you'd forgotten."
Oh shit. The penny dropped: that's the entire mission blown! He stared at her in mortified disbelief, at a complete loss for words. His mind Hashed back to events earlier in the evening, to a hurried snatch of conversation with Miriam, the way she'd stared at him in perplexity as if she couldn't quite fathom the meaning of his reappearance in her life: now he felt the same scene repeating, horribly skewed. "You were-" he paused. "Mrs. Beck-stein. Well..." His lips were as dry as the day when Miriam had casually suggested they stop off on their way to the restaurant to say hello, just for ten minutes, so you've met my mother -"I'm surprised. I thought you'd adopted Miriam? What are you doing here?"
Olga, the Russian princess as he'd started thinking of her, glared at him malevolently: her rifle pointed at the floor, but he had no doubt she could bring it to bear on his head in an eyeblink. But Mrs. Beckstein surprised him. She began to smile, and then her smile widened, and she began to chuckle, louder and louder until she began to wheeze and subsided into a fit of coughing. "You really believed that? And you saw us together? What kind of cop are you?" Something else must have tweaked her funny bone because a moment later she was off again, lost in a paroxysm of thigh-slappingly disproportionate mirth. Or maybe it was just relief at being out of the fire-fight.
"I do not see the thing that is so funny," Olga said, almost plaintively.
"Ah, well, but he was such a nice young-" Mrs. Beck-stein began coughing again. Olga looked concerned, but given a choice between keeping Mike under observation and trying to help the older woman-"Sorry, dear," she told Olga, when she got her voice back. "That's how Miriam described you." She nodded at Mike. "Before she changed her mind."
Mike closed his eyes again. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, is this a fuckup! He winced: obviously demons were feeding his leg-weasels crystal meth. "He's called Mike," Mrs. Beckstein continued remorselessly, "Mike something-beginning-with-F, I've got it in my diary. And he works for the Drug Enforcement Agency. Or he used to work for the DEA. Do you still work for the DEA, Mike?"
He opened his eyes, unsure what to do: the painkillers were subsiding but he still felt unfocused, blurry about the edges. "I'm not supposed to talk-"
"You will talk, boy." Mrs. Beckstcin glared at him, and he recoiled at the anger in her expression. "You can take your chances with me, or you can make your excuses to my half-brother's men, but you are going to talk sooner or later." She glanced at Olga. "Sometimes I can't believe my luck," she said dryly. She turned back to Mike, her expression harsh: "What have you done with my daughter?"
"I- " Mike stopped. Time seemed to slow. My brother's men. Jesus, she's been one of them all along! How deep does this go? He shuddered, his guts churning. Until now he'd known, understood in the abstract, that Miriam was involved with these alien gangsters, narcoterrorists from Middle Earth: even meeting Miriam, dressed up for a medieval wedding in the middle of an exploding castle, hadn't really shaken what he'd thought he knew. But Miriam's mother was a different matter entirely, a disabled middle-aged woman living quietly in a small house in New England suburbia- they're everywhere! He swallowed, choking back hysterical laughter. "I don't know where she went. She said she had a, one of the lockets, got it from a friend. Said she'd be in touch later. There was a pcrp in black, tried to stab her so I shot him-"
"Why?"
"Orders." He cleared his throat. "They told me, talk to her. Offer her whatever she... well, anything."
Mrs. Beckstein glanced at the Russian princess: evidently her expression meant something because a moment later she turned back to him. "You're colluding with Egon."
"Who?" His bewilderment must have been obvious, because a moment later she nodded.
"All right. So how did you get over here?"
Mike stared at
Oh shit. The penny dropped: that's the entire mission blown! He stared at her in mortified disbelief, at a complete loss for words. His mind Hashed back to events earlier in the evening, to a hurried snatch of conversation with Miriam, the way she'd stared at him in perplexity as if she couldn't quite fathom the meaning of his reappearance in her life: now he felt the same scene repeating, horribly skewed. "You were-" he paused. "Mrs. Beck-stein. Well..." His lips were as dry as the day when Miriam had casually suggested they stop off on their way to the restaurant to say hello, just for ten minutes, so you've met my mother -"I'm surprised. I thought you'd adopted Miriam? What are you doing here?"
Olga, the Russian princess as he'd started thinking of her, glared at him malevolently: her rifle pointed at the floor, but he had no doubt she could bring it to bear on his head in an eyeblink. But Mrs. Beckstein surprised him. She began to smile, and then her smile widened, and she began to chuckle, louder and louder until she began to wheeze and subsided into a fit of coughing. "You really believed that? And you saw us together? What kind of cop are you?" Something else must have tweaked her funny bone because a moment later she was off again, lost in a paroxysm of thigh-slappingly disproportionate mirth. Or maybe it was just relief at being out of the fire-fight.
"I do not see the thing that is so funny," Olga said, almost plaintively.
"Ah, well, but he was such a nice young-" Mrs. Beck-stein began coughing again. Olga looked concerned, but given a choice between keeping Mike under observation and trying to help the older woman-"Sorry, dear," she told Olga, when she got her voice back. "That's how Miriam described you." She nodded at Mike. "Before she changed her mind."
Mike closed his eyes again. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, is this a fuckup! He winced: obviously demons were feeding his leg-weasels crystal meth. "He's called Mike," Mrs. Beckstein continued remorselessly, "Mike something-beginning-with-F, I've got it in my diary. And he works for the Drug Enforcement Agency. Or he used to work for the DEA. Do you still work for the DEA, Mike?"
He opened his eyes, unsure what to do: the painkillers were subsiding but he still felt unfocused, blurry about the edges. "I'm not supposed to talk-"
"You will talk, boy." Mrs. Beckstcin glared at him, and he recoiled at the anger in her expression. "You can take your chances with me, or you can make your excuses to my half-brother's men, but you are going to talk sooner or later." She glanced at Olga. "Sometimes I can't believe my luck," she said dryly. She turned back to Mike, her expression harsh: "What have you done with my daughter?"
"I- " Mike stopped. Time seemed to slow. My brother's men. Jesus, she's been one of them all along! How deep does this go? He shuddered, his guts churning. Until now he'd known, understood in the abstract, that Miriam was involved with these alien gangsters, narcoterrorists from Middle Earth: even meeting Miriam, dressed up for a medieval wedding in the middle of an exploding castle, hadn't really shaken what he'd thought he knew. But Miriam's mother was a different matter entirely, a disabled middle-aged woman living quietly in a small house in New England suburbia- they're everywhere! He swallowed, choking back hysterical laughter. "I don't know where she went. She said she had a, one of the lockets, got it from a friend. Said she'd be in touch later. There was a pcrp in black, tried to stab her so I shot him-"
"Why?"
"Orders." He cleared his throat. "They told me, talk to her. Offer her whatever she... well, anything."
Mrs. Beckstein glanced at the Russian princess: evidently her expression meant something because a moment later she turned back to him. "You're colluding with Egon."
"Who?" His bewilderment must have been obvious, because a moment later she nodded.
"All right. So how did you get over here?"
Mike stared at
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