“I mean really sorry. I’m a spirit of the earth. Something bad is coming, and if it gets here, it will eat me like a ripe peach. And I don’t want that. I love my roads and the funny people I meet along the way. I saved you once. Now you’re going to return the favor, right?”
“I’m going to do my best.”
“That’s all a lady can ask. I’ll see you around, Mr. Stark.”
She turns and heads back to her car.
“I’ll see you, Sally. Drive safe.”
That makes her laugh. She guns the Mustang’s engine and peels rubber back onto the road.
Some days are harder than others in the kill-or-be-killed game. Some days are stranger. This day might have set some new records.
I WAKE UP around noon and start calling people, telling them to come to the penthouse around three. Candy and I spend an hour rearranging furniture so the sofa, which now covers the remains of Declan’s sizable bloodstain, doesn’t look too out of place. Kasabian’s gimp leg makes him useless for this kind of work, so he hangs out at his desk kibitzing the whole time, like a half-crocked Martha Stewart.
Candy takes me into the bedroom and gets a box down from the top shelf of the closet. It’s flat and square, sealed with packing tape.
“I didn’t wrap it yet because it’s only Thanksgiving.”
“Remind me which one that is.”
“You don’t know what Thanksgiving is?”
“I’m aware of its existence but I don’t remember the details. We had different holidays in Hell.”
“It’s the one with turkey and stuffing and pumpkin pie and everyone eats and drinks too much and people fall asleep watching football or making fun of people watching football.”
“Right. The one where my father broke things because he bet on the games and always lost. Always. My whole childhood, I don’t remember him winning once. Shouldn’t a man win once, just out of sheer statistics?”
“He wasn’t your father. Doc was,” says Candy.
She’s right, but what difference does it make? I don’t want to think about it or get into an argument about it. Doc Kinski means a lot more to Candy than he does to me. He took care of her. Got her started on the potion that makes it so she doesn’t have the hunger to drink people. She loves him and I only met him after the point in my life when meeting your real father isn’t much more than a technicality. Something to check off a life list. Smoke your first cigarette. See your first porn flick. Meet your real father.
Candy sees I’m not happy with her bringing it up. She picks up the box and puts it in my lap.
“I was keeping this for Christmas, but saving the world is a good time for presents too.”
I unwrap the box and take out a gun.
“Do you know what it is?”
“I think so. I’ve seen pictures of them. It’s a presentation pistol.”
“It’s from Tiffany’s, the old jewelry place. They made fancy pistols since before the Civil War. I couldn’t find one of those. This one is, like, from the eighties.”
It’s a Colt, with a matte-black finish and gold filigree on the cylinder and golden eagle wings along the barrel. The ivory grips are carved with talons.
“Does it work?”
“I don’t know. Test it.”
I pull back the hammer and dry-fire it several times. The action feels good. I know these things are supposed to be for show, but it feels like a good piece of hardware.
“Do you like it?”
“It’s great. Where did you get it?”
“Doc had it. A civilian gave it to him when he fixed him up on the sly.”