“Nice. You’re a class act, Talon.”
“Bring your Magnum, too.”
“Sit on a cactus and spin, asshole.”
McGlade truly did have a way with words.
“I’ve got more than just the books. I’ve got paintings.”
“Real paint-on-canvas paintings?”
“Yeah. Famous ones, too.”
“What artist?”
I closed my eyes, trying to think of the name I had seen on the landscape scene in Zelda’s bedroom.
“Monet,” I said.
“You’re fucking me with a jackhammer.”
“Where do you come up with lines like that?”
“You so do not have a Monet. You know how much those are worth?”
“Bring the gun. And ammo. I’ll meet you a block away from my house, on the corner of Randall and Monroe.”
“Gimme three hours.”
I checked the time on my DT. “You’ve got two hours. If you’re late, no books or paintings.”
“Two hours? No way. It would be easier to stuff my ass with synthetic cotton and then crap out a knitted—”
“Two hours,” I said, interrupting him. Then I pressed my earlobe and hung up.
It took me ten minutes to find one of Sata’s suitcases and fill it with what I needed. Then I was on the road again, heading back to Aunt Zelda’s. I needed to focus, to plan, but my brain was stuck in a loop. I kept thinking of Sata’s betrayal, and Vicki’s safety. Would he hurt her? What could have happened to him?
I wondered if it was the steroids. Maybe they’d fried his brain.
Maybe I should have paid closer attention. I could remember the classes, the lessons, the countless kendo matches. Good, dear memories. He was like a father to me. Why didn’t I make a better effort to stay in touch with him? Could I have prevented this?
Then I considered my relationships with Teague. And Vicky.
Apparently I needed to put in more work with the people who were important to me.
Five hundred thousand people. Damn.
When I arrived at Zelda’s, I dumped the bike in a loading zone and headed for the elevator. Surprisingly, Neil was still in the apartment. He sat naked on the sofa, his head slumped down and his shoulders sagging. He was making a high, keening sound, somewhere between a sob and a yelp. When I walked over he looked up at me, his face glistening with tears.
“My pee-pee shrunk.”
I was all out of stock in the sympathy exchange, so I ignored the incredible shrinking dick and turned my attention to Zelda’s bookshelf. I picked four titles that looked particularly old and expensive. Then I went to the bedroom to take the Monet. Funny how we place value on physical things. This was a nice enough landscape, done in pastels, but worth a fortune? I pulled it off the wall, pried off the back, and ripped the canvas out of the matte. I folded it up, then put it and the books into one of Zelda’s handbags. Also, on a whim, I grabbed her raccoon-fur coat.
Neil was curled up on the floor, cupping himself. I stepped over him, then grabbed a bottle of pills from the bathroom medicine cabinet.
“Will those make my willy grow back?”
“Take five of these, and it will grow back tomorrow.”
I shook five into his hand. Technically, I wasn’t lying to him. His manhood would bounce back to normal size tomorrow, all on its own. The pills would have nothing to do with it, because they were industrial-strength laxatives.
I made it back to my house fifteen minutes before McGlade was scheduled to arrive. While waiting for him to show up, I double-checked the location of my little raccoon buddy. He was still on that dick Chomsky’s roof. But he’d apparently become a trifle more active. I didn’t know much about raccoon behavior, but this one appeared to be running laps.
Time crawled by. Still no McGlade. I tried calling Vicki, and Sata, and was unsuccessful with both.
Ten minutes after the agreed-upon time, McGlade motored up on his Harley Davidson biofuel bike. Unlike the scooters prevalent throughout the city, this hog was three times the size and twenty times less fuel-efficient. But it was deafening to make up for it.
McGlade pulled up and said something, which I couldn’t hear over the roar of the throttle. I gave him the universal I can’t hear you hand signal, cupping my hand to my ear while saying, “I can’t hear you.”
“What?” McGlade yelled. “I can’t hear you!”
Jackass.
He eventually cut the engine. “You got the stuff?”
I nodded. “Do you?”
“Yeah. Lemme see the books.”
I handed them over. McGlade scowled. “Fiction? Who reads fiction these days?”
“I just grabbed a few.”
“Who the heck is James Patterson? How am I supposed to sell that? Don’t you have any Joe Kimball?”