“Okay.”
From the kid: “Why does he think—”
“Blake thinks he’s so smart, but you know what?”
“Naw, but I bet you’re gonna tell us.”
“He’s not!”
“Yep. Figured.”
“Oh my God.” He clawed his fingers through his wet hair and shivered in the breeze. “Nothing’s gone right since I woke up.”
“You said that already.” Argh. Hateful child.
“Actually, things were going wrong with you last night, and prob’ly earlier,” her companion pointed out with aggravating cheer. She had shrugged out of her light linen jacket and was now holding it out to him. He looked at it, puzzled
(Is she going to wave it at me? Like a bullfighter? It’s not red! What kind of a bullfighter doesn’t know the red rule?)
so she took it back, stepped forward, and started drying his hair with it with the impersonal efficiency of a hairstylist. “That’s what I gathered from what you were saying, anyway.”
“Ack! Okay, this is decent of you and all, but I’m ruining your jacket, seriously.” And yet, doglike, he refused to move. He might have leaned into the jacket a little. It felt soooo nice to have that revolting water wicked from his hair. “You’re literally using your jacket to soak up the shit and germs in my hair. Thank you.”
“You say,” she sighed, “the sweetest things.”
“Aw, stai zitto.* That means—”
“No need,” she said drily. “I can guess what it means. C’mon, let’s find a new place to sit down.”
“And I’ll get ice cream,” the child announced. “My treat.”
“Right. We’ll get comfy and get ice cream and I’ll tell you what you forgot.”
“Starting with your name.” It finally occurred to him that she’d come to him when she’d recognized his voice, suffered to let him puke on her, stuck with him while he tried to gather his senses, came back to him after cleaning her weirdly long feet, and allowed the security guard to kick them both out. And all with a small, pale, black-haired child in tow.
She could have taken off at any time. Most people wouldn’t have gone near anything that came out of the canal, much less came out of the canal spitting and swearing and just generally being an enormo pain in the ass. Yeah, her constant amusement as he struggled through the worst day of his life was aggravating, and the kid was weirding him out a little, and he was beginning to suspect karma was, in fact, a bitch. This woman, though, didn’t seem to be one.
Like it or not, he was clueless
(and wouldn’t big brother love to hear him admit that)
and she, at least, had some answers. And not just about him. The kid—what was the backstory there?
“Yeah, your name,” he replied. “I forgot it. Along with everything else.”
“No you didn’t.” She reached out and tucked her hand into his damp paw. “I never told it to you. And you never asked.”
“I’m occasionally an asshole.”
“No, just…” The child trailed off tactfully. “Um, stressed. And a smidge snappy.”
“Now that I did know,” she said, and laughed. He wasn’t quite ready to find any of this amusing, but he managed to find a smile from somewhere.
Five
The night before …
She was in a strange city in a strange country, and the men following wanted to rob her, hurt her. She darted into a dead-end alley, then had to turn to face them. Nowhere to go.
She took the one with the knife first, reaching out as if asking for help, for mercy, got her hand around the back of his neck, and spun to her right as she yanked him forward, using the momentum to smash him face-first into the bricks. His friend was so startled, she had time to hook her foot between his ankles and toss him off-balance, and a kick to the hinge of his jaw
(ow! of all the nights to wear sandals!)
put him down for nap time.
In those few seconds, the first man had begun to stagger away, not at all happy with what was left of his nose, and expressed his displeasure with a series of nasal, blood-choked yelps. She listened and realized he was hollering for help.
“Seriously? You wanted to take me to Rapetown—or at least Robbedtown—and you’re yelling for help?”
More yelps. Disparaging remarks about her mother. She was a twat, a whore, she should bugger herself with her own ass
“Uh, what?”
and choke on her father’s cock and die and after that she should jump off a cliff
“How would that even work? Logistically?”
onto her worthless father’s cock, etc., etc.
“You boys don’t get a lot of second dates, do you? It’s tough out there. Being single. Ugh, do not bleed on me.”
She stepped back as he trotted past her, abandoning his comrade in arms/dirt. She bent, fished out the other guy’s wallet, helped herself to the cash, cards, and IDs (either business had been booming tonight or his name was Matteas and George and Carrie and he lived in Rome and New York and was also a woman in Arkansas), and left the alley in a much more cheerful frame of mind. Too bad there weren’t a couple more of them; I might’ve broken a sweat. Self-defense counts as working out, right?
Right.
Besides, it had been over a month since her last hit. Getting rusty was never smart. In her line of work, it could be fatal or, worse, a ticket to a prison term.
“S’okay, I got ’em!” an all-too-familiar slurred voice assured her, and then here came Rake Tarbell, grinning a big grin and hauling the broken-nose thug back toward the alley.
“No, no!” she scolded. “I just got him to get out of the alley; this is all wrong. Bad! You are bad!”
“Don’ worry. N’one’s gonna hurtcha while ’m ’round,” he slurred, then promptly stepped on her foot.
“Ow!”
“S’okay, baby. Rake’s here.”
“You smell like you took a shower in vermouth.”
“Nuh-uh, don’ wear cologne. S’all me, baby. That’s Eau de Rake you’re likin’.”
And the evening had started so well.
* * *
Even if she hadn’t followed him, she could have found him by listening for the yelling and laughter and splashing and, very occasionally, the tiny explosions. It had been a long day, and the only thing she had to look forward to was a longer night.
And there he was, yukking it up at the bar, hip-deep in men and women, tourists as well as locals, all intent on having a good time while ignoring the gorgeous man-made beach behind them. Lake Como: playground of the rich who were sick of Saint-Tropez but had no interest in scuba diving in Bora Bora.
Eh, cut ’em some slack. It’s dark out. Gotta be able to see to appreciate, right? Stop indulging your inner brat because you’re still on the outside. Contrary to pop culture clichés, her job didn’t always require lurking in darkness. Tonight, yeah. But sometimes she got to skulk in the daytime. She spent a whole day skulking in Boston once, occasionally stopping mid-skulk for strawberry Italian ice. That was a hack that never became a hit; the mark had seen sense, and agreed to her demands. Also: strawberry Italian ice! And the New England Aquarium!