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

by Richard Raley

  “You threatened King Henry Price?”

  “He was going to kill Hector Vega.”

  “Nephew?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure about King Henry’s intentions?”

  “He didn’t want to . . . but . . . it made sense to him. I think that’s what I really found scary about the moment. It wasn’t that King Henry got mad and almost did something stupid . . . I’m used to that . . . it’s that in our situation, or what we thought our situation was, finding out King Vega’s location was worth more to us than Hector’s life, so King Henry was just going to go ahead and do whatever it took to get the information, even if it killed the guy in the process.”

  “Doing whatever it takes to reach his goal is what King Henry is best at, no matter the consequences. It’s what makes him brilliant.”

  “And terrifying when you’re trying to stop him from hurting himself.”

  “What was your situation?”

  “We messed up, Miss Dale . . .”

  “Badly?”

  “I messed up.”

  “Indeed?”

  “I . . . I got talked into using my security badge to look up info on Vega, his property, files . . . King Henry talked about going and breaking some pipes to flood a warehouse or the sort.”

  “That seemed like a harmless waste of time compared to the alternative so you agreed to do it.”

  “Exactly. But somehow . . . the computer must have kicked back results for both Horatio Vega and Hector Vega and when King Henry saw a mansion on Van Ness he took to it right away as where Horatio would be and then . . . that isn’t where he lives at all.”

  “Idiots . . . the pair of you.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Just for your information, Tyson, the Coyotes have a compound in the mountains the size and extravagance of which you would never imagine possible to be hidden in California.”

  “Wouldn’t that show up on Google?”

  “Does the Asylum show up?”

  “No . . . but . . .”

  “You believe the Learning Council would go to such lengths to hide mancers but not the Coyote Nation? Which do you think would actually incite more fear into the populace at large?”

  “Oh.”

  “You found Hector Vega’s house . . . and then?”

  “We jumped the fence, I thought to break a basketball court or . . . pipes . . .”

  “Tyson, you were very gullible.”

  “Stress, lack of sleep, not realizing video games can be real . . .”

  “Over the fence and I’ll guess King Henry ignored the basketball courts.”

  “About the fence, well . . . wall, but it was made of stone and King Henry somehow split his pool into two to make a ladder of sorts; how is that even possible?”

  “He split his pool?”

  “He did it when the Coyotes attacked his shop as well, broke three guns, and when he rushed into the house . . . broke out the glass, and a shotgun, and a TV. That’s . . . Miss Dale, can I do that too? Can you?”

  “No comment.”

  “What?”

  “It’s illegal for me to say anything about it until you’re thirty-three.”

  “Why?”

  “No comment is allowed but for me to tell you not to try it.”

  “Why thirty-three?”

  “Didn’t your mother raise you Southern Baptist?”

  “Ah . . . okay. Why are you hiding it from us then if it’s possible?”

  “You went over the wall?”

  And shit like that, continuing the whole time I’m inside my shop trying to clean up. The conversation went on between the two of them but do you really want to relive the story you just heard about? Ain’t the Tyson Bonnie Tapes, they’re the King Henry Tapes. My variety hour, assholes, and if you try to smack that gong I’ll shatter the cocksucker.

  The police layered my doorway with crime scene tape, which I promptly pulled down as I unlocked the door and headed inside. Luckily, they’d also replaced my window with a couple boards of plywood. Didn’t have to see Ceinwyn and T-Bone chatting away, just had to hear it.

  Didn’t have to see the burned up truck or my shot up motorcycle . . . both of them gone from outside. Given that it was midday the whole shopping center was as desolate as a moonscape . . . guess a gunfight will do that for a place. Probably explains why old westerns are always so empty of people. That and cheap-ass production companies back in the day.

  The inside had been cleaned by the cops too. No bullets in the holes along the walls, no bullets near the window where the SEM-DEW had blocked them. I clicked on my lights. Three of the four came on. Good enough for a ‘C’ student.

  “This going to happen every time something goes down?” I whispered to myself.

  Annie B hadn’t been close to this destruction. Even with an earthquake added for good measure. Antiques . . . bad idea, King Henry. I found my trashcan, dragged it behind me as I threw away broken items. Teapot, shot-glass, a fine china plate, teapot, my entire cash register. The thing was so beat up it wasn’t even worth prying it open for the two twenties inside of it.

  They’d be shot into a hundred pieces anyway.

  I probably broke twenty-thousand laws about cleaning up a crime scene but I couldn’t care. Ceinwyn could handle the Detective Ribera portion of the show for me. Vega though . . . my mess. She could stand at my side if she wanted, but it was my mess.

  I threw away another teapot, the spout cracked off and Mancy knows where.

  Ain’t nothing you can do with a mess but clean it up . . . Dad used to go on about spilled milk all the time, guess that one stuck with me.

  My trashcan filled, I finally left the store and headed back into my shop, through it to my office, and out the backdoor to throw my own piddling amount of scrap and refuse into the shopping center’s industrial-sized dumpsters.

  Three trips into the cleanup T-Bone finally came inside. “Ceinwyn’s making the call.”

  I nodded. “She still ready to cut my balls off?”

  T-Bone winced at the imagery. “Maybe just one of them.”

  “Can you do the front while I put my artifacts back?”

  “Sure.”

  “Just leave the glass section alone. That I can fix eventually.” I started to say something more but stopped myself.

  “Right,” he answered. Guess we’d eventually have a talk about the day, but not then. Too close to getting shot at and throwing lightning bolts and bashing in Coyote face.

  Handing him the trashcan, I picked up my cardboard boxes and walked backed to my shop again, this time pausing to actually survey the damage.

  Here it was more cop made than Coyote made. All the drawers were pulled out, all the cupboards opened. My wall for vials looked like every single round opening had been swabbed, as if the cops couldn’t quite figure what this display was for. Any papers I’d left behind were gone. My stock of material was empty of half the metals, mostly precious like copper or silver, while iron, steel, and aluminum bars had been left behind. It’s always the rich and pretty girls you can’t trust. Abandon you in your need.

  I stocked the vials into my wall, one after another sliding into a hole. Wood but for the floro-vials, which was a line of plastic. Vials weren’t supposed to leak if you did your job right, but . . . accidents happen, best be prepared. Don’t want to wake up one day and find a wood corporeal anima concentrate humping its way through my rocking horse collection.

  Artifacts next. Pair of cold cuffs, one smelling of Pajamas’ sweat. I’d uncuffed her and let T-Bone tie her up really quick with his appliance cord skills. Closest I’ve ever come to being in a bondage porno. Yet . . .

  SEM-DEW and aero-fan next. Both unneeded in the moment. Probably should have thrown the SEM-DEW at Tatter when he started shooting but it had happened too quickly. By the time you see the gun you’re already being shot. Never figured on that. Might have to work up some other bullet-countering design. Seems like everyone but me loves them some guns
.

  Extra SDRs. PL glinted as I took it out first and dropped it in a drawer by itself. Never got to test using multiples. Probably good . . . T-Bone stopping me like he did. I’d have killed Suit with the second one. Well . . . he might have survived it. Never know though. Better that way. Those few seconds of pause gave me this chance . . .

  Peace.

  Not something I expect to be good at making.

  But we’ll see.

  [CLICK]

  This group of Coyotes didn’t even have to exit their cars to tell me this was a whole other level than the ones I’d been dealing with. The disconnect between what Ceinwyn’s fears had been and my opinion of Suit’s boys was on display. To make a comparison to my own powers: I’d been playing with Intra Coyotes and here were the Ultras.

  A pair of black SUVs, gas engines. Bulletproof every inch, even the glass. The things were tanks. With the Mancy they felt like moving masses of metal. Be a challenge to flip these over, wouldn’t it?

  No fun having to make peace, is it?

  My little group had cleaned up for the moment. Much later in the day, almost into night. Still no sleep for me, just coffee running the engine, but I did get the time for a shower and shave. Blood gone from my knuckles, new coat, new pair of jeans. Almost looked respectable, or as respectable as I ever get.

  T-Bone went mancer on me too. Electromancer colors buttoned over his chest in the place of his usual sweater-vest. Blue with a yellow trim, he even had his Ultra emblem attached. T-Bone must have been one preppy bastard at the Asylum. Funny, we rarely talk about the place . . . maybe if we survived we could compare notes.

  Ceinwyn . . . was Ceinwyn.

  Both the SUVs opened at the same time, three doors on each. One vehicle was all muscle, three big Mexican guys with some serious bulk, covered in sport-jackets, two for the Raiders and one a Lakers guy. Each had a hand in a pocket, leaving little doubt that bullets could be flying at any second. One took up position facing the parking lot, another walked over to the left of my shop covering the curb, and the last went right of my shop to do the same.

  From the second vehicle three men in suits came out. One was Suit. Motherfucker. No, no, peace, King Henry, remember? My hands itched but I kept them from curling into fists.

  Second was more muscle . . . or maybe better to call the guy a blade. Not Mexican, something else south of the border, but Latino for sure. Razor thin, black suit baggy around a wiry frame. Kind of guy you expect to have garroting wire up a sleeve and a silencer on his gun.

  And Vega . . .

  Why am I surprised?

  After the Asylum I shouldn’t have been surprised.

  After Annie B I shouldn’t have been surprised.

  After the last couple days I shouldn’t have been surprised . . .

  Never what you expect with the one in a million world, is it?

  I expected gangster. Of some kind, fuck if I know what kind, but some kind of gangster. A Mexican Tony Soprano or even the badass silent chicken guy on Breaking Bad. Caught up on that one right after the Asylum, Season Five . . . holy shit! But I’m getting sidetracked, aren’t I? TV . . . I blame TV . . . teaches us the stereotype and even the not-stereotype.

  Vega didn’t even look Latino. Not white but not Latino. So mixed up he didn’t look either, like he’d been made as something new . . . an alloy if you will. Copper and tin into bronze. His skin was soft, had this kind of pearly off-whiteness to it. Thick black hair like you’d expect but blue eyes . . . JoJo said something about French and English blood in there but what kind of mutt was this guy? Coyote, dumbass. Looked forty-ish, like Ceinwyn you couldn’t get the age down. Probably closer to fifty from what I knew about him.

  He was taller than I was, had on a suit worth more than my bike—before it got machinegunned—but wore no jewelry. There was an energy to him as he exited the SUV, an energy to him as he closed the door, and an energy as he turned to take in us mancers.

  Holy shit, I thought as it hit me . . . Horatio Vega, my damned brother-in-law and leader of the biggest Were Nation in the world . . . reminded me of a politician. Not no going to cut taxes and bomb Muslims and throw women in the kitchen politician either, one of the kind that makes you believe he’s different than all the rest, fix all your problems for you, give you a brand new day . . .

  Suit and Sharp flanking him, Vega walked right up to us. “The lovely Ceinwyn Dale, as always you look more beautiful than the last time we met.”

  Ceinwyn let him raise her hand to kiss it. “You look well yourself, Horatio.”

  Vega grinned, shrugging like he’d been caught out. “Married life has been good for me.” A turn to T-Bone and a shaken hand. “Stormcaller Bonnie, you look well, how goes the consulting work?”

  “It’s . . . busy.”

  “Good, good. A job, I find, keeps one out of trouble.”

  “Yes,” T-Bone agreed, if not looking tough at least trying to look like he wasn’t terrified.

  Vega finally turned to me. “The one and only King Henry Price, we meet at last!”

  And I punched him in the face.

  I wish . . .

  I reached out, shook his hand.

  And I electrocuted his ass with my SDR.

  If only . . .

  I forced a smile. “Heard a bit about you too.”

  “Bad things, yes?”

  “Mostly.”

  Again with the ashamed shrug, like a boy caught at burning ants. Might be mean and cruel but hard to care about an ant, so let’s forget about it. It’s only ants and always will be ants, nothing more complex, just let it slide. “People always fear what they can’t begin to comprehend.”

  “We should take this inside,” Ceinwyn interrupted.

  “Of course,” Vega agreed, motioning to the one and two-story rooftops surrounding the area, “one can never tell who is listening to conversations in this city.”

  Inside was clean, mostly. Anything broken had been removed at least. The store looked like we’d had a going out of business sale, which I guess we did, but . . . I didn’t get paid for any of it. I’d pulled a pair of antique desks used to hold displays and backed them against each other. Fold-out chairs sat around it.

  Ceinwyn had insisted on a pitcher of water and glasses as well. Just out of spite, one of the glasses had a bullet hole halfway down it, right through Daffy Duck’s plastic engraved heart. You heard me . . . we were using Looney Tunes Collection plastic glasses for the meeting.

  Fuck my life.

  I sat at the makeshift square-if-not-round table first, poured myself some water and sipped from my Road Runner glass. Ceinwyn got Bugs Bunny, T-Bone got Marvin the Martian, Vega got Wile E. Coyote.

  Inspired choices, King Henry, just inspired.

  Fuck my life with acid.

  Neither Suit nor Sharp sat with their boss, despite the chairs being available. Sharp walked around the store, searching for anything dangerous but finding nothing. He ended at the doorway, turning to the table and to glance outside occasionally. Suit just sulked at his uncle’s shoulder. Coyote something-extra or not, there was still a nice sized black-eye and an accompanying bruise on his forehead. Guess they have limits on their speedy healing trick and my glass-storm during Round Two wiped it out.

  Limits . . . I like knowing limits.

  “I’ll begin, shall I?” Vega asked. When no one interrupted he continued, “We represent two of three powers in this city. Fresno’s Ultra population and the Coyote Nation, of course. Before this occurrence matters between us were peaceful and neutral. You ignore us, we ignore you, and everything went smoothly. However . . . in our wisdom we forgot that if we kept ignoring each other then we might . . . accidentally trip over one another’s feet.”

  “Yeah, I accidentally shoot up whole stores all the time,” I threw out the sarcasm.

  Vega kept smiling, friendly. “You have every right to be angry, King Henry Price, which is why before we even start asking terms of the other to make this accident disappear, Hector w
ill now apologize to you.”

  Suit only grimaced.

  With the same friendly voice, Vega glanced over his shoulder, nodding at Suit. “If he does not then I will have him shot dead immediately, for the affront he has dealt to you, to me, and to his nation.”

  Suit gulped. “I’m sorry . . . that I . . . tried to kill you.”

  Vega turned to me, palms out. “Good?”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  Not even turning around. “Return to the car, Hector.”

  Suit trudged out the door, shoulders, arms, and his whole body shaking. Good thing he’s Coyote and not mancer or I think my ass would have been on fire. Speaking of fire . . . “Sorry myself about burning down his house, by the way.”

  Vega nodded. It could happen to anyone, couldn’t it? “I thank you for showing restraint in not killing him when it was in your power.”

  Ceinwyn caught my gaze. Didn’t need to be a mentimancer to read her expression: don’t fall for it.

  Like I would . . . but I didn’t exactly know how to combat Vega either. It was like finding out Hitler was a really nice guy . . . Sure, mass murderer, and then there’s the little bits of darkness shining through like the comment about offing Suit, but most of the time . . . so very nice and pleasant and . . . why didn’t I punch him when I had the chance?

  “And onto our business,” Vega said, holding up a hand. “We will call an accident an accident, yes?”

  I nodded. “Spilt milk.”

  He nodded with me. “However, we have an opportunity to make sure no more accidents befall either of our groups, which would be quite tragic.”

  I took a sip from Road Runner. Beep, fucking, beep. “You’re trying to turn this into mancers and Coyotes. This ain’t mancers and Coyotes.”

  “You mean Josephine.”

  “Jordan Josephine Price,” I said it out full.

  “Jordan Josephine Vega, my friend,” he corrected me. “For four years now.”

  I looked him in the eye. Shifty, brilliant blue eyes on a face they didn’t belong too. “I have questions that you better have good answers for or else we are going Shakespearean with this tragedy.”

  His palm came up again. “Ask away.”