Red-rimmed eyes.
At Sunny’s Sun Valley, next door to Rodriguez’s masonry yard, he’d been wearing a black cap that said CAT.
The muscular guy at the bar who hadn’t said much.
He whistled once and came closer. Let one hand drop from the iron.
Lowered the metal, swung it parallel to his leg in a slow, small arc and came a few steps closer. Looked at my face. His wore a slow, lazy smile of recognition.
“Retaining wall, huh?”
“What do you want?”
“Donald’s kids, man.” Deep slurry voice. He sounded as if he’d come straight from the bar.
“They’re not here.”
“Where, man?”
“I don’t know.”
The iron arc widened.
I said, “Why would I know?”
“You were lookin’ for the little brown brother, man. Maybe you found him.”
“I didn’t.”
“Maybe you did, man.” Stepping forward. Just a few feet away, now.
Lots of missing teeth. Mustache clogged with dandruff. An angry pus pimple had erupted under his left eye. The tattoos were badly done, a green-blue riot of female torsos, bloody blades, and Gothic lettering.
I said, “I already got a letter from Wallace’s lawyer–” “Fuck that.”
He came within swinging range, smelling like the bottom of a clothes hamper that needed emptying.
I backed up. Not much room to maneuver. Behind me was shrubbery–hedges and the maple tree whose branch had been used to skewer the koi.
“You’re not helping Donald Dell,” I said. “This won’t look good for him.”
“Who gives a fuck, man? You’re off the case.”
He swung the iron listlessly, pointing downward and hitting the dirt.
Looking at the pond just for a second, then back at me. I searched the area for possible weapons.
Slim pickings: oversized polyethylene bags left behind by the pond crew.
Lengths of rubber hosing. A couple of sheets of scummy filter screen.
Maybe the koi net. Six feet of stout oak handle below a steel-mesh cup–but it was out of reach.
“Since when?” I said.
“What?”
“Since when am I off the case?”
“Since we said so, man.”
“The Iron Priests?”
“Where’re the kids, man?”
“I told you. I don’t know.”
He shook his head and advanced. “Don’t get hurt over it, man. It’s just a job, what the fuck.”
“You like fish?” I said.
“Huh?”
“Fish. Finny creatures. Seafood. Piscinoids.”
“Hey, ma–” “You like to sneak around, spearing em? Breaking branches off trees and doing the old rotisserie bit?”
“What?”
“You’ve been here before, haven’t you? Sportfishing carp, you sick fuck.”
Confusion tugged at his face, zipping it up into something peevish and tight and offering a hint of what he’d look like on the off-chance he made it to old age. Then anger took its place–a brattish resentment–and he lifted the iron and took a poke at my middle.
I danced away.
“Hey,” he said, annoyed. He jabbed again, missed. Sloshed, but not enough to stagger, and there was force in his movements. “Here, chickie chick.” He laughed.
I kept moving away from his blows, managed to get up on the rock rim of the pond. The stones were slick with algae and I used my arms for balance. That made him laugh some more. He shouted, came after me, clumsy and slow. Caught up in the game as if it were what he’d come for.
He began making barnyard clucks.
I split my focus between the iron and his eyes. Readying myself for the chance to use surprise and his own weight against him. If I missed, my hand would get shattered.
“Boom, boom, boom,” he said. “Chickie-chick.”
“C’mon, stupid,” I said.
His face puffed up and reddened. Two-handing the iron, he made a sudden swing for my knees.
I jumped back, stumbled, pitched forward onto the pond rim, breaking my fall with my palms.
The iron landed on rock and clanged. He raised it high over his head.
The next sounds came from behind him.
Deep bark.
Angry snorts.
He wheeled toward them, holding the iron in front of his own chest in instinctive defense. Just in time to see the bulldog racing toward him, a little black bullet, its teeth bared in a pearly grimace.
Just in time for me to spring to my feet and throw my arms around his front.