Marcus Sakey - The Blade Itself

That’d cracked them up, and from there the conversation had gone on like normal, stories and jokes. Danny had sat down in one of the chairs, and Karen had taken the arm and leaned back into him, looking perfectly happy, two halves of a greater whole. And Patrick, he’d had to watch the glow in Karen’s eyes, the fear in Danny’s, and pretend like nothing was going on. That had been bad enough.

But then it had gotten worse.

He was leaving, and they’d both walked him down to his bike, October winds knocking bare branches against one another, the clouds skidding dark overhead. He reached for his keys in his jacket pocket and realized he wasn’t wearing it, that he’d left it upstairs. Danny volunteered to grab it, and left him and Karen alone.

“Listen, thanks again. The only time I get a meal isn’t cooked in a restaurant is when you guys have me over.”

She laughed. “Don’t worry about it.” She’d wrapped her arms around herself against the cold, and smiled. One of those silences had fallen. Just one of those moments that happen between two people who are used to the presence of a third, and who don’t really know what to say to each other alone. He’d brushed at a spot on the chrome of his bike, and she’d looked at the sky. And then, out of nowhere, she surprised him.

“Is Danny happy?”

“Huh?” He straightened, scrambling for his poker face. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I know he’s happy , more or less.” She brushed her hair behind her ears. “But sometimes I get the feeling he… I don’t know, he misses the old life.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Nothing specific. He gets really distracted. Like he’s thinking of something else. And I thought, you know, he might not tell me that, but maybe he said something to you.” She looked at him earnestly, like she really wanted to know.

“I can’t – I mean, Danny’s like my brother.”

“I know, I’m not asking you to-”

“Hold on.” He sighed. “Look, I steal things. That’s what I do, okay? And that’s fine. Better than fine. And Danny, he used to do it, too. And he was really, really good at it, Karen. The times we worked together, they were the smoothest scores I ever had. And I trust him with my life. So I would love to see Danny come back to work.”

She nodded, her eyes narrowing a little bit.

“In fact, there’s only one thing I’d rather see him do.” He paused. “You know what?”

Karen shook her head.

“Not come back.” He watched his words sink in. “He’s happy, Karen. Happier than I’ve ever seen him. Maybe he misses the life now and then, for a second. But he belongs in the one you guys have. And he knows it.”

She’d smiled then, not the kind you flash on request, but the kind that boils up from somewhere deep inside. The kind you can’t turn off. “Thanks.” She’d given him a hug, and he’d taken it.

The whole time knowing what Danny was actually keeping from her. Knowing how much worse the truth was than her fears. And right then, he’d made up his mind.

He finished with the other side of the blade and tested the edge against his thumbnail. It took the barest pressure to cut a mark. He folded it, and slid it into his boot, then grabbed his sunglasses and walked out of what used to be the manager’s office, where he’d set up his bedroom.

The service station had sat abandoned for three years before Danny gave him the idea. After all, what better place to park a tow truck? He could even store merchandise here if he had to. Not that he kept anything very long – you had to be pretty dumb to park the evidence in your front yard – but it never hurt to have cover available.

Besides, against all logic, women loved it. After he’d hosed the oil stains away, painted up the rooms and scrubbed out the shower, even your upscale types saw it as artistic. God bless the yuppies and their lofts.

His babies sat parked in the garage. He briefly considered the truck, then dismissed it. Good cover, but not enough style. Better to roar up on a bike. He traced one palm along the Triumph he’d rebuilt with his own hands, 750 cubic centimeters of gleaming engine and custom chrome fixed to the same body Marlon Brando rode in The Wild One . No point being bad if you didn’t look good. He unlocked the roll door that fronted the garage and hauled it clattering upward.

He paused to kiss his fingers and tap the medallion hanging on his workbench. Danny’s mother had given it to him, a zillion years earlier. Saint Christopher, half hunched, with a lumpy-looking baby Christ on his back. Patron saint of travelers, and a dude who helped his friends.

On one level, it bothered him to break his promise, but he didn’t see much choice. Things were all messed up. Danny should have remembered that the only way to back down a guy like Evan was to take a stand yourself. That’s the way it worked. Strength respected only strength. But Patrick could understand his position, see how he’d forgotten such a basic rule. The guy was a civilian now, and he had Karen to think about.

But that’s what friends were for. The way he figured it, his oldest friend would be happier if Patrick took care of business.

So he would. Just like Saint Chris.

He straddled the bike, the leather soft between his thighs. The engine roared with power at the first turn of the key. He cracked his knuckles, put on his shades, and rocked off the stand. Leaving the helmet behind, he rolled out of the shop and turned south.

Evan was out there. Somewhere.

Working on his car, the radio tuned to classic rock, a rag in his back pocket. Straining and sweating at his old weight bench. Or maybe sitting across the street with a pistol in his lap.

It meant that getting up and going to work was out of the question. Danny needed time to think. Besides, he didn’t want to look Richard in the eye, not yet. So he’d called in, said he needed a day to take care of some personal business.

Then he sat and had a cup of coffee with his dead father.

It happened as he counted his options. The way he saw it, he had only four. He could refuse to help and risk Evan coming at him, tearing his life apart. He could bolt, leave his home and his job and the city he’d spent his whole life in. He could give Evan up to the cops, a violation of everything he’d grown up believing. Or he could help Evan and risk his relationship, his self-respect, even his freedom.

Dad appeared as he counted the last option, square jaw set in a disapproving grimace.

“I know,” Danny said. “I know. I’m just thinking, okay?”

After the accident, Dad had started coming pretty regularly. Danny would wake up in Cook County Prison to find him perched on the edge of the bunk. Or riding shotgun as he went to meet Evan for a job. He’d stopped coming about the time Danny went straight, seven years back. But now, poof, there he was again, one arm propped on the back of the chair, his left hand tapping the table, the white ridge of the old circular-saw scar flexing. Danny rarely imagined him talking, but just like in life, his eyes spoke volumes.

“You know what I need, Pops?” Danny said. “A joker.”

The trick to problem solving, he’d found, was to look at it like a deck of cards. At a glance, an implacable rectangle. But fan them out, start looking at the options, and you could usually find a way. Best of all was the wild card, the one that didn’t figure into normal play. The joker was the solution people didn’t think of, the one that gave you an edge.

Only problem was, no matter how much he shuffled and redealt, he kept coming up with nothing but minor variations of the same four tired options. He couldn’t see a way that didn’t risk everything he cared about. A way that didn’t let his past poison his future.