Leverage

by Jeffrey A. Ballard

  “The beautiful, unbelievably sexy princess you tried to blow up three days ago,” I answer.

  “What?” Nix asks confused.

  “You know,” I say, “the gorgeous woman and her friend you tried to blow up three days ago.”

  “Ah,” Nix says. She then adds mockingly, “You refer to yourself as a princess? That’s normal.”

  “I was going for a Snow White motif,” I say, my cheeks starting to burn. “Ya know, evil stepmom trying to kill gorgeous stepdaughter because she’s jealous.”

  Puo’s silently laughing at my fumble, while Winn smirks.

  “Mirror, mirror?” I add helpfully. I flick off both of the goober-dwarves in the room with me.

  “Yeah,” Nix says, “you don’t think much of yourself.”

  I can damn near hear the eye roll.

  “How’d you get this number?” Nix asks.

  “A little dwarf told me,” I answer. I cut in before she can follow up, “Why are you trying to kill us?”

  There’s a silence on the other end before she asks instead, “Where are you?”

  “We know the Dick Unicorns are forcing your hand. What we don’t know is what their leverage is or why they’re applying it.”

  “Dick ... unicorns?” Nix asks.

  “Ya know,” I say, “penises coming out of the forehead. Do I have to explain everything?”

  “I find your generation baffling,” Nix says.

  “Now who’s all high and mighty with their opinion of themselves.”

  “You called me,” Nix says exasperated.

  “Yes!” I fist pump in triumph. “Point to beautiful stepdaughter for the riposte. En garde!”

  Nix changes tone to business real quick, “Cut the bullshit. What the fuck do you want?”

  “What do the Dick Unicorns have on you?” I change to match her tone. “And if they didn’t have it on you anymore, would you still be inclined to follow through with killing us?”

  “Based on your attitude? Maybe,” Nix answers. “Note that I am not admitting that anything you said was true—”

  I cock an eyebrow at Puo, who noticed it as well.

  Ever since the solid-state job, we’ve been paranoid about using code names and alluding to things on the comm-link. Most Bosses are the same way, but this feels like Nix might be worried the Cleaners could be listening in.

  Nix continues, “—I have no idea who’s trying to kill you or why. And no one, no one, forces my hand. Although I will admit it’s pretty clear who the Dick Unicorns are.”

  Shit. I look at Puo, who’s looking alarmed as well. Perhaps it was a little strong with the attitude on the front end.

  Nix stops. There’s a pause. But she doesn’t hang up or end the conversation.

  Puo and Winn gesture at me to say something.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, stumbling along. “But I’m glad I was able to teach you something.” I’m suddenly grasping at straws on what verbal bait to toss out to her.

  “Mmm, yes,” Nix muses, “my life is very much enriched knowing the term Dick Unicorns.”

  “Uh, you’re welcome,” I say.

  “Well, ugly stepchild—”

  Hey!

  “—it’s been awful talking to you. Try and avoid any exploding apples no matter how delicious they may appear—”

  “How would—?” I tell them apart.

  She talks over me, “—And one last piece of wicked stepmotherly advice—don’t be like a dog and its vomit.”

  “What?” I look at Puo to see if he followed the exchange.

  “Get the hell out of my town.” Nix clicks off the comm-link.

  Ugh! What?

  I take the comm-link out of my ear. “Do either of you speak Canadian? I didn’t even hear one ‘eh.’ Did either of you?”

  Winn shakes his head no.

  “She wants to meet,” Puo says to my frustrated face.

  “You speak Canadian?” I ask Puo in surprise.

  “It’s not Canadian,” Puo says in exasperation. “It’s a bible reference.”

  “You know the bible!” I ask Puo in mock surprise.

  “Oh, shut up,” Puo says, “you know it too.”

  The bible is arguably one of the most important and influential pieces in art to have ever existed. Spawning whole movements, and propelling art forward in ways that are hard to imagine without it. Yeah, we’re aware of it. You have to be if you’re going to be able to talk intelligently with certain people in the art community.

  “But I don’t know the reference—” I say.

  “Proverbs,” Winn says.

  Puo and I look at him in surprise.

  “What?” Winn defends himself. “I went to a Christian college.”

  “What are we all, closet Christians?” I snark. “Well, Brother Roonse—” Winn’s last name. “—what’s the full reference?”

  Winn looks between us. “I don’t know. I don’t have it memorized.”

  “Oh, Brother Roonse,” I tease, “you’re making Jesus-eth cry in your dereliction. Why? Why must you bring shame and mourning upon us all?”

  Winn looks at me oddly.

  My face grows unbearably hot as I realize what that odd look is about. I was flirting with him. Damn it. And now the God reference makes me want to smack my hand to my forehead.

  Puo is watching out of the corner of his eyes while searching for something on his computer. “You done?” he asks me.

  I nod my bright-red head up and down while avoiding eye contact.

  Puo continues, “It’s about repeating mistakes. How a dog will vomit and eat it up again.”

  “Ew,” I say.

  “Exactly,” Puo says. “I repeat, she wants to meet.”

  “Where?” Winn asks.

  I know that. The bible reference clicks with the exploding apple reference. “The pier the tour boat left from.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  AFTER A MAD scramble at the house to come up with a viable plan for meeting Nix, all three of us are in the area of the pier waiting for Nix to make an appearance.

  You don’t just meet the person trying to kill you when and where they tell you. That’d be like handing your killer ammunition while wearing a bulls-eye T-shirt. Stupid. So stupid, in fact, I’m not sure people like that exist anymore, thinned out by the herd from natural selection long ago.

  I’m a couple of streets over in a slow café, picking at a ham and cheese on rye for lunch and pretending to read a book on my tablet. Puo and Winn are in the borrowed hovercar parked in the street watching the pier for Nix.

  “Any sign?” I whisper. I’m bored. I’ve been sitting here for forty minutes already. That’s on top of the other forty-five minutes it took us to get ready. Did we miss her already?

  “Shh!” Puo says. “You’re supposed to be dark. Bad Queen Bee! Bad!”

  I grind my teeth, and with an extreme amount of self-control withhold several brilliant responses.

  “Now that I have your attention,” Puo says. “Let me tell you another story.”

  Oh, Lord. I tap my forehead against the table. This may be too much for me to stay quiet through.

  Winn cuts in, “This may not be a good time for that—”

  “Of course it is!” Puo insists.

  I feel a smidge of begrudging thanks toward Winn.

  “No,” Winn says. “Nix is here.”

  Oh, thank God.

  “Ah, poo,” Puo says. “All right. I confirm. Calling in the cavalry now.”

  It’s quiet on the other end as Puo deals with that.

  The café is quiet—only a couple of people, sitting by themselves, buried in their tablets or textbooks. The exception is the male barista, a lanky early-twenty-something with a nose ring talking loudly with another early-twenty-something about how wasted they get when it’s not their turn to drive. And how responsible they are when it is their turn, and then they “only have, like, two or three drinks.” Morons.

  “Okay,” Puo says, “her rid
e is on the way. Three minutes out.”

  “Roger, that,” I say. “I’ll alert her.”

  Puo gives his affirmative, and I step outside the café to contact Nix on the comm-link.

  “Who is this?” Nix asks.

  Yeesh, is that how she always answers the phone? Puo, in addition to cloning my comm-link to listen in to, has spoofed it with a new address already.

  “Vancouver Sky Taxi-cabs,” I say. “I’ll be there in three minutes for your pickup.”

  “I—” Nix starts to protest.

  I continue, “A courtesy reminder that all fares are to be paid in full and that no pets are allowed. Including dogs.” Hopefully, that’s enough to clue her in.

  She can’t really expect us to come trotting out in the open where she knows we’re going to be, can she?

  “Very well,” Nix changes gears smoothly. “My companion and I are waiting by pier five.”

  “Negatory,” I say. “The fare was booked for one passenger only.”

  Nix adds more forcefully, “My companion and I are waiting by pier five.”

  “As you wish ma’am,” I say. And then, because she’s being difficult, I ask, “Do you need assistance with your walker? Wheelchair? Oxygen tube?”

  Nix is silent on the other line.

  “Ma’am! Can. You. Hear. Me?” I ask like I’m talking to an eighty-year-old deaf woman.

  Nix says tightly, referencing our earlier conversation, “Based on you attitude? Maybe.”

  “Understood on the geriatric assist,” I say. “Two minutes out. See you soon.” I hang up.

  Bringing a goon with her is not completely unexpected, but still represents a significant danger.

  I reach up and activate my pearl digi-scrambler necklace. Time to catch my own separate ride.

  * * *

  I take a taxi from the café to the Provincial Court of British Columbia to meet Nix, which is the local criminal courthouse, not the Federal one. But what a mouthful that is. When I had stepped into the cab, I said “the Vancouver courthouse” and the short, little-Napoleon, pretentious mid-twenties man-boy said I meant the Provincial Court of blah blah blah. Said. Not asked. And he didn’t even use eh. Must not have been a real Canadian.

  I rather dislike mansplainers, but Puo told me I had to be on my best behavior, meaning forgettable. And not to stiff him on the cab fare, or steal his wallet. Or be obnoxious. So, determined to be good, I then proceeded to ask if he played basketball, or volleyball or any other sport that favors the tall. And when he said no, I innocently asked as a clueless American if that was because there were height requirements in Canada for playing those sports. Mansplain that, asshat.

  The original courthouse is under a hundred and fifty feet of saltwater, so when they were deciding the architectural style of the rebuilt courthouse, what’d they go with? The ever-ubiquitous Greek Revivalist with the column portico and perpendicular lines—just like the old one.

  Don’t get me wrong. It’s a nice style. I really liked it on the British Museum. But all the courthouses use it. C’mon, be original. Try a hot green, post-modernist monstrosity. Where was the re-creationist movement on this one?

  With my digi-scrambler running, I step through the portico and past the twelve-foot wood doors into the building. The square entrance chamber is a wide expanse of marble inlaid floor with reliefs of the Vancouver Isles and various justice symbols, like the gavel and scales. The chamber itself is two stories; the lower story is ringed on three sides by one-story stone columns that frame hallways leading deeper into the building. All in all, not bad. Not great. But not awful.

  It’s echoey in the entrance chamber with the muffle of people moving about and talking and the beeps of the screening equipment in the aisles that lead deeper into the building.

  “Cute,” Nix says from behind me.

  I turn around. “Stepmother.” I nod to greet Nix and then nod to greet her bodyguard. “Goon number nine.”

  And he is a goon, yeesh. Six feet, thick (both in his arms and in his skull—which is shaved), with the mandatory no-frills drab suit. He gives me the death eye, and I scratch an itch on my nose with my middle finger.

  Nix is beautiful. She’s near my height at five-eight, with a smooth African complexion and clear hazel eyes framed by professionally drawn eyebrows. She rocks short natural hair less than half an inch long. She could be a model. I was not expecting that.

  Nix’s jaw clenches at my attitude.

  “We need to talk,” I say. “Alone.”

  “Here?” Nix cocks an eyebrow. We’re standing off to the side of the main entrance in sight of everyone.

  “Yup,” I say. Meeting at the courthouse was a stroke of genius. With all these cops, cameras and court officials around on a Monday afternoon, Nix would be catastrophically stupid to pull something here. But I don’t want to go through the screening checkpoint. They’ll detect my digi-scrambler and malfunctioning CitID, and I’d rather not be found at the moment—which is why we’re meeting at the criminal courthouse and not the Federal one (the tour boat explosion has been claimed as Federal jurisdiction).

  Nix looks around before nodding to Goon Number Nine, who walks off, not looking inconspicuous at all. Puo’s in the parking garage hooked into the courthouse’s system, keeping an eye on Goon Number Nine to make sure he’s not setting anything up for when we leave.

  “Nice goon,” I say. “I’ve been thinking of picking one up. Where do you get a good goon from?”

  Nix ignores me with an eye roll and says, “You alluded earlier to helping with the ... dick unicorns.”

  “Yes,” I say. “Thing is, my friends and I are rather attached to our lives. I think you know full well who I am, and don’t wish to actually do it. Not to mention we have no known disputes with you.”

  “And if all that were true,” Nix says, “what is it exactly that you think you can help with?”

  “That depends on what the Dick Unicorns’ leverage is and why they’re applying it,” I say. There are two main ways to deal with a leverage in this type of situation. Either remove it, or add a counterweight to negate it.

  Nix hesitates, looking around and clearly debating with herself about telling me. Nix eventually says, “I know your father by reputation—”

  Even though I’m relying heavily on who my father is to keep us alive at the moment, I still feel a pang in my stomach at his mention. I spent so much of my life hiding our connection for the sake of survival, and then denying it later because I hate being tied to him, that I can’t control my visceral reaction to someone else mentioning him. But at the same time, he’s still my father ... so—it’s complicated.

  Nix continues as if she hasn’t noticed anything (which she probably hasn’t), “—and you, by the way. Once the Dick Unicorns made their ... request,” she says with disgust, “I made it my business to understand what I was getting involved in.”

  She pauses here and I stay silent, letting her get to the point.

  She exhales, still looking around, thinking. “You have an interesting reputation.”

  “Thanks!” I say with a grin.

  She looks back at me due to my tone and quirks an eyebrow. “You seem to get involved with Bosses a lot.”

  “Just two,” I say. My father and Colvin. “And that business in Seattle wasn’t my fault. Neither was the situation in Atlanta. Or this bull-shittery,” I say. “Actually, I’m starting to realize I have pretty shitty luck.”

  “Well,” Nix says, “it’s clear from the outside that both of them think highly of you. And, despite my digging, I wasn’t able to turn up what happened in those situations to make them feel that way.” Nix looks questioningly at me.

  “I can keep my mouth shut,” I say.

  “Can you?” Nix asks. “What assurances do I have on that?”

  “For one, that I’m standing here, trying to find a way out of this instead of making a call to my Father and Colvin to involve them. I want to avoid a war as much as you.”

 
Nix nods to herself. “So you would involve them? I was made to understand that even though they think highly of you, you have rather inventive adjectives for them.”

  “Yeah, well. As I said, my friends and I are rather attached to being alive. I don’t want to, but if that’s the only option left open to us—which, by the way, is why the other members of my party are off-site awaiting my arrival. If they don’t hear from me—”

  Nix nods once to show she understands. But she still hesitates.

  “So what is it?” I ask, my curiosity at her reticence getting the better of me.

  She crosses her arms and again takes another visual scan.

  “Ohhh,” I say, getting an idea. “Want me to guess? I’m good at guessing. Is it—”

  “No,” Nix says. “Just be quiet.” She reaches up and rubs her temples with her fingertips. “Very well,” she says eventually. “But if you ever hint to anyone what you’re about to hear—”

  “Yeah, yeah, you’ll kill me, boil my eyeballs, make me a Canadian citizen. I get it. No talky. Girl scouts’ honor,” I say holding up my right hand in the girl scouts’ sign while putting my left hand over my chest.

  “That’s not the girl scouts’ sign,” Nix observes.

  I drop the sign of extending my pinky and forefinger while my middle and ring finger are curled in with thumb resting over the top. “Yeah. I never was in girl scouts, so I had to make up my own as a kid.”

  “That’s ...” Nix trails off and then exhales heavily. “You know what? I just don’t care.” Nix steps closer to me.

  Her perfume has a crisp juniper scent with a undertone of warm perspiration.

  Nix drops her voice to a near whisper, “When I was first starting out as a Crew Leader, one of our schemes was busted by the Mounties, betrayed by someone in the crew. The Mounties offered me a deal—”

  My stomach grows cold. I can already see where this is heading, and exactly why the Dick Unicorns would use it as leverage.

  “—In exchange for letting them know certain things from time to time, they’d let me and my crew get off relatively light.”

  I lock eyes with Nix and ask, “You took it?”

  Nix nods slowly. “More importantly, with that inside track, it allowed me to flush the mole from my crew.”