The Twelve-Fingered Boy by John Hornor Jacobs Page B

I’m starting to understand why Quincrux is so interested in Jack.
    â€œHey, Shreve!” Reasoner yells. The basketball game is over. Ox, Reasoner, and the rest of them stand at the bottom of the slope, looking up at us. “You getting sweet on the fish?”
    I shoot him the bird, just to let him see what I think of him.
    One of the D goons says, “Let’s see him do that, so we can get a load of the fingers.”
    I look at Ox, and he’s patently not looking at me. He’s doing whatever he can to not look at me. The rest of the guys walk up the slope. Fishkill looks like he wants to kill me for shooting him the bird. Reasoner’s grinning his goofy, yellow-toothed grin, happy there’s game afoot.
    â€œYou told.” Jack’s old voice is back, dead and hollow. And grim as the reaper.
    â€œI … I didn’t mean…”
    What can I say? I told. Whatever my intentions, I told.
    â€œI had to get Ox to let me in his room. He promised…”
    The boys stand in front of us now. Jack stands too, slowly, his hands in fists at his side.
    â€œBack up,” Jack says. There’s iron there.
    Ox snorts and Reasoner laughs, making a phlegmy, grotesque sound. The D-Wing goons start moving around to Jack’s sides.
    On the inside, pack mentality rules the yard. I’ve said it before, and I will say it again: Everyone thinks he’s different. But when you truly are different, the difference gets beat out of you on the yard. I don’t have to be a mind reader to know things are about to get bloody.
    â€œStep away, Shreve. We just want to see the freak show.”
    â€œNo.” I’ve fought before. I’ve lost. Why do you think I love words? “Listen, boys. You do this, you’re off the client list. No more of the sweet stuff for any of you.”
    The largest D goon says, “You don’t sell it to us anyways, you stuck-up little dick.” If this were a cartoon, he’d be cracking his knuckles right now. But he doesn’t. He just stands there.
    â€œWe just want to see the hands.” Reasoner’s looking at Jack. Jack stares back, stone-faced and defiant.
    â€œNo,” he says. And the air around him begins to waver.
    Something’s about to happen.
    The tension I felt building when I listened through Ox’s vent is in the air again. The air is ripe with storm, with electricity or ozone or smoke or something, something destructive, and I can’t know what it will be until it happens. But it will happen, and soon.
    Reasoner steps in close, and the D-Wing goon follows. His feet are spaced wide and his elbows pulled in tight with his fists balled, like he’s a kung-fu master or an action figure.
    â€œWhat’s going on here, boys?” Booth. And I didn’t even hear the jangle of keys. He’s standing right behind Ox.
    All of the sudden the circle of brutes evaporates. Reasoner runs toward the bleachers, yelling over his shoulder, “Nothing!”
    The Kung-Fu Master says, “Catch you later, Shreve, Fingers.”
    Ox shambles off, head down. He’s an overfed ox that’s just been shocked. Or maybe neutered. The big lug feels bad about spilling the beans. Still. No more candy for him. Though, without his protection, I just might be out of the candy-dealing business.
    Like it or not, Jack Graves has changed my life.
    When they’re gone, I can see Quincrux standing at the bottom of the slope, just to the left of the bleachers. So that’s why Booth was looking for us—for Jack. Quincrux is holding his briefcase and wearing a black suit and fedora, like he’s a G-man from a black-and-white movie. Beside him stands a woman. She’s short and shaped like a dumpling, with gigantic matronly breasts straining the seams on a business suit as severe as Quincrux’s. Her hair is hideous. She has bangs like a Romulan, with chunky side curls that make her look like a doll some child