meet me at my place in about an hour. See if Fiona is available. I have a feeling Brent Grayson might respond to a pretty face more than to guys like us.”
“Will do,” Sam said and hung up.
I walked back out into the hall and Sugar was leaning against the wall chatting up a young woman. Great. I went back into the vampire’s lair and saw that the exalted King Thomas was back on his computer, as if nothing had gone on outside the norm whatsoever.
“King Thomas,” I said, “mind if we have a word?”
“You can just call me Tom,” he said. “That’s mostly a joke.”
“Do you know what Brent’s major is?”
“He does some stuff with video game design,” he said.
“How many computers do you need for that sort of thing?”
King Thomas shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m in graphic arts, so it’s all crayons for me.”
“Six computers seem excessive to you?”
“He downloads a lot of music, I guess,” he said.
“Listen, Tom,” I said. “I’m going to take Brent out of here now. If anyone comes looking for him, I want you to call me, do you understand?”
I wrote my number down on a piece of scrap paper and handed it to King Thomas. He eyed it suspiciously. “How do I know you’re not a bad guy?”
“You don’t,” I said.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll call you. Should I be expecting something bad to happen?”
“Maybe,” I said. “At the very least, if Sugar should show up? Call me then, too.”
“Got it,” he said.
I left the king to his lair and went back into Brent’s room. He was still fast asleep. I shook him as hard as I could without breaking his ribs, or neck, and his eyes fluttered open.
“Who are you?” he said.
“The person who is going to save your life,” I said.
“Are you friends with Sugar?”
“No,” I said. “I’m the person who saved Sugar’s life, too.”
“Are you Sam?”
“No,” I said. “I’m Michael Westen.”
“The spy?”
Nice that Sugar had been discreet in all of his dealings. I wondered if Brent had my burned dossier, too.
“Yes,” I said, “the spy.”
“So he brought the wolf. Cool.”
“The wolf?”
“From Pulp Fiction. The fixer. Badass.” Brent sat up and rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”
“After three.”
“Did Sugar take care of, uh…” Brent trailed off. “Is he dead?”
“No,” I said. “And no. He’s out in the hall. Now grab your stuff and however many computers you think you need and come with me.”
“Where are we going?”
“A place where if ten Russian gangsters show up, your friends and classmates won’t end up murdered. That sound like a good plan?”
“Oh,” he said, which I took to mean he understood that the playing field had changed, that dangerous things were afoot, that he needed to listen to me and, finally, that he needed to get moving. But then he threw the covers over his head and moaned.
“Brent,” I said, “you need to come out from under the covers.”
“Does this mean something bad happened today?”
“It does,” I said.
“Oh, oh,” he said and this time-well, this time he actually got up out of bed and got busy getting the hell out of his dorm.
3
If you want to learn how to fight, don’t take a course in self-defense. The best thing a self-defense course will teach you is how to lose with dignity. They are designed for those being attacked, not for those who are about to go on the offensive. The result is that the fighting skills most people possess are reactionary: What do you do when someone hits you in the face? What do you do if someone grabs you from behind? How do you fend off someone who is trying to abduct you?
Learn a martial art as a kid and it will be drilled into your head that you should use your skill only when you’re being attacked. This is done for a simple reason: Children aren’t smart enough not to go around jump-kicking everyone who angers them and thus they must be wired for passivity. The result is a generation of Americans who curl up in a ball and let bullies steal their lunch.
Americans like Brent Grayson, who, after arriving at my loft, immediately lay facedown on my bed and began his moaning again. I’d had a feeling he’d be like this-that he’d opted to sleep through Sugar’s confrontation that afternoon told me he wasn’t going to be a real take-charge kind of kid-which is why I made sure Fiona was at my loft by the time we arrived. I had Sam drive Sugar home so he could break the news to him about his car. I figured Sam got himself into this mess, he could be the one in charge of listening to Sugar cry. Meanwhile, Sugar’s problem kept emitting this low wail that reminded me of a wounded bear. It also made me want to put him out of his misery.
“What is his issue?” Fiona asked. We were in the kitchen, which is only a few feet from my bed, but with the amount of moaning and woe-is-me-ing Brent was doing, we both felt fairly comfortable speaking in our normal voices.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Have you asked him?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Fi,” I said, “he’s curled up on my bed like a five-year-old. You know I have a hard time talking to kids.”
“What about in the car ride over?”
“It was enough for me to keep Sugar from speaking,” I said. “I might have killed them both.”
“So, what, you want me to coo him into telling you why the big mean bad guys blew up his daddy’s office?”
“Yes.”
“And then what? We both read him a story and put him to bed?”
“Fi,” I said, “he just needs a sweet voice in his ear right now. I’m afraid I might shake him to death if he continues to whine.”
“Fine,” she said. She walked over and sat down on the foot of the bed. “Brent, honey,” she said, “turn over. Let’s talk.”
“Oh,” he said, but didn’t move.
Fiona leaned over and rested her hand gently on the back of his neck. “Sweetheart,” she said, “we’re here to help you. Do you want our help?” She stroked his neck lightly. I know it was wise to bring her over.
“I guess,” he said.
“Then either turn over and stop babbling,” she said-and then I saw her squeeze his neck with a bit more force than a cougar does its young-“or I will break your neck. Okay, sweetie?”
Brent flipped over and stopped making noise.
“There,” Fiona said to me. “He’s all yours.”
“Thanks, Fiona,” I said. Sometimes I forget that Fiona isn’t really like other women, particularly as it relates
