not pretty at all, just functional. Not City Hall though, that’s one fucked up building. Brand new looking. Fuck the cops, fuck the sheriffs, fuck the judges, but the politicians got themselves some ugly looking triangle-like space age pyramid shit going on. Probably got itself a nice huge meeting room for the city council no one bothers to show up to see.

  Who has the time nowadays?

  Cogs be too tired to fight . . .

  So what? I asked myself thrice, wishing for the first time in a long while that I had myself a cigarette to light up. That night felt noir if any ever has felt noir.

  So I protected some lady getting picked on by bullies. Used my fists to do it. Bullies come back and shoot up my shop. If all the cards go Ribera’s way that is. If she gets a tape. If the tape shows it’s me. If the tape shows the fighting. If they want to go to trial on that. If a jury will convict. If Ceinwyn doesn’t call in some favors to quash it. If Horatio Vega hasn’t killed me by then.

  If.

  If is what protects the world from the Mancy. Hard for me to care about conversations with a detective like Ribera when I got so much if in the way.

  I found a bench, sat down on it. I crossed my arms, keeping my hands warm inside my coat. “What’s the move, Price?”

  Better question: what can I accomplish in one night? Ceinwyn knew. Meant my ass was about to be spanked hard.

  “One night,” I gritted out, my entire face freezing.

  All around me I could hear the city . . . my city, I guess. Fresno. What did I do to deserve it? Cars, always cars . . . even at night, even past midnight. Cop cars, taxis, tow trucks, just people that should be home sleeping. Squeaking brakes, fuming exhaust, and crunching asphalt every one of them. A police helicopter flew by overhead, just like it had over my shop. Loud ass helicopter, like nails across a chalkboard and it follows you, not letting up.

  “One night . . . and no cigarettes . . .”

  Ceinwyn hadn’t told me about this King Vega. Still pissed me off. Meant she didn’t think I could handle him. Didn’t want us knowing each other, didn’t want us dealing with each other. Could have been just about JoJo, but I’m doubting it. Something about this Vega worried Ceinwyn.

  Back a few months, Annie B seemed to think the Coyotes were tough too. Then there’s JoJo . . . that expression. Scared for me.

  “One night . . . but you messed with my shit . . . you married my sister, keep her under guard . . .”

  Got to do something.

  Got to find out where these Coyotes are at.

  Got to have me a word with Horatio Vega.

  “Or else send him a message he understands.”

  My hand dug into my pocket, pulled out my cell-phone. I hit a few buttons, dialed up T-Bone. “King Henry!” he greeted, not letting me respond. “You aren’t in jail, are you?

  “No . . . cops just wanted to press me a little, see if I spilled on the Coyotes.”

  “That’s good . . .”

  “Yeah . . . I’d hate to have to break their bars, you know?”

  “It’s not funny . . . this is . . . Ceinwyn found out . . .”

  “Yeah, means we don’t got much time.”

  “ . . . Huh?”

  I found myself staring across the street at a building. “You work with the Sheriff’s Department, right? Got yourself a nice security card?”

  Session 12

  The birds came out before the sun.

  The sun came out before the mancers.

  It was decided in our tent that Jason and me would be the first two to exit. Jason on account of being gigantic and me on account of my natural pugnacious outlook. It surprised me how quickly Welf agreed to the plan. He probably hoped I’d get ate.

  Blood on the tent, sun ticking into the sky, and we had no place to go but out. We weren’t stupid about it. We knew something strange and probably violent had
just happened. Welf, Pocket, and Jason just knew it was a dangerous situation. Me . . . I was skeptical. I half expected Samson to be standing around with a clipboard marking down names for a grade on when we jumped out.

  It’s the Asylum.

  Best be suspicious, motherfucker.

  Jason and I weaponed up. He got the spade. I got a thick wooden stick Pocket had found and was keeping for some reason. Could have been worse. At least my stick hadn’t shoveled a hole for Welf’s crap the night before.

  Pocket was on the left side of the tent, Welf on the right. Each had a hand on a zipper, ready to yank it down. Jason was up front, easily twice my size. I got a healthy respect for my ability to be a badass, but if something got through him I’d be lucky to serve as a speed bump.

  I had an odd sense of flashback in the moment just before hell opened up. Back to my shithole in Visalia. If you got yourself some normal parents you don’t have a clue on what I’m talking about, but if you don’t, if you got some drunks like mine . . . opening your bedroom door can lead to just about anything.

  When I slept at home my door was always closed, stolen deadbolt always swung shut. Big man like Dad probably could have blasted through in no time, but it was the only assurance I had. Back before the deadbolt, back before I knew to spend weekends away from home, the only defense was silence. Silence and stillness. You got a drunk parent with a habit for dishing out punishment and you learn to fake sleep. Learn to lie there and listen to the footsteps.

  I didn’t even realize how still I’d gotten kneeling inside that tent, waiting for a go-sign.

  Remembering them howls from the night before, glancing at each other, we gave nods.

  Zip.

  Zip.

  Loud, so damn loud. Any boogey out there would be alerted.

  Sunlight, early morning, just breaking through the trees, coming in at an angle. It hurt my eyes, so long in the dark of our tent. Pupils dilated, wisps of sun bracketing Jason in dark shadow.

  If I wouldn’t have been so worried about not fucking up it would have been funny. Big black kid in corpusmancer red and white jumping up out of a tent, swinging a collapsible spade at air, twisting back and forth to try to see everything.

  I went next, my stick in my left hand, leaving my right fist curled up to throw. I didn’t try to pool anima. When I tried it never worked. Instead I just let the emotions flow, hoping something inside me would know I needed the help. Iron fist, I could use you, bitch!