Rob Thurman: Chimera

“Nice to see you too, Saul,” I said dryly, moving my cane out of his way and leaning it against the table. Michael, who stood at the cantina door, was flirting shamelessly with our waitress. In addition to fluent horny teenage-ese, he spoke flawless Spanish. Me? I tended to point and grunt a lot. When Michael caught sight of Saul, his face hardened perceptibly into a scowl and he started for us. He’d become rather protective of me, punk-ass kid that he was. I waved him off and flashed an “okay” sign.

Saul caught the exchange and raised eyebrows over five-hundred-dollar sunglasses. “Hmmm. He’s grown. He must eat you out of house and hovel.” Commandeering my untouched beer, he finished off the bottle in four parched swallows. Afterward, he pulled a handkerchief, an actual English gentleman’s handkerchief—which I was positive they hadn’t made since my grandfather’s time—from his pocket and fastidiously mopped sweat from his neck. Finally, he relaxed, put his feet up in the spare chair, and said calmly, “I have the information you wanted.”

I knew he had. He wouldn’t have come all this way to deliver bad news. But the statement still had the power to make my pulse jump and my eyes narrow. “You found them?”

He nodded and cracked a triumphant grin. “They can run, but they can’t hide. I found them, Smirnoff. I found those bastards and I found the kids.”

We hadn’t forgotten the others, Michael and I. It might take years to be able to go after them, but now we knew where they were. Now we had a start. “Thanks, Saul,” I said with grim satisfaction. “Thanks a whole helluva lot.”

“Yeah, yeah. Thanks are nice, but I’ll wait for that bonus you promised before I get too excited.” He grunted as he gestured desperately for another beer. “So, Bolivia, eh? It’s not exactly a vacation spot to the stars, is it? What brought you here?”

“Butch and Sundance,” I said obliquely, a faint smile hovering on my lips.

He gave me a sideways glance and, fearing the heat had gotten the best of me, held up two fingers for the waitress. She ignored him and, not put off in the slightest by the ferret on his shoulder, continued to give Michael the undivided attention of a pair of stunning dark eyes. His hair was brown again and it suited him. Certainly most of the local girls seemed to think so. Snorting in disgust, Saul turned back to me and commented, “He looks good. Healthy, happy. You guys getting along all right? Like each other okay? Hugs all around?” He grinned again at my exasperated groan, all humor and blinding white teeth. “What? You’re family. That doesn’t mean you’re obligated by law to love each other.”

The exasperation faded as I watched Michael laugh and take the girl’s hand in his own. He took it with ease. There was no hesitation; no concern that he might lose control and hurt her; no fear that he was a monster. He held her hand as if he were nothing more than an infatuated teenage boy.

“What’s not to love?” I said simply. “He’s my brother.”