Peacemaker

by Marianne de Pierres

  I held onto the pole for a few seconds before letting the tide traffic sweep me up. The momentum took me down past Bambara’s Emporium, where I had to skirt the edge of the human whirlpool created by people entering and leaving the popular arcade.

  On the other side of it, traffic lights halted forward movement and the crowd bulged onto the street, waiting for the sequence to change.

  I was six deep back from the curb and could only see glimpses of what lay ahead. Word seeped through, though, that something was happening.

  “Jeez, do you see that? Three against one.”

  Arms began to rise above heads, hands holding camera phones, fingers tapping the snap, reset, snap, reset tattoo.

  A surge of irritation made me consider trying to fight my way back against the flow. Then I heard the man in front of me say, “That guy in the hat has a gun.”

  I grabbed him by the shoulder and squeezed. “What kinda hat?”

  He shrugged me off but I wasn’t having it.

  “Mate! What type of hat?”

  “Who the–”

  I flashed my badge at him before he let the profanity fly, only giving him a brief look at it so he didn’t clock it as not being Aus-Pol.

  The glimpse and my expression must have been enough, because he lowered his phone so I could see the screen. The photo taken a few seconds before might have been blurred, but there was no mistaking the scenario.

  Or the man in the hat.

  “Make room!” I roared, pulling my gun from the holster hidden by my coat.

  The press of flesh melted away once shouts of “gun” and “she’s packing heat” let loose around me. I suddenly had a free lane to the curb, and I ran through it hard before it disappeared, plunging out onto the street. The traffic had stopped and left an oasis of space right in the middle of the intersection.

  The reason for the gridlock was four men. Three of them stood still, their backs to the other curb. They were dressed in baggy overalls adorned with patches. I didn’t know all the gangs and mobs that ran in Mystere, but these guys clearly belonged to one of them.

  My glance skittered along the upstairs windows and balconies with a vantage point. Someone had to be gunning for the fourth guy, who stood opposite the three statues, pointing two Peacemaker pistols. But the patchwork of window shadows and neon made it impossible to see clearly.

  With my own piece raised, I stepped slowly onto the street, toward Nate Sixkiller.

  “Marshal?” I said as evenly as I could. “What’s going on?”

  “Ranger,” he replied without so much as a glance. “You made it.”

  I tried to swallow over the dry patch at the back of my throat, but it remained rough. “You were expecting me?”

  “Gambling on it.”

  “You should get some help for that.”

  He didn’t answer, but I fancied a faint smile touched his lips, even though his back was to me.

  I raised my voice even louder. “Hoping we can sort this out now, gentlemen. These people want to get about their business, as do I.”

  “Then tell the fucking cowboy to holster his pieces,” said the middle statue of the three.

  “Nate?” I asked.

  “Is it custom for thugs to set upon a visitor to the country and try and rob him?” he said loudly in reply.

  That got the crowd caterwauling.

  Someone shouted, “Shoot ’em and get on with it.”

  I drew alongside Sixkiller, knowing that his trigger fingers would be twitching, and noticed the blood trickling from his temple to his chin. Brown muck clung to the shoulder of his shirt as if he’d been rolling in something unsavoury.

  “Sounds like you-all owe the Marshal an apology.”

  The middle guy spat on the ground and dipped his bald head so I could see his ink. MY3. I guessed that meant the three streets that made up Mystere. It wasn’t smart to back bangers into a corner, but that’s just what I’d done.

  I straightened my aim. This could go way south and I didn’t have a vest on. My stomach felt full of razor blades, and anger towards Sixkiller surged through me.

  “Couldn’t you just let it go?” I whispered out of the side of my mouth. “It’s Mystere. Of course you’re gonna get rolled, coming here in a hat like that.”

  He said nothing and I risked a quick sideways glance. His expression was hard enough to strike a match on.

  “Shit,” I muttered. “You cover the one on our right, and the one in the centre. I got the guy on the left.”

  A slight nod.

  “But let me try something first,” I added.

  He didn’t react.

  Not sure if that was agreement or not, I stepped forward anyway, taking care to approach the three men from the side, so as not to get in Sixkiller’s direct line of sight. I didn’t know him well enough to judge whether he’d shoot me in an attempt to get at them.

  The closer I got, the more little details stood out. The middle guy had a missing eye tooth and a thick silver earring though one brow, the small guy on his right had circular sweat stains under his arms and ribcage, and the guy on his right’s fingers curled as if he was planning to grab something. I figured he had a concealed weapon of some kind, maybe a knife. The way his eyes darted to and fro suggested he might be estimating the accuracy of his aim over the distance.

  All of them had killing in their eyes. And embarrassment. The kind of combination that led to impulsive decisions.

  I took my shot at defusing the situation. “Y’all picked the wrong target today. I’m on my way to see your boss.” I lifted my free hand so they could see my wrist plainly. “Hate to be telling him that you caused aggravation for a friend of mine. And a US Marshal at that. Could bring all kinds of heat.”

  Their eyes flickered to and stayed on the parlay tattoo Corah had given me.

  “You’d be al letting the Marshal see your apology now, I’m guessing.” I glanced back at Sixkiller, whose expression hadn’t altered.

  They glanced at each other, and the guy with the twitchy fingers began to reach.

  I lifted my pistol. Behind me, I knew the Marshal’s Peacemakers were a spit away from discharging.

  The crowd had fallen silent, shuffling backwards, leaving space behind them, sensing the climax approaching. Further down Gilgul, the rhythm faltered, the vendors momentarily mute while the momentum within the triangle listed like a damaged ship.

  “Don’t waste your life over this,” I said to the MY3 guys quietly. “He will kill you. I‘ve seen how quick he is. His pedigree, you know. Comes from a line of true gunslingers.”

  The bald middle guy made a noise in the back of his throat, unintelligible to me but enough to communicate meaning to his compadres. Twitchy fingers relaxed and one by one, they all nodded their apology to Sixkiller. When the last one had finished, the Marshal slowly holstered his pistols.

  And then, suddenly, it was over.

  The bubble of invisible restraint on the curb burst, and people swarmed across. Like backed-up water pressure in a pipe, they spilled past, and I was once again caught in the swiftness of their flow. As I steered to the other side of the street, a hand seized my wrist.

  I came around hard with my fist up and smacked it against a calloused, iron-hard palm, bruising my knuckles.

  “Don’t ever grab me from behind,” I said with heat. Sweat trickled down between my buttocks. The stand-off had been intense.

  He dropped his hand immediately. “I didn’t want to lose you in the crowd.”

  I planted my feet to brace against the people brushing past us and looked at him. Not a trace of stress showed, only the underlying stern seriousness that was his default expression. He should have been handsome – the symmetry to his features and the compelling dark eyes – but Nate Sixkiller made me shiver. He’d killed the intruder in my apartment without a flicker. How much of a real human existed under his skin? There were plenty of psychopaths in law enforcement.

  “You just can’t do that here,” I said. “P
ulling your weapons when people do you wrong.”

  “Seems to me like the perfect time to do it.” His deliberate contradiction made me want to smack him. “How did you get that apology from them?” He recaptured my hand and held my fingers in front of my face. “What’s this marking mean?”

  “Means I’m been working, getting some background that will help up with the Park murder while you’ve been–” I bit off the rest of my sentence, imagining Bull Hunt firing me three ways to Sunday for what I was about to say.

  “Let’s get something to eat and you can tell me about it,” said Sixkiller suddenly.

  “It’s nearly midnight,” I said, not wanting to tell him a damn thing.

  “And your point is…?”

  I let out a frustrated breath. “OK. There’s a cantina just off Gilgul. Crowds aren’t so bad there.”

  “Cantina? If that means beans and chilli” – he lifted his Stetson and patted his hair flat against his scalp – “then lead the way, ma’am.”

  I graced him with a withering look. “My name is Virgin.”

  THIRTEEN

  Juno’s Cantina was more tequila and corn beer and less fajitas and beans. But Sixkiller asked for a double order of vegetarian nachos to have at the bar and seemed happy with the result.

  My double order was Mexican brandy and I’d earned it. Hellsakes, I wasn’t on duty and I’d just prevented three civilian deaths. Even if they were bangers.

  Neither of us said anything for a while, him busy scooping salsa onto corn chips, and me watching the methodical way he consumed the messy food.

  “Sure you don’t want some?” he asked as licked the last of the corn chips up from his fingers.

  “It’s getting late,” I replied. “Can we get to it?”

  “Sure thing, Ranger. Shoot.”

  “Fine. Why did you come here alone?”

  “Just following up on a lead.”

  “Without me?”

  He shrugged. “You were busy. So, what were you doing here?”

  “Following up on a lead.”

  “Without me?”

  “You were MIA.”

  We glared at each other for a bit. Then, surprisingly, Sixkiller offered me an olive branch. “Look, I thought it would be good for me to look around on my own. No harm intended.”

  “Of all the places you could have gone… why here?”

  “The bone we found has vodun significance. My intel says this is where to find out about local vodun.”

  “Did your intel also inform you that wearing a Stetson on the streets of Divine might be the same as wearing a you’re welcome to shoot and rob me sign?”

  He pursed his lips and stayed silent.

  I sighed. “Look, I have some contacts here who might help. Do you have the bone with you?”

  He nodded.

  Before he could comment, Sixkiller was jerked from his seat. I turned, hand to holster, and found a party of gun-toting gangers behind us.

  Three of them I knew straight away – the MY3s from the street just before. And three others who might as well have been their clones with the same tattoos, piercings and palpable anger. The guy at the apex of the circle, though, was a different breed.

  Taller than Sixkiller or me and sixty kilos heavier, he gave the term man mountain a baby face, an Hawaiian shirt and a thick plait.

  “Who fuckeen hits on the MY3 in their place?” he rumbled.

  I stood up. “Papa Brisé, my name is Virgin Jackson from uptown Parkside.”

  His frown appeared as two fold lines between his eyebrows. “The park ranger?”

  I hesitated, blindsided by the fact that Mystere’s main banger knew of me. How so?

  “Yes. I’m… Ranger Jackson.”

  “Him?” The slight tilt of his head towards Sixkiller sent the folds of fat in his neck into a faint ripple.

  “US Marshal on secondment. Working with me.”

  Papa Brisé blinked a few times in a way that suggested his mind was crunching through possibilities and outcomes. “Show me your fuckeen parlay, Ranger.”

  I lifted my wrist so he could see. “A mutual friend said it would allow us to talk.”

  “Your friend gotta fuckeen name?”

  “Maybe we could discuss it somewhere more appropriate.”

  That got the giant man laughing in a hostile way. “Appropriate, eh? You come to my fuckeen house, Ranger. This is my fuckeen kitchen. Outside is my fuckeen street. We talk where I want to talk in MY FUCKEEN HOUSE.”

  I folded my arms and lifted my chin against his intimidation.

  The cantina patrons fell silent. I could sense Sixkiller’s wariness to my reaction. I didn’t care. Men like… No, people like Papa Brisé – jumped-up bullies – jammed my stubborn button all the way down. Dad always told me that was my Achilles heel.

  Papa Brisé licked his lips and shifted the weight of his bulk from one leg to the other. His vest tightened across his girth, the palm trees on the print splitting apart where the buttons and buttonholes strained.

  I snapped my gaze away from the puckered coffee-coloured flesh beneath it to see him lift a single finger. His men seemed to understand what that meant, and three of them began ushering the drinkers out by waving their weapons. Soon, the only people left in the cantina were Sixkiller, me, Brisé and three of his guys. Even the barkeep had disappeared out the back.

  “So speak, Ranger. Don’t fuckeen aggravate me any more than you already have.”

  “Madame Corah gave me the parlay ink.”

  His eyes widened, lids disappearing under the fleshy folds of his eye socket. “You know Corah?”

  “Most of my life,” I said flatly.

  That seemed to throw him. He licked his lips a few more times, and the perspiration grew thick on his upper lip.

  If I hadn’t been so caught up in the moment, I might have recognized his reaction to her name as lust. But as it was, my pistol hand throbbed with the blood that should have been in my brain but wasn’t. I could feel a bad decision coming on.

  It wasn’t till he hauled an empty table over to the bar and sat his triple-plus-size butt on it that I calmed a little. Maybe Corah hadn’t set me up to get shot on sight, after all.

  “So, what you want to know?” he said.

  I showed him my palms. “It’s in his jacket.”

  “Put those pistols on the bar behind first. Both of you. Reach nice and slow for it,” he said.

  I did as he asked, nodding at Sixkiller to comply as well.

  When our three pieces had been slid away by one of the gangers and we’d been patted down, Brisé nodded that I should proceed.

  “Nate?”

  The Marshal slowly withdrew a package from his pocket and handed it to me. I passed it to Papa Brisé still wrapped.

  We both watched as he withdrew a long nail file from his vest pocket and used it to flip the folds of the cloth open.

  “Corah said you would know about the origin of the feather,” I said.

  He poked at it with the file, rattling the beads and playing with the feather.

  Then he blinked a few times and I saw the distortion of a magnifying filter slide across one pupil. He leaned in close and examined the object with the implanted lens.

  As he straightened up, he’d blinked it away again and his eyes had returned to normal. “Where you get this?”

  “Man followed us in the Western Quarter. When we tried to have a conversation with him, things got noisy,” I said.

  Papa Brisé raised an eyebrow.

  “Percussion device,” volunteered Sixkiller.

  “You mean he threw a boom-boom and got away… from a Ranger and a US Marshal.” He belly-laughed then, genuine mirth that made me squirm. “Glad this fuckeen country’s in good hands.”

  I scowled a bit. “Yes, he got away, but not before the Marshal found this on him. Corah told me you would know about the feather.”

  “Mebbe I do. What you fuckeen give me to find out?”

  “But Corah…?�
�

  “Listen up! Your Corah gotta piece of this fuckeen big heart right here.” He beat his chest. “But Papa Brisé don’t do fuckeen nothing’ for free. Feel me?”

  I shrugged at that. What did I even have that he could want?

  “Strikes me yer reward should be helping the law,” drawled Sixkiller.

  Papa Brisé blinked his piggy eyes at Sixkiller a few times then looked at me. “Fo’ fuckeen real?”

  “The Marshal’s used to getting respect,” I replied. “Australians don’t get that so well.”

  “You speakin’ out of school, Ranger?”

  “Just an observation.”

  His teeth appeared, surprisingly straight and clean, as his lips stretched into a grin. “Bitch is fuckeen funny.”

  I let the “bitch” word slide on account of the odds and me still wanting something from him.

  “I’m taking a fuckeen liking to you, Ranger, so I’m gonna take an IOU on this one. ’Cept you are gonna fuckeen owe me.”

  “I won’t break the law for you,” I said automatically. “As long as you understand that.”

  “Crystal fuckeen clear.”

  He poked at the stem of the feather with his file. After a bit of prodding, he stroked it. “See?”

  I stepped closer. The feather had changed colour from a mottled grey-brown to a soft pink that gradually brightened to the saucy red that reminded me of sunset over the park.

  Papa Brisé stroked it some more, and the hue changed to the purple of the mesa.

  “Birrimun Park colours,” I said without thinking.

  “Your Park don’t have the fuckeen monopoly on those colours, Ranger,” said Papa Brisé.

  “She’s right, though,” said Sixkiller.

  I felt annoyed by the cowboy’s support, and worse, a tiny bit pleased as well.

  “Feather’s from Manush,” said the big man.

  “What’s that?”

  “You saying it’s Romani?” asked Sixkiller.

  Papa Brisé nodded. “The original product, but is been tricked fuckeen out locally.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Fuckeen branding, Ranger. How else? Only one person know who do nano-lumes like that.”

  I arched an eyebrow.