Vin pivoted around in his chair and tucked the ring box next to the phone. As Heron stood in the study's doorway with a tray in his hands, the guy made an unlikely waiter, and not because of the flannel shirt and the jeans. He simply wasn't the kind to be anyone's servant.
"You know French?" Vin murmured as he nodded at the amuse-bouche.
"She told me what they were."
"Ah." Vin got to his feet and went over. "Devina's a great cook."
"Yeah."
"You try one already?"
"Nah, I'm just going by the smells coming out of your kitchen."
They both took a stuffed mushroom cap. And a tiny sandwich with paper-thin slices of tomato and leaves of basil. And a flat-bellied spoon with caviar and leeks on it.
"So have a seat," Vin said, nodding at the one across from his desk. "Let's talk. I mean, I know you want food...but there's something else, isn't there."
Heron put down the tray but didn't take a load off. Instead, he went over to the windows and looked out at Caldwell.
In the silence, Vin resettled in his leather throne and measured his "guest." Bastard had a jaw like a two-by-four, hard and straight, and he was playing his cards close to the chest: There was no tell in his face whatsoever.
Which suggested the territory they were going to head into was dark and tricky.
As Vin twirled a gold pen around on his blotter and waited for the ask, he wasn't worried about dark and tricky. Most of his money had been made in construction, but he hadn't started out in the legitimate land of boards and nails - and his contacts with the black-market side of Caldwell were still good.
"Take your time, Jim. Money is easier to ask for than...other things." He smiled a little. "You want something that isn't readily available at the local Hannaford, by any chance?"
Heron's eyebrow twitched, but that was about it as he continued searching the lights of the city. "What exactly are you talking about."
"What exactly are you looking for." There was a pause. "I need to know about you."
Vin sat forward in his chair, not sure he'd heard right. "Know about me how?" Heron turned his head and stared downward. "You're about to make a decision. Something significant. Aren't you."
Vin's eyes shot to the black velvet square he'd hidden. "What's in there?" Heron demanded.
"None of your business."
"A ring?"
Vin cursed and reached for what he'd bought at Reinhardt's. As he tucked the box into a drawer, he started to lose his patience. "Look, stop bullshitting around and tell me what you want. It's not dinner and it's not to get to know me. Why don't you assume that there is nothing in this town that is unavailable to me and let's get this over with. What the f**k do you want."
The soft words that came back at him seemed so wrong: "It's not what I want - it's what I'm going to do. I'm here to save your soul."
Vin frowned...and then busted out laughing. This guy with the Grim Reaper tat on his back and the tool belt wanted to save him? Yeah, that made sense.
And PS: Vin's "soul" wasn't drowning.
When he took a break to do some deep breathing, Heron said, "You know, that's exactly how I reacted."
"To what?" Vin said as he rubbed his face.
"Let's just say the call to duty."
"You some kind of religious freak?"
"Nah." Heron finally went around and sat in the chair, his knees falling to the sides, his hands resting loosely on his thighs. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure, why the hell not." Vin found himself echoing Heron's pose, just easing on back and relaxing. At this point, the whole thing was getting so weird, he was beginning to think it didn't matter. "What do you want to know?"
Heron glanced around at the first-edition books and the artwork. "Why do you need all this shit? And I'm not being nasty. I'm never going to live like you, so I'm kind of wondering why anybody has to have it all."
Vin was tempted to blow off the question, and later he would wonder why he didn't. But for some reason he answered truthfully.
"It gives me weight and grounds me. I feel safe with beautiful things around my home." The instant the words were out, he wanted to take them back. "I mean...shit, I don't know. I didn't come from money. I was just an Italian kid over on the north side of town, and my parents were always scraping to get by. I fought my way up because I wanted much better than where I'd been."
"Well, you're waaaaaay up, all right." Heron glanced at the computers. "So you must work a lot."
"All the time."
"Guess that means you've earned this amazing view."
Vin swung his chair around. "Yeah. Been looking at it a lot lately."
"You going to miss it when you move?"
"I'll have the river to stare out at. And that house you and your boys are building is going to be spectacular. I like spectacular things."
"That beer was probably the best one I've ever had."
Vin focused on the guy's reflection in the darkened glass. "Is Heron your real name?" The guy smiled a little.
"Of course it is."
Vin glanced over his shoulder. "What other languages do you know aside from French?"
"Who says I know it?"
"The fact that you don't have a clue about exotic beer makes me doubt you're a foodie and into gourmet lingo. And Devina wouldn't have translated amuse-bouche because it would be rude to think you didn't know what it meant. Therefore, I assume you know the language."
Heron drummed his fingers on his knee as he seemed to think things over. "Tell me what's in that box you hid in the drawer and maybe I'll answer you."
"Anyone ever say they had to drag things out of you?"
"All the time."
Figuring it was no real revelation - because, really, when was Heron going to have anything to do with Devina? - Vin got the Reinhardt box back out and popped the lid. As he turned the thing around so Heron could see what was in it, the guy let out a low whistle.
Vin just shrugged. "Like I said, I'm into beautiful things. I bought it last night."
"Christ, what a sparkler. When you going to pop the Q?"
"Don't know."
"What are you waiting for?"
Vin snapped the box shut. "You've asked more than one question. My turn. French?
"Oui ou non??"
"Je parle un peu. Et vous?"
"Je peu. Et"
"I've done some real estate deals north of the border, so I speak it. Your accent is not Canadian, though. It's European. How long were you in the military?"
"Who said I was?"
"Just a guess."
"Maybe I went to college overseas."
Vin regarded the guy steadily. "Not your style, I wouldn't think. You don't take orders well, and I can't imagine you'd be content behind a school desk for four years."
"Why would I go into the service if I don't take orders?"
"Because they let you do something on your own." Vin smiled as the guy's face remained utterly closed. "They let you work by yourself, didn't they, Jim. What else did they teach you?" Silence expanded to fill not just the room, but the whole duplex.
"Jim, you do realize that the more you stay quiet, the more I make up my own mind about your military haircut and that tattoo on your back. I showed you what you wanted to see - seems only fair you return the favor. More to the point, those are the rules of the game."
Jim leaned in slowly, his pale eyes as dead as stone. "If I tell you anything, I'd have to kill you, Vin. And that would be a buzz kill for the both of us."
So that tat wasn't just something the guy had seen on a wall in some two-bit piercing and body art parlor and gotten it inked onto himself because he thought it was cool. Jim was the real deal.
"I am so curious about you," Vin murmured.
"I suggest you get over that."
"Sorry, my friend. I'm a tenacious motherfucker. Lest you think I just won the lottery to get all this crap you're gawking at."
There was a pause, and then Jim's face broke into a small smile. "So you want me to think you have balls, do you."
"Believe it, my man. And word to the wise, they're as big as church bells."
Jim settled back in his chair. "Oh, really. Then why are you sitting on that ring?"