Play Dead (4 page)
“And what did you tell her?”
I looked over at Eli for some clue as to what was going on, but he just gazed back blandly at me.
“I told her that dealing with employee theft wasn’t really my thing.”
“I see. And she just let it go at that?”
“Sort of. She did ask me to think it over, and I said I would. I got the feeling there was more to it than she was letting on.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Eli nod approvingly. Victor pushed around the remnants of his omelette with his fork.
“With Jessie there usually is.” More omelette pushing. “Well, after you’ve given it some thought, it might be a good idea to call her and say you’ve changed your mind.”
“Oh? And why’s that?”
“How else are you going to find out what she really wants from you?”
“Do I care?”
“Maybe not, but I do.”
Eli weighed in before we started sniping at each other again.
“You see, Mason, this Jessie woman has a long history with Victor. Very long. They differ on some very crucial matters concerning practitioner society.”
“She mentioned something about that,” I said. “Organizing practitioners. Moving into the twenty-first century. Apparently she thinks Victor is somewhat of a fuddyduddy. But how long a history could she have had with him, anyway? She can’t be more than what—twenty-nine, thirty, if that.”
Victor gave me that half smile of his, the one where one corner of his mouth twitches up, just enough to let me know he knows something I don’t.
“She’s been uncommonly active,” he said.
“Yes, and she’s quite the organizer as well,” Eli said. “She likes being in charge, and she’s very good at it. And therein lies the problem.”
“Because she’s a black practitioner?”
“No, not precisely, although that doesn’t help. But she’s always been an advocate for a more formal society of practitioners—something that we’ve never had—an official set of rules and laws, not just guidelines based on tradition.”
“And with herself in charge, naturally,” Victor added.
“I see.”
So it was basically a turf war. Victor’s enforcer role was entirely unofficial, but he’d never been challenged about it. Sure, we’d had trouble with practitioners trying to kill us, or do other unpleasant things, but they were criminals, not political rivals. They had no problem with the system; they just thought it shouldn’t apply to them.
“She’s been building her base for quite a few years,” Eli continued. “The fact that she’s appeared in San Francisco now could mean she’s ready to move. She considers Victor her greatest obstacle, and I think she’s ready to take him on.”
“You mean like an all-out war? Sounds bizarre.”
“No, of course not; that would be ridiculous. That’s not what she has in mind at all. She’s a businesswoman, not an assassin. And although I think she wouldn’t hesitate to kill someone if it were necessary, that’s not what we’re dealing with. She wants to rule by acclamation, not force.”
“It’ll never happen,” I said, shaking my head. “Practitioners are a notoriously independent breed. They may put up with our little group because we’re a necessity, but they’d never go for anyone actually being in charge of them.”
“Maybe, maybe not. What if she proposed that practitioners be allowed to use their talents to win money at gambling? Or what if she proposed we finally come out of the closet, make ourselves known to society at large? Run for political office, using a bit of glamour to sway votes? Run the country, for that matter? A lot of younger practitioners aren’t wedded to the old ways.”
“Hmm. I never looked at it that way. But what does that have to do with her wanting to hire me?”
“Maybe she wants to make a convert out of you,” Victor said.
“Why me? Why not Eli? He’d be a hell of a lot more useful.”
“She knows Eli would be a hard one to convince, to put it mildly. You, however, have somewhat of a reputation. One you encourage, I might add. Mason the loner. Mason the rebel, the man who goes his own way. Dirty Harry with a wand.”
I opened my mouth to tell Victor where to put it, but Eli held up a warning finger. I acknowledged it and decided to keep the conversation light.
“I like to think of myself more as a cross between Sherlock Holmes and Indiana Jones.”
“Yes, don’t we all,” Eli said. “More likely, I think, she’s simply aware that you and Victor don’t exactly see eye to eye on a lot of things. I can see why she might think you could be persuaded eventually to jump ship, and a secret ally smack in the middle of Victor’s camp would be of tremendous use to her—if for nothing else, just for the information that could provide.”
Timothy had been following the conversation with great interest.
“Sounds like you want Mason to act as a double agent,” he said. “Couldn’t that be dangerous?” Good old Timothy, right to the heart of the matter.
“Yeah,” I said. “Couldn’t Mason end up hanging from a meat hook somewhere, or providing target practice for a playful cobra?”
“That’s not Jessica,” Victor said. “If she found out you were running a con on her, she’d most likely just fire you.”
“Most likely” is one of those phrases that does not inspire confidence. But I wasn’t worried about my health, not really. I was more worried about taking on a difficult and possibly unpleasant assignment, for no good reason that I could see.
“Still, it seems like an awful lot of trouble for something based on supposition, and not anything I want to get in the middle of anyway. I think I’ll pass on this one, thanks. The whole double-agent thing doesn’t hold much appeal for me—too much like simply being a rat.”
“It’s not an admirable situation, I admit,” said Eli. “But you might want to reconsider. This could well be more than just practitioner politics—it could affect our future in a significant fashion. And who knows, maybe she really does want you to find this woman for her. Maybe the woman really did steal something and it would be nice to know why. You don’t steal things from a black practitioner without some very strong motivation.”
“And don’t forget the money,” Timothy said. “I believe you owe me a few dollars, come to think of it.”
I owed him more than a few, borrowed back when he was working and I wasn’t, and I felt guilty about it.
“Well, the money certainly would come in useful,” I said.
“Oh, you couldn’t keep the money,” Victor said. “I’ll pay your standard salary for the duration, of course, just like any job, and you can turn over the money she gives you to me.”
“Fat chance,” I said. Victor leaned forward in his chair like a prosecuting attorney.
“Really? So are you intending to actually look for this woman who’s hiding from Jessie?”
“Why not?”
Somehow I’d become turned around on my position about not doing this job without realizing it.
“And what will you do if you find her? Turn her over to a black practitioner you know almost nothing about, based on her claim that the woman stole something? You’d be comfortable with that, would you?”
“Well, no, I couldn’t do that, not without knowing a lot more about the situation.”
“And let’s say this woman really is a thief. Then you’d be fine with being the instrument of her punishment, letting Jessie make the decision of what that punishment might be? Really?”
I didn’t say anything. I hadn’t thought the thing through. Victor continued, relentless.
“So let me see if I have this straight. You’d go to work for Jessie under false pretenses, with no intention of actually doing the job you’re being paid for, and take a large sum of money for it? And at the same time, then betray her and report back to us about what you found out? And keep the money for yourself? That seems morally weak, even for you, Mason.”
Victor was right, of course. I looked over at Eli for help, but he just looked at me with an interested and inquiring expression. Timothy started washing up, whistling nonchalantly.
“And what do you do with the money?” I asked. “Distribute it to widows and orphans?”
“Operating expenses. Upkeep for enforcement activities isn’t cheap, after all. I know you think I’m made of money, but I’m not.”
I didn’t think; I knew. Still, he had a point.
“Let me think about it. I haven’t decided yet,” I said again, but of course I already had.
If nothing else, I was getting curious about the situation. Victor continued to look at me with polite expectation. I gave up. “Goddamn it. You win.” Victor leaned back in his chair, satisfied.
“That’s settled, then. But give it another day, just to make it look like you’ve really given it some thought before you call her. We don’t want to have her wondering what might have prompted your change of heart.”
“We can do better than that,” Eli said. “How about if we stage a public disagreement between you and Mason, nothing serious, just some angry words. She’s had her eye on Mason; it’s bound to get back to her. That way, a change of heart on his part won’t seem so unlikely; Mason will obviously be needing a new source of income. But be cautious. Her reputation for astute calculation is not unwarranted, and I don’t think she’d take it well if she found out you weren’t being on the up-and-up with her. You’ll need to make your fight believable.”
Victor and I looked at each other and both smiled at the same time, which was a rarity. Eli saw that and sighed.
“Okay, I see that won’t be a problem. Just don’t get carried away, all right?”
WE NEEDED TO FIND A PLACE WHERE OUR LITTLE tiff would be noted, and there aren’t that many places where practitioners hang out. Mostly we’re a solitary bunch when you come right down to it. But there is one bar over in Polk Gulch where you can usually find a practitioner or two. Most of the clientele are just normal citizens looking for a pleasant neighborhood bar, but the owner, Bill Gavagan, knew a lot of practitioners and always made them particularly welcome. And the occasional Ifrit, like Lou, was always treated as an honored guest, as well they should be.
Both of Bill’s parents had been practitioners, which was why he knew so many of them. He had only the faintest trace of talent himself, if any, which was unusual. Talent sometimes appears in a family where there never has been any before, but the reverse is seldom the case. Just like two short people occasionally have a tall child, but two tall people seldom have a short child.
But Bill didn’t really care about his lack of talent, or if he did, he’d come to terms with it long ago. He was a friendly and gregarious soul, born to run a drinking establishment. Which, naturally, he called Gavagan’s Bar—a joke of sorts, but appropriate in more ways than one.
So that was where we all found ourselves later that night. Sherwood and Timothy came along—we hadn’t all had a night out together in a while, and besides, they both wanted to see the show. Sherwood’s an ex—a quite-awhile-ago ex. We also both had worked for Victor in the past, and we were still occasional work partners now.
A few years ago, on a case, my lack of ability had gotten her killed. Except it wasn’t really my fault, and she hadn’t actually been killed, but that’s another story for another day.
Bill was behind the bar when we came in and greeted Eli with a huge smile.
“Eli! How long has it been? Mason, Victor. And ... Sheridan, is it?”
“Sherwood. And this is Timothy.”
Lou hopped up onto one of the high-backed barstools that ran the length of the bar, and looked at Bill expectantly.
“Ah, yes. Lou.”
He reached behind him, took a cocktail wiener out of a large jar, and offered it. Lou took all of half a second to dispose of it and looked up hopefully for another.
“Enough,” I said. “Don’t be a pig.”
“How about the rest of you? What can I do you for?”
Gavagan’s has a nice selection of microbrews. I tried a Black Rock Porter, Sherwood picked out an amber Barley-wine, and Victor of course went for a single-malt scotch with a name I couldn’t pronounce.
We talked shop for a while, speculating on Jessie’s motives, but of course we didn’t have any more information than we’d had this afternoon, so we didn’t get anywhere.
After a while the place filled up, and I noted a couple of practitioners in the crowd, a man and a woman I knew vaguely, though I couldn’t remember their names. San Francisco is a small town for a big city. There aren’t that many practitioners living here, and if you live here long enough, you get to know almost everyone, if only by sight. It’s not so different in that way from the community of jazz musicians.
It seemed like as good a time as any. I looked over at Victor, and he nodded.
“Because I say so, and that’s good enough,” he said, voice a bit louder than usual. A couple of people nearby glanced over at us.
“Yeah?” I shot back, a little louder. “You’re not the boss of me.”
Timothy shook his head, Sherwood put her hands over her eyes, and even Eli came close to a smirk.
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