Master of None (4 page)

Ian stared at it and seemed about to refuse. After a moment, he accepted it silently.

I cracked mine and took a seat facing him. “So. Here we are.”

“Indeed.” Ian made no move to open his beer.

“What’s wrong? Don’t genies drink?”

“I despise that word. I am djinn.”

“Whatever.” I took a slug and damn near moaned in pleasure. Nothing like a cold beer after a hard day of running for your life. “By the way, any chance you could tell me how you found me out there?”

He took his time responding. “I have known your whereabouts for quite some time now.”

“And you just happened to catch up when I was about to die.”

“It was no coincidence. I have always been close.”

“Really.” I gulped more beer. The taste soured in my mouth—or maybe it was the feeling that I didn’t like what I thought I was hearing. “So you’ve been following me.”

“More or less.”

“For how long?”

Ian shot me a nasty look. “Long enough to know why those men were attempting to bring you to their master.”

I laughed at the idea of Skids calling Trevor “master.” The cold bastard would probably shoot him for being a wise-ass.

“I fail to see why this amuses you.” Ian flicked at the pop ring on the can he held but still didn’t open it. “I, for one, do not enjoy being forced to . . . serve a petty thief.”

“Hey. I told you, I’m not petty. I’m good at what I do.”

“You steal. And for baser slime than yourself.”

This time, I gave the dirty look. “The door’s right there,” I said, gesturing with my beer. “I didn’t ask for your services. This slime can take care of himself, thanks.”

“Oh, yes.” He sneered at me. “You were doing so well before I arrived. Just about to escape, were you?”

“As a matter of fact, I was. I could’ve made it.” Probably. Maybe. Okay, there’d been a slim chance—but it was still a chance.

Hell, I’d have been a dead man without him.

I sighed and stared at the worn carpet. “Fine. Thank you, okay? Just don’t call me slime. I’m nothing like Trevor or his goons.”

“Perhaps not.” Ian didn’t sound convinced. He tapped a finger on the top of his can. “How does this container operate? The opening is sealed.”

I blinked. “You don’t know how to open a can? Man, what rock have you been living under?”

His momentary surprise rolled over into disgust. “I have been away for some time. And I have never had occasion to open such a can.”

I stood and showed him how to work the pop-top, wondering where the hell he’d been away. He’d never seen a beer can, didn’t seem to understand that guns shot people . . . maybe he’d been helping Santa and the elves out at the North Pole, or herding unicorns, or whatever magical creatures did in their spare time. I handed it back to him with a frown. Enough stalling—time to give Jazz another reason to hate me.

“I have to make a call,” I said, finishing off my beer and grabbing a fresh one. “Apparently, the only available phone is the one outside. I won’t be long, so just stay here.”

“Where else would I go?”

A smart-ass remark froze on the tip of my tongue. The question lacked the djinn’s usual acerbic timbre. Ian hadn’t looked at me. His gaze rested on the beer in his hand, and he seemed almost sad.

“I’ll be right back,” I said, modulating down to nicer than normal. I left the room, closed the door. Outside, I popped the new can and drank half the contents in one long swallow.

Two beers weren’t enough to prepare me for the groveling I’d have to manufacture for the less-than-decent chance of getting Jazz out here. I gave the can a rueful stare. Liquid courage, my ass.

Too bad it wasn’t tequila. At this point, I’d down the bottle and eat the worm.

I FOUND THE PHONE WITHOUT DIFFICULTY
. D
IALING PROVED
harder. I punched in a zero and half of Jazz’s cell number. Hung up. Drained the rest of the beer. Tried again and managed all but the last two numbers before disconnecting.

With the receiver in a clammy hand and a finger on the cutoff, I stood there trying to convince myself that the worst she could do was refuse the call. It wasn’t—she could track me down and beat the crud out of me or take the hands-off approach and send the cops, if she wanted to.

Since she hadn’t done either in the three years since I ditched her, maybe I had a shot.

It was enough to get me dialing. I waited for the recording to request my name and said in a rush, “I’ll pay you triple please don’t hang up.”

The canned voice finished its spiel. A click sounded, a beat of dead air. The call went through. I clenched a fist, my jaw, anything that would tighten.
Please please please be there.
One foot involuntarily tapped out a jackrabbit thump on the pavement.

Jazz answered on the fourth ring. “Yeah, what?”

God, she sounded just the way I remembered her. Pure pissed-off female, with the walk to back up the talk.

The drone dividing her end from mine switched on. “
You have a collect call from
I’ll-pay-you-triple-please-don’t-hang-up.
Press one to accept the charges, two to decline.
”

“Son of a . . .” she whispered. I didn’t hear any buttons being pressed.

“
You have a collect call from
—”
Beep.

“Please let that have been a one,” I muttered.

Another hollow click. More dead air.

“You should’ve stayed in whatever hole you crawled out of, Houdini.”

“Jazz.” I closed my eyes, only partially from relief. “I know I’m the last guy you want to hear from—”

“Damn straight you are. Last time I mixed with you, you just about got my ass busted.”

“It wasn’t my fault.”

“Really. So somebody else ditched me and skipped town right before that gig for Jonnessey? I had to make the run myself. There were cops all over the place.”

“Hey, at least you didn’t have to split the payout with me.”

Jazz heaved a sigh. “What do you want? Make it fast, you’re on my dime. You’re paying for this call, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” Momentary panic stilled my tongue. I hadn’t come up with a story. I’d have to keep it simple for now. “I’m in the area, and my partner is injured.”

“Oh, good. Another partner. How injured?”

“Gunshot.” I paused. Couldn’t fudge on that—if she came, she’d notice. “Okay, multiple gunshots. They’re just flesh wounds, though.”
I think.

“Where are you?”

“The only motel in Genoa. Room eight.”

“That’s an hour away.” Jazz made a sound that could only be described as a growl. “Anything else I should know?”

Crud. I’d hoped to avoid this little fact. “Er . . . Trevor’s gunning for me.”

“Christ, Donatti. How do you get yourself into these messes?”

“Just lucky, I guess.”

“Yeah. You’re a regular friggin’ leprechaun. Well, for once you can count yourself lucky that I hate Trevor more than you.”

“You mean you’ll come?”

“Pay my regular rate, cover my gas, supplies, and this damned call, and yeah. I’ll come. Give me two hours, tops.”

Relief made a temporary comeback. “Thank you, Jazz. I—”

“Don’t say you owe me. You’ll never be able to make it up.”

“Right.” I started to sign off and remembered Ian’s lack of fashion sense. The bullet-riddled-fugitive look just wasn’t in. “Can I ask for one more favor?”

“You can ask.”

“I . . . that is, my partner needs clothes. Shirt and pants. His are wrecked.”

“You know, you ought to give your partners some warning before they sign on with your sorry ass. ‘Caution, I screw people over, but don’t worry, it’ll be an accident.’ I suppose you’re completely unscathed as usual?”

“Yeah, but . . .”

“Never mind. What size?”

“Uh . . . tall?”

“A little more specific, please.”

I tried to picture the djinn. “About my build, maybe a tad slimmer, and half a foot taller. Long legs, long arms.”

“Oh, that helps. C’mon, Donatti, I never looked at your underwear tags. What size are you?”

“Thirty-eight.” Damn it. Why did she have to bring up underwear? I’d noticed hers. They’d looked great wadded on the floor of her van. Almost as great as she looked naked . . .

I had to think cold thoughts to stop my size thirty-eights from stretching. Snow. Ice. Antarctica. Trevor.

That did the trick.

“Fine. I’ll do what I can.” She hesitated, and for an instant I thought she’d hung up. At last she said, “Look, Houdini, you’d better not pull another disappearing act on me. I still don’t know whether to kiss you or kick your ass.”

Before I could formulate a response, she hung up.

When I returned to the room, I found Ian’s coat tossed on the bed—without Ian. The pink blanket bore a few smears of blood. A trail of fine crimson droplets on the tan carpet led from the bed to the closed bathroom door. How much blood could this guy lose? This couldn’t be healthy, even for a djinn.

I headed for the bathroom, raised a hand to knock, and hesitated. Did genies take dumps? I had no idea whether their bodies worked like people—though they certainly bled like one when they got shot. They might not need to eat or drink. Maybe he’d just decided to clean himself up, but I didn’t hear any running water.

A low, muffled voice drifted through the door. Ian, but he wasn’t speaking English. I cupped my hands on the door and rested an ear between my thumbs. The language wasn’t one I recognized, though it sounded vaguely Middle Eastern. Ian fell silent after a modulated upswing that sounded like a question.

Another voice responded. A female voice.

I jerked back, reached for the handle, and twisted hard. Locked. Where in hell did he find a woman this time of
night . . . and why wasn’t she freaking out over all the blood? Whoever she was, she had to go. I pounded on the door. “What the hell’s going on in there?”

A sharp crack sounded from inside. Ian gasped. “Blast it, thief !” he shouted. “Do you not have any manners?”

“Who’s in there with you?”

“No one.”

“Bullshit. I heard someone else. And she wasn’t you, unless you were squeezing your balls and practicing your
I Dream of Jeannie
imitation.”

A long pause. The door opened slowly, just enough to reveal Ian’s haggard face. “There is no one here but me. You must be imagining things.”

“Prove it.”

Ian’s eyes narrowed. He stepped back and to the side and let the door swing open on a scene straight from a cheap horror flick. Blood drizzled the edge of the sink and pooled on the floor. Drops of the stuff decorated the faucets, the wall, even the toilet. A crack scarred the mirror above the sink, segmenting the lower right corner. On the unscathed upper left of the glass, there appeared to be a symbol drawn in blood—a wavy vertical line and a dot enclosed in a crescent. For some reason, the symbol seemed familiar to me, though I was sure I didn’t know how to read djinn.

“Jesus Christ. What’d you do, sacrifice a few chickens?” At least there was no mystery woman in sight. Only Ian and a gallon or two of blood. Still, I knew I’d heard the voice. Had he shoved her in the shower? Flushed her down the toilet?

“Idiot. I was trying to get the bullets out.” Ian looked down at his chest, now bathed in deep red. “For some reason, I do not heal as quickly as I used to.”

“I thought you said you’ve never been shot before.”

“I have not. But I have been injured. Guns are not common in—”

“Gahiji-an?”

I flinched. The distinctly female voice sounded hollow and distant, like a cell phone with a bad connection. I scanned the room and finally noticed the ghostly image in the mirror. A woman’s face, eyes ringed with black like Ian’s, almond-shaped instead of round and more than a little unsettling. Took me a minute to realize it was because she had no whites, just a thin black border around pale gray irises that extended to the edges. Dark hair, dusky skin, a beguiling smile—only half visible, since the image didn’t extend beyond the crack in the glass.

My mouth fell open. No words came out. The image copied my expression and then offered a musical laugh. “You are Gavyn Donatti,” she said.

“Last I checked.” I swallowed and glanced at Ian. The djinn’s features had darkened, and he stood rigid and mute, as though he didn’t trust himself to speak. My earlier reservations about falling asleep around him returned in full force. I’d pissed him off without half trying. Go, me.

I turned back to the woman in the mirror. “Who are you?”

“I am Akila.”

Ian shook himself. He strode toward me and shoved me away from the mirror. “This is not your concern, thief. Get out.”

“Gahiji-an. Do not be so hard on the boy. He seems quite strong.”

“Akila, please. Do not encourage him. He is already full of himself.” The look he sent her contained equal parts fury and pleading.

“Boy?” I asked. She had my attention. I decided to ignore Ian’s latest slur and indulge my curiosity. “Uh . . . how old are you? Sorry, I know it’s not polite to ask a lady her age and all, but I’m not exactly fresh out of high school.”

Ian whirled on me and spoke through clenched teeth. “This connection is weak. I have little time left, so if you do not mind, my wife and I would like some privacy.”

“Your . . .” Did he say
wife
? I couldn’t imagine anyone putting up with this world-class asshole long enough to hold a decent conversation, much less promise to love and cherish him for life. Maybe the djinn had a different arrangement for marriage, something that didn’t involve the couple being around each other for longer than it took to procreate.

Ian in the sack. Another idea I didn’t want to wrap my head around.

“Donatti. Get out.” Ian closed his eyes and added, “Please.”

Whoa. He’d used my name and asked nicely. “Uh, okay. Sure.”

“Good-bye, Gavyn Donatti,” Akila said. “Luck be with you.”

I had to laugh. “Luck. Yeah, right.” I stepped out, and Ian slammed the door in my face.

B
Y
THE TIME
I
AN
EMERGED FROM THE BATHROOM
,
I’D
DRAINED
two more beers. I watched him move slowly to the bed and all but collapse. Either whatever he’d done to contact his wife had drained him, or he’d been putting on one hell of a front from the start. He was in rough shape.