Page 33 of It Takes a Thief

“Yes,” said Santiago seriously. “The Hershey squirts.”

“Oh, yeesh,” said the woman, and dragged her husband off.

We all enjoyed a chuckle. I held Santiago’s hand and said, “I need you to stick by this display all night long. Keep people from bidding.”

But Ford was coming our way, so I let go of Santiago’s hand. Ford could be very jealous. He was not the most secure man in the world, probably owing to my unfortunate history with his father. Ford did see me somewhat as a possession of his that no one else, at least no other man, could enjoy.

“Slayer.” Ford nodded.

He looked so damned dapper that night. He even had a tie on—a skinny black tie, like a cholo would wear. All he needed was a zoot suit and he’d outshine even Santiago Slayer with his wide airplane collar and gold chains. Ford’s cowboy boots were made of lizard skin.

Santiago said, “I have brought you news, Ford, of the weather incident on Mormon Mountain.”

“Oh, yes. The hot dry wind?”

“That is the one. I am here to tell you there is a meth-head to this man’s madness, and we must have an urgent meeting with him.”

“All right.” Ford appeared to understand the doubletalk. “Let’s go outside, with the smokers.”

“Smokers?” gasped Santiago. He patted his hair, wavy salt and pepper as though permed.

“Maddy,” Ford whispered in my ear, brushing it with his soft lips. “I love you.”

I was so taken aback I was speechless. Ford said that a lot while “making love,” as Santiago would say, but almost never in normal life. Certainly not in public.

Our eyes just lingered on each other as he walked away with Santiago. Ford’s were deeper and more glimmering than Santiago’s, almost brimming over with some kind of emotional message for me.

“Wow,” Sabrina said. “You’ll never split up.”

I was so sure of that.

FORD

I didn’t know that Slayer had been up on Mormon Mountain—indeed, that he was back in town at all. But he’d promised to check back in on the situation after returning from his Hawaiian luau or goat yoga or whatever the fuck he’d been doing, and Slayer was nothing if not reliable.

He gauged the wind direction by wetting his finger and holding it up, to get away from the direction of the smokers. “Ah. Here.” He assumed a businesslike face to address me. He’d once told me that the key to appearing serious was never blinking. “That announces to people how forceful and frightening you are.”

He was frightening now. “I am the bearer of bad news, Ford. I cannot put this any other way. You hit the wrong house.”

What? I was stunned, brain-dead, for a few seconds. “What? How can that fucking be? Tobiah’s GPS had put the house within a margin of error of like twenty yards. There were no other houses around. And I saw two bikers go inside.”

“Cutlasses?”

“Well, they didn’t have Cutlass cuts on, no…” Fuck me dry. That sinking feeling in my stomach was starting to creep into my bowels. “Then how far away is the real clubhouse?”

Slayer still wore the serious face. “Within laughing distance of your hit.” He held out his phone as an offering. “I can give you the real coordinates if you’d like.”

“Fuck it!” I batted Slayer’s phone out of his hand with a wild, abandoned arm and took several strides toward the smokers. “Fuck it!” About a dozen people turned to stare at me, so I strode the opposite way in the alley. I’d just blown up the wrong fucking house. My rage was so all-encompassing I was literally seeing red. To be honest, I cared more about my mistake than about the two hapless bikers inside the house. That sort of collateral damage went on all the time in our world. It was just the price you paid to be in our business.

“Fuck!” I bellowed again, for lack of anything better to do. Hands in fists, I advanced on poor Slayer. I would’ve punched the wall of the ballroom if it wasn’t made of brick. People were already putting out their cigarettes and going back inside just to get away from me, I knew. I was used to that. I was actually acting in a fairly restrained manner, if you knew me well. I was aware there were lots of public officials, cops, and captains of industry at the ball. I hadn’t completely lost my religion.

But I stormed back over to Slayer, who flinched in a protective way because he was checking his phone. Had I damaged it? I didn’t give a flying fuck. “So what were you saying about Noodlum, inside the hall?”

He cradled his phone like a baby. “Mr. Noodlum’s brain damage goes farther than I told you. When he was arrested for rape, he was forced to take a peter meter.”

I had no patience for his flowery lingo. “What the fuck is a peter meter?”

“It is a penile plethysmograph. A PPG, a test that measures blood going to the penis. They show the offender photographs and judge whether he is still aroused by, say, photos of underage kids.”