with me.”
Papa Brise blinked a few times in a way that suggested his mind was crunching through possibilities and outcomes. “Show me your fuckeen parlay, Ranger.”
I lifted my wrist so he could see. “A mutual friend said it would allow us to talk.”
“Your friend gotta fuckeen name?”
“Maybe we could discuss it somewhere more appropriate.”
That got the giant man laughing in a hostile way. “ Appropriate, eh ? You come to my fuckeen house, Ranger. This is my fuckeen kitchen. Outside is my fuckeen street. We talk where I want to talk in MY FUCKEEN HOUSE .”
I folded my arms and lifted my chin against his intimidation.
The cantina patrons fell silent. I could sense Sixkiller’s wariness to my reaction. I didn’t care. Men like… No , people like Papa Brise – jumped up bullies – jammed my stubborn button all the way down. Dad always told me that was my Achilles heel.
Papa Brise licked his lips and shifted the weight of his bulk from one leg to the other. His vest tightened across his girth, the palm trees on the print splitting apart where the button and buttonhole strained.
I snapped my gaze away from the puckered coffee-coloured flesh beneath it, to see him lift a single finger. His men seemed to understand what that meant and three of them began ushering the drinkers out by waving their weapons. Soon, the only people left in the cantina were Sixkiller, me, Brise and three of his guys. Even the bar keep had disappeared out the back.
“So speak, Ranger. Don’t fuckeen aggravate me any more than you already have.”
“Madame Corah gave me the parlay ink.”
His eyes widened, lids disappearing under the fleshy folds of his eye socket. “You know Corah?”
“Most of my life,” I said flatly.
That seemed to throw him. He licked his lips a few more times, and the perspiration grew thick on his upper lip.
If I hadn’t been so caught up in the moment, I might have recognized his reaction to her name as lust. But as it was, my pistol hand throbbed with the blood that should have been in my brain but wasn’t. I could feel a bad decision coming on.
It wasn’t till he hauled an empty table over to the bar and sat his triple-plus-size butt on it that I calmed a little. Maybe Corah hadn’t set me up to get shot on sight after all.
“So what you want to know?” he said.
I showed him my palms. “It’s in his jacket.”
“Put those pistols on the bar behind first. Both of you. Reach nice and slow for it,” he said.
I did as he asked, nodding at Sixkiller to comply as well.
When our three pieces had been slid away by one of the gangers and we’d been patted down, Brise nodded that I should proceed.
“Nate?”
The Marshall slowly withdrew a package from his pocket and handed it to me. I passed it to Papa Brise still wrapped.
We both watched as he withdrew a long nail file from his vest pocket and used it to flip the folds of the cloth open.
“Corah said you would know about the origin of the feather,” I said.
He poked at it with the file, rattling the beads and playing with the feather.
Then he blinked a few times and I saw the distortion of a magnifying filter slide across one pupil. He leaned in close and examined the object with the implanted lens.
As he straightened up, he’d blinked it away again and his eyes had returned to normal. “Where you get this?”
“Man followed us in the Western Quarter. When we tried to have a conversation with him things got noisy,” I said.
Papa Brise raised an eyebrow.
“Percussion device,” volunteered Sixkiller.
“You mean he threw a boom-boom and got away… from a Ranger and a US Marshall.” He belly laughed then, genuine mirth that made me squirm. “Glad this fuckeen country’s in good hands.”
I scowled a bit. “Yes, he got away but not before the Marshall found this on him. Corah told me you would know about the feather.”
“Mebbe I do. What you fuckeen give me to find out?”
“But Corah…?”
“Listen up!
Papa Brise blinked a few times in a way that suggested his mind was crunching through possibilities and outcomes. “Show me your fuckeen parlay, Ranger.”
I lifted my wrist so he could see. “A mutual friend said it would allow us to talk.”
“Your friend gotta fuckeen name?”
“Maybe we could discuss it somewhere more appropriate.”
That got the giant man laughing in a hostile way. “ Appropriate, eh ? You come to my fuckeen house, Ranger. This is my fuckeen kitchen. Outside is my fuckeen street. We talk where I want to talk in MY FUCKEEN HOUSE .”
I folded my arms and lifted my chin against his intimidation.
The cantina patrons fell silent. I could sense Sixkiller’s wariness to my reaction. I didn’t care. Men like… No , people like Papa Brise – jumped up bullies – jammed my stubborn button all the way down. Dad always told me that was my Achilles heel.
Papa Brise licked his lips and shifted the weight of his bulk from one leg to the other. His vest tightened across his girth, the palm trees on the print splitting apart where the button and buttonhole strained.
I snapped my gaze away from the puckered coffee-coloured flesh beneath it, to see him lift a single finger. His men seemed to understand what that meant and three of them began ushering the drinkers out by waving their weapons. Soon, the only people left in the cantina were Sixkiller, me, Brise and three of his guys. Even the bar keep had disappeared out the back.
“So speak, Ranger. Don’t fuckeen aggravate me any more than you already have.”
“Madame Corah gave me the parlay ink.”
His eyes widened, lids disappearing under the fleshy folds of his eye socket. “You know Corah?”
“Most of my life,” I said flatly.
That seemed to throw him. He licked his lips a few more times, and the perspiration grew thick on his upper lip.
If I hadn’t been so caught up in the moment, I might have recognized his reaction to her name as lust. But as it was, my pistol hand throbbed with the blood that should have been in my brain but wasn’t. I could feel a bad decision coming on.
It wasn’t till he hauled an empty table over to the bar and sat his triple-plus-size butt on it that I calmed a little. Maybe Corah hadn’t set me up to get shot on sight after all.
“So what you want to know?” he said.
I showed him my palms. “It’s in his jacket.”
“Put those pistols on the bar behind first. Both of you. Reach nice and slow for it,” he said.
I did as he asked, nodding at Sixkiller to comply as well.
When our three pieces had been slid away by one of the gangers and we’d been patted down, Brise nodded that I should proceed.
“Nate?”
The Marshall slowly withdrew a package from his pocket and handed it to me. I passed it to Papa Brise still wrapped.
We both watched as he withdrew a long nail file from his vest pocket and used it to flip the folds of the cloth open.
“Corah said you would know about the origin of the feather,” I said.
He poked at it with the file, rattling the beads and playing with the feather.
Then he blinked a few times and I saw the distortion of a magnifying filter slide across one pupil. He leaned in close and examined the object with the implanted lens.
As he straightened up, he’d blinked it away again and his eyes had returned to normal. “Where you get this?”
“Man followed us in the Western Quarter. When we tried to have a conversation with him things got noisy,” I said.
Papa Brise raised an eyebrow.
“Percussion device,” volunteered Sixkiller.
“You mean he threw a boom-boom and got away… from a Ranger and a US Marshall.” He belly laughed then, genuine mirth that made me squirm. “Glad this fuckeen country’s in good hands.”
I scowled a bit. “Yes, he got away but not before the Marshall found this on him. Corah told me you would know about the feather.”
“Mebbe I do. What you fuckeen give me to find out?”
“But Corah…?”
“Listen up!
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