58
The Emoman
“Ah,” said Sawbill, removing his hand and sitting back. “That will do.”
The hull of the sloop had been repaired, sanded, and refinished to be as smooth as the waves it would slide over. Now it was receiving a new coat of fresh, resistant red polymer. Thalia Major had performed another couple of pirouettes on its axis. Thalia Minor had, too. But, of course, that didn’t matter, because …
A tall young man arrived in the boatyard. He asked a few pointed questions and paid a few small bribes. He was very composed. Soon he was looking up at Sawbill. Sawbill was leaning over the back of the boat, painting the rudder. He used a brush, not a sprayer.
“Are you the one they call Sawbill, who sells emotions?” asked the tall young man composedly.
“Impossible,” replied Sawbill sadly, pausing in his painting.
“I’m Terence Wu,” said the tall young man. He was elegantly dressed in a black-and-white semiformal suit. He wore his straight black hair in an Iroquois cut—a wide bushy brush ran down the center of his skull. He had high cheekbones, a wide grin, and small black eyes. Judging by the ring on his left hand, a ring that had been cut from a single large sapphire and caught the light of the sun like a siren, he also had a great deal of money.
“I want to buy some anger,” said the tail young man.
“What kind of anger?” Sawbill asked, returning to his painting. He caught a spot lower down that he had missed earlier.
. “The kind of anger that lets you slash and cut without hesitation,” said Terence Wu tightly. “The kind that makes other men look to their feet and cats sweat.” The rich young man’s hands were tightly clenched, nails impressing palms. He was most earnest. “The kind that the padres do not approve of. That kind of anger.”