Warren Ellis - Gun Machine

He parked behind Scarly and Bat in front of the apartment building, a wide red-brick home a scant four floors high.

Scarly and Talia made their home on the fourth floor, and Talia was waiting at the open apartment door for them. She was as tall as Tallow, and in infinitely better condition. She had an almost surreal copper-wire mane tied with rubber bands that made the back of her head look like a telephone cable trunk. She wore a gray wife-beater that showed off heavy, finely worked musculature, and black tactical pants that completed a picture of an off-duty SWAT officer. Her bare feet, as she stood on the rug by the front door, were callused to the extent that Tallow would guess her main training was in kickboxing. She wore no makeup; her skin was pale to the point of translucence; and she greeted Scarly’s hug and kiss with guarded affection, one eye on Tallow the whole time.

“Thanks for this,” Scarly said.

“No problem. Welcome home.”

Bat came up, and Talia endured a peck on the cheek and a “Hey, Tallie.” She smacked the back of his head, not completely fondly, sending him scuttling indoors.

Tallow stuck his hand out, making direct eye contact.

Talia pursed her lips, tested his gaze, and then shook his hand with brisk force. He matched it, and said, “I’m John.”

There was the twitch of a smile at one corner of her lips, and she nodded as if to say You’ll do . Tallow had put a little thought into creating his first impression on her, and although, looking into her eyes now, he doubted that Talia was unintelligent enough to completely fall for it, he was content that she seemed to acknowledge the effort.

“Talia,” she said. “C’mon in, John.”

The apartment stood in stark contrast to the troll cave Scarly worked in. There was nothing in the apartment that was not beautiful, or useful, or both. Spare and spacious, but warm, a carefully and tastefully curated space rather than a chill minimalist plain. There was a sweet, rich cooking aroma in the air.

Ahead of them, walking to the kitchen, Scarly dropped her coat on the floor by a sofa.

“Scar latta ,” Talia snapped.

Scarly froze, backtracked, picked up the coat, folded it, and laid it on the sofa.

“I’ll let you get away with putting it there instead of in the closet because we have guests. You’re not at work now.”

“Well,” said Scarly in a small voice, “I sorta am.”

Talia turned and raised an eyebrow at Tallow.

“If I’m not welcome,” said Tallow, “then, seriously, I’m okay with leaving. I felt like I was imposing anyway. It’s fine, really.”

“That’s not what I meant,” said Talia. “What I want to know is where you get these magic powers that make Scarlatta happy, or at least compliant, about working one second more than her scheduled hours.”

Talia stepped over, put one palm on Tallow’s back, and began to propel him through the apartment. “I want you to sit at my table, John, and teach me of this magic, because I may be able to use it to make my wife pick up after herself and—who knows?—maybe even wash things. Although that might be testing even your wizardly abilities. And then after that, perhaps you might explain to me a little bit about this case that is causing me to feed you as well as put up with losing my wife for the night.”

There was a howl from the kitchen. “Oh, Tallie. What did you do? ”

“Whaddaya mean, what did I do?”

“Tallie, we can’t afford this. What did I tell you?”

As Talia strode forth, Tallow stepped to the side and got an angled view into the kitchen, where, standing in unwrapped butcher’s paper, was a stack of well-marbled sirloin steaks.

“What you told me,” said Talia, “was that the only things you’d ever seen John eat were burgers and steak, which wasn’t a whole hell of a lot to go on when it came to feeding him.”

“Tallie, we have so many things to pay for—”

Talia reached her and put her hands on Scarly’s shoulders, making her appear even smaller than she was. “Yes, we do. But the butcher owed me a favor, and I went out to the stores at the end of the day. These cost pretty much nothing, and so did the ciabatta. It would have cost me more to make a pot of ramen. You need to not worry so much, Scarly. It’ll put you in an early grave, and I’m not done with you yet.”

Scarly gave in with a small laugh, and Talia kissed her forehead, slowly. “And I’ll tell you another thing.” Talia smiled. “No hipster runoff in some hole-in-the-wall tourist food shed in Lower Manhattan is gonna make better steak sandwiches than me. I just won’t have it. John, are you a drinking man?”

“I’m a driving man,” he said.

“I get that. But one beer won’t kill you. I have some imported stuff you might want to try.”

“Maybe I could split one with you.”

“Deal. Sit, sit. Oh: How do you like your steaks cooked?”

Tallow sat at the oval kitchen table. It was old and well used, probably picked up at a sale or conceivably out of a dumpster. Someone had sanded down the various cuts and gouges, but just to the point where the edges were no longer sharp and raw. It had the feeling of having been smoothed by weather.

“Medium, I guess?”

“Medium? God, how boring. Middle of the road. Medium’s for people who can’t make choices. Rare or well done?”

“Uh…well done, then.”

“Well done. You mean ruined. These are good steaks. I won’t have it. You’ll get it rare and like it.”

“She only knows how to cook steaks rare,” said Scarly.

“Shut up, woman,” said Talia. “Since we have a guest, I’ll make a special effort to do medium rare.”

The sweet smell was onions caramelizing in a pan. A tray of chopped bacon and mushrooms was under the unlit broiler, and warmed, split ciabatta rolls were cooling on the oven rack below. Talia opened an oddly shaped green beer bottle with an orange label reading ST. PETER’S SUMMER ALE and poured half the contents into a long glass for him. She toasted him with the bottle, a somehow ironic kink in her eyebrow, and swigged from it as she turned to the stove, poked at the onions with a pointed spoon, and poured some powerfully fruited olive oil into a broad, heavy frying pan.

Tallow sipped at his beer without tasting it, avoiding everyone’s eyes for the moment. He watched the oil in the pan. It was slow to heat, because of the heavy bottom, but it heated very evenly. It raised little rolling patterns, like sand after the tide’s gone out. He watched it grow a shimmer, and then glitter, with little scintillant wave crests of foam. The oil rippled and shone like the reflection of a harvest moon in a green pond. Talia took two of the thin steaks and laid them expertly in the pan. There was a great crackling rush as they seared. She pushed each of them lightly with the tips of steel tongs, to ensure they weren’t sticking, and then studied them as they cooked. Tallow would have guessed it was precisely one minute before she flipped them. The marbled fat had rendered beautifully, but he did wonder how long Talia had been serving Scarly medium steaks and telling her they were rare.

Talia stepped to the oven, took two of the rolls and plated them, tugged the top tray out with the tongs and laid some of the bacon and mushroom on the cut side of the top half of each roll, and then picked up the spoon and pushed caramelized onion over the cut side of the each bottom half. The second minute must have been up then: Talia plucked the steaks out, draped one on the bottom half of each roll, and pressed the sandwiches together before putting them down in front of Bat and Scarly.

“Ours next,” Talia said to Tallow.

“Sure,” said Tallow, who for no good reason found himself wanting to curl up in a dark corner and cry his eyes out.