Surprise number one: The women and Orban’s gunsmiths loved each other. I mean, you would have thought I had brought in a basket of puppies. It helped that the Amazons loved guns, of course, and immediately let themselves be lured off to the firing range to try various small and large arms.
Surprise number two came when Orban, who was standing next to me watching them all trot off like a bunch of Oxford students and their dates going punting, suddenly said, “I am worried about you, Bobby.”
After “I love you, Bobby, and I want to make romantic sex with you,” this was one of the things I least expected to hear from Orban. His normal conversation is so gruff you could use it to clean bathroom tiles, and the only time I ever remember him saying anything else about my health and safety was the time he’d loaned me a machine-pistol and reminded me not to accidentally shoot my dick off with it.
“If you’re concerned about me being screwed to death or something, relax. Those two ladies and I have a strictly platonic friendship based around blowing the shit out of some people we both don’t like.”
“No, not them. Them I like okay. They seem too smart to have sex with you unless they are sleeping or drunk. I am worried because I hear things. Sometimes. About the place you work.”
This was interesting, because although I always assumed Orban knew everything about everything, he only gave out information in tiny, constipated episodes that lasted a few seconds and then were usually denied afterward. I was careful not to scare him off. “And . . . ?”
He inclined his head. “Come on. We talk in my office.”
Orban’s office was a room largely decorated with firing buckets full of sand to shoot into, but he also had a desk, a safe, and an old-time adding machine. He poured himself a glass of wine and offered me one. I wasn’t certain I actually wanted any, but I didn’t want to break the mood. I took a sip and said, “So?”
“So I hear things, like I say. And I hear a lot of things about how bad you are.”
I was puzzled. “Bad?”
“Yes, bad. Like, ‘That Bobby Dollar, always in trouble. I hear he is mixed up in something bad.’”
“Who told you that?”
He shook his head. “I will not tell you. It is not important. It is not someone who knows you, only someone who knows about you a little bit. But he is not the only one. I hear from another one, ‘Bobby stole something important, and now bad guys are after him and Heaven is angry.’”
“Well, both those things are partially true, but leaving out the stealing part you could have said that about me for most of my career.” I laughed, but it didn’t convince Orban. “Come on, people who get things done get talked about, Orban. People talk about you, too.”
“Because I let them. Because I have no use for secrecy. Anybody wants Orban, here Orban is.” He stroked his shrublike beard for a moment, probably thinking about what interestingly painful things he would do to anyone who showed up “wanting Orban.” He took a drink, long enough to finish the glass. “But you, I think, you don’t want everyone to know your business. And people who truly know your business, they aren’t talking. But others are.”
I nodded my head, although I wasn’t sure where he was going. “And that means . . . ?”
“That means someone talks bad about you on purpose. Someone is trying to take you down, Bobby. Maybe they even make up a story so nobody is surprised when something happens to you.”
I already knew it was happening, because just about everyone else in Creation, including an albino fox-fairy who haunted downtown, my boss Temuel, and every single angel I could call a friend, had made it clear to me already. But for some reason hearing it from Orban, the most stolid, stoic guy I knew, gave me a real chill. If it was Anaita, she wasn’t in a hurry. She wasn’t just going to reach out and swat me, she was going to make sure everyone knew that I was a dangerous pest first. Then, not only wouldn’t anyone ask questions when she finally did it, they’d probably give her a medal for erasing me.
“I appreciate it. I really do. But I’m kind of on the road now, full speed ahead. I can’t turn back.”
“Then be very careful.”
I wasn’t used to Bleeding-Heart Orban. It made me nervous. So I changed the subject. “Did you sell my car?”
“Found a buyer, yes. A very nice fellow, a collector in Seattle. He will take good care of it.”
Like I cared. “The Arab sheik we sold your daughter to is a very nice fellow”—yeah, that would make you feel great. But me losing the Matador wasn’t Orban’s fault. “Thanks,” I said. “And now some other business. Can you figure out a way to make a pressurized spray of silver nitrate?”
He looked at me like I’d just started shouting monkey noises. “A what of what?”
I explained. He frowned. That made me feel better—it was a much more familiar look for him. “I don’t know until I try. Research and development cost extra, you know. I should have just kept all the money I gave you.”
“Yeah, you’ll probably get most of it back by the time I’m done.” Still, I had a plan (well, I was planning to have one, which was practically the same) and I was ready to start outfitting myself and the others to make it happen. That was what was important. Yes, I had lots to worry about, but I had work to do. “But that’s life, right? You can’t be rich and happy, too.”
Orban snorted. “That is a lie. I have been both.”
“Yeah, well, you’re Hungarian.”
While he was searching for a hidden insult, I led him back out to find the women so we could decide what kinds of guns they were going to need. They were whooping it up with Orban’s engineers, getting the full guided tour of the mayhem factory, and they were loving it.
“Bobby!” said Halyna. “They have a tank! It is Russian. We should get it!”
“That is good fun,” Oxana agreed. “Then we smash right into that—”
I cut her off before she started talking about blowing up the Elizabeth Atell Stanford Museum. I trusted Orban with my life, but I didn’t know his workers that well. In fact, some of them looked like the kind of guys who might have a sneaking fondness for the Black Sun’s way of looking at the world. I know, I’m a bigot, but tattoos that say, “White Power” encourage jumping to conclusions.
“We’ll need to be a little more discreet than that,” I said. “But I think we can spring for at least one flamethrower. How’s that?”
“You are serious?” said Halyna. “Hah! That is for me!”
“You have to share.” Oxana sounded like the kid who’d just received a toothbrush in her Halloween treat bag. “What do I get?”
“Guns,” I said. “And probably some kind of pressurized silver nitrate sprayer, too.”
“Does it make burning?”
“Sadly, no,” I said, then leaned close to whisper in her ear. “But it will make those nasty-ass Nightmare Children bubble like salted slugs.”
“Okay, I guess,” Oxana said with a tragic look. Beside her, Halyna was making whoooosh noises, pretending to torch the engineers as they wandered back to their workbenches. “I guess I can do.”
Kids today—am I right? You can never give them enough.
twenty-seven:
another death threat
I KNOCKED ON the door and one of them said “Come in.” So I went in.
Both of the Amazons were in Caz’s expansive tub. Naked. Slick and wet and covered in suds, tattoos gleaming. There was water all over the tiles. Halyna had made little pasties for herself out of soap bubbles that bobbed up and down as she rubbed shampoo into her red hair. Oxana hadn’t bothered, but she had a dollop of soap froth on top of her wet head like she was a cappuccino. Lots of lean, muscular, young body, two women’s worth, dripping and soapy. I saw all that in about two seconds, then I jumped back and slammed the door.
“Jesus Henry Christ!” I said. “What are you doing? Do you want to kill me?”
“What is wrong, Bobby?” Halyna called from the other side of the door.