to take long, is it? I’m kind of in the middle of something.”
It was his turn with the false smile. “I’m sure it’ll only take a minute.” He nodded. And just stood there. Staring. Nodding. I wondered how long he’d stand there, head bobbing up and down like a plastic dog on a parcel shelf, smile turning to a grimace, waiting politely for me to step aside. A minute? Two? Five maybe? Place your bets now.
Actually, no, I haven’t got time for that. I told him okay and waved him into the hall; he held me in a defiant stare as he passed. The one called Green bowed her head and followed silently. I left the door open.
“Nice house,” Fairey remarked as he scanned the blank walls of the entrance hall. Obviously highly skilled in the art of small talk.
I led him through to the kitchen and pointed to a chair at the breakfast table. Green fared a little better; I pulled one out for her. “So, Mr. Fairey—sit down, make yourself comfortable. What is it exactly that you’d like to ask me?”
“I’ll stand,” he said bluntly. He considered me for a moment; a lingering leer I found vaguely suggestive. I hoped he was merely waiting for me to offer him a cup of tea, though whatever he wanted, he’d have a long wait. And then, finally, he spoke. “We’re here,” he said, “because we’re investigating the disappearance of Kerry Farrow.”
The ceiling fell down. Crockery jumped from the racks, shattering across the floor. The boards undulated beneath my feet, pitching me off balance. Blood pounded through my temples, spots of white light dancing around my eyes to the staccato beat in my head. I felt my palms moisten and my pupils dilate. Every hair on my body stood on end. The windows rattled. The door flew off its hinges. I reached out to steady myself but my fingers just grasped at thin air, the same air that was whistling out of me like I’d taken a kick to the stomach.
This is the other reason I stay away from hookers: there’s always some knitworn do-right from the Prostitutes’ Collective taking down numbers. Decades without a glitch, and then I’m undone by a needless whim in a moment of weakness. It’s an age-old story, and one of those things that always happens to someone else. Fuck me, I’m an idiot.
Gun. I can get to the gun, no problem. In the time it takes this Fairey to cross the kitchen, I’ll have torn open the cupboard and swiped aside the oven cleaner and the bin bags and he’ll be staring down a twelve-gauge barrel, eyes widening, trying to shake his head, trying to form the word no with his cotton-wool tongue and his cracked lips while his mind clouds with terror and despair and thoughts of his plump wife and gurgling babies and everything he didn’t tell them before he left for work today. And his accomplice will make it to her feet in time to take a faceful of blood and skull and brain, and she’ll raise her hands to shield her eyes and let out a shriek of fear and surprise, and she’ll trip on the chair as she runs for the door, and I’ll stand on her neck as she sprawls on the floor, and she’ll look up at me like a stunned rabbit, and her breathing will turn shallow and frantic and she’ll whimper, “Please, no,” and I’ll think about the floor and what it’ll cost to repair and I might let her get to her feet. I might haul her up and escort her out to the fields behind the house where the topsoil’s loose and the stains won’t show. I may even let her run for the car, see if her comfortable shoes offer any practical advantage. Or to hell with the floor, I can be in Belgrade by nightfall.
Okay, breathe. Slow down. Think it through. They’re only a pair, and drones to boot. Whatever they suspect, they only suspect. There’s no mob with machine guns abseiling from the roof. No one’s kicking down doors or crashing through the windows. They’ve got nothing to go on. It’s just a man with a cheap suit and fucking great feet asking a single, simple question. For
It was his turn with the false smile. “I’m sure it’ll only take a minute.” He nodded. And just stood there. Staring. Nodding. I wondered how long he’d stand there, head bobbing up and down like a plastic dog on a parcel shelf, smile turning to a grimace, waiting politely for me to step aside. A minute? Two? Five maybe? Place your bets now.
Actually, no, I haven’t got time for that. I told him okay and waved him into the hall; he held me in a defiant stare as he passed. The one called Green bowed her head and followed silently. I left the door open.
“Nice house,” Fairey remarked as he scanned the blank walls of the entrance hall. Obviously highly skilled in the art of small talk.
I led him through to the kitchen and pointed to a chair at the breakfast table. Green fared a little better; I pulled one out for her. “So, Mr. Fairey—sit down, make yourself comfortable. What is it exactly that you’d like to ask me?”
“I’ll stand,” he said bluntly. He considered me for a moment; a lingering leer I found vaguely suggestive. I hoped he was merely waiting for me to offer him a cup of tea, though whatever he wanted, he’d have a long wait. And then, finally, he spoke. “We’re here,” he said, “because we’re investigating the disappearance of Kerry Farrow.”
The ceiling fell down. Crockery jumped from the racks, shattering across the floor. The boards undulated beneath my feet, pitching me off balance. Blood pounded through my temples, spots of white light dancing around my eyes to the staccato beat in my head. I felt my palms moisten and my pupils dilate. Every hair on my body stood on end. The windows rattled. The door flew off its hinges. I reached out to steady myself but my fingers just grasped at thin air, the same air that was whistling out of me like I’d taken a kick to the stomach.
This is the other reason I stay away from hookers: there’s always some knitworn do-right from the Prostitutes’ Collective taking down numbers. Decades without a glitch, and then I’m undone by a needless whim in a moment of weakness. It’s an age-old story, and one of those things that always happens to someone else. Fuck me, I’m an idiot.
Gun. I can get to the gun, no problem. In the time it takes this Fairey to cross the kitchen, I’ll have torn open the cupboard and swiped aside the oven cleaner and the bin bags and he’ll be staring down a twelve-gauge barrel, eyes widening, trying to shake his head, trying to form the word no with his cotton-wool tongue and his cracked lips while his mind clouds with terror and despair and thoughts of his plump wife and gurgling babies and everything he didn’t tell them before he left for work today. And his accomplice will make it to her feet in time to take a faceful of blood and skull and brain, and she’ll raise her hands to shield her eyes and let out a shriek of fear and surprise, and she’ll trip on the chair as she runs for the door, and I’ll stand on her neck as she sprawls on the floor, and she’ll look up at me like a stunned rabbit, and her breathing will turn shallow and frantic and she’ll whimper, “Please, no,” and I’ll think about the floor and what it’ll cost to repair and I might let her get to her feet. I might haul her up and escort her out to the fields behind the house where the topsoil’s loose and the stains won’t show. I may even let her run for the car, see if her comfortable shoes offer any practical advantage. Or to hell with the floor, I can be in Belgrade by nightfall.
Okay, breathe. Slow down. Think it through. They’re only a pair, and drones to boot. Whatever they suspect, they only suspect. There’s no mob with machine guns abseiling from the roof. No one’s kicking down doors or crashing through the windows. They’ve got nothing to go on. It’s just a man with a cheap suit and fucking great feet asking a single, simple question. For
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