This was a new voice. Lower pitched than the handcuffs. An almost Barry White or James Earl Jones tone.
My boy is serious. I’ve got hollow point rounds in my belly that will turn your brains into confetti.
Oh, great. The gun talked too.
Do it, gun! the handcuffs shouted, Put him down like the mad dog that he is!
Just waitin’ for my boy to the pull the trigger, the gun said, Your punk ass brain won’t have time to hear the bang.
This couldn’t go on. He would have to use his powers.
“Holy crap!” the cop shouted
The cop’s knee came off Hilario’s back. Hilario sucked air into his lungs.
“What the hell!” the cop said.
Hilario risked a glance up.
The cop stood a couple feet back. He wasn’t in a cop uniform. He wore a dark gray suit and a black trench coat that came down to mid calf. The man was big and blocky with muscle. A dark gray fedora sat above his square, clean shaven face. Shiny black shoes completed the ensemble.
The whole look screamed police detective from another era.
He looked familiar. Had he seen him in the Stung Sparrow?
The cop had his gun raised. But the man’s hands trembled. His eyes were as big as saucers. His face white as a…
Ghost.
The cop stared over Hilario. Toward the van.
Hilario turned his head the other way. Larry hooked his arm over the van’s open window. A big grin stretched his face. He waved at Hilario.
“Larry?” the cop said.
What’s going on boss? the handcuffs asked. We taking this perp in or what?
Quite shaking me like I’m some dick you just took a piss with, the gun said, what kind of man are you?
The cop tightened his grip on the gun. Swung it back to Hilario. The man’s face twisted with rage.
“You son of a bitch,” the cop said, “You murdered him and stole his soul?”
You’re gonna die, fat boy, the gun said.
The cop’s finger tightened on the trigger.
8
In the twenty years that Larry Sparrow had run the Stung Sparrow, the restaurant had become a gathering place for an eclectic clientele. Artists from the cheap lofts of old downtown would rub shoulders with suits who popped over from the shiny towers of the business district. Farmers would bring Larry fresh produce and stay for one of his amazing pies. A clutch of blue haired grandmothers would camp out at one of the big round corner tables. And share pizza and beer with one of the alternative rock bands that played on Thursday nights.
People who all shared a love of awesome pizza. Made by someone who actually cared about doing things right.
So why would Larry go punch dough in someone else’s kitchen?
Larry had the best, shiniest, cleanest kitchen in the whole city. Despite his manic preparation that sent dough and sauce and cheese flying everywhere. Yet almost magically landing exactly where they needed to be.
Everyone had secrets.
Including the cop tightening his finger on the trigger of his mouthy gun.
“Whose kitchen was Larry using?” Hilario said.
The cop blinked.
“What?”
Hilario took a breath of ash and barbecue tinged air. His stomach roiled. His fat encased heart did double overtime.
From the corner of his eye he saw a black shape moving out of the smoldering ruin of the Stung Sparrow.
He didn’t dare use any of his powers. The black angels would be on him like stink on poop. And then Larry would get whisked off to have his soul weighed.
But Larry’s business in the normal world wasn’t finished. There was more going on here than just an angry ex-wife or sneaking around to someone else’s kitchen. Larry’s restaurant had been universally beloved. Even the cops who went there were ready to shoot on sight to defend its honor.
“Larry was cooking in someone else’s kitchen,” Hilario said, “That’s why Rachel divorced him.”
The cop just looked bewildered. He looked from Hilario to the ghost in the van and back again.
“Kitchen? That’s not–”
Hilario risked a glance back at Larry. The ghost had his hands over his face.
“Its-a true-a,” Larry said, “I-a make-a pizza in another-a kitchen-a.”
The cop ran a hand over his face. The gun in his other hand shook.
What is this? the gun said, We gonna shoot this clown or what? You’re makin’ me dizzy. Shoot him already.
The cop looked down at his gun.
“Who said that?” he said.
Oh. Poop.
Transference.
The cop had gotten a little bit of Hilario’s power from the contact between him and the gun.
“Sir, don’t worry,” Hilario said, “You’re not losing your mind.”
Which probably wasn’t the best thing to say to someone with a gun in their hand.
The cop jerked the gun back Hilario’s way.
“What the hell did you do to me, fatty,” the cop said, “You put some kind of drug in the air?”
If only.
“Sir, there aren’t any easy explanations here,” Hilario said, “But we might want to have this discussion somewhere else.”
The spiky black shadow moved out of the wrecked restaurant. Started to drift their way.
“Larry! Get down,” Hilario said, “Look at the floor. Start counting backward by ones from ten thousand.”
To his credit, Larry disappeared. No questions this time.
The cop looked bewildered and vaguely frightened. The gun had steadied. The end of the barrel yawned like a chasm at Hilario’s face.
Put a cap in his ass, the gun said.
Yeah, I’m sick of his greasy wrists, the handcuffs said, pop him and call the coroner.
The cop’s eyes went wide. He lifted the gun.
“Did you just talk?” he said.
Damn right I did, the gun said, now you gonna man up and off this sucker?
The cop’s face twisted in anger. He shoved the gun back inside his trench coat.
“Don’t fucking tell me what to do,” he said.
He crouched down to Hilario’s face.
“What’s going on, fat boy?” the cop said,
