I’m done reloading, I hit a button and an arm slides out of the back of the bowling lane on the left, sweeps away the debris, and loads another ten pins in place. I raise the Colt and cock it, sighting on the one pin. But Sandoval walks over, puts her hand on the pistol, and lowers it.
“Exactly what are you doing?” she says.
“Target practice. I need to get my eye back.”
She looks around the alley.
“My grandfather built this. My father updated it, and I use it with guests.”
“Sounds great.” I raise the Colt and fire. The one pin explodes. Everybody except Sandoval cringes.
I say, “I’m a guest.”
“You’re an employee.”
“Independent contractor, if you want to get technical.”
I raise the Colt and she pushes it down again.
“If you needed weapons practice you should have told me. I would have arranged something less deranged.”
“I thought deranged was why you wanted me. Otherwise you could have hired any number of local knuckle draggers.” I smile at the people behind her.
“What I want is for you to have a basic modicum of self-control and sense of responsibility. If you can’t do that, we should part ways and void your contract right now.”
Ouch. She got me where it hurts.
“Anything else?”
“Yes,” she says, leaning in close to my ear. “I don’t like being fucked with.”
I give her a smile and slip the Colt into my waistband at my back.
“See, now we’re speaking the same language. Okay. You can have your alley back. If you give me your granddad’s name, I’ll write him an apology note. I’ve got connections in Hell, you know. They’ll get it right to him.”
She probes a shattered bit of bowling pin with the toe of her designer pump, clearly biting down what I’m sure is a clever retort.
“If you’re through playing the idiot, let’s go upstairs and talk business.”
“Sure. But remember. I might be an idiot, but you’re the idiot who hired me. You have to expect a certain amount of breakage.”
Sandoval looks me up and down and says, “And put a glove on that grotesque hand. It makes me sick.”
I flex my prosthetic left hand. I can’t argue with her on the ugly part. The hand was a present from a monster. Really, my whole left arm looks like something that belongs on a mechanical insect. It’s still good at giving the finger, but I restrain myself now.
While I slip on my glove, she leaves with her entouragein tow. I give them a few seconds before leaving the bowling alley. I might be an idiot, but I know they need time to cool down. Just like I know I have to keep pushing them. If they get pissed or flustered enough, they might drop some useful piece of information. But I can’t go too far too fast. Sandoval could have their necromancer pull the plug on me and I’d be right back in Hell with no body and a pack of new enemies. I’ve got to play this right. Dance around the edges of being a complete asshole.
The problem is, I’m not the best dancer.
On my way out, I flick off the bowling alley lights. Too bad they found me. I kind of like it down here. Especially the soundproofing. It would be a good place to play the monster and slap the shit out of one of them until they told me what’s really going on.
I MEET UP with them in Sandoval’s office, where I woke up yesterday. It’s a nice room. Nice furniture covered in pretty silks and leather. A nice pool table. A nice TV the size of Kansas. It’s all so fucking nice it’s like a museum. I halfway expect a stuffed grizzly bear and maybe some wax Neanderthals in the corner. No such luck. It’s the same six assholes I’ve been staring at since I got back.
Sandoval is the boss, that much is clear. Black hair, a deep tan, and a dress cut low enough that you could autopsy her and never touch the edges. She’s pretty, she knows it, and she isn’t above using it. It’s tedious just looking at her.
“I take it that you’re feeling better today,” says Sandoval.
I glance at the other idiots in the room.
“Better is a relative thing. I feel better than dead, so, yeah, I guess I’m feeling swell.”
“It looks like your motor functions are coming back, too. That’s good. You’re going to need them,” says Barron Sinclair. He’s the only other one who talks much. He’s heavyset. Long gray hair and perfect little beard. He’s one of those guys born with an old face. He could be fifty or seventy. He’s also sick. I can smell the drugs in his system. Metallic and bitter as lemons. Sinclair tries to look calm, but he’s scared. Whatever he has, it must be bad if he can’t find any magicians who can cure it. He’s worried about what’s waiting for him in Hell, especially since I wiped out Wormwood down there. Good. That’s more incentive for him to want me alive.
“Eva keeps telling me that, but she won’t say what I’ll need them for.”
“That’s what this meeting is about. I think you’re coherent enough to discuss your mission,” she says.
I look at her.
“My mission? That sounds so noble. Am I going to rescue your kitten from a tree?”
“Not quite,” she says, shooting me a feral smile. “You’re going to kill someone.”
“Probably a lot of people,” says Sinclair.
“That’s what I figured. Who’s the lucky guy or gal?”
She points to one of the other cockroaches that follow her around. A young, cocky guy with a face built for punching.
“Roger here can give you the details. Roger?” says Sandoval.
I hold up a hand as Roger opens his mean little mouth. He closes it again.
“Is Roger going to be giving me orders? Are any of these other idiots?”
Sandoval crosses her arms.
“I suppose not.”
“Can any of them help me stay in my body?”
“No.”
“Then fuck ’em.”
Roger and the other roaches’ heartbeats spike. I smell sweat. Roger starts to open his mouth again. I raise the Colt and point it at his stupid face.
“Hush, Roger. Grown-ups are talking.”
He clamps his mouth shut. I put the Colt in my waistband at my back. Okay. Enough of that stuff for now. Everyone is nice and rattled. Let’s see if someone says something interesting.
Sandoval
