Kitty and the Dead Man's Hand
Page 8
We had to wait in line to check in, increasing my feeling that I was surrounded and had no way out. I tapped my feet, looked around nervously, and brushed Ben’s hand, hoping the touch would comfort me. But he was also glancing around, his lips pressed in a line.
“You okay?” I said.
“Yeah,” he answered, not sounding convinced. “I never liked crowds at the best of times, but now I want to crawl out of my skin.”
We finally made it to the front desk. I asked the clerk, “Are you usually this full, or is something going on this weekend?”
“This is unusual,” the woman said. “We’re hosting a big convention. Here, I think I have a flyer.” Reaching under her desk, she produced a one-page flyer. In big, bold letters it announced: WESTERN REGIONAL FIREARM ENTHUSIAST EXHIBITION.
A gun show. The producer had booked me into the same hotel as a gun show. From a certain perspective, this was hilarious.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. The clerk maintained her smiling customer-service expression and handed us the packet with our key cards. We moved off to find the elevators.
Ben took the flyer from me and actually chuckled. “Wow. What are the odds?”
“Is it too late to change hotels?” I said. “I don’t want to sleep in the same building as a gun show. I can’t believe they booked me at the same hotel as a gun show!”
Ben shrugged. “It’s probably in a totally different part of the building. We won’t even know it’s there.”
We found the bank of elevators, which as it turned out was next to the ballroom, where a large sign on an easel announced the presence of the Western Regional Firearm Enthusiast Exhibition. I wouldn’t be able to go to my room without walking past it.
I didn’t like guns. I had recently learned more about them than I ever wanted to know, including learning how to shoot as a matter of survival. But I didn’t carry one with me. I didn’t want to. In my experience, nothing good happened when guns were involved.
Ben was edging toward the ballroom, craning his neck like he was trying to look in.
“I probably know some people here,” he said. “I may have to hang out and see if I spot anyone.”
“And how many of those people are walking around with silver bullets?” I couldn’t tell by looking. Most of the people walking past looked entirely normal. Without the gun-show sign I’d never have suspected any of them of being gun-toting maniacs. Dangerous people ought to have signs on them, facial tattoos and studded collars, that sort of thing. Named something like Brutus.
Ben tilted his head thoughtfully. “At least a few, I’m sure.”
Oh, this weekend was not starting out well. “I really doubt you know anyone here. Let’s just concentrate on the tasks at hand.”
Then a voice called across the hallway. “O’Farrell? Ben O’Farrell?”
Approaching us from the ballroom was the kind of figure I expected to see at a gun show: linebacker big, bald, wearing worn jeans and a ton of leather. A tattoo of barbed wire in black ink crawled around his neck and disappeared down his shirt. Chains rattled from his jacket and leather boots. He probably had a Harley in the parking garage.
Disbelieving, Ben said, “Boris?”
At least it wasn’t Brutus.
I might have expected a hearty handshake between old friends, smiles, school-reunion-type conversation about the job and kids and such. None of that happened. Instead, Boris approached, stopping about five paces away from Ben. Just out of arm’s reach. They sized each other up. I could almost hear tumbleweeds blowing in the background.
Nearby, the elevator door slid open. I tried to inch toward it, and to will Ben to do likewise, so we could sneak in and make our escape. But the two remained deeply involved in their standoff. Ben wasn’t going to budge, and I wasn’t going to leave without him. The elevator door closed, shutting off our escape.
“How you doing?” Boris said. “It’s been a while—since that job in Boise, wasn’t it?”
“That sounds right. That was a pretty bad scene,” Ben said, clearly unhappy. But Boris smiled, like he was proud of the memory.
That was when Boris noticed me. I was standing a little behind Ben, off to the side, trying to be unobtrusive because this was his gig. But Boris recognized me, and I could tell from the way he narrowed his gaze that he didn’t like me. He didn’t have to know me to not like me. This was a guy who didn’t like werewolves. And here I was. I bet he had a box of silver bullets somewhere.
Ben, astute as he was, noticed the glare. “Boris, this is Kitty Norville.”
“I know who she is. May I ask what you’re doing hanging out with a werewolf?”
If only Boris knew... I was out of the so-called lycanthropic closet, but Ben wasn’t. I kept quiet so I could see how he’d play this.
“I’m her lawyer.”
That was exactly how I thought he’d play this. I gave what I hoped was a neutral smile.
Boris crossed his arms. “That’s pretty funny, considering some of your other clients.”
“Trust me, I know.”
“Speaking of which, I heard Cormac went to prison. Maybe he should have had a different lawyer.”
“Maybe it was his lawyer who got him four years for manslaughter instead of life for murder one.”
The matched stares between them were challenging. I wondered how Ben’s wolf was taking this. I couldn’t tell by looking at him—his exterior was calm, his expression showing vague amusement.
Cormac was a bounty hunter, an assassin, and his targets of choice were supernatural. Werewolves, vampires, other strangeness the mundane authorities barely knew about, much less had the ability to handle. He was also Ben’s cousin, and my friend. That Boris knew him, or at least knew of him, said something about Boris and the circles he moved in. Now I was sure he had a box of silver bullets stashed somewhere.
Then the tension broke. I thought it was Boris who blinked. At any rate, he gave a thin smile. “Maybe you’re right,” he said.
“It was a run of bad luck,” Ben said, which was closer to the mark of what had happened to Cormac. “Could’ve happened to anyone.”
“You here for the show?”
“No. I’m here for her show. How about you? You always seem to have an angle cooking at these things.”
“You okay?” I said.
“Yeah,” he answered, not sounding convinced. “I never liked crowds at the best of times, but now I want to crawl out of my skin.”
We finally made it to the front desk. I asked the clerk, “Are you usually this full, or is something going on this weekend?”
“This is unusual,” the woman said. “We’re hosting a big convention. Here, I think I have a flyer.” Reaching under her desk, she produced a one-page flyer. In big, bold letters it announced: WESTERN REGIONAL FIREARM ENTHUSIAST EXHIBITION.
A gun show. The producer had booked me into the same hotel as a gun show. From a certain perspective, this was hilarious.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. The clerk maintained her smiling customer-service expression and handed us the packet with our key cards. We moved off to find the elevators.
Ben took the flyer from me and actually chuckled. “Wow. What are the odds?”
“Is it too late to change hotels?” I said. “I don’t want to sleep in the same building as a gun show. I can’t believe they booked me at the same hotel as a gun show!”
Ben shrugged. “It’s probably in a totally different part of the building. We won’t even know it’s there.”
We found the bank of elevators, which as it turned out was next to the ballroom, where a large sign on an easel announced the presence of the Western Regional Firearm Enthusiast Exhibition. I wouldn’t be able to go to my room without walking past it.
I didn’t like guns. I had recently learned more about them than I ever wanted to know, including learning how to shoot as a matter of survival. But I didn’t carry one with me. I didn’t want to. In my experience, nothing good happened when guns were involved.
Ben was edging toward the ballroom, craning his neck like he was trying to look in.
“I probably know some people here,” he said. “I may have to hang out and see if I spot anyone.”
“And how many of those people are walking around with silver bullets?” I couldn’t tell by looking. Most of the people walking past looked entirely normal. Without the gun-show sign I’d never have suspected any of them of being gun-toting maniacs. Dangerous people ought to have signs on them, facial tattoos and studded collars, that sort of thing. Named something like Brutus.
Ben tilted his head thoughtfully. “At least a few, I’m sure.”
Oh, this weekend was not starting out well. “I really doubt you know anyone here. Let’s just concentrate on the tasks at hand.”
Then a voice called across the hallway. “O’Farrell? Ben O’Farrell?”
Approaching us from the ballroom was the kind of figure I expected to see at a gun show: linebacker big, bald, wearing worn jeans and a ton of leather. A tattoo of barbed wire in black ink crawled around his neck and disappeared down his shirt. Chains rattled from his jacket and leather boots. He probably had a Harley in the parking garage.
Disbelieving, Ben said, “Boris?”
At least it wasn’t Brutus.
I might have expected a hearty handshake between old friends, smiles, school-reunion-type conversation about the job and kids and such. None of that happened. Instead, Boris approached, stopping about five paces away from Ben. Just out of arm’s reach. They sized each other up. I could almost hear tumbleweeds blowing in the background.
Nearby, the elevator door slid open. I tried to inch toward it, and to will Ben to do likewise, so we could sneak in and make our escape. But the two remained deeply involved in their standoff. Ben wasn’t going to budge, and I wasn’t going to leave without him. The elevator door closed, shutting off our escape.
“How you doing?” Boris said. “It’s been a while—since that job in Boise, wasn’t it?”
“That sounds right. That was a pretty bad scene,” Ben said, clearly unhappy. But Boris smiled, like he was proud of the memory.
That was when Boris noticed me. I was standing a little behind Ben, off to the side, trying to be unobtrusive because this was his gig. But Boris recognized me, and I could tell from the way he narrowed his gaze that he didn’t like me. He didn’t have to know me to not like me. This was a guy who didn’t like werewolves. And here I was. I bet he had a box of silver bullets somewhere.
Ben, astute as he was, noticed the glare. “Boris, this is Kitty Norville.”
“I know who she is. May I ask what you’re doing hanging out with a werewolf?”
If only Boris knew... I was out of the so-called lycanthropic closet, but Ben wasn’t. I kept quiet so I could see how he’d play this.
“I’m her lawyer.”
That was exactly how I thought he’d play this. I gave what I hoped was a neutral smile.
Boris crossed his arms. “That’s pretty funny, considering some of your other clients.”
“Trust me, I know.”
“Speaking of which, I heard Cormac went to prison. Maybe he should have had a different lawyer.”
“Maybe it was his lawyer who got him four years for manslaughter instead of life for murder one.”
The matched stares between them were challenging. I wondered how Ben’s wolf was taking this. I couldn’t tell by looking at him—his exterior was calm, his expression showing vague amusement.
Cormac was a bounty hunter, an assassin, and his targets of choice were supernatural. Werewolves, vampires, other strangeness the mundane authorities barely knew about, much less had the ability to handle. He was also Ben’s cousin, and my friend. That Boris knew him, or at least knew of him, said something about Boris and the circles he moved in. Now I was sure he had a box of silver bullets stashed somewhere.
Then the tension broke. I thought it was Boris who blinked. At any rate, he gave a thin smile. “Maybe you’re right,” he said.
“It was a run of bad luck,” Ben said, which was closer to the mark of what had happened to Cormac. “Could’ve happened to anyone.”
“You here for the show?”
“No. I’m here for her show. How about you? You always seem to have an angle cooking at these things.”
