A Devil in the Details (5 page)

There are times (usually when I’m having trouble with my compassion for man) that I wonder why I bother helping people. Humans, as a group, aren’t known for their inherent goodness. We run the very large gamut from true evil to insignificant pettiness, but as a rule, we’re not a kind species.

It is also possible that I am jaded by the population I deal with on a regular basis. I get to see the worst of them—the greedy ones, the vain ones, the ones who reached for just a little more and got their hand caught in the trap. Now, I’m not saying that no one has ever sold his soul for a good cause. But typically, I don’t get those folk knocking at my door. Sure, the ones I get are sorry for what they’ve done, regretful and contrite. But . . . Well, I don’t know about you, but I personally think there had to be something wrong with them to entertain the devil’s offer to begin with.

So, why do it? Why put myself on the line for people I don’t know, and like even less? Because it needs to be done. It’s not even a choice for me. A samurai who turns his back on those in need is no better than any other common thug. He should protect the weak and advocate for good over evil. Shirking that duty would be a great act of dishonor. And that’s just not who I am.

T
he darkness inside Chino’s Sports Bar was an abrupt contrast to the blinding sunlight outside, and I had to blink my eyes for a few moments before they’d adjust. It was fairly busy, for the Monday lunch crowd. I’d counted on that. Businessmen in suits chatted and told dirty jokes over their on-the-company steak lunches. One group of construction workers was loudly cheering on an arena football game at the bar. Three tables in the back were taken up by off- duty security guards from the airport, killing time before or after a shift change. Quiet places are no good for private talks. You need noise to muffle the conversation.

I glanced over the tables, looking for Nelson Kidd. It was a sure bet he’d be in a ball cap and sunglasses. Famous people always think that hides their identity, like Clark Kent with his glasses. Kidd would also be wearing a long-sleeve shirt or jacket, despite the beautiful spring weather. It would hide his mark of shame.

Sure enough, I spotted a man who fit the criteria sitting in the farthest back corner of the restaurant—an older man, with a cap for the local ball team, probably purchased at the airport or hotel gift shop. He wouldn’t dare wear his own team’s logo, not for this. He had on a sweatshirt and khakis, and he watched the restaurant with short nervous glances but never made eye contact. That was my man.

Waving the hostess off, I headed that way. Mr. Baseball Cap and Shades looked up as I got closer, and despite the dark glasses, I could almost see the wheels of his mind working as he compared this man walking toward him to the description he’d been given. Six foot two? Check. Blond ponytail? Check. Scruffy red beard? Check, and if I didn’t shave soon, Mira was gonna get grumpy.

He was still uncertain until I walked up and stuck my hand out to shake. “Mr. Kidd.”

“Mr. Dawson.” He shook my hand finally, but he still made my name sound like half a question. You know, one of those “Please God, is this really the man I’m waiting for?” sort of questions. I was pretty sure it was the T-shirt that really worried him.

I slid into the empty side of the booth without being invited, then nodded toward his left arm. “Let me see.”

He took the time to remove his hat and glasses first, stalling as long as he could. He looked older than he did on his television appearances, the lines on his face carved deeper and longer by stress and constant exposure to the sun. His face looked downright leathery. His hair had more silver strands than blond, but you’d never be able to see it in the bright sunlight. One day, he would look up and have snow-white hair, as though it snuck up on him. It was buzzed into the same crew cut he’d probably had since high school.

My steady gaze seemed to make him uncomfortable. Honestly, that’s why I do it. Funny how the soulless always seem afraid to meet another person’s gaze, as if they’re afraid we can tell, just by looking. Most of the time, I can. It’s something in the eyes.

He finally rolled the sleeve of his sweatshirt up, taking care to keep his inner arm turned away from anyone’s wandering gaze.

I took firm hold of his wrist so I could get a good look and ignored his meek attempt at a protest. The mark was there, burned stark and black into the skin. It could easily be mistaken for some tribal tattoo, so popular just a few years ago, but I knew better. Sinuous curves led into sharp angles that didn’t quite follow the laws of physics. It seemed to ripple as I looked at it, my eyes simply not designed to grasp all they were trying to take in. If I stared at it long enough, I’d end up with a blazing headache. I released him and sat back in the seat.

Some of the sigil I recognized; some of it was new to me. That’s not to say I can actually read the demon script, only that I’d encountered similar things before. He was someone’s property; one in a herd of cattle, no doubt. His was fairly complex, indicating first the strength of the demon he was bound to, and second the number of convolutions involved in his contract. Kidd must have struck a helluva hard bargain. That tattoo would have hurt like hell, burning in (no pun intended).

“All right, the way this is going to work is you’re going to do a lot of talking, and I’m going to do a lot of listening. Then I’m going to do a lot of talking, and you’re going to do a lot of listening, okay?”

Kidd only nodded mutely as the perky waitress came by, and he pushed his sleeve down quickly.

“Hi. Can I get you guys started with drinks or an appetizer today? We’re having a lunch special on boneless buffalo wings!” Her name tag said BRIT. She looked like a Brit, with bleached blond pigtails and way too much enthusiasm about her menial job.

“A Coke to drink. And I’ll have the rib eye, medium rare, with fries.” Hey, I had to go to work right after this, and I hadn’t eaten yet. Besides, Kidd would be picking up the tab. If I hadn’t had to work, I’d have ordered a beer, too. My theory is, if you can see your hand through the beer, it’s too light, and Chino’s had a great dark ale from their microbrewery.

Waitress Brit jotted it all down, nodding like a bobblehead. “And for your second side?”

“More fries.” I’m a simple man. I like French fries.

“And you, sir?” She looked to Kidd expectantly, and he kept his face turned toward the window. I wanted to tell him that the odds of Waitress Brit recognizing him were slim, but who was I to deny a man his delusions of his own fame? After all, I’m a legend in my own mind.

“Just coffee, please. Regular.” At the bar, the construction workers broke into raucous cheers, and Kidd flinched.

Waitress Brit didn’t seem to notice. “Right, one coffee, wired. I’ll be right back!” She bounced off, her pigtails bobbing behind her.

We sat in silence until she brought our drinks, and then I waited longer as Kidd added sugar and cream to his coffee until it turned a nice pale mocha color. “All right. Tell me what happened.”

The old ball player stirred his coffee and finally sighed. “Are you a baseball fan, Mr. Dawson?”

“I am. Since I was a kid, actually.”

“Then you know me and my career. You are not new to your business, as I understand. I am sure you can already guess what happened. I was getting old. The new players coming in every season were younger, stronger, faster. Arizona was the first team to keep me for more than two months, and the only one to let me do more than warm up in the bull pen. All I ever wanted to do was play ball, and nobody was going to let me anymore.” He sipped from his cup.

“One night, I was standing out on the mound after a game, just watching the empty stadium and contemplating whether I would retire or take the bump to the minors. All I could hear was the echo of the grounds crew, already back in the tunnels, and the hum of the lights. It was so still. . . .” For a moment, he was lost in the past. I had seen that look many times, on many faces. “I thought I was alone, but then this man walked out of the visiting dugout. He had on a suit, clean- cut. I just figured he was someone’s agent or lawyer. He had that look.” Kidd paused there, and I could see a shudder run through him.

“And then he started talking. It was like his voice was piercing right into my skull. Like . . . there aren’t any words to describe what it was like.” His eyes, when he finally looked at me, were wide and shocky. Even now, years after he must have made his bargain, that memory threatened to unhinge him.

“Drink your coffee, Mr. Kidd.” I pressed the cup into his hands, and he clutched it like a lifeline. “I know what they sound like.” I had spent more time conversing with demons in the past four years than I wanted to think about. The voices stayed with me long after I banished their physical forms. It was like an oil slick in the mind, a sickly rainbow taint gliding over crystal clear water. No amount of showering would get rid of it, but I’d tried, in the beginning.

“You ever just suddenly realize that someone isn’t human, even though that should be impossible?” He shook his head, dropping his gaze again. “Yeah . . . I suppose you have.”

“And he made you an offer you couldn’t refuse.” It’s cliché, yes, but it’s amazing how often it applies.

Kidd seemed to think about that before shaking his head again. “No. I could have refused. I mean, that’s what free will is about, right? There’s always a choice? I chose what I did with full knowledge of what I was doing. At the time, I thought, hey, I’m not a religious man, so what does it really matter? And my game came back, and we went to the series and it was everything I dreamed it would be.”

“So what changed?” Normally, they came to me when they were sure they were dying and only had Hell to look forward to. I get a lot of cancer patients.

“My daughter had a baby about seven months ago. My first grandchild. A little boy.” He smiled faintly, and I had to return it. What can I say—my daughter is the light of my life. I understood completely. Kidd’s smile faded, though, quickly. “He screams when I try to hold him. He’s inconsolable. My wife keeps trying to tell me that’s just how babies are, but . . . He knows, doesn’t he, Mr. Dawson? Just a baby, but he knows.”

The conversation paused as Waitress Brit brought my lunch and refilled Kidd’s coffee, though he hadn’t had more than a sip. I cut into my steak to make sure they’d cooked it right—I loathe overcooked steak—but it was perfect and red in the center. “Yeah . . . he knows,” I said, talking around my first bite. “Children and animals, Mr. Kidd. They’re not fooled by all the masks and shields. They know. If it’s any consolation, by the time he’s about fifteen or so, he’ll be just as jaded as the rest of us, and it won’t matter anymore.” The fries were good—hot and seasoned perfectly. I didn’t even bother with ketchup.

Kidd watched me with a dazed look as I wolfed down the food. I knew the feeling. Once upon a time, I couldn’t have eaten while discussing these things, either. Now . . . I’d grown a bit more practical.

“So, now you have decided that you don’t want to go through with it. You want your soul back. Realize, once we start this, there’s no going back and you only get one shot.” He nodded, gazing deeply into his coffee. “Here comes the part where I do all the talking, so listen carefully.”

I nibbled on my food as I talked. I’d given this speech before. I think it’s even gotten better over the years. “I have a wife, Mr. Kidd, and a five-year-old daughter. My wife runs her own small bookstore, and my daughter is starting kindergarten in the fall. I tell you all this so you understand my motivations for what I’m going to say next.”

Although he still wouldn’t look right at me, he was actually listening. You can tell when someone isn’t.

“My base rate is a hundred grand, paid up front. And it goes up from there if things get sticky. This is nonnegotiable.” Before you start thinking I’m a total dick, let me tell you that it is only nonnegotiable for people who
have
the money to begin with. I wouldn’t turn down someone who couldn’t pay, but those who can . . . well, they can share the wealth.

Unfortunately, too many of my recent clients fell into the “no pot to piss in” category. Kidd’s hundred would be just enough to pay off the last round of hospital bills and get us back on an even keel.

“I charge money so that I can put a third of it in an account to support my wife and child when I get killed. Make no mistake, I will die one of these days. It may be tomorrow; it may be ten years from now, but it will happen.” Well, ideally that’s what I would do with it. In practice, most of my fees tended to go to cause number two.

“Another third goes into an account to cover my medical bills, because this job comes with crappy health insurance, and I
will
get hurt. I have yet to be challenged to a game of tiddlywinks.

“The rest goes into maintaining my weapons and armor, because that stuff isn’t common, or cheap.” I sopped up some of the steak juices with my fries. Damn, those were good fries.

“What I want you to understand, and I mean
really
understand, is that you are asking me to risk my life because you made a mistake out of greed or vanity or pride. If I die, my wife is a widow, and my daughter is fatherless, all because of you. Your job, over the next twenty-four hours, is to think that over real hard. You have to decide if you can live with yourself after something like that.” I wiped my mouth and tossed the napkin on the table. “I’ll call you tomorrow afternoon to get your decision.”

Waitress Brit popped up with that “Do you want dessert” grin on her face, and I just shook my head as I slid out of the booth. I swear, her pigtails actually wilted. She was crushed. “Bring him the check.” I glanced to Kidd. “And you’d better tip well.”

The clock above the bar said one thirty. I had to be at work by two.

As I passed the bar, I noticed the construction workers had vacated, and the television had gone from arena football to the weather. A round fellow in glasses gestured wildly at a map with arrows all over it. “This looks like the largest storm front in the last ten years. We can expect high winds, damaging hail and lightning, and possible tornadic activity, starting early Friday.”