The Skill of Our Hands--A Novel Read online

  “I think the cops know it was Sam.” Jane choked on a sob, her shoulders shaking. “They’ve called out the SWAT team.”

  All Irina’s peevishness at Daniel’s sabotage of her plans washed away in the face of a much more terrible betrayal. She struggled not to sob.

  * * *

  Phil looked up from the pasta sauce. “Jane?” he said. She nodded. Phil turned to Ren. “Jane Astarte. Her husband is…?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh.” Phil coughed and looked around. “Can someone bring me up to speed?”

  Ray frowned and said, “Don’t you have Matsu’s memories?”

  Phil hesitated. “No,” he said. “I don’t. Does that—”

  “It’s fine,” said Jimmy. “That’s another side effect of—”

  “What happened?” Oskar abandoned his Irina-watch to wrap Jane in his arms. She tensed at first, then relaxed into him.

  “I dropped Ren off here, drove home, stopped at the stop sign to turn onto my street, and had to wait while two SWAT trucks and three cop cars went by.”

  Irina started to stand, but Ramon seated himself next to her, leaning to whisper in her ear. Phil had never seen Irina so close to a total meltdown. Unless she was faking it. He watched. No, she wasn’t faking it.

  “Did you try calling Sam?” Jimmy asked Jane.

  “It went straight to voice mail.”

  “We should get Jim—” Phil stopped, because Jimmy was already settled on a kitchen chair across the table from Irina and Ramon, his eyes closed.

  “And you’re sure they were going to your house?” Oskar asked.

  The look Jane gave him actually silenced Oskar. Phil made a mental note.

  “No indications that he’s been killed or arrested,” said Jimmy. “We’re going to assume he’s alive, and wasn’t at the house when SWAT arrived.”

  “Then where is he? Why is his phone off?”

  Ramon let go of Irina’s elbow and took Jane by the shoulders. “That may be my doing. I warned him that we had reason to believe the police were listening to Phil’s calls, which meant they’d be watching Sam’s now that he’d been to Phil’s house, and those of anyone he called. It’s quite likely he simply turned his phone off.”

  Jane looked as inclined to sit down as to burst into flames, but she allowed Ramon to tow her into the living room. Phil followed, and Ren came with him, leaving Irina, Dan, and Jimmy in the kitchen.

  “Jane—” Ramon perched on the coffee table in front of her, his slender back to Oskar. “If you have information that could help us understand the situation”—he was watching Jane’s face intently for clues—“no matter how personal”—Jane’s lips tightened—“or illegal…” Ramon course-corrected fluidly. “None of us are interested in the letter of the law. We want to help. We may be the only ones who can.”

  “I know,” she said. “It’s why I came back here.”

  * * *

  Keeping an eye on the action in the living room, Irina went to the bag she’d left on the counter, her mind a jumbled snarl. Daniel and Jimmy were the only ones left in the kitchen, and Jimmy was grazing. Irina found the new phone she’d bought at Target along with the Sunday dress and pantyhose, and slid it free.

  Jack had lied to her. Betrayed her.

  Phil’s pasta water was boiling, and the sauce he’d defrosted hiccupped in its pan. Mechanically, Irina turned down the heat and threw a box of penne in while she texted Menzie. If Jack was going to ignore his promise, she was going to make the dream of devastation and ruin she’d made up to get him to cancel the raid come true. She grazed briefly for Jane and Sam’s street address, and was tempted to stay swaddled in the Garden’s emotional distance but forced herself back. She opened her eyes to find Jimmy’s on her.

  “What you doing, my love?” he murmured, immobile in his chair.

  “You must be starving.” Irina gave him her best slow smile. “And I know Phil was famished. I’m just finishing what he started in here.”

  “No really, Irina,” Jimmy said, his voice firm enough now to draw Daniel’s attention. “What are you doing?”

  “Puttanesca, I believe,” she said, turning her back to him. She keyed Sam’s address into the text window with Menzie and hit SEND.

  “Let me see.” Jimmy held out a fleshy palm.

  Irina tipped the sauce pot toward Jimmy, wafting rosemary and peppers in his direction.

  “Your phone, my love. Give it to me.”

  Irina tossed her phone at him, maybe just a little harder than necessary. Daniel snatched it out of the air and handed it to Jimmy. Irina resisted the urge to stick out her tongue at the pretty young thing as she brushed by him into the living room.

  Phil had wedged himself onto the sofa next to Ren, who had the entire length of her side nestled up against him, despite holding one of Jane’s hands. Ramon stood with his back to the fireplace, between Jane and Oskar. Oskar held on to the arms of Phil’s chair like they were Fact and Reason respectively.

  “You all can do whatever you want,” Irina announced to the room, “but unless someone’s going to get ugly and violent about it all, I’m leaving.”

  “She’s messaged Menzie with Sam and Jane’s home address,” Jimmy tattled from the kitchen. “She told him about the SWAT team.”

  “Phil!” Irina shouted over the din of everyone being surprised and outraged. “How long were you in Matsu’s body before we found you?”

  The question made everyone quiet and Phil thoughtful. “I’m not sure,” he said. “A while. I was in my Garden and…”

  “Why, Irina?” Oskar asked, every gorgeous muscle of him making it clear that her freedom to leave in the next few minutes depended entirely on her answer.

  “Because, Dr. Watson,” she said, “I figure that Phil’s stub getting spiked into Matsu probably changed things for Frio, and he’s still the person who shot Phil. I want to know where he is.”

  Oskar’s sensuous lips went rigid.

  “Frio?” Jane asked. “Sam’s Frio? From the library?”

  “He’s a cop,” said Ren and Oskar together.

  Jane opened her mouth to argue.

  “No,” Ren said. “Still. Undercover.”

  Irina had her hand on the doorknob.

  “Where are you going?” Ramon asked her.

  “The Crazy Horse Saloon.”

  “Why?” Jimmy was standing in the kitchen archway.

  “Because I could use a cocktail,” she said. “Daniel, be a love and drain the penne. Jimmy, can I have my phone back, please?”

  His hollow eyes held no love or even trust for her, but he tossed the phone. It hurt Irina to see him so beleaguered. “Get some of Phil’s pasta in you,” she told him, and left.

  In the driveway, she stopped and counted a slow ten to see who would follow, but she didn’t do any addition. That was Phil’s game; this was hers.

  * * *

  Phil saw that more than anger haunted Oskar’s shoulders, watching Irina’s car pull away, but couldn’t tell what. He said, “Oskar—”

  “You don’t think someone should be keeping an eye on her?”

  When Phil didn’t answer, Oskar snagged the Prius keys and left.

  “Pasta a la Phil!” Jimmy announced, emerging from the kitchen with two steaming plates of pasta and a dish towel neatly folded over his shoulder.

  He handed Phil a plate, snapped the dish towel in the air and spread it over Phil’s lap. “Welcome back,” he said, and kissed the top of Phil’s head. Addressing himself to Daniel and Jane, he said, “Phil and I have the Garden shakes, so you really must forgive us,” and settled himself in Phil’s chair. “I’m not sure what’s about to happen, but I know we’ll need to be at our best for it, and at present my best is at least several thousand calories away.” Jimmy whipped another dish towel from his back pocket, tucked it into the neck of his well-tailored shirt, and spread the cloth like a picnic blanket over the lawn of his chest. “There’s more in the kitchen if anyone else is hungry.”

>   “I could eat,” Daniel said, almost as a question. “It was a long trip.”

  “Bring Jane a plate?” Ramon suggested, and when Jane met Daniel’s eyes and nodded, he ducked into the kitchen.

  “Good kid,” observed Jimmy around a mouthful. “So, you asked to be caught up,” he said to Phil. “Here’s the situation as I see it: the police believe you—Chuck—were the head of the Hourlies, the group Sam runs out of the high school Ren was investigating for all the student gun busts. Frio knew Sam ran the Hourlies, not you, but he identified you to the local PD as their ringleader. Then he shot you, either acting on orders from someone other than his immediate superiors, or on his own initiative. We don’t know why.

  “Irina recruited him for your Second thinking he’d resigned from the force and, to be fair, he’s a very convincing liar. We all thought the same. I grazed his record too. But obviously you knew he was the man who pulled the trigger and shot you, and you rejected him as your Second. Things got very unstable and we lost track of Frio trying to keep track of you. But Irina’s right. The settling of your stub probably stabilized Frio, and we still don’t know where he is—mentally or physically. Irina clearly thinks someone at the Crazy Horse will know how to find him, so she, and now Oskar, are headed there.”

  “Um,” Phil said cleverly. He was relieved that this Second didn’t hate what he knew how to cook, but what he really wanted to do was carry Ren off to the bedroom and get started catching up, not to mention taking Matsu’s body for a test-spin. It certainly was in good shape. Phil hadn’t been on the inside of this sort of muscle tone in centuries, if ever. But there were things that wouldn’t wait. “Do we know anything about the place?”

  “The Crazy Horse?” Jimmy asked. “Let me see.”

  He closed his eyes and a minute later, opened them, looking undernourished again. “Christ,” he said. “Irina and Oskar are walking into a shit-storm.”

  “What sort of shit-storm, Jimmy?” said Ren. “Be precise.”

  “The Crazy Horse is on the same corner where Phil was killed, and there is a lot of documentation that links illegal gun sales to it. And other things. It’s a place where…” He hesitated. “It’s dangerous.”

  “We can’t lose anyone else,” said Ren. “Not even Irina.”

  “Ren—” Phil put his hand on her knee, but she shook her head.

  “You said our work was almost never dangerous, remember? But in the three years I’ve known you, you and Irina and Ramon have all died, and now Matsu needs a new Second too.”

  “My death,” Ramon interrupted, “was not—”

  “Not my point,” Ren told him. “Phil was shot. Irina was shot. And now she and Oskar are walking into a situation that Jimmy—Jimmy!—just referred to as ‘a shit-storm,’ so maybe you’re okay with all these deaths and stubs and spikes, but I’m not.”

  “Neither are we, Ren,” Ramon said. “The world is in flux.”

  “I know,” Ren said. “But why is it changing us, instead of us changing it?”

  “Where is Sam!” Jane was on the edge of hysteria.

  Jimmy blinked. “Oh, I’m sorry. Sam left a handwritten note for someone called Santi at the library, signing it ‘Kelly.’ He’s at the Crazy Horse Saloon.”

  “The shit-storm one?” Jane was on her feet. “Why aren’t we going there already?”

  “Because,” said Ren, her voice even, “we don’t know what would help, and what would make things worse. If we go in there and take a wrong step, we could lose Sam, and Irina, and Oskar.”

  “But we have to do something!” Jane glared at Phil like she had a thundercloud for a hat.

  Ren looked lightning straight back. “We are doing something.” Ren put an arm around Jane. “This is what we do. I know it’s frustrating, but it helps.”

  Still holding Jane, Ren took her phone from her jeans pocket and made a call. Phil watched her. This was a different Ren, a new Ren.

  “Oskar,” she said. “Are you in the bar, yet? Good. No, no. You’re just where you should be. I—Oskar, shut up for a moment, please? Now, do you think you can go in there and manage to keep anyone from shooting anyone for an hour? We’re on our way to you. Yes, an hour. I know it’s a long time to … yeah, that’s right. Okay, see you soon.”

  She disconnected. “All right,” she said. “Jimmy, can you gather all the switches you can find for Sam? I’ve collected some, and Phil has too, but you’re faster than both of us, and you’ll find things we missed.”

  Jimmy nodded. “I can do that.”

  “Ramon,” Ren continued, “can you explain meddling and switches to Daniel?”

  “Of course.”

  Ren sat back down next to him and Phil put an arm around her narrow, strong shoulders. He liked this Ren. Maybe more, if that was possible. “What do you need me to do?” he said into her hair.

  “You?” She put the tip of her index finger to a spot on his face between the edge of his mouth and his cheek, and the wistful squint of her eyes made Phil’s heart flutter. Then she smiled. “You finish your pasta.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  No Sun to Reflect Off the Barrel

  No carnival of police lights greeted Irina as she turned onto Valencia, and the streets weren’t dark enough to hide black-painted vans, so no matter what was happening at Sam’s house, and whether Frio or Jack was to blame for it, no one had sent anything this way yet. Still, it wasn’t confidence as much as a kind of panic-fed hope that propelled Irina through the door of the Crazy Horse and halfway to where Santi of the strong left hook was standing. No longer slouched on a barstool, he was coiled, almost crouched next to it. Irina rubbed what remained of the bruise he had left on her jaw.

  And that’s where the obviousness that Santi would know where either Frio or Sam was, and could be convinced to abandon his post before the SWAT team came here next, vanished. It left Irina like Wile E. Coyote, who can run fifty feet out from a cliff on thin air, until he looks at the camera. Irina stopped walking. Santi didn’t relax, but at least he kept that one hand behind his back instead of bringing the pistol out. Because of course he had a pistol in the waistband of his jeans. Irina put a hand out for the bar, reached for a stool.

  Santi came over to her, standing too close. His hand—his gun hand, gunless—was on Irina’s arm, above the elbow, barrel-hard and bullet-cold. He smelled of beer and itchy anxiety. He was going to tell Irina to fuck off. Everyone was always telling her that.

  Irina sat down. She needed a drink. “The SWAT team is at Sam Kelly’s house,” she said, but she kept her voice low.

  “Fuck.” Santi pulled the one vowel into four, and sat beside her.

  “We need to warn him.”

  Santi shook his head and patted the bar the way you tap your leg to make a dog come. The perfectly rectangular man behind it cocked his chin, and Santi held up two fingers, like Winnie’s V-for-victory, only with the thumb facing in at his chest.

  “Do you know where Sam is?” Irina whispered.

  Santi gave her the “damn, you’re stupid, bitch” look, but he didn’t say anything.

  The bartender put two cans of beer in front of them.

  “Glass of Jack?” Irina asked, and he turned his back without answering.

  Santi drank his beer and Irina watched the brick-shaped barman to see if he maybe didn’t understand English or didn’t think ladies should drink liquor, but he pulled a bottle down from the wall and poured.

  “Fuck,” Santi said again, shaking his head. “We saw the SWAT call-up code on the scanner.” He shrugged his arms onto the bar. “They don’t give target location over the air.” His elbows held up his shoulders. He was exhausted too. She hadn’t noticed it before. Sloppy, Irina.

  “So Sam told you I was one of the good guys?” Irina didn’t look at Santi. They both watched their beers, but she felt him nod. She poured the first third of her beer down her throat. It wasn’t terrible, certainly not American, and so cold the can burned her hand. The bartender put her whiskey down and, o
n some invisible signal from Santi, ambled away.

  “You always watch the scanners?” she asked.

  Santi drank beer.

  Okay. Too direct.

  “Aren’t all the police frequencies out here trunked?”

  Santi grunted, but with less pointed derision. “Yeah.”

  Irina waited.

  “Tucson Sentinel has a web page of ’em, but most you can’t hear. We got the raw transmit frequency coming straight outta one of the SWAT trucks. Don’t tell us much.”

  But it’d be enough to give them some warning if TPD headed their way. Irina finished the beer, pushed the can back, and pulled the glass to her. She would have told the bartender ice, if he had asked, but she was glad for the relative warmth. “You don’t know where Sam is.” Irina worked to keep the question out of her voice, but didn’t quite pull it off. Santi’s grunt was un-nuanced and starting to lose its charm.

  “And you haven’t seen Frio all day,” she tried again.

  “What do you know about that?”

  Irina knew a lot, but she wasn’t telling. She shrugged. Santi was too loyal to believe her word if she spoke against his friend, but she could feel his questions burning him. Frio had been expected and his absence noticed. Irina gave Santi a suggestive smile. “He was with me.”

  Santi’s new grunt suggested admiration.

  Irina put her empty glass down. Santi didn’t know where Sam or Frio were and he had the scanner to give him and the Hourlies enough warning to get away. Irina finished off the Jack and stood.

  But Santi’s hand was at the small of his back again, his weariness gone. The two guys in the back were on their feet, and behind them, Irina caught a flick of red—an Angry Birds T-shirt. The little kid from the bodega, the older one who’d bought Oreos and cat food, was back there too. Santi looked past Irina, reached for her wrist and pulled her next to him. She turned around.

  “Irina,” Oskar said, walking into the Crazy Horse like it made sense for a six-foot-tall blond of aristocratic bearing to stop in there for beer. Irina thought his weird Oskar-sense seemed to take in the rectangle-man behind the bar, Santi, the two kids in the back, probably even the Oreo kid without ever looking anywhere but at her. He wore his wariness like a cowl.