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"I can't make heads 'er tails of ennything you say, Grant." "Of course you can't. I'm being enigmatic."
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"Sorry to get so rough with you, there." "Don't kid. You liked it. If you had a tail, you'd be wagging it. I'd close my jacket to the wind."
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I unstrapped my watch and popped off the back plate. There was a coiled string saw, thermal poncho, waterproof matches, and a lock-pick set.
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I like Morocco. The food, the people, the architecture. But I don't like the jails. I don't like them one bit.
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"You think you're big? I think you're flea dirt. You're not even worth brushing off."
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I used my elbow for more leverage. "You'll be in a cast for months. I press another quarter inch, and they'll be fitting you for a hook."
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I grabbed his arm and swung it around. There's a small bone in the wrist I had my heart set on. I twisted hard, and felt a sharp snap.
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The Swede picked up the pruning shears. I didn't like the spark in his eyes. It was carnal.
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Every muscle in my body was sore, my head pounded, and my tongue tasted like glue. I poured a mug of the juice to cut through the muck.
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His collar parted and I saw the tattoo: a raven riding a fox passant. He was a Wilesman--sworn enemies of the Agents of BRAWN.
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He was a no-good gonif and artist of the fakeloo, but I'd miss him. There'd been days when we drank out of the same bottle.
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He wasn't asleep. Or, if you'd prefer it, he wasn't going to wake up. Someone had thought his insides needed the daylight let in. A lot.
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"You gonna cooperate?" I don't say a thing. He spits, "Big, tough, silent guy, huh? You been drinking clam juice?"
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In his pocket: a fresh bundle of currency. I count the crisp new bills. Fifteen centuries. That's a lot of history. Even if it's Canadian.
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I'm heading North. The job's in Toronto. I've braced myself for endless polite smiles and sudden Wendigo attack.
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Under the pillow was a new mission brief. I'd have been more excited to find a plate of stewed parsnips in my bed. Still, another dollar.
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My room was empty. No dangerous redheads, no distraught brunettes, no skulking garroteers, or pin-eyed deal-makers. A real novelty.
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"I don't like having guns waved in my face, Angelface. It makes me quake like a kitten. I get so scared I forget my manners."
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"Angelface" stepped into the spotlight. Under thepancake, he was pushing sixty the way Sisyphus pushed his boulder: hard and without hope.
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I toss another grenade between open teeth. I don't say anything. I already used my "Feeding time at the zoo" line.
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