Ribbons Read online

  The woman dropped her straw. “Is this, like, a magic trick or something? Are we part of a show?”

  Sam gently took her chin. He turned her face to look her in the eyes. Her cocktail started to tip forward, threatening to cover the blackjack table with ice and paper umbrellas. Instead of jittery eyes and magic words, he simply leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the lips. This had a similar effect, however. The woman froze in place. Her eyes rolled back a little, and her lips parted slightly as if they were still locked with Sam’s.

  He leaned away from her, his eyes closed. He spoke as if trying to remember the details of something he hadn’t thought about in a long time. “She really was pregnant. She stopped taking her pills. She told him she lost the baby after they announced their engagement. But . . .” Sam’s brow furrowed, and he turned his head slightly. “That was a lie. She didn’t cry at the clinic. She went to look at wedding invitations that same day. She thinks she can do better, but he’s easy to control.”

  The man’s eyes started to drift away from Bethel. “Baby?”

  When Sam opened his eyes, his half grin returned almost immediately. “Looks like those toilets will have to wait.”

  Bethel shook her head. “This is bullshit! Wars used to be fought over love, Sam. Epic. Fucking. Battles!”

  Sam didn’t seem sure how to respond. “I’m . . . sorry?”

  The couple was consciously not looking at each other. Instead, they both stared at the pathetic pile of chips in front of them. Sam’s grin faltered.

  “Hey, dumb-asses! You won!” Sam shoved a pile of chips their way. “Go to a buffet, catch a show, enjoy each other’s . . . sex parts. Continue the circle of life.” Then Sam took pity on them. He touched each of their hands. “You don’t need to think about this.” It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a command. The couple instantly cheered up.

  “Yeah, that’s how you do it!” The guy did an honest to God fist pump. Then he added, “Boom!”

  The woman clapped her hands. “Yay! Chips!”

  Bethel bowed her head and looked down at her hands. The couple was ignoring her again. She glanced at Sam without raising her head. “I’m done watching, Sam.”

  “The Grigori watch,” said Sam. “That’s what we do.”

  “What good has it done?”

  “That’s not for us to say.”

  “Nobody has said anything lately,” she said. “The things I’ve seen should have pissed off somebody. We should have seen some kind of apocalyptic wrist-slap by now. But there haven’t been any plagues. No pillars of fire. No wives turned into salt. Just silence.”

  “True,” said Sam. “But that’s not really in our job description. At least not anymore.”

  “Neither is cleaning toilets.”

  “Okay. So what do you want to do about it? Retire?”

  Bethel considered this for a few seconds. But then she sighed. “No. I wouldn’t know how.”

  “So have that drink,” said Sam. “Hell, have two.”

  “Oh, you can bet I’ll do that,” said Bethel.

  * * *

  She was on her third drink when she had an idea. It was a pretty bad idea, but one that wouldn’t be ignored.

  2

  Quentin Bradley James didn’t like his last name. Or rather, he didn’t like the history it represented. He asked most people to call him Quentin, but his friends and employees called him Uncle Quent. It started off as one of those ironic nicknames that people used to make something seem less intimidating—like calling a big guy Tiny or naming your assault rifle Vera. Most days he felt like the person he used to be was just underneath his skin, and if he didn’t keep it in check, it might come bursting out in fits and jerks. He had to work hard to relax around people. His nickname stuck, but it didn’t help much.

  Uncle Quent’s place of business wasn’t far from the Strip. He ran it out of an old Victorian. Actually, there were no real “old Victorians” in Las Vegas. He knew that this one was actually built in the thirties, long before he’d taken over. It hadn’t been built out of some sense of nostalgia. No, it had started out as a business. A funeral home, in fact.

  Back then, the Hoover Dam had been called the Boulder Dam, and building it had brought a lot of people to the area. It had also killed a lot of people. The work had been dangerous and the living conditions just as lethal. But jobs were scarce and the company store was always been fully stocked. It had seemed better than starving in the Dust Bowl. It wasn’t really, but at least it seemed that way. A classy funeral home added to the illusion.

  Uncle Quent’s business was a little different. He wouldn’t call it classy, but it still had a sense of class. As did his employees.

  Erica sat across from him in his office. She wore an innocent-looking polka-dot dress complete with an overly large bow at the waist. A black ribbon choker accented her long neck. Uncle Quent noticed that the polka dots were actually skulls.

  “You know you have to ask,” he said. He hated that he sounded so condescending.

  Erica smiled but didn’t meet his eyes. “I don’t like asking.”

  “That’s why you have to,” he said.

  She sighed. “Fine. Can—” She stopped and then started again. “Can I please have two?”

  “Good. Last week it was three. Now two. Maybe soon it will be down to one.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  He slid the lid off a cardboard box. Inside were fifty individual paper compartments. Each held a large brass bullet. He plucked out two and stood them up on their flat ends. They looked right at home on his antique desk, like something out of an old Western. Erica reached forward and picked them up.

  “I’m not a professional, you know,” Uncle Quent told her. “A clinic could help you better.”

  “You’re the only one I trust,” she said. “The only one who gives a fuck. Even when I don’t.” She dropped the bullets into her clutch. “Plus, you don’t offer health insurance.”

  Uncle Quent grunted. “You’re hard to insure.”

  “It’s my clients who need the insurance.”

  Uncle Quent liked Erica. Most people who met her liked her . . . for about half an hour. That was how long it usually took for her to find a flaw in you that she could expose. It came naturally to her, and she probably wasn’t even aware that she was doing it half the time. It was like finding a hairline crack in a shell and then picking at it until it broke and she could get at the nut beneath. He couldn’t blame her. It was part of her job. Uncle Quent was made of flaws, though, and nobody picked at them as much as he did himself.

  Erica stood. “Are you coming down? Christy was looking for you. I think she left you some dinner in the fridge.”

  “Is it green?” he asked. “I’m not going down if it’s green.”

  “Next time, I’ll smuggle you in a cheeseburger. Everybody has their supplier, right?”

  “Yeah. I guess so.”

  Erica turned to go but then paused at the door. “Thanks.”

  She meant well, he supposed, but it made him feel like an asshole.

  “No need,” he said. But she was already gone.

  Uncle Quent rubbed his palms against his forehead. Blue ink decorated each arm. His tattoos had faded enough so that they all kind of blended together if you didn’t look too closely. If you did take the time to focus on them, they told a tale of punishment and excess, punctuated by demons both real and imaginary. To Uncle Quent they were more like battle scars than artwork.

  One of his tattoos was a heart pierced through by three spears. In the center of that heart was a symbol branded into his skin. The symbol was made up of a sun, a moon, a cross, and fire. The tattoo was the beginning of his story. It was when he’d taken control of his life. The brand had been there first, though. He hadn’t put it there. The same symbol was burned into one of the beams in the ceiling above. He hadn’t put that one there, either. It had already been there when he’d moved in.

  He didn’t want to think about that right now. It made
him think about his family, and his family made him think about drinking. Instead, he spun the chair around to face the window and closed his eyes. He let them rest for a couple of minutes before he figured he’d better head downstairs and start checking on things. Customers would be arriving soon, and he still had to figure out a way to discreetly get rid of the green stuff waiting for him in the fridge.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw Bethel reflected in the glass, sitting behind him. He wasn’t happy to see her. He spun the chair back around to face the desk. “Bethel.”

  She looked like she’d come straight from work. She always looked like that. He knew her outfit hadn’t changed in years, except for the hotel logo on the nametag. He also knew that cleaning hotel rooms wasn’t her real job.

  Bethel tried to break the ice. “That was Erica, right? How’s she doing?”

  “Better.” He bent over to put the cardboard box into one of the desk drawers. “Still wants to be famous. And she practices at it too damn much.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “We’re friends online. Though I’m sure she doesn’t know it.”

  “I didn’t know you went in for that sort of thing.”

  “Are you kidding? It makes my job a whole lot easier.”

  Uncle Quent straightened and then leaned back into his chair. “You’re here. Why?”

  She gestured to the room around them. “It’s time for it to change hands.”

  His stomach dropped, and he wished he had gone downstairs with Erica.

  “When?” he asked.

  “Now.”

  “Now now?”

  Bethel reached forward and gently touched one of his clenched fists. “It’s better if it’s now.”

  To his surprise, Uncle Quent didn’t want to fly into a rage. Instead, he felt sad. Sad and tired and old. “But they need me.”

  “We’ll send help.” She leaned in closer to him. “And we’ll keep it in the family.”

  Uncle Quent stiffened. “Who?”

  “Matt.”

  He was confused. And then kind of amused. “Matt? Are you sure he’s up for this? He’s kinda soft.”

  Bethel gave a tiny smile. “Were you up for it when I came to you?”

  Uncle Quent sighed and then reached down to another desk drawer. His hand came up with a bottle of whiskey and some glasses. “No.”

  Bethel watched him fill the glasses. “We have a trial for him . . . and others.”

  Uncle Quent touched his glass to his lips. “Mm-hmm.”

  “This house will bring them together. With you here, we already know the outcome.”

  Bethel took her glass but didn’t drink. She stared into the amber liquid and then back up at Quent.

  His empty glass tapped the table, and he poured again. “I had a good run. The past ten years, anyway. I owe those to you.”

  “Nine. But who’s counting?” She swirled her drink. “You did a lot of good.”

  “I had to. Had to make up for old times.” He reached forward and grabbed a picture frame from the corner of his desk.

  Bethel stood and walked around to stand next to Uncle Quent. He kept his eyes focused on the picture.

  “Not my heart, okay? I don’t want people to say I had a weak heart.” He finished his drink and carefully placed his glass back on the desk. His hand barely shook.

  “Sure,” Bethel whispered into his ear. “It was strong.”

  Then she whispered something else, this time in a language older than words. It seemed familiar, but it made no sense. Fragments of memories tumbled through his mind. Sensations from his youth. Things he forgot he could feel. Invincibility as he ran through a grassy field. Wonder pouring into his mind as he stared up at a sky full of stars. Laughter beyond his control bubbling up from his belly. The certain knowledge that he could be anything he wanted if only he walked down the right path.

  There was a moment of vague disappointment.

  Then nothing.

  3

  Matt was tied to a chair. The chair had come with the apartment like most of the other furniture. He was young and didn’t have anybody to impress yet, so he hadn’t really thought about the chairs at all. Now he thought the chairs in his dining nook were ugly and uncomfortable. And the apartment wasn’t quaint or charming. It was a dump. Most of the time Matt felt right at home. Not today. Today was special. Today, he had a guest.

  “Uh, Thug Guy?” Matt’s guest hadn’t offered his name yet.

  There was no answer.

  Matt twisted his neck to try to see what Thug Guy was doing. So far he had been all business. Five minutes ago Matt had been enjoying lunch. Then he’d made the mistake of answering a knock at the door. There hadn’t been any small talk, just a quick jab to the gut. That had been all it took to make Matt forget how to breathe. By the time he had figured it out again, Thug Guy had him zip-tied to one of those ugly, uncomfortable chairs. Now he could see Thug Guy rummaging through the cupboards in his kitchen.

  Thug Guy was big but not particularly fit. His family probably came from Eastern Europe or maybe Russia—Matt wasn’t too good with geography. He wore a collarless dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and his suspenders looked like they were straining against his shoulders. He turned to look at Matt with a triumphant grin.

  “You’re not gonna get all freaky are you?” Matt asked. “Like, sex-freaky?”

  He looked over at Thug Guy and had time to notice the black newsboy cap pulled low on his head. It was oddly accented with some kind of bird skull. Then Thug Guy was right next to him, and all Matt could focus on was the blender that dropped onto the table in front of him. Thunk.

  Matt instinctively pulled away from the blender. “So that’s a no then?”

  Thug Guy finally spoke. He had a thick accent. “This is good one. Do you make the smoothies?”

  Matt didn’t want to answer that.

  “Hmm . . .” Thug Guy frowned. He looked from the blender cord to the wall socket. “Do you have extension cord?”

  “No?” Matt tried.

  Thug Guy tilted his head and arched an eyebrow. Then he nodded to himself as if he finally remembered where he’d left his car keys. He went into the living room just a few steps away. He talked over his shoulder as he eyed Matt’s entertainment center.

  “You know, you stole much money. You should have better place to live.”

  “Borrowed,” Matt corrected. “I borrowed much money. And I intend on paying it back. Soon . . . ish.”

  “Well, until then, is stolen.”

  Matt was actually relieved. A little, anyway. At least now he knew who had sent today’s houseguest. Matt was relatively new to Reno, but to get an apartment of your own there, even a crappy one, you needed a few basics: identification of some sort, relatively good credit, and money. Matt hadn’t had any of those things when he’d arrived.

  He could have tried to rent a room somewhere. Then he would have just needed money and a convincing lie. But privacy was important to Matt. He wanted a fresh start. Mainly because he was being hunted. Well, he was pretty sure he was being hunted anyway. His family wasn’t going to give up on him that easily.

  Thug Guy swept aside a couple of movie cases and a little pyramid made out of diet cola cans. He did this with two quick flicks of his hand like he was dusting away crumbs or lint. He made enough room to peek behind the TV.

  “Oh! Here we go. It is . . . uh . . . rat’s nest . . . back here.” English may not have been Thug Guy’s first language. “Too many cables. Is fire hazard.”

  He reached behind the TV and came up with a power strip. Every plug was filled. Matt didn’t even think he had that many things to plug in. Thug Guy gave it a hard yank. The power strip came free. Then the TV hit the floor with an unmistakable crack.

  “Dude! I just got that!” Matt blurted it out before he could stop himself.

  “Maybe is not best thing to tell me right now?”

  When Matt had moved into the apartment, he had unpacked in about fifteen minutes. He’d only
had a duffel bag and a tiny suitcase with wheels, the kind that can fit above your seat on an airplane. One bag held his clothes; the other held everything he wanted to remember from his past. The TV was a new purchase but not one of many. He had actually bought it using a credit plan through the electronics store. His new identity had great credit. But after paying for that identity and a few months’ rent, his loan money was pretty much gone.

  Matt clenched his teeth when the blender blades started spinning. He never liked that whizzing sound. It reminded him of the dentist. He tried to avoid the dentist, and he had only ever used the blender once.

  “What’s going in there? Not my hands, right? I need my hands or I can’t get your money back.” Matt couldn’t stop talking. “I need my feet, too.”

  “You don’t need . . . uh . . . junk?” Thug Guy said.

  Matt looked down at his crotch. “I need my junk.” He reconsidered. “Okay, take a foot. Or my hand.”

  Thug Guy had zip-tied Matt at the elbows so his forearms were still free. Matt thought to himself and made a fist with his left hand. He pumped it back and forth a few times. He was right-handed for most things, but late at night in front of his laptop, he needed his left hand free. He nodded and clarified. “Wait, take my right hand.”

  Thug Guy responded by dropping two objects onto the table, one on either side of the blender. The first was a comic book. It had been on display next to the TV. Sandman, issue one. The cover was in perfect condition except for the silver pen mark where the author scribbled his name. The author had also put a strange little doodle underneath his signature that looked like some kind of ancient symbol. The second object was a tiny alien encased in plastic. Boba Fett looked up at him from a slightly yellowed blister pack. This was the proud Boba Fett from The Empire Strikes Back, not the comic relief version from Return of the Jedi.

  “Choose.”

  Matt stiffened. “Oh! Hardball!”

  Thug Guy picked up the blister pack and read the package carefully. He was mouthing the words to himself. Then he asked, “What is Bo . . . ba . . . Fett?”