Dead Mann Walking

third time Grandpa reminded him to turn right, I ventured a guess.

“He your son?”

I don’t think he liked the question very much, because in response, he pulled out a piece and aimed it at me with one hand. He fished something out of his pocket with the other and held it up in front of me. It was a bullet.

“Know what this is?” he asked. “Know what it does?”

Recognizing the aluminum tip, I nodded. “It’s a devastator. Like Hinckley used on President Reagan and Brady, back in ’eighty-one.”

Random memory, quick lesson on bullets. Dumdum and hollow points are what they call expanding bullets. They shatter on impact so the pieces can do more internal damage. For a liveblood, that’s life and death. For a chak, it may just be an inconvenience. The devastator is an honest-to- gosh exploding bullet. Behind that aluminum tip it had a lead azide center that blew up on impact. It could cost you bones, a limb. They say President Reagan only survived because the bullet that hit his rib and entered his lung failed to explode.

“Those’re illegal, you know.”

“So’s my cleaning lady. I don’t want you to get any ideas about being able to take a few slugs before rushing me.”

“Well, not now.”

“Good. Tell your friend the same thing.”

Ashby was looking out the window, watching the streetlights. “Don’t sweat it, Gramps. He doesn’t have any ideas of his own. A little like our handsome chauffeur.”

The old man winced. “Tell him anyway.”

I nudged his shoulder. “Ashby, don’t get any ideas, okay?”

“Ideas. Heh-heh.”

“See?”

Grandpa’s move with the devastator made me realize something that made me think D-capping Boyle was not their idea. “You don’t have a lot of experience with chakz, do you?”

He got a little defensive. “You’ve got bodies, don’t you? Made of the same stuff as everyone else. It’s all meat, dried or not.”

“Sort of. Blow an arm off somebody else, it’s not going to come crawling after you, is it?”

Forty-watt opened his mouth for the first time. “Can they do that?”

“No,” Grandpa said. “He’s shitting you.”

Of course I was, but Watt didn’t know that. Grandpa shook the gun in my face. “Tell him you’re shitting him.”

“I am shitting you,” I said. I gave Forty-watt an exaggerated shrug, so he’d still wonder if it was true.

Had to make sure, so I figured I’d ask. “Either of you have anything against someone exonerated for the killing of their spouse?”

“What? No.”

So Booth and the chak chopper somehow hired the same team. Maybe Grandpa and Forty-watt had flyers up in the grocery stores, little chits at the end with the number to call. Somehow I didn’t think so. Was it someone Booth knew? Another cop? Hazen? No, he’d open the car window to let a fly out rather than kill it.

It worked once, so I figured I’d just ask again. “Booth know who else you work for?”

“We get lots of work. Who do you mean?”

I made a scissor motion with my fingers.

“Oh, him. You figure it out.”

“Do I get a hint?”

“No.”

“Given his reaction to my questions, I’d say no.”

“Well, you’ve got a fifty-fifty chance of being right, then, don’t you?”

Grandpa didn’t even blink. At least I knew it was a he.

“Did the chak chopper hire you because he knew you

worked for Booth? Asked you to keep tabs on him in case I showed up?”

The old man snickered. “You don’t give up, do you?”

“It’s not like I’ve got a magazine back here to read.”

“Want to play twenty questions?” He put the barrel to my neck. “Okay. Guess what I’m going to do if you open your mouth again?”

Hell, I’d probably have my answer at the end of the ride, which, as it turned out, was in the warehouse district. Cue gloomy jazz riff.

Every town has one, but not every town built them as huge, thin, and rickety as Fort Hammer. One good hurricane should’ve wiped them all out, but even physics doesn’t work much in this town. Fifty years they’d been standing, and of course now, times being what they are, they mostly stood empty.

Watt maneuvered the sedan down narrow spaces tight as a behemoth’s butt crack. He kept getting lost, but I couldn’t blame him. One mass of tin wall and steel support is a lot like any other. It was like looking for a particular piece of hay in a haystack. After a lot of eye rolling from Grandpa, we made it. Hip-hip-hooray.

Watt got out, opened the door, and yanked at Ashby. The kid struggled, if you can call it that. His thin bony hands swatted Watt’s arms like wet noodles slapping brick. Just the same, Watt didn’t like it. It looked like he might get rough with the kid.

“Hey! Easy!” I barked.

Grandpa tensed, but agreed. “Don’t damage him yet.”

“Listen to your father,” I said as I climbed out of the car.

Watt looked at me like I was a wizard. “How’d you know?”

“I didn’t. I guessed, but I wasn’t sure until you told me just now.”

“When did I tell . . . ?”

“Shut up.” Grandpa grunted. “You want to give him our address, too?”

I grinned. “Does he take after Mom?”

He shoved me real hard for that. Made me wonder how far I could push him. A little chaos might break our way.

I laid into the mom. “She still on crack? Their kids usually have brain damage. Not that I have anything against crack addicts or brain damage. You’ve met Ashby, and my secretary used to be—”

Grandpa clocked me on the chin. I’d expected it, seen it coming, and moved back fast enough to avoid a broken jaw, but it still sent me to the ground.

“Anything else?” he said.

Watt was holding Ashby tight, and even if I wanted to abandon him, it wasn’t like I could get up quick and run with my hands cuffed. I shook my head. Grandpa pulled me to standing.

Ashby was horrified. Or maybe he was crying.

“I’m okay, kid; I’m fine. We’re just playing a little rough,” I said.

“These are the men who took Frank. Is Frank . . . inside? Heh-heh.”

Grandpa and I looked at each other. Neither of us answered. The old man may not have liked me very much, but I think Ashby reminded him of Watt. Maybe that’s why Ashby got away from them the first time. Gramps may have “accidentally” let him go.

“I wish you hadn’t brought him,” he said.

“Me, too. You could let him go.”

“These are the men who took Frank,” the kid said again.

Grandpa shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

Watt slid the door open on a brand-new darkness. Inside, it was more like a cave than a building, the ceiling too far up to see. High up, the shadows of thick, dangling chains loomed, hooks at the end big enough to snare Moby Dick. Down below, with us, there was plenty of empty shelving, an oil-stained floor, and tracks where forklifts used to roll cargo. All mixed with dead leaves and dirt, it smelled like an oily cemetery.

Watt and Grandpa shoved; we stumbled along, tripping on whatever we couldn’t see. Takes longer for a chak