Fool Moon by Jim Butcher Page B

case Parker or any of his gang came after me. There wasn’t much more I could do, and it was frustrating as hell.
    I went up to my office, unlocked it, and flipped on the lights. Gentleman Johnny Marcone was seated at my desk in a dark blue business suit, and his hulking bodyguard, Mr. Hendricks, was standing behind him.
    Marcone smiled at me, but it didn’t touch the corners of his eyes. “Ah, Mr. Dresden. Good. We need to talk.”

Chapter Ten
    M arcone had eyes the color of old, faded dollar bills. His skin was weatherworn, with an outdoorsman’s deep tan. Creases showed at the corners of his eyes and mouth, as though from smiling, but those smiles were rarely sincere. His suit must have cost him at least a thousand dollars. He sat at ease in my chair, my chair, mind you, and regarded me with professional calm.
    From behind him, Mr. Hendricks looked like an all-star collegiate lineman who hadn’t been smart enough to go into the pros. Hendricks’s neck was as big around as my waist, and his hands were big enough to cover my face—and strong enough to crush it. His red hair was buzz cut, and he wore his ill-fitting suit like something that he planned to rip his way out of when he turned into the Hulk. I couldn’t see his gun, but I knew he was carrying one.
    I stood in the doorway and stared at Marcone for a minute, but my gaze did nothing to stir him. Marcone had met it already, and taken my measure more than I had taken his. My eyes held no more fear for him.
    “Get out of my office,” I said. I stepped inside and closed the door.
    “Now, now, Mr. Dresden,” Marcone said, a father’s reproof in his tone. “Is that any way to talk to a business partner?”
    I scowled. “I’m not your partner. I think you’re scum. The worst criminal this city has. One of these days the cops will nail you, but until then, I don’t have to put up with you here in my own office. Get out.”
    “The police,” Marcone said, a hint of correction in his voice, “would be best off run by private agencies, rather than public institutions. Better pay, better benefits—”
    “Easier to bribe, corrupt, manipulate,” I injected.
    Marcone smiled.
    I took off my duster and dropped it over the table in front of the door, the one covered in pamphlets with titles like “Witches and You,” and “Want to Do Magic? Ask Me How!” I untied my blasting rod from its thong and set it calmly on the table in front of me. I had the satisfaction of seeing Hendricks tense up when he saw the rod. He remembered what I had done to the Varsity last spring.
    I glanced up. “Are you still here?”
    Marcone folded his hands in front of him. “I have an offer to make you, Mr. Dresden.”
    “No,” I said.
    Marcone chuckled. “I think you should hear me out.”
    I looked him in the eyes and smiled faintly. “No. Get out.”
    His fatherly manner vanished, and his eyes became cold. “I have neither the time nor the tolerance for your childishness, Mr. Dresden. People are dying. You are now working on the case. I have information for you, and I will give it to you. For a price.”
    I felt my back stiffen. I stared at him for a long minute, and then said, “All right. Let’s hear your price.”
    Marcone held out his hand and Hendricks handed him a folder. Marcone put the folder down on the battered surface of my old wooden desk and flipped it open. “This is a contract, Mr. Dresden. It hires you as a consultant for my firm, in personal security. The terms are quite generous. You get to name your own hours, with a minimum of five per month. You can fill in your salary right now. I simply want to formalize our working relationship.”
    I walked over to my desk. I saw Hendricks’s weight shift, as though he were about to jump over the desk at me, but I ignored him. I picked up the folder and looked over the contract. I’m not a legal expert, but I was familiar with the forms for this kind of deal. Marcone was on the up and up. He was offering me a