"Then we defend ourselves," I said. "See, I knew you'd see things my way."
"Don't start the fight," I said.
He looked at me with eager brown eyes. "Can I finish it?" I looked back at the road searching for a parking space. Whatever spell Baco had been working was over. The atmosphere was a little easier to breathe. But there was still something in the air like close lightning waiting to strike. "Yeah, we can finish it."
He started humming under his breath. I think it was the theme from "The Magnificent Seven." To quote an overused movie line, I had a bad feeling about this.
BY THE TIME I found a parking space, Bernardo and I had a plan. I was an out of town necromancer wanting to talk shop with one of the only other necromancers I'd ever heard of. If it hadn't been so damn close to the truth, it would have been a lousy cover story. Even being the truth, almost, it sounded weak. But we didn't have all day, and besides, I don't think being sneaky was a strong suit for either of us. We were both more comfortable with the bust-the-door-down-and-start-shooting school, than the concoct-a-good-cover-story-and-infiltrate.
Bernardo reached his hand out for me just before we crossed the street, I frowned at him.
He waggled his hand at me. "Come on, Anita, play fair." He was holding his right hand out to me. I stared at the offered hand for a heartbeat, but finally took it. His fingers slid around my hand a little slower, and a little more proprietarily than necessary, but I could live with it. Lucky for us that I was right-handed, and Bernardo was left-handed. We could hold hands and not compromise either of our gun hands. Usually, I was the only one armed when I was cuddling, so it was only my gun hand we had to worry about.
I've dated men that I couldn't walk hand in hand with, like an awkward rhythm between us. Bernardo was not one of those men. He slowed his pace to let me catch up to his longer legs, until he realized I was a step ahead of him, tugging on his hand. I have a lot of tall friends. No one ever complains that I can't keep up.
The door to the bar was black and blended so well with the building's facade that you almost missed it. Bernardo opened the door for me, and I let him. It might blow our cover to argue over who got to hold the door for who. Though if he had been my real boyfriend, we'd have had the discussion. Ah, well.
The minute I stepped inside the bar, no, the second I stepped inside the bar, I knew we were not going to blend in. So many things had already gone wrong. We were not so much overdressed as wrongly dressed. If Bernardo had ditched the black dress shirt and just worn the white T-shirt, and if it hadn't looked fresh out of the box, then he might have mingled. I was
so
the only suit jacket in the room. But even the polo shirt and jeans seemed a little much beside what some of the women were wearing. Can you say, short-shorts?
A girl near us, and I meant girl -- if she was eighteen, I'd eat something icky -- looked at me with hostile eyes. She had long brown hair that swung past her shoulders. The hair was clean and shiny even in the dim light. Her makeup was light but expertly applied. She should have been deciding who to take to prom. Instead, she was wearing a black leather bra with metal studs on it and matching shorts that looked like they'd been painted over her narrow hips. A pair of those clunky platform high-heels completed the look. Those platform shoes had been ugly in the seventies and eighties, and they were still ugly two decades later, even if they were back in style.
She was hanging all over a guy that had to be thirty years or more her senior. His hair and ragged beard were gray. At first glance you'd think he was fat, but he was fat the way an offensive lineman was fat, flesh with muscle under it. His eyes were hidden behind small round sunglasses, even though the bar was cast in permanent twilight. He sat at the table closest to the door, big hands resting on the wood. He was totally at rest, but you still got a sense of how very large he was, how physically imposing. The girl was slender and shorter than I was. I hoped she was his daughter, but doubted it.
He stood, and a wave of energy moved off of him in a curling, almost visible roil of power. It was suddenly hard to breathe, and it wasn't the cigarette smoke rolling like a low fog through the room. I'd come in expecting to meet a necromancer. I had not expected a werewolf. I couldn't be a hundred percent sure of the type of animal, but call it a hunch -- los lobos -- had to be werewolves.
I looked out over that room full of people, and felt their power raise like invisible hackles. Bernardo put his right hand on my shoulder and drew me towards the bar, slowly. It took almost all the restraint I had not to reach for one of the guns. They had not offered us violence. They probably always did this show to unwanted tourists. Almost anyone would get the message and leave. Leaving actually sounded like a really good idea. Unfortunately, we had business, and a really good threat display was not reason enough to stop us. Pity. Because they would not like the fact that we didn't leave. What if this afternoon's little display wasn't the norm? What if they were trying to chase us away because something illegal was going down? Worse and worse.
The long wooden bar had cleared out as we moved towards it. Fine with me. I didn't want to be outflanked. The bartender was a woman, surprise, and a dwarf, ah, little person. I couldn't see over the bar, but she had to have something she was standing on. She had short, thick hair, dark, shot through with strands of white. Her face was the typical rough square, but her eyes were as hard as any I've ever seen. Her face was heavily lined not with age, but with wear and tear. One eyebrow was bisected by a heavy white scar. All she needed was a sign above her head that said, "I've had a hard life."
"What do you want?" she asked. Her tone matched the rest of her, harsh.
I half expected Bernardo to answer, but his attention was all for the room and the growing air of hostility. "We're looking for Nicky Baco," I said.
Her eyes never flickered. "Never heard of him."
I shook my head. Her answer had been automatic. She didn't even have to think about it. I could have asked to see anyone in the room and the answer would have been the same. I lowered my voice, though I knew most of the things in the room would hear even the barest whisper. "I'm a necromancer. I heard that Baco is one, too. I've met a lot of zombie raisers, but never another necromancer."
She shook her head. "Don't know what you're talking about." She started to rub the top of the bar with a stained rag. She wasn't even looking at me now, as if I'd become something totally without interest.
They'd stall for a while, then they'd get impatient and try to kick us out.
Unless we were willing to start shooting people, they'll succeed. When in doubt, tell the truth. Not my usual ploy, but hey, I'll try anything once.
"I'm Anita Blake," and that was all I got out before her gaze snapped upward, and she really looked at me for the first time.
"Prove it," she said.
I started to reach inside the jacket for my ID. I heard the gun click underneath the bar, as she pulled the hammer back. Just from the sound I'd say it was an old fashioned shotgun, sawed-off or it wouldn't have fit under the bar
"Slowly," she said.
I caught Bernardo's movement out of the corner of my eye. Turning towards us, maybe going for a gun. "It's okay, Bernardo. It's under control."
I don't think he believed me.
I said, "Please."
I didn't say please often. Bernardo hesitated but finally turned back to watch the gathering werewolves. He hissed, "Hurry up."
I did what the lady with the shotgun pointed at my chest said, I moved very, very slowly, and handed her my ID.
"Lay it on the bar."
I laid it on the bar.
"Hands flat on the bar. Lean into it."
The bar top was sticky, but I kept my hands on it and leaned into it, in a sort of push-up position. She could have just asked me to assume the position It was a leg width away from it.
"Him, too," she said.
Bernardo had heard her. "No," he said.
Something passed through her eyes that would have made Edward proud. I knew she'd do it. "Either do what she says or get the fuck out of here," I said.
He moved so he could watch the room at large, and see me and the lady behind the bar. He was beside the outer door. One quick move and he could be out in the afternoon sunlight. He didn't go for the door. He looked at me. His eyes flicked to the woman behind the bar. I think he saw in her face what I'd seen because he sighed enough that his shoulders slumped. He shook his head, but he moved towards the long bar. He moved stiffly, as if each small movement pained him. His posture, his face, all screamed that he didn't like doing this, but he leaned beside me against the bar.
"Legs further apart," she said. "Lean into it like you want to see that pretty face in the polish."
I heard Bernardo take a hissing breath, but he spread his legs and leaned close enough to see the varnish on the scarred bar. "Can I just say now that this is a bad idea?" he said.
"Shut up," I said.
The woman opened the ID on the bar top, one hand still hidden under the bar. They had the shotgun attached underneath the bar somehow. I wondered what other surprises they had.
"Why do you want to see Nicky?" she asked.
She hadn't told me to stop leaning, so I didn't. "I told the truth. I want to talk to another necromancer."
"Why didn't you tell me who you were up front?"
"I work with the cops sometimes. I thought it might make you nervous." I had to roll my eyes up to see her face. I was rewarded with a smile. It looked almost awkward on her harsh features, but it was a start.
"Why do you want to talk to another necromancer?"
I let the truth spill out of my mouth without concentrating on the fact that
I planned to stop before I'd told all of it. I mean Nicky Baco was a necromancer, and if necromancy was involved in the killings ... So only part of the truth until I knew whether he was a bad guy. "I've got a little problem that involves the dead. I wanted a second opinion."
She laughed then, a harsh sound like the caw of a crow. I jumped, and I swear I could feel the werewolves behind me flinch. If I hadn't known better, I'd have said they were just a little afraid of this small woman. I know I was.
"Nicky'll love that. The famous Anita Blake coming to consult him. Oh, he will just fucking love this." She motioned with her head. "Who's he?"
"This is Bernardo, he's ... a friend."
Her eyes hardened. "How good a friend?"
"Close, very close," I said.
She leaned across the bar, putting her face next to mine, her hand still under the bar on the shotgun. "I should kill you. I can feel it. You'll hurt Nicky." I looked into her eyes from inches away. I expected to see anger or even hatred, but there was nothing. It was the very emptiness that clued me in. If she pulled the trigger on me, it wouldn't be the first time.
My pulse was suddenly thudding in my throat. Blown away by a psychotic dwarf bartender, how ironic. I kept my voice low and even the way you talk to jumpers on ledges, and people with guns pointed at you. "I don't plan to hurt Nicky. I honestly just want to consult with him, one necromancer to another."
She just kept looking at me, not even blinking. She raised up slowly. "If you move, I'll kill you. If he moves, I'll kill you." The way she said it promised that whatever was about to happen, was something we weren't going to like.
She turned her gaze to Bernardo and leaned down so that her head was sideways looking at him, her ear almost pressed to the bar. "Did you hear me, boyfriend?"
"I heard you," he said, and his voice was low and calm, too. He'd seen it, too. She wanted an excuse to kill me. I'd never met her before, so it couldn't be personal. But personal or not, I'd be just as dead.
"We don't let outsiders bring guns into our house."
"No disrespect intended," I said. "I always go armed. Nothing personal."
She leaned back down next to Bernardo's face. "How 'bout you? You always go armed?"
"Yes," he said. He frowned, then went back to staring at the bar. Lucky he'd worn a hair barrette today or his lovely hair would have been covered in sticky gunk. My hands felt like they were becoming permanently glued to the wood.
"Not in here you don't," she said.
It was the big man in front who searched us. Somehow I'd known it would be. His power beat against my back like a nearly solid wall of power. Shit. He patted me down like he'd done it before. He found the knives at my wrist and back, as well as the guns. He also found the cell phone but placed it on the bar in front of me instead of taking it.
You could see the effort it took for Bernardo to let the man touch him, pat him down, take his gun. He also took a knife out of one of Bernardo's boot's. Anything was an improvement over the last crime scene, but the day really wasn't going well.
"Can we stand up now?" I asked.
"Not yet," she said.
Bernardo gave me a look that said plainly if he died, he was coming back to haunt me because it was all my fault.
I kept my voice calm, tried to make sense. "You know I'm Anita Blake. You know why I'm here. What else do you want?"
"Harpo, check the man's wallet. Find out who he is," she said.
Harpo? The big man, the vibrating mountain of mystical energy was named Harpo. I said none of this out loud. I really am getting smarter.
Harpo took out Bernardo's wallet. He'd stuffed Bernardo's ten mil down the side of his pants and my Browning on the other side. I didn't see the Firestar or the knives. Maybe he'd stuffed them in his pockets. "The driver's license says, Bernardo Spotted-Horse, but there ain't no credit cards, no pictures, no nothing."
The woman's eyes had gone back to pitiless. "You say he's a close friend?"
"Yes," I said. I was beginning to get scared again.
"He your lover?" she asked.
If she hadn't had a shotgun pointed at me, I'd have told her to go to hell, but she did, so I answered. "Yeah." I was trusting that Ramirez knew what he was talking about, that I needed to belong to a man. I hoped the lie was the right answer.
"Prove it," she said.
I raised eyebrows at her. "Excuse me?"
"Excuse me," she mimicked, and that brought low rumbling laughter from the rest of the room.
"Is he circumcised?" she asked.
I hesitated. I couldn't help it. The question caught me too far off guard. I swallowed, and said, "Yes." I had a fifty-fifty chance, and being American and under forty I had a better than even chance.
She smiled, but it left her eyes like empty glass. "You can stand up now."