Penny Dreadful by Will Christopher Baer Page B

quick bites.
    Jimmy Sky, where was Jimmy Sky.
    And five minutes later Moon crashed out of Lulu’s, the glass door bending before his bulk and splashing onto the sidewalk. He broke the fucking door, shattered it. He was probably bleeding. There were tiny white fragments of glass on his arms and shoulders. It was in his patch of hair. Fucking hell. He inspected himself for cuts and scratches, cursing the door. The thing must have been defective. He turned to look at Wiley. And Wiley was nonplussed. In fact, he was turning orange about the ears and neck. He looked like one unhappy tangerine.
    Hey, said Moon. Hey, Wiley.
    Wiley stared at him, disbelieving. You are a menace, he said. A danger to yourself and others.
    Moon pulled out his wallet, a bulging chunk of leather that smelled of feet.
    He knew that it smelled of feet because he had sniffed it, just the other day. He had been trying to isolate a putrid, cheeselike odor that kept wafting from his body. He was sure it must be coming from his crotch, from the sweat and funk and decay of his package. But he had been sitting at a stoplight at the time and he could hardly bend over far enough to smell himself, what with the steering wheel in the way.
    Moon smiled to himself. He couldn’t bend over that far if Yoda himself was sitting on his neck, croaking a lot of Jedi nonsense at him. Luminous being we are…yeah. He might be luminous, on a good day. But he wasn’t too fucking limber. Then it occurred to him. His wallet was pressed up against his ass all day, absorbing his unpleasant juices, his various gasses. The funk had to be coming from his wallet. And at the next red light, Moon yanked it out and had a good whiff and almost threw up right there.
    Now he flipped the stinking thing open, taking care to keep it well away from his face. Sixteen dollars. Hardly enough to replace the door of a dollhouse. And his credit cards were in ashes, lately.
    He pondered a moment.
    Tell you what, said Moon. I’ll write up an armed robbery report and your insurance will cover it, no problem. You could get a better door out of the deal.
    Oh, sure. And they won’t hesitate to cancel my policy.
    Hmm. That’s no fucking good.
    You’re drunk, aren’t you. Since when do you indulge on duty?
    Moon grunted at him. I’m thinking.
    The forecast is for rain, said Wiley. Thunderstorms, you bastard. You have ruined me.
    Okay, said Moon. How about this. I broke the door myself.
    Wiley frowned, irritated. You did break it.
    Yes. But I broke it in the line of duty, you see. In my zealous
    pursuit of a purse snatcher. You can bill the department. Okay? Tell them it was lead glass, stained glass. Whatever. Tell them it was a five-thousand-dollar door if you want.
    Griffin’s office was about what I would expect. Cool and sterile, with uncomfortable iron furniture. A thick, silent carpet that was such a powdery light blue that it disappeared like the far end of the sky. The sky merging with clouds. Griffin casually uncorked a magnum of something called the Pale. The label looked suspiciously postmodern, with bright ruthless colors.
    California? I said.
    Not exactly, said Griffin. Then he shrugged. It’s two hundred dollars a bottle.
    What the fuck. I hate champagne anyway.
    Griffin’s eyes were flat. You will like this.
    I turned away, the glass fizzing in my hand. There were no law books in the office. The walls were gray, with a faint sparkle. The walls were like dirty silver, unadorned by art of any kind. Griffin had an excellent view, however. I stood before his massive window and looked out over downtown Denver. Half of the city seemed to be under construction, deconstruction. This was a sign of prosperity, this effortless ravaging of old, failing stone. A few years ago, Denver had not been looking well. It had been downright ugly, in fact. Emaciated and sickly.
    Not anymore, by god. Denver had acquired a baseball team and the city was reborn. If they told you it was beautiful, then it was