KNIGHT'S DEFENSE
by Dru Pagliassotti
Jack shuddered and woke, the newspaper crumpled inside his jacket rustling as he rolled over. The morning sunlight was pale through the windows, shining wanly through pages of The New York Times jammed in the hole in the glass.
He reached for the old soda can on the dashboard and took a big swallow of water, grimacing slightly at the tinny flavor, and then wiped his face on a corner of one of the old pieces of clothing he'd used to line the inside of the old Toyota Corona. It was Jack Walker's place, all the others knew that; he'd done what he could to make it livable, even in the damned cold weather the city'd been getting just recently.
He pulled the paper from his jacket, took it off, and pulled on an old sweater over the T-shirt and sweatshirt he already wore. Then he pulled on the jacket again and slipped out of the car.
It was a beautiful, clear morning, like New York only really got in the winter, when the heat didn't trap the smog over the city like a yellow-grey shroud. His breath came out in a white cloud as he looked around, jamming gloved hands into his jean pockets. Winter's a bitch, but it sure is pretty, Jack thought, looking into the distance where the city skyscrapers rose against the pale blue morning sky.
There wasn't anyone around the old dump. He reached in and popped the hood, then pulled a can of beans from the stash sacked away under the front seat.
Jack Walker's place. There was plenty who wished they were as well off as he was. Trick was, he didn't drink, and when he got a few dollars, he bought gas with it. Not enough to drive out of here, not enough to take him to California, where it was warm all the time and people like him didn't freeze to death in the streets during the winter, though. Jack sighed as he slowly worked a can opener with gloved fingers. He'd met someone from California, once, a woman who was on the street while she was looking for a job to earn enough to rent an apartment. She told him the best place in the world to go was L.A., where you could always get a job, where it was always warm. He asked her why she'd left, then, and she'd just shrugged.
Jack carefully rested the can of beans on the exhaust manifold and gently let the hood shut, then slid back behind the wheel. Fumbling out the key tied to a shoelace around his neck, he turned the engine on and sat back.
Benjy'd taught him about manifold cooking, an old black man from Florida who'd owned the Corona before Jack. Jack'd learned a lot from Benjy, enough to keep him alive on the streets during his early teens, when he'd been prey for the gangs.
Jack smiled slightly, thinking about Benjy. Benjy said he used to be a computer programmer, way back when that meant you punched holes in cards and slid them into a machine as big as a room. But then he'd gotten sick, and the hospital bills had bankrupt him, and finally Benjy'd ended up on the street, just like the rest of them. No more money, and all of the sudden he wasn't a person with cancer anymore to those doctors, just another debtor — no more encouraging smiles and concerned inquiries and medicine, just attorneys asking for money and banks taking his house. Benjy tried to stick it out for a while, but finally he'd let go, and spent his last years dying in an abandoned old Corona, still too good a man to turn his back on a boy who needed help despite all the shit he'd taken.
Jack twisted the key and pulled it out of the ignition, carefully replacing it around his neck. "Damn," he whispered, feeling depressed. He hadn't thought about Benjy in months. Must be the weather. It'd been winter when Benjy'd finally died, and Jack had to carry the frail corpse far from their place so that when the cops responded to an anyonymous call, they wouldn't discover the illegal shelter.
He climbed out of the car, closing the door carefully so the heat generated from the running engine wouldn't escape so fast, and gingerly took the can off the manifold with a rag around his hand, letting the hood slam back into place. He huddled inside the warmed car and ate the heated beans with a plastic McDonald's spoon.
Today he had to pick up some more food. Jack and Benjy'd scoped out a lot of dumpsters in the city, had learned when and how often they were emptied. Now he had a pattern he followed, mostly the restauraunt dumpsters, where they threw out an amazing amount of perfectly good food, loaves of bread with a heel torn off, leftovers that hadn't gotten served, fruits and vegetables that had gotten a little too bruised up during shipping to meet their standards. Sometimes there were receipts in the dumpster, too, and Jack kept his eyes open for those, because then he had a better idea of when the food had been tossed out and could consider trying the meat. It wasn't good to eat real old meat. He usually avoided it, except out of cans; it wasn't good to get sick on the street, and he hated the shelters, hated the sanctimonious church organization workers and dull-eyed volunteers. It wasn't that they were bad, Jack amended, scraping the sides of the can with his spoon. It was just that they meant dependence, and he hated the thought of depending on anyone. And even though the charity workers kept trying to push those soy foods, Jack didn't think anyone ate them who didn't have to. Someday the corporations were going to realize people simply didn't want imitation food, and give up trying to push it on the public.
His plastic spoon scraped the bottom of the can, and he grunted. Not that what passed as real food these days was all that different, though.
He crawled back out of the car, locked the door behind him, and dropped the can in an old cardboard box under the vehicle. Saturdays he took all the tin and glass he'd used or picked up to the recycling centers, and the money from there usually went toward gas.
Whistling in the clear, cold morning, Jack picked up his ripped gym bag and started off toward the city.
The bag was getting heavy when he realized he was being watched. Jack slowly raised his head and looked fullsquare at the slim stranger who leaned against the lightpost opposite, hands in the pockets of his khaki jacket and almond-shaped black eyes thoughtful.
"You got a problem?" Jack asked rudely, glaring. That was enough to send most people scuttling off, the yuppy assholes who feared a dirty, shaggy-haired young man in stained cast-offs who dared challenge their right to pity him. But the stranger didn't leave, just gave him a slow nod.
"Yeah?" This time Jack dropped the brusque tone, giving the youth another look. He was too clean to be street; his clothes were worn and frayed, but washed, and his black hair was pulled back in a neat braid, the way indians wore their hair, except that from his eyes, Jack figured this guy to be one of those chinks or something, instead. He had a suitcase or something slung over one shoulder, and he didn't look like a cop, ganger or shelter worker. Some faggot, maybe, looking for a change of pace. Jack'd run into that before.
"I need some information," the stranger said quietly. His voice was like one of those foreigners, too, accented. Like Sam Raj, down at the gas station, and that'd make him, what? One of them Iraquis who'd all immigrated after the war?
"Like what?" Jack asked, hoisting his bag over the side and letting it drop, then pulling himself over the edge of the dumpster to stand in the parking lot.
"I'm looking for a man called Rattler. Have you ever heard of him?"
"Huh." Jack nudged the bag with his foot, considering. "Yeah, some." He looked up, gave the stranger a shrewd look. "You looking to buy a gun?"
"I'm looking for a man who might know the kind of people who want to buy illegal guns." His lips quirked up in a smile at his own maze of words.
Jack laughed, shaking blond hair from his eyes. This stranger was looking for sofs, killers. Not Jack's business, though. He didn't care what the rest of the world did to itself, as long as it left Jack Walker alone.
"Yeah, Rattler's that kinda guy. Try Dom's some night, he's there a lot." Jack sometimes saw him there when he was washing dishes or sweeping floors for a few extra bucks; Dom liked hiring off the street, when he didn't have to pay minimum wage or report the workers to the IRS. Jack took jobs there when he could.
"Dom's?" The stranger looked bemused. "Where might that be?"
"Couple blocks that way." Jack jerked his thumb behind him, down the street. "Got a neon sign out front. It'd be open now, opens around ten, but Rattler won't be in 'til late, if he's there tonight."
"Thank you." The stranger pulled out a wallet, pulled out two dollars. "I am Shaman."
"Jack Walker." He took the cash; money for services, not handouts, that was his rule, and information was a service in his book.
"Thank you, Jack." Shaman nodded and walked off, toward Dom's.
Jack shrugged and tucked the money into the bottom layer of his pants.
***
Too damn cold. Jack shivered, reached again for the key around his neck, then thought better of it. He didn't have much gas left, and it was too early in the week to start wasting it on heating. The layers and layers of cloth and newspaper he'd packed in the car helped trap the heat, but the New York winter still seeped in through the cracks and gaps of the old vehicle. He had a candle stub in an old cut-out coffee can for light, but it didn't give off much heat, and he always kept the window cracked a little when he had a fire in the car, which didn't help much either. But once someone'd told him you could suffocate if you were all closed up, so he was careful.
"Fuck this," he muttered, giving up and rolling up the window. At least outside the car he could build a real fire.
He took the candle with him and slammed the door shut, then immediately regretted leaving the car. Had he just been complaining it was too cold inside? He hadn't realized what cold was.
Still, he was out now. Jack peered inside the garbage can he'd once carried two miles to the dump. There was still some wood inside, an old chair that'd gotten trashed and that he'd broken up for fuel. Groping in his jacket, he pulled out a book of matches.
Two left. Damn! He made a mental note to rip off some more from that Thai place that always had a bowl by the door, and leaned into the barrel as far as he could to keep the flame out of the wind.
The first match caught the newspaper. He carefully replaced the book and its last precious match, and watched anxiously as the newspaper burned away. Finally it caught the cloth around the broken chair legs, and he leaned on his elbows against the rim of the trash can, looking at the sky.
Still clear. The stars were real bright, the moon almost full. But too cold to enjoy how pretty it was, really; the air tore at his throat, made him cough. He looked back down, letting the heat that began to rise from the fire caress his face.
And heard the gunshot.
Startled, he looked around, then realized what a damnfool thing that was to do, and dropped to his knees, huddling between the car and the trash can. Gang, maybe, or cops after someone. He hoped that was what it was, and not another crazy out hunting down the homeless for kicks. Every once in awhile they showed up, killed a few street people until they got caught. So far Jack had been lucky.
There weren't any more shots. Jack slowly stood and looked around, close to the Corona. Nothing.
I'll look tomorrow, he decided. When there isn't any more danger. He looked into the can, checking the fire, and then leaned against it again, head lowered.
The sides of the can heated real good, reflecting heat just like the sides of his candle-lantern reflected light. Jack looked around at the dump, considering. Maybe if he dragged some stuff around here in a kinda circle around the car and the barrel, they'd keep the heat in, too, and cut the wind. Then the whole place'd get warm, and not just the area right around the barrel. More reflection.
Except he didn't want to build up too much, make it obvious he was staying here. Nobody much wandered around the dump except kids sometimes, and they left him alone, but still....
Something clanked, and Jack straightened up, alert.
His eyes were too fucked by the fire to see anything. He slowly slid into a crouch, blinking rapidly to clear his vision for the night and turning to put his back against the barrel. Heat began to seep through the layers of clothing.
Definitely someone coming around the dump pile, and heading right for his fire. Jack quietly moved from the barrel to his car, crouching lower and trying to hide in the darkness. More cans rattled; he kept them loose around his place, just for this reason.
Shaman walked slowly into the circle of light from the barrel, one hand clutching his shoulder. He looked around, dark eyes probing the shadows.
"You." Jack stood, letting the sharpened pocketknife fall back into his coat pocket. He eyed the slight man with suspicion. "Whaddya want?"
"So, Jack Walker." Shaman smiled slightly, looking tired, and lifted his hand from his shoulder. Jack grimaced slightly as he saw the dark smears that glittered wetly in the firelight. "Could you lend me some clean cloth?"
"Sure." Instantly, Jack opened the car, pulled out an old pillowcase from his nesting material and began shredding it. Street honor; damned if he'd let someone bleed to death at his place. It wasn't the kinda thing Benjy'd ever do, and it wasn't the kinda thing he ever wanted to do, either.
Together, they carefully removed Shaman's case strap and khaki jacket from his shoulders. Jack slit the shoulder of the Harley T-shirt with his knife, and looked at the wound in the light of the coffee-can lantern.
"You got shot?" he asked, reaching back into the car for the can of water on the dash. Shaman nodded, sitting on the ground with the case cradeled in his lap.
"Your friend Rattler didn't like some of the questions I was asking," he said with soft, wry humor. "I ran off, and it seems they decided not to follow." Jack splashed the water on the wound, not knowing if that was the right kind of thing to do for a bullet hole, but figuring everyone said it was important to wash cuts clean before you bound them, so why not holes, too? Shaman winced as cold water hit raw flesh, his dark face drawn.
"He ain't my friend." Jack began to wrap the ribbons of pillowcase, then hesitated. "Hold on, this might hurt." Then he began to wrap, pulling the cloth as tight as he dared. Shaman grit his teeth.
"I was asking about a gunfight that took place a few weeks ago in the Underground," Shaman continued unevenly after a second. "The police were shooting, and then somebody started shooting back."
"Ain't that the way it usually happens?" Jack asked with a short laugh, tying the strips in a crude knot.
"The people who started shooting at the cops weren't the people the cops were shooting at, if you follow," Shaman said, eyebrows rising. "I was wondering if Rattler knew about it, knew who might have the arms to dare try something like that, or knew if anyone had hired men for the fight."
"So Rattler took you out here and tried shooting you, instead?"
"Well," Shaman said, gingerly pulling his khaki jacket back up over the ripped T-shirt, "I thought he was taking me to meet the person who'd hired them until I saw us turning out of the city."
"Huh." Jack kept his opinion to himself, but, turning, Shaman smiled slightly, seeming to read his thoughts.
"I know," he admitted."I've been anxious to get the information, and I wasn't thinking as far ahead as I should have been. It's something of a personal matter to me."
"You should get to a hospital or something," Jack said, declining to comment. You could tell Shaman wasn't street. He talked too much, trusted a stranger right after another stranger had tried to shoot him. Stupid.
"I know." Shaman absently ran a hand over the case in his lap. "I have a friend who can take care of it on third."
"Third?" Jack gave Shaman a sharp look from under his too-long bangs. That was gang-slang, but this softspoken man didn't much look like a ganger.
Shaman stood, sliding the leather strap of the case on his good shoulder and looking around. "I'd better go. It will be a long walk."
"You can stay here 'til morning," Jack said after a moment's pause. "If you think it's safe with that hole in your arm." He jerked his head toward the Corona. "There's enough room, and you'll freeze to death walking to the city tonight." He didn't figure this Shaman was going to go telling the cops where he was sleeping, and the guy looked like he needed some help. Jack had been there.
Shaman stood there a moment, considering, eyes resting on Jack much as they had the first time they met, calmly weighing him.
"Thank you," he said at last. "I appreciate it."
"Sure. Better chance of 'hiking in the morning, too."
Shaman sank back down, crouching near the barrel with Jack, gently laying the case back on the ground. Jack glanced at it, but didn't ask. It wasn't his business. Shaman noticed his look.
"Notepad." Shaman opened it so that Jack could see the flexible rollout keyboard and screen, an array of ports.
"Had a friend who was a programmer, once," Jack said simply, as Shaman let the case snap shut again. "Punched cards, y'know? A long, long time ago."
"I program, too, a bit," Shaman nodded, laying a protective hand over the portable briefly before looking up. "Mostly I just use what other people have written." Seeing Jack's glance, he smiled again, the same soft smile as before.
"Uh huh?" Jack edged closer to the barrel as the wind gusted suddenly, biting through the layers of clothing he wore. Shaman, in his too-thin jacket and shirt, moved until he was nearly touching the hot metal of the can. "Computer ain't much good against a gun."
"No," Shaman admitted, wryly amused. "I usually have a partner who takes care of that end of things."
"So call him up," Jack suggested. He'd seen people phoning through on their computers before, lots of times.
Shaman laughed softly.
"It's a rather ridiculous situation," he explained with chagrined amusement. "My friend didn't pay his bill last month. For the moment, he's out of contact."
Jack shook his head.
There was a long silence.
"Rattler'll be looking for you, you know."
"No doubt." Shaman gingerly shifted. "My friends on third can take care of that."
"Your gang."
"Not really." Shaman looked up, met Jack's eyes. Jack nodded slowly, although he still couldn't figure why a gang'd want someone like Shaman. Maybe because he was computer-smart; sometimes it was good to have someone like that to deal with the law.
"Rattler's got a lot of friends, too."
"I don't care," Shaman said softly. "He knows about that gunfight underground, and I need the information. It's a key to a much larger problem, you see."
"Won't get it if he's dead," Jack grunted.
"I suppose we could capture and torture him for information," Shaman said, laughing gently. "But it's not my style."
"Steal it. Break in."
"I've tried that," Shaman said promptly, to Jack's surprise. "He's online, but he doesn't keep his files on his hard drive."
Jack shook his head, impatient. Computer jockeys, they always tried to make things so hard. Take something easy and make it so you have to go to college or something just to try and get anything done.
"Not with that thing," he said, "I mean, get into his house. Take it. Break some stuff up, rip off whatever you see lying around so it looks like some kids gettin' in for laughs."
Shaman slowly shook his head.
"I don't know how. He's dangerous, and he'd have alarms, maybe dogs...."
"Nah, no dogs. Rattler hates them." Jack shifted, feeling his legs cramping under him. "Alarms, maybe. Inside and outside, probably."
Shaman gave him a sideways look.
"You sound like you know what to look for."
Jack shrugged.
"I used to break into places once in a while, pick up some cash. Haven't for a long time." He returned the look. "Figure I could, if it was worth it."
"What would make it worth it to you?"
"Depends. I'd have to look around, see how hard it looked. Two hundred bucks, at least." He had no idea if that figure was high, or low.
"That's acceptable, Jack Walker," Shaman said softly. Jack felt a trace of satisfaction. Whenever you let something get personal, you started getting real loose with money about it. He'd learned that about people a long time ago.
Maybe he should have asked for more.
"Good. I'll look around tomorrow." He stood, shaking his legs slightly to get the ache out. "Let's go to sleep."
It was warmer with two people in the car.
***
Jack felt a tingle in his spine as he sat on the street across from Rattler's house, a typical suburban affair in a middle-class residential area. It was the same tingle he'd felt as a kid, when he'd been a real crasher, before he'd really screwed up and ended on the streets. Part fear, part excitement.
He didn't know why he'd volunteered to help this Shaman stranger out, except the money sounded good and there was something about the man that made Jack figure he could be trusted to pay up and keep his mouth shut after the job was done. Two hundred dollars would be enough for a kerosene heater, maybe, or for a lot of gas and food. It'd be enough for him to leave New York, if he wanted, take the Greyhound to Florida, or Texas, or California, or any one of those warm states. Maybe he could fix up the Corona, drive there himself. The car seemed to work okay, except it needed maybe some new tires. He could get Sam Raj out, he knew a lot about cars, he could tell Jack how much work was needed to get the Corona going again. With a working car and some bucks, Jack could get off the streets.
If he didn't get caught, first.
Shaman'd walked into the city with him, then taken the bus to third, where he said a doctor friend could patch him up. Jack had scrounged an abandoned newspaper from a bus stop bench and came here, where he sat on the curb pretending to read while he scoped out Rattler's house.
When he figured he knew as much as he needed, he left for the nearest phone booth, dialing the number Shaman had given him, collect.
"Hello?" a woman's voice.
"Shaman there?"
"Uh, hang on." He heard a muffled voice, and then Shaman was on the phone.
"So, what do you think?" he asked.
"It doesn't look too hard. Gonna need some supplies."
"I'll bring them."
"Okay. Gloves for both of us. Heavy rubber, if you've got them. Wire cutters. Two, maybe three cans of shaving cream. Flashlight. And bring along some duct tape, and a crowbar. Wrap the middle of the bar with tape."
Shaman waited a moment, then repeated the list.
"All right. Rubber gloves, wire, shaving cream, flashlight, duct tape, crowbar."
"That's it."
"Just out of curiosity, Jack — why shaving cream?"
Jack smiled slightly. He'd expected the question. He'd asked it too, the first time.
"Shaving cream cause he's got an outside alarm. It muffles sirens. We'll cut the wires, but he might have a battery backup."
"What about a gun and silencer?"
"If you want." Jack shrugged to himself, although Shaman couldn't see. "I don't use guns."
"Is there anything else?"
"Got a good car?"
"I can borrow one."
"Muddy up the plates, or fake some numbers with electrician's tape, and we'll take it. Dress good, too, in case we're seen on the street. Less suspicious."
"I can tell you've done this before." Jack could hear the soft smile in Shaman's voice.
"Yeah. See you at the place around five."
"All right."
Jack hung up, and leaned against the phone a moment.
This was going to be fun.
***
The BMW's plates used to read N1337C9, but some blue tape had changed them to N188709. The numbers kind of ran over the picture of the statue in the middle, but it'd pass as long as nobody looked too hard. Shaman had traded his khaki jacket and jeans for silk blazer and black slacks, leaving his hair untied. He could pass as an artist or something, although Jack thought privately that he was just as likely to be mistaken as a girl as a guy. He'd brought an extra jacket for Jack.
"This the girl's car?" Jack asked as he slid into the seat. Speed metal howled over the tape player, nearly deafening him. Shaman nodded, his leather-clad driving hands comfortable on the wheel as he drove them into the city.
As they entered Rattler's neighborhood, Jack pulled the heavy electrician's gloves Shaman handed him over his hands, and turned down the music, eager to get moving. The programmer parked smoothly on the block behind the house, activating the car alarm after they closed the doors behind them. The nearest streetlight was on the corner, leaving them in shadows and starlight. They walked around the block to Rattler's place.
"Wait here." Jack's eyes rose to the power lines from the street, following the wires to the meter. It was located in the alley between the houses, behind a chain-link fence. He frowned in thought a moment, then quickly looked around. Nobody was out in the chill winter night.
Shaking the can of extra foamy shaving cream, Jack filled the horns of the two sirens along the hedge and walked up the driveway to fill the horn of the siren above the rain gutter. Lounging against the streetlight, Shaman pulled out a scrap of paper and began studying it with a frown. They'd drawn up the map leading to a house a few blocks down during the drive over, as an excuse for their presence, just in case someone asked.
The chain-link fence was padlocked with a loose length of chain. Jack peered past the gate long enough to assure himself that Rattler hadn't changed his mind about keeping dogs, looked over his shoulder to scan the street, then jumped over.
There wasn't much light between the houses. Jack flicked on the flashlight. He'd covered most of the lens with duct tape, so only a narrow sliver of light escaped. This he played over the meter.
It was an established neighborhood, a little old-fashioned. The power lines ran from the street into a metal pipe to the meter. The half-loop from street line to pipe was several feet over his head. He looked around, but Rattler had less trash in his side alley than most housekeepers; not even a stack of wood for a fireplace.
Shaman tucked the map into his pants pocket when he saw Jack waving from behind the gate, and quietly walked over.
"C'mon over, I need a lift," Jack hissed. The programmer unslung his portable, handing it over the fence before climbing. Then, back braced against the wall and hands stirruped over his bent knee, he helped Jack up.
It was always tricky cutting electrical lines, especially without proper grounding. With a little bad luck, both he and Shaman could be dead in the next two minutes. He'd like to turn off the electricity from the fuse box that was probably located on the other side of the wall, but that'd mean tripping or trying to bypass the house alarm, and they'd been making them better since when he was a kid.
He took a deep breath, braced himself with one hand against the wood siding of the house, and set the wire cutters against the power lines.
The next thing he knew, his head cracked against pavement. He tried to get up, but his limbs weren't moving, and the salt taste of blood filled his mouth.
Then Shaman was pulling him off the ground, and sensation tingled in his arms and legs again.
"Shit!" he swore, flexing aching fingers. He must've cut his mouth; blood kept filling it.
"Don't spit," Shaman whispered, putting a cautionary hand over his mouth. "They'll type your blood."
Grimacing, he swallowed and bent over to pick up the wire cutters. The edge was slightly blackened. He looked up. Wires hung limply from the meter pipeline.
"Are you going to be okay?"
"Yeah." His head hurt like hell, and he had a bone-deep ache in all his muscles, but Jack figured he'd gotten off lucky. "You?"
Shaman nodded, picking up his portable from where they'd leaned it against the fence, but Jack saw the trembling in his hands. They'd both eaten their share of voltage. But nobody was coming outside to see what'd happened, and they weren't hearing any sirens go off, so it looked like they'd gotten away with it.
He knew he'd gotten lucky.
After a steadying breath, he gestured slightly, leading Shaman through the side alley to the back yard. It was small, typical suburbia, a little grass plot in a concrete and steel junkyard. Some lawn furniture, a barbecue, real homey. Jack shook his head. Somehow he couldn't see Rattler heaving his fat form out here to roast a wienie.
He bypassed the glass sliding doors; they'd be security barred, and the latch wa surrounded by metal. Instead, he looked through the kitchen window. No lights in the house; well, there wouldn't be, unless he had a backup generator in the basement. He let the flashlight play through the window, just enough to get a feel for where the furniture was. Typical kitchen, window over the sink. At least there weren't many pots and pans piled up.
He turned around. Shaman was crouched in a squat several feet away, portable resting on his knees, patiently watching. He turned back. No trouble from that area, anyway. He kind of liked Shaman's silent, easy manner. Made it easy for him to concentrate on what he had to do.
Breaking in was easy, once the alarm was out of the way. Duct tape the glass, tap with the flashlight, and peel. He carefully removed the loose bits of glass before reaching in with his gloved hand and flicking the window latch. Lifted it open and lithely pulled himself in.
Shaman followed, as silent and graceful as a cat, his omnipresent portable held tightly against his chest. By the time his toes hit the linoleum floor, Jack was on the other side of the kitchen, taking the phone off the hook. Unless there was another line in the house, that effectively kept anyone from calling out from any room they might be holed up in. Jack figured Rattler wasn't smart enough to keep a seperate line in his bedroom. Lots of people weren't, and then when they heard someone outside their room and tried to dial out, they were just plain fucked. It was another trick he'd picked up as a kid. He'd finally gotten caught when someone dialed the cops up on their separate, cellular computer line.
Nice house, but nothing special. Two stories, probably a basement. Jack figured Rattler's computer would be upstairs or downstairs, but probably not on the ground floor. Shaman slipped up to him, looked out the door. His eyes must have been better than Jack's, because in the dim light from the streetlamps he found what he was looking for, and pointed. Stairs down. Jack shrugged and followed.
His part was pretty much done, anyway.
It's always a high, walking around in someone's house when they don't know you're there. Like having power over them, knowing you can do anything you want to anything they own, and there's nothing they can do to stop you. Jack kept an eye out as he walked, occasionally flashing a quick light across the livingroom. Rattler didn't seem to leave much spare cash around in the open.
Shaman, hands protected by thin black leather driving gloves, carefully opened the basement door and looked in. A rec room; bar, pool table, big projection screen, all of it. Jack wandered in, looking around. Nice electronics, but he didn't know how to unload something like that right now, and didn't want its weight holding him down while he was getting out.
The other guy was opening more doors; a closet-sized bathroom, a storage room — a locked room. He waved, and Jack walked over.
The door was painted, but as Jack played the flashlight over it, he could tell it was metal. Seperate lock, alarm wires — now dead, or at least, he hoped so. He squatted and looked at the lock. It was good, heavy-duty. He moved on the doorframe.
Metal tacked into wood. He wondered if Rattler was smart enough to run the rods into the wall as he pulled out the crowbar from their sack.
Wood splintered and gave around the bolt, louder than he'd have liked, but there was no helping it. If it was a separate, silent alarm, it was going off now. Shaman looked around, looking ill at ease for the first time since they'd broken in, and Jack noticed his hand hovered close to his jacket breast. So, he'd brought a gun, after all.
It took a full minute, the longest minute he'd ever had to endure. Then the bolt was mostly free, and a heavy bump with his shoulder broke it loose from the last splinters of frame. The door swung open.
Shaman gave a soft hiss, impressed. Jack shook his head, not liking it a bit. This was a guy he was ripping off?
Guns all over the walls; pistols, rifles — revolvers, semi's, automatics — neatly racked, triggers locked. Metal ammo cases were stacked below the gun racks, all labeled.
A lot of firepower, but no computer.
He could tell Shaman was tempted — he was, too — but they both left without taking anything. He didn't know who to sell that kind of stuff to, especially someone who wouldn't report him back to Rattler. He didn't know what made Shaman leave it all. Maybe the guy was too obsessed with this gunfight thing to worry about anything else. He wondered what the big deal about it was, anyway, then figured it was probably better if he never found out.
Shaman led them back upstairs, down a short hall that ran off the living room. Bathroom, bedroom — study. Jack shrugged. So, he'd guessed wrong. If he was going to put a computer somewhere, it wouldn't be on the first floor where someone could see it through a window. Not enough people think like a crook. They deserved getting ripped off.
This time he was the one to sit back and watch while Shaman went to work, taking the flashlight from him and playing it over a desk piled with loose picks that gleamed rainbow silver back at them. The slim programmer shook his head at the mess.
"Take it all," Jack said softly, the first words they'd spoken since entering. "Let's get outta here."
Shaman hesitated, then nodded, picking up every memory pick he could find, shoving them into his pockets, into the sack of equipment. Rummaged through drawers, dumped more in. Jack was surprised. He didn't think Rattler was so into computers. Maybe it was porn.
Finally Shaman turned and nodded.
"G'wan out," Jack hissed, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. Shaman nodded, then turned when he realized Jack wasn't following.
"I'm gonna cover for us. There in a few."
Undecided, Shaman paused a minute, then nodded. He handed Jack the flashlight, took the sack and his portable, and left. Jack began to pull books out of the shelves and scatter papers around.
It doesn't take long to trash a house if you aren't concerned with doing lots of permanent damage. Good vandalism, like any art, takes time, but Jack figured he was in a hurry. After he did the study he went upstairs. There were mostly bedrooms up there, and he pocketed everything he could find that could be spent or pawned; watches, tie clips, jewelry, cash. Then he pulled open drawers, opened closets, and headed downstairs. Drawers, closets, cabinets; he checked the refrigerator, looked in the ice trays and under the egg dish, but Rattler didn't hide his money in either of the likely spots. He left the 'frig door open behind him when he moved on, its light ghostly in the darkened house. There wasn't anything in there worth eating; Rattler ate more crap than he did.
He was in the middle of strategically placing the music player on the kitchen counter, so it'd look like some kids had been trying to loot the place when they'd been interrupted, when fantasy became fact.
A car pulled up in the driveway.
He abandoned the player, which, unbalanced, fell on the floor with a crash, and fumbled at the bars in the sliding glass door tracks. A voice outside; he must know the electricity is out in the house, he thought frantically, tossing the bars aside and flicking the door latch. But how? The wires?
He threw the back doors open as keys clicked in the front door.
"Shit!" someone yelled, as he opened the door and saw the mess in the livingroom. Jack tried to lunge outside, but crashed into the nearly invisible screen door, instead.
The voice — Rattler's, Jack knew it well enough — swore again.
Jack yanked open the twisted screen and threw himself out and down.
Rattler turned the corner, pulling a .45 from his coat.
Jack rolled to the side, scrambled to get to his feet.
A shot shattered glass in thousands of safety pellets. Jack's ripped sneakers hit the wooden back fence as he half-climbed, half-vaulted over into the neighbor's back yard. Another shot sent leaf shreds fluttering down over the fence.
Lights were going on around them; Jack dodged into the side yard, fumbled with the gate latch a moment, threw it open and ran through the driveway to the street. He could hear Rattler shouting something, a faint voice behind him.
Headlights swept him and stopped. Jack yanked open the BMW's door, barely able to lift his feet from the pavement before Shaman gunned the motor and sent them screeching down the quiet residential street.
