by J. A. Pitts
That seemed logical. How many ancient weapons had they discovered over the millennia—seven? Eight? Did any exist beyond the dragons’ hoards?
“So it remains a mystery.”
He shrugged a final time, setting his empty teacup down on the saucer, upside down. “Perhaps your mistress ate someone who disagreed with her.”
Not even a little bit funny. Did he have a spy within her house?
“Besides,” he continued, “if there is something amiss on Nidhogg’s doorstep, I’d suggest she look north to the last of her wayward brood.”
Qindra pressed her palms together and bowed slightly toward Frederick Sawyer, the last dragon to enter America from the Continent. Perhaps she’d have tea with Jean-Paul as well. She needed to get to the bottom of this. Her household had seen enough turmoil.
Thirty-three
MONDAY WAS A GOOD DAY AT THE FORGE. JULIE HAD SPENT Sunday with Rolph, apparently, deep in shop talk, and she was in a fine mood. He’d parked his truck at the Crankshaft Tavern across the street, so after sundown on Sunday, he’d beat feet for safer climes. She thought he was going to stay with one of the other goblins from the movie shoot.
Suited me just fine. One less thing to worry about. I had three orders for worked andirons and fireplace tools requested by the owner of the Circle Q. She wanted to replace those in her house, and loved, loved Julie, hence more work for me.
When I’m overloaded with stress I crave the forge—to swing the hammer, strike the steel, feel the heat. I let the conscious mind fade back to the training, the rote. Firing the steel to the correct color, striking the correct points, each took finesse and knowledge that came from doing, from working and reworking until you were exhausted. Like martial skills, blacksmithing could be taught only so far with books and lectures. Until you held the hammer and tongs, felt the hair on your arms curl and whither as you got too close to the heat, felt the agony of failing at a task. Then you could improve, work upward to better skill, better patience.
That’s what it was all about. If you rushed it, if you looked for shortcuts, you failed. If not this hammer stroke, or this finish grinding, then when the tool was put into use, when the item was displayed, or utilized in its intended fashion, your mistakes would show, your flaws would appear to mar or ruin the piece.
So I worked—firing each piece, hammering at the right moment, learning to understand when things did not go my way, knowing I had a second chance, another opportunity.
It was hope and it was breath.
And when I opened myself to the possibilities, it was joy. I had missed joy of late.
Julie called lunch long before I was ready. The earth could have frozen in the heavens for all I knew. The work consumed everything, became the center of the world. Became a place of peace.
Lunch? How could it compare?
Of course, I reminded myself. Every tool needs to be tended, and that included myself.
I agreed to pick up teriyaki today, so Julie could arrange for a second inspection with Puget Gas and Electric. She wanted a new set of fittings on the propane tank. The old ones were cracking from weather and wear.
On a whim, I stopped at the florist and had a small vase of daisies sent over to Katie at school. Daisies were our favorites, one of many similarities. The card just said Thinking of you.
The spicy beef warred with the garlic pork to fill my car with an amazing hodgepodge of odors. Meat and rice were good fuel for the body. I also picked up diet soda for Julie, and orange juice for me.
There was a stretch Hummer in the lot when I got back. I parked in my spot and set the food on the roof of my car while I fished the drinks from the backseat. No cup holders in my car.
When I straightened, I noticed that Mr. Philips stood beside the Hummer. I flinched, but Mr. Philips didn’t react.
He walked toward me, pulling the black leather gloves off his hands and holding one hand out for me to shake.
“Ms. Beauhall,” he said in his crisp, polite voice. “How does this day serve you?”
I crossed my arms and leaned back against my car, scanning his face for any smirk or quirk. “You have some nerve coming here,” I said. “You got Sawyer in that beast?” I pointed toward the Hummer with my chin.
“I’m afraid Mr. Sawyer is tied up in a business meeting most of the day. He asked me to stop by, proffer his apologies for the other night, and see if you’d made any decision on the very generous offer he had couriered to you on Friday.”
“Busy. I see.” I didn’t trust Sawyer as far as I could spit, but my gut told me Mr. Philips was a straight arrow. He’d do Sawyer’s bidding with every ounce of his quiet fortitude, but he was not a spiteful man. “I have not made up my mind,” I said.
He didn’t react at all.
“Mr. Sawyer felt you may not be quite ready to come to an agreement,” he said without as much as a smile. “If you would like to make a counteroffer, I assure you he is open to negotiation.”
“Yes, I’m familiar with his oratory skills, and his ability to bring pressure to bear. I just had no idea the lengths, and depths, to which your employer would stoop. If he is so interested in negotiating, why did he send those goons to run me off the road? Huh?” I stood up straight, leaning a bit into his personal space.
This brought a small flicker of doubt. “I assure you Mr. Sawyer would not stoop to such tactics,” he said.
“Yeah. Well, he sure stooped pretty low when he sent the same goons out to beat on poor Rolph the other night.”
He actually blinked, twice. “Mr. Brokkrson has been injured?”
“Nothing permanent,” I assured him. “But enough to send a clear message of intimidation.”
“Mr. Sawyer can be ruthless in business, I assure you,” he said, regaining his calm exterior. “But he is neither a ruffian nor a fool.”
“I know what he is,” I said. This was my place of power, I realized. The smithy held power that I tapped just by being open to the possibility. “You can tell your boss, for me, that I’d rather see the sword shattered again than let him touch it.”
“I see,” Mr. Philips said, taking a small notepad from his jacket pocket and jotting something down. “Are there any other options besides shattering? Melting down? Dropping into a live volcano, sinking at the bottom of the sea? Burying with a great hero, perhaps?”
I think I could like this guy; too bad he worked for the wrong team. “Cute,” I said, turning to gather up our food. “I’m going back to work, Mr. Philips. Tell your boss that I may have considered the deal if he hadn’t gotten impatient and roughed up Rolph.”
Mr. Philips let his mouth harden before speaking. “I give you my word of honor that neither Mr. Sawyer, nor any of his associates, had anything to do with this.”
I began to walk around the car, but paused and turned. “For the record, Mr. Philips, I honestly believe you believe that. But I have a friend who needed stitches and who is afraid to return to his home because of all this. Whether or not you believe Sawyer capable of this, tell me. Who else would be so desperate to get their hands on that sword?”
Mr. Philips nodded. “Who indeed?”
“I need to get back to work,” I said, walking toward the smithy. “Have a good day, Mr. Philips.”
Mr. Philips tilted his head, made an additional note, and turned on his heel. By the time I had the food sitting on Julie’s desk, the Hummer had pulled out of the lot.
Thirty-four
I ARRIVED AT THE SET EARLY. AFTER LAST WEEK’S DEBACLE, IT would be good to be prompt. I pulled into the lot and noticed right away there were a few new cars, and a large panel van with EMERALD CITY CATERING emblazoned on the side. Dinner tonight at least.
I didn’t see a Hummer, or any luxury vehicles to speak of, so I figured Sawyer was absent this evening. Good thing. I was in no mood for more Let’s Make a Deal.
I dropped my shades on the dash and stepped out onto the gravel. Something was different. More money, better catering. And, was that a rent-a-cop?
Carl was going all out.
I grabbed my case out of my car and strolled across the lot. My encounter with Mr. Philips earlier in the day had me feeling a little like I was under control of something. A little, anyways.
The guard was a young guy, pretty buff with a flattop haircut and an attitude that was a mixture of boredom and eagerness. If you’ve seen security guards, you know the type. He sat at a small table covered in clipboards. Each was color coded and held several pages. I smiled, tipped two fingers at him, and cut by him, to get to the door.
Only, I didn’t quite make it.
“Excuse me, miss,” he said, standing. I didn’t slow down, and he darted in front of me, clipboard in hand. “Sorry, ma’am. Closed set.”
“Closed?” I chuckled. “I’ve worked here for a year. Closest we’ve come to closed was when Carl left his keys at home.”
He nodded at me and squared up, planting his feet shoulder width and holding the clipboard in front of him like a shield. “Regardless,” he said, looking at my stern expression. “I’ll need your name, and you have to sign in.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m the props manager. This is a waste of my time.”
“Please, ma’am. Your name and an ID?”
“This is something Sawyer has cooked up, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t know, ma’am.”
I fished for my wallet and dug my driver’s license out for him to see.
“Beauhall, Sarah J.?”
“Yes,” I said. “At least that’s what my dear old da calls me.”
He didn’t so much as acknowledge the comment. “I’m afraid you’re not on the list.”
“What?”
“Hang on a second,” he said, holding up one hand. “Don’t move. I have two other lists.”
Probably on the management and production staff list, I figured, so I stood there and counted to ten—backward—really, really slowly.
“Nothing on the vendor list,” he said, setting down a clipboard. He didn’t look too happy. He picked up the last clipboard and there was a bit of red yarn tied around the clip. Red was never good.
“Ah, yes,” he said, placing his hand on the nightstick looped at his belt and stepping back toward the door. “I’m afraid you are on the banned list, Ms. Beauhall.”
“Banned?” I asked. This was not happening. Christ, I’d worked here longer than most of the folks on Carl’s roster. Maybe Jennifer and a couple of the camera guys, but I was in the top ten, easily.
“There’s some mistake,” I said. “You have the clipboards mixed up. I’m the props manager.”
He glanced down at the first clipboard and watched me out of the corner of his eye. “Says here that Eastside Novelty and Props is handling that job. They have not assigned a manager for this position yet.”
Now I was getting pissed. “Of course they haven’t, you little pisher. I’m the props manager.” My left calf began to throb and I felt the rising urge to smack something. I stepped back, trying to control my breathing, but it just didn’t work. One second he was pulling out a walkie-talkie and babbling about calling the local police, and the next I’d kicked over his table, shoved him against the wall, and was screaming obscenities. People came around the building from the loading dock and the smoking area.
I saw JJ with his whores, laughing, and Jennifer darted back around the corner in a panic.
As I was considering wind velocity and trajectory as to Mr. Uniform and his likely landing point if I threw him from the doorway, Carl came through the door yelling.
“Jesus Christ on a crutch, Beauhall. Have you lost your ever-loving mind?”
I spun toward him, anger flaring.
He stepped back, flinging his hands in front of his face. “Back off, damn it.”
The effort to keep control was enormous. I wanted to fight, wanted to push him through the wall. This little shuddering man was keeping me from . . .
Carl?
Holy mother.
I took two more stumbling steps backward, feeling the adrenaline crashing through my system. My hands hurt from clenching them into fists. I turned, looking for the sword, and saw the case lying in a shrub several feet from the door. It had not come open, but I could tell it had bounced a time or two.
“Hey, Carl. Sorry, man.” I held up both hands, palms outward. I knew that was weak by the fear in his eyes, and the way yon guard had pulled out his nightstick and was chattering into the walkie-talkie.
“Sarah!” Jennifer screamed, running through the door. She stopped, assayed the scene, and grabbed Carl by the arms. “Are you okay?” she asked him.
“I’m fine,” he said, the fear leaving his eyes. “Sarah has lost her mind, but no one has been hurt.”
“Local police are en route,” Guard Boy said.
I slumped down to the ground, sitting flat on my backside. “You banned me?”
Jennifer looked from Carl to me, then came over and squatted down beside me. “We’re really sorry,” she said. I could tell she was sincere.
“Sawyer hired an outfit to come in and evaluate our setup, see about upgrading our gear.” Carl looked at me, his chin out, but doubt in his eyes. “Seemed like a good idea.”
“And banning me?” I asked. “That a good idea, too?”
No one said anything.
Jennifer patted me on the shoulder and stood. She held a hand out to me, waiting. “I’m sorry,” she said.
I took her hand and stood.
Carl picked up the sword case and handed it to me. “Me too,” he said. “But you have been a bit out of control lately.”
He and Jennifer exchanged a look. Her eyes softened and she shrugged.
Carl smiled a bit and turned. “Why don’t we call it a vacation,” he said. “Take a couple weeks, get some rest.”
“Yeah,” Jennifer said, stepping up to Carl and placing her hand on his arm.
Things were moving fast. I smiled at her and she only blinked.
“I can’t afford a vacation,” I said. “You already took the supplies out of my last check.”
“Yeah, we’ll fix that,” Jennifer said. “Right, Carl?”
“Sure, sure,” Carl said, nodding. “We’ll send over a check.”
I hugged the sword case to my chest, trying to breathe. I needed that money to cover my rent. Things were tight enough as it is.
“This is about Sawyer, isn’t it?”
No one spoke.
“You know he tried to buy the sword?” I asked. “Offered me his stake in Flight Test plus a bonus?”
Carl looked at Jennifer, questioningly. “Really?”
“News to me,” she said, looking my way. “For the sword?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to sell?” Jennifer asked.
“No. Not a chance.”
Carl’s jaw dropped. “Why not? Hell, I’d much rather deal with your mood swings than . . .” He turned away from the guard and lowered his voice. “Sawyer creeps me out.”
“He’s an odd man, that’s for sure,” Jennifer added.
“And he loves JJ,” Carl added. “He’s been pumping him up all weekend, telling him he can do better, telling him he should go off to Hollywood.”
“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” I said. “JJ’s a prima donna who needs an ass kicking as much as anything.”
Jennifer laughed a bit at that. I liked her laugh.
By the way Carl looked at her, he liked her laugh, too. Nice to see them maybe getting together. They made a good couple. Hell, the way they ran the movie set they were just like everyone’s parents.
“Two weeks?” I asked, battling back tears. “You sure, Carl?”
He hung his head then. “I’m sorry.”
“I’ll talk to Sawyer,” Jennifer said. “But you’d better go before the police arrive. Wouldn’t want this getting totally out of hand.”
“And if I leave, you all save face, right?” I asked. This was pissing me off again. “I thought we were friends.”
A pol
ice cruiser pulled into the lot, parked by the walkway up to the entrance, and a young officer stepped out. She was cute, and totally hot in her uniform, but I think bored best described her. Something about the way she looked snagged in my mind, something about passion and control.
I shook my head and glanced away. What the hell was wrong with me? It was like I was losing control of my emotions.
Jennifer walked out to talk to her, hurrying to get ahead of the security guard.
“Hey, Sarah,” Carl asked, stepping to my side. “You seen Rolph?”
My alarms began to vibrate. “No, why?” I asked.
“Oh, nothing big. He’s not here yet, and he’s always early,” he said, rather lamely. “And we tried to find him this weekend to no avail.”
How far had Carl slid here? I gotta tell you I was beginning to have my doubts. Money can be a great enticer, and blind even the most honorable man to acts of desperation and deception.
“Sorry, Carl. Haven’t seen him.”
“Okay, just asking.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and glanced over at the police officer. She was listening to Jennifer and the security guard tell their tales and her boredom was not getting any better.
“About the sword,” Carl said so nonchalantly as to be painful. “Any chance we can borrow it for the rest of the shoot?”
I laughed then, out loud, more bark than mirth. “You fire me, give me over for a handful of shekels, and then you ask to use my sword?”
“Just for this flick,” he said, “if we have to reshoot any scenes.” He shrugged. “You know the drill.”
I took a step away from him, assessing the way he stood, and the look on his face. “Sawyer tell you to ask?” I didn’t wait for an answer, just turned and began walking to my car.
“Beauhall, wait,” he called to my retreating back. “We could rent it. I know you need the money.”
That was the last blow. I showed Carl the better half of a peace sign and climbed into my car.
