Mr. Real (Code of Shadows #1) (12 page)

Sir Kendall leaned coolly on a lamppost. It had been just a flash—long blond hair, long coat, floppy hat, but he’d recognize the man anywhere. Even the way Hyko moved was eminently familiar. Comforting, even.

Alix came out with his soap—a brand called Ivory. The best soap, she assured him.

Sir Kendall just nodded his head. Had she told Hyko they’d be in town?

He offered to buy her an egg roll at the little Chinese deli down the block, and during an extended exchange in Cantonese with the proprietress, he discovered that his Alix was a frequent purchaser of Chicken Chow Mein, going back four months. This came as something of a shock. Was it possible there wasn’t a dead Alix out there after all? That Alix was a sleeper? And why was Hyko himself in town, rather than out at the site of his launch?

“I can’t believe you know Chinese,” Alix said, munching her egg roll on a quaint bench overlooking the river. “What were you guys saying?”

She really
hadn’t
seemed to follow the conversation. Was it possible she didn’t know Cantonese? “I told her that you’re a sex maniac who rips buttons off men’s shirts.”

She hit him. Teasing her was quite enjoyable, really. So was the egg roll. The crust seemed extra light and flaky, crunchier, and the inside richer, a flavor explosion in his mouth. The Lings were truly masterful with egg rolls.

“Perhaps we ought to have a proper meal somewhere,” he said.

She nodded. “Not a bad idea. Actually…” She squinted down the street. “Yes! Check it out!” She pointed at a mortarboard outside a pub on the next block. “Bob n’ Bonnie’s has catfish sandwiches on daily special.”

“Sounds splendid,” he said.

Bob n’ Bonnie’s pub was dark inside and somewhat empty for a Saturday afternoon—just a lone fellow at the bar, a couple rustics eating at a table, and a stocky barkeep with a ponytail.

“Pick a table—I’ll be right back.” She disappeared into the women’s bathroom. Was she contacting Hyko?

Sir Kendall sat up at the bar; the wall of mirrors behind the bar gave him a perfect view of the whole place. He had this under control. He’d bested Hyko countless times; no reason for this to be different.

He ordered a Denali from the barkeep, who wasn’t sure they had any, but after an extended search he pulled out a dusty old bottle. “Not many folks ordering Denali,” he said.

“Which only means not many folks have
tasted
Denali.”

The barkeep grunted.

“Have
you
?” Sir Kendall asked him.

“Tasted Denali? Nah.”

“There you go. You must let me buy you one, good fellow.”

“I’m on the job.”

“Consider it employment-related research.” He put down a hundred. He wasn’t taking any chances—he needed to see that barkeep drink it first. “Two Denalis, neat, with lime, and the rest is for you.”

“Far be it from me.” The barkeep poured two lowball glasses and added lime wedges.

“Go ahead, then, try it,” Sir Kendall said.

The barkeep sipped. He smacked his lips. “Hmm. Piquant.”

“Good with bitters and soda, too,” Sir Kendall said. “Denali is always
just
the thing.” The barkeep took another sip, seemed no worse for wear. Sir Kendall felt curiously relieved that the bartender would be okay. The prospect of collateral damage had never bothered him before. What was wrong with him? Resistance to collateral damage would get him killed as quickly as walking in front of a train. Sir Kendall sipped his drink. It was fine. More refreshing than he’d remembered. He downed the rest.

A voice from across the bar. “No!” A freshly be-lipsticked and be-jingling Alix rushed to his side, grabbing for his glass, which he lifted out of her reach at the last moment. “Did you drink it?”

“Indeed I did.” Warily he watched her eyes. “And I daresay, I might drink another one.”

She stared at the glass, then at him, then the glass and then him again, with a look just this side of horror. “I told you not to drink it!”

“My dear, you can hardly expect me never to drink a Denali again.” He addressed the barkeep. “What did you think? Not so bad, eh?”

“Not bad at all,” the man said. “Thank you kindly.” He rapped twice on the bar and sauntered away.

“Crap,” Alix breathed.

“We both drank it. Seems we’ve survived the experience.” Sir Kendall brushed her hair from her forehead. Her eyes shone with tears. Why? “Come now, what is all this?”

“I just…I didn’t want you to drink it.”

“Do you have reason to believe it’s tainted?”

“No,” she whispered. “It’s not that.” Tears streamed down her face.

He wiped them away with his thumb. “What, then?”

She shook her head.

“Come here.” He pulled her to him, feeling uneasy again. “It’s going to be all right,” he assured her.

She sniffled. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

Again she shook her head, apparently too overcome to speak. What was she sorry for?

“Crap, okay,” she said, pulling herself together. “Okay.” She wiped her eyes and fixed him with a mischievous look. “You know what I say?” she said. “I say, let’s have some fun. Let’s have some cocktails, let’s dance, let’s fuck in the bathroom and whatever else!”

“In the bathroom. I daresay; you’re impugning my decorum.”

“Hell with decorum.” She slapped the bar and smiled down at the bartender. “Two Denalis please! Doubles!”

Sir Kendall raised his eyebrows.

“Why not?” she said. “Maybe I was too quick to judge. And it’s your favorite drink, right?”

Sir Kendall called to the bartender. “Make hers with lime and ginger ale. A
Denali Fresh
.”

She swiveled to face him, draped an arm along the bar, and smiled rather fetchingly. “The lady thinks a Denali Fresh sounds fan-fuckin-tastic.”

“Such tender sentiments from my delicate flower,” he said.

She smiled at him sadly. A very bad sign.

The barkeep delivered their drinks and she made a toast. They had another round while they awaited their sandwiches.

So she imagined he’d die now. How was it connected to the Denali? Was the drink a trigger of some sort? A signal to Hyko? She’d glanced at the door once or twice. Did she expect company? Public takedowns had never been Hyko’s style.

They bantered about whether or not they’d have sex in the bathroom—he assured her that he’d never have a lady there. He taught the benighted barkeep how to make Denali drinks, including a
Fee Fi Foe Fum
with Denali and cointreau.

Their catfish sandwiches were flakey and sweet and tart and succulent…stunningly delicious, in fact. Alix ordered another Denali Fresh, but he held off; not because he felt drunk—he felt powerful, actually. It was more that nagging sense of threat, the growing feeling that things were spinning out of control.

“Tell me,” he said to her.

He brows snapped together. “What?”

“The truth.” He felt desperate to have her confession. Too desperate. It was dangerous, this desperation. “You have an ally in me, Alix.”

“Oh, Nick.” She put her hand over his. Guilt. What had she done?

Alix jumped up just then and engaged the jukebox—a noisy song he didn’t recognize. She pulled him to the space in front of the flashing machine, dancing, or more precisely, gyrating, all boots and pink bra straps. She was lovely in her own tawdry, trashy way. An uncouth confection.

Patrons had begun to fill the tiny pub, most drinking beer from bottles. Saturday night in Malcolmsberg. Some gave Alix dirty looks.

She was stalling.

So he was safe in here, then. The threat was outside.

Sir Kendall went to her and yanked her to his chest, held her, found them a beat to sway to. “We should go,” he whispered.

“No, we can’t.”

“Why? You can hardly expect me to ravish you here, my dear.”

She smiled a big, toothy, pink lipstick-y smile. “What about the bathroom?”

“I believe we’ve been over that.”

Again he suggested going.

“Just a little longer.” She kissed him.

He pulled away. “Is there something I need to know?”

She looked at him sadly. “No,” she said. “Just that…you are the shit, Sir Kendall. You’re the best. The most awesome spy ever.”

“What’s out there?” he whispered. “What’s out that door, Alix?”

She gazed up at him dolefully, silver-pink hair in her eyes, a sheen of sweat on her cheeks. “Nothing,” she said. And then again, “
Nothing
,” as though
nothing
was something to be feared.

She’d protected him last night, but couldn’t—or wouldn’t—tonight. He’d had quite enough; if there was something out there, he’d damn well face it.

He strolled casually over to where the barkeep presided and quickly settled their tab, tipping eighty dollars on top of what he’d given on the first round. The grateful barkeep assured him that they would always have Denali on hand for Sir Kendall Nicholas the Third.

She slipped in beside him. “One more dance.”

He bid the barkeep a good night and strode toward the door, ignoring the girl. He’d walked into dozens of ambushes in his life and had yet to be bested. He was actually relieved by the prospect of a physical confrontation with Hyko and his men; he’d prefer a gunshot wound to this vague unease and desperation.

She caught up with him, grabbed his sleeve. “Don’t,” she said.

He pulled his Baretta from his ankle holster and his backup from his waistband.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?”

She stared, wide-eyed. “No—you can’t—guns won’t…” Her look of pity filled him with dread.

Help?

Was that what she was about to say?
Guns won’t help?

“I’ll be the judge of that.” He kicked open the door and walked out onto the dark sidewalk, turning slowly, taking in the entire area with a diffuse awareness. The street was quiet. He moved past a tree to the curb, stepping out between two parked cars, and then down the row of them. No movement. Alley clear. River-side of the street quiet. Just June bugs and lapping water.

He walked to his car and carefully opened the door. Nothing. He stepped away and used his remote to start it. No explosions.

And then he looked back at Alix, who stood right out in the open under a streetlight, mascara running down her cheeks in black rivulets, eye shining with an almost comic level of shock.

“Fancy that,” he said. “Seems there really is nothing out here.”

The girl seemed genuinely rattled.

“What did you expect?”

“Nothing.” She said this in an almost trancelike manner.

“Why the tears?”

“It’s just nice to have you here, that’s all.” She came to him, smiling strangely. “You’re here. And you know what? Everything’s going to be okay.”

He tucked the Baretta back into his waistband, but kept his smaller piece out. “Meaning what?”

“Meaning, that I want to make a promise to you, right here and now.” She wrung her hands. “I haven’t been the most upstanding person ever. If I’m honest…” she gazed up at the stars. Was she drunker than he’d thought? “When I look at my life, I’ve let a lot of people down, including myself. I treat everything as a game, and I do impulsive things without thinking them through, and I make excuses and let other people deal with my messes.” She looked him right in the eyes now. “But you know what? I won’t let you down. I swear it. I’m going to do right by you. I don’t know what that means yet, but I’m going to straighten myself out and devote myself to being the kind of responsible person you can count on in life—a true ally. I mean it. Right here and now, I’m vowing to take responsibility for what I’ve done and be your true ally. That’s my vow to you.”

He watched her eyes. Was this her way of telling him she’d switched sides? Had she only now realized she’d been cut out of Hyko’s information loop? That she’d soon wind up on Hyko’s table? Hell, he’d be rattled too. As a Hyko operative gone rogue, she might have a day. Two at the most.

“Are you prepared to tell me everything?” he asked her. “We can’t be allies and I can’t protect you if you don’t tell me everything—this minute—beginning with what was going to happen to me out here.”

She shook her head, confused. “I have to think it through first and do it right.”

He grabbed her upper arm—just enough to focus her. “You don’t have time to think it through.”

“Yes, I do. Trust me, Sir Kendall, it’s all good.”

“Tell me.”

“There’s no danger, okay? We have all the time in the world now.”

He let her go. Fine, he’d force her to tell. But not while she was drunk—drunken subjects passed out too quickly. And even if you got information, the quality was typically poor. A hung-over subject, on the other hand—there was nothing better. So thin-skinned.

Tomorrow then. Sunday morning.

He didn’t have his tools. Fine. He’d break this one by hand.

“Home, then,” he said.

CHAPTER TEN

Paul stood in front of his motel room enjoying the warmth of the morning sun on his face, and the way the soft drone of crickets rose and fell in lazy waves of sound. Across the road you could see the mighty Mississippi, which wasn’t so mighty up here in Malcolmsberg, Minnesota. Such a peaceful Sunday morning. Maybe he’d take a walk, later, along the weedy train tracks.

Here in the fresh air and quiet, Paul felt hopeful for the first time in a long while. Maybe he was finally free of Sir Kendall. He’d ended the character, and he’d caused himself a lot of pain in the process, but somehow that felt right. Pain was just pain in the end. You just had to know the trick—the trick wasn’t avoiding the pain, the hurt.
The trick is not minding that it hurts.
That was a Peter O’Toole line from the movie Lawrence of Arabia. Paul had taken the sentiment quite to heart as a boy. He was pretty sure he wouldn’t have survived without that line.
The trick is not minding that it hurts.

No sign of life from number nine, Tonio’s room. Not that Paul expected it; they’d gotten in well past midnight.

Paul wandered over to the little motel office to get a cup of coffee and find out where the nearest market was. The pretty blonde who’d checked them in last night told him there was a market right in downtown Malcolmsberg. Good. He’d be able to get a look at the little town and pick up some eggs, cashews, avocado, spinach, and other stuff for a breakfast power shake. They’d brought a blender, of course. No fighter worth his salt went anywhere without one.