backup apartment door ready, seven chains dangling off it and he wouldn’t hear of thirty-looking Sam, helping two-hundred-looking him.
“Visiting family?” Stubnose asked, “Or reliving the glory days?”
For a second he could see the fun, Italian-American asshole that Stub had once been. Glory days... Why hadn’t he ever come by. He had always been so busy. Always focused on the next job. Never looking back.
“I need your help, Stub.”
“Well, look at that.” Stub actually managed to lift the door. Sam could hear his bones creaking under the weight. “High and mighty Sammy Whitestaff, meanest killer the world has ever seen, asking me for help! What did you do?”
He started to screw in the hinges.
“I need to know where the Wishing Tree is.”
Stub’s hand stopped in mid-air.
“You getting nostalgic about your father now?”
“My father killed seven of his eight children, trying to get enough juice to buy himself immortality. My only regret is that I can’t kill him again.”
Stub was turning the screwdriver in his hand, pondering.
“That is a dark place.” Stub still had the brown eyes of his youth and he was looking at Sam’s face for clues with the same vigor. It was nice for Sam to see that he hadn’t gone senile.
“You know where it is. I tried to find it by myself, but this neighborhood has changed.”
“That’s what any-wish-for-a-price magic does to a neighborhood. Crackheads see it in their dreams, travel there, start sacrificing things. A desperate place for desperate people.”
Sam nodded.
“It’s that grave, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“I am never going to see you again, am I?”
“No.”
Stub slow-old-man-walked into his bathroom. There was a four-dimensional compartment in the wall. There, but, not there. Seeing other people with the ability to handle them always creeped Sam out. Like his most important evolutionary advantage was suddenly leveled.
The four-dimensional compartment held an antique wooden drawer that clashed with the Caribbean green bathroom tiling. From it he pulled a three-dimensional wire-model. It was a map.
“So you kept busy,” said Sam, but Stub was lost in thought. He turned the model around in his hands for about three minutes, until understanding dawned on his face.
“There.” His bony finger pointed at a knot and Sam understood instantly.
“Thank you, old man.”
“I hope you make it,” he said. “Run far away from all of this.”
“I intend to.”
Sam could see him cry now. It was bizarre. He had the face of a retired Marine Drill Sergeant.
“You were my best friend, did I ever tell you that?”
Now Sam could feel something stir, deep inside of him. Something he hadn’t felt in a long time.
“Every time you were drunk enough, Stub.”
Before he knew what he was doing, he gave the man a hug.
***
The gamble had not paid off. The guy who was to watch Sam’s car was gone. Instead he saw a new guy. Crew cut, cargo pants, army boots, with enough decency to put on a shirt, but undoubtedly armed. Sam did not have time for this.
“We had ourselves a little chat with the boss. He likes your car.”
Sam didn’t break his stride.
“Matter of fact. His grandfather has one just like this one.”
Sam was almost at arm’s length, when he stopped.
“Well, naturally, old car like that, isn’t that hard to steal. Thing is, boss wants to take his children for a drive in this thing. So whadduya say you hand over those keys?”
“Pull your gun.”
“Say what?” The Nazi goon was trying to give Sam his best angry face, but failed miserably.
“PULL YOUR GUN, SOLDIER. NOW,” he yelled.
He reached, but Sam was fast. He gave the man’s wrist a little touch, sending the gun down on the asphalt as the man’s hand hung down lifelessly from his wrist.
“I obliterated the nerves in your hand. For the rest of your life that thing will be useless.”
The man was moving his jaw, but the words didn’t seem to come
“Visiting family?” Stubnose asked, “Or reliving the glory days?”
For a second he could see the fun, Italian-American asshole that Stub had once been. Glory days... Why hadn’t he ever come by. He had always been so busy. Always focused on the next job. Never looking back.
“I need your help, Stub.”
“Well, look at that.” Stub actually managed to lift the door. Sam could hear his bones creaking under the weight. “High and mighty Sammy Whitestaff, meanest killer the world has ever seen, asking me for help! What did you do?”
He started to screw in the hinges.
“I need to know where the Wishing Tree is.”
Stub’s hand stopped in mid-air.
“You getting nostalgic about your father now?”
“My father killed seven of his eight children, trying to get enough juice to buy himself immortality. My only regret is that I can’t kill him again.”
Stub was turning the screwdriver in his hand, pondering.
“That is a dark place.” Stub still had the brown eyes of his youth and he was looking at Sam’s face for clues with the same vigor. It was nice for Sam to see that he hadn’t gone senile.
“You know where it is. I tried to find it by myself, but this neighborhood has changed.”
“That’s what any-wish-for-a-price magic does to a neighborhood. Crackheads see it in their dreams, travel there, start sacrificing things. A desperate place for desperate people.”
Sam nodded.
“It’s that grave, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“I am never going to see you again, am I?”
“No.”
Stub slow-old-man-walked into his bathroom. There was a four-dimensional compartment in the wall. There, but, not there. Seeing other people with the ability to handle them always creeped Sam out. Like his most important evolutionary advantage was suddenly leveled.
The four-dimensional compartment held an antique wooden drawer that clashed with the Caribbean green bathroom tiling. From it he pulled a three-dimensional wire-model. It was a map.
“So you kept busy,” said Sam, but Stub was lost in thought. He turned the model around in his hands for about three minutes, until understanding dawned on his face.
“There.” His bony finger pointed at a knot and Sam understood instantly.
“Thank you, old man.”
“I hope you make it,” he said. “Run far away from all of this.”
“I intend to.”
Sam could see him cry now. It was bizarre. He had the face of a retired Marine Drill Sergeant.
“You were my best friend, did I ever tell you that?”
Now Sam could feel something stir, deep inside of him. Something he hadn’t felt in a long time.
“Every time you were drunk enough, Stub.”
Before he knew what he was doing, he gave the man a hug.
***
The gamble had not paid off. The guy who was to watch Sam’s car was gone. Instead he saw a new guy. Crew cut, cargo pants, army boots, with enough decency to put on a shirt, but undoubtedly armed. Sam did not have time for this.
“We had ourselves a little chat with the boss. He likes your car.”
Sam didn’t break his stride.
“Matter of fact. His grandfather has one just like this one.”
Sam was almost at arm’s length, when he stopped.
“Well, naturally, old car like that, isn’t that hard to steal. Thing is, boss wants to take his children for a drive in this thing. So whadduya say you hand over those keys?”
“Pull your gun.”
“Say what?” The Nazi goon was trying to give Sam his best angry face, but failed miserably.
“PULL YOUR GUN, SOLDIER. NOW,” he yelled.
He reached, but Sam was fast. He gave the man’s wrist a little touch, sending the gun down on the asphalt as the man’s hand hung down lifelessly from his wrist.
“I obliterated the nerves in your hand. For the rest of your life that thing will be useless.”
The man was moving his jaw, but the words didn’t seem to come
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