Dex was expressionless as always, his gaze absent of life. His face maintained that preternatural blankness as he lifted his right hand and cupped it over his mouth — elbow flagged to the side, palm pressed to his lips, the V of his thumb and forefinger snug against his nose. For the first time, Evan saw the tattoo on the back of his hand clearly. It was a mouth stretched eerily wide, conveying pleasure but no happiness.
A painted smile, slapped monster-mask crooked over Dex’s actual mouth.
15
Back-Alley Philosophers
René’s sleek steak knife sliced through the cut of venison, juice oozing from the pink center. He skewered the cube of meat on a designer fork and held it out to his side. Dex took it gingerly and deposited it into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, nodded.
A poison taster to the king.
Of course, the majority of toxins would take much longer to manifest, but Evan was learning more and more how much René indulged his affectations.
With its dark woods, brass sconces, knockoff Monet, and silk rugs overlaying a parquet floor, the formal dining room had a somber ambience, taking itself too seriously. Evan sat at the opposite end of an elegantly set table the size of a small sailboat. He and René were the only two dining. Aside from Dex cast in the role of guinea pig, the sole deviation from the Citizen Kane setup was Manny standing ten yards behind Evan with a shotgun aimed at the base of his skull.
René’s eyes flicked down the length of the table at Evan. At last, he spoke. “This is proving to be a protracted conversation.”
He mopped a pink square through the juice pooled on his plate and took the meat off the tines. He closed his eyes as he chewed, then dabbed the corners of his plush lips with a linen napkin.
Evan looked down at his setting. His venison had been cut into bite-size pieces. No utensils. His napkin had no bamboo ring. But the bone-china plate would shatter readily, and he could wrap the napkin around the base of one of the shards.
René interrupted his thoughts. “You have to stop trying to kill my men.”
Evan said, “Trying?”
René’s laugh seemed to catch him by surprise. When the smile faded, it was as though it had never existed. “Eat,” he said.
Evan ate with his fingers, the meat delicious and salty, tinged with rosemary. He couldn’t remember being this hungry since he was a kid. He’d spent a lot of years half starved, fighting for every mouthful.
René looked genuinely pleased that Evan was enjoying his meal. “Would you like seconds?” he asked.
“Yes.”
René moved a bejeweled finger to a slender white remote on the table beside him, and a moment later one of the broad kitchen doors swung open. The narco from the barn, now wearing a chef’s smock in place of a grease-stained shirt, emerged with another plate of meat, also cut as if for a child.
“Careful, Samuel,” René said. “Right there is fine.” He gestured to a spot several feet up from where Evan sat.
Keeping a wary eye on Evan, Samuel placed the plate down with a thunk and retreated to the kitchen. As the doors fanned wide, Evan peered through, taking in the huge kitchen with its center island, wood-fired oven, and cavernous pantry. He plugged it into the blueprint of the house he was constructing in his head.
He rose, claimed his plate, and returned to his seat. The bore of Manny’s shotgun tracked him the entire way.
“Look up,” René said.
Evan did.
“Smile.”
Evan stared at him. René’s eyes peered out through the unnaturally smooth skin of his face. He was serious.
“What, René? You want to be friends?”
René pointed the knife at him. “Given your circumstances, is it wise to make me an enemy?”
“We’re well past that already,” Evan said.
He resumed eating, letting his eyes pick across the room. European outlet plugs spotted the wainscoting. The knockoff Monet upon closer examination was a Monet. On the east side, the dining area blew open into a cathedral-style living room. Beyond oversize couches and ottomans arrayed like sleeping elephants, floor-to-ceiling windows showed off snow-spotted panes backdropped by the black of night. Evan could see his own ghostly reflection floating in the glass.
Even across the length of the table, René’s gaze felt cold on the side of Evan’s face.
“You’re not a complainer,” René said. “I appreciate that. It’s amazing what people can convince themselves constitutes stress. Most Americans seem to believe that safety assurances are awarded at birth like factory-issued warrantees. So far as I can tell, the only American growth industry is entitlement.” He settled back, folded his hands across his belly. His suit, made of a thick velvetlike fabric, didn’t wrinkle. It rippled gracefully, flowing like water. “For the sheep, moral outrage is the coin of the realm. They smother themselves in it.”
Evan ate his meat, one precut bite at a time.
René bristled, his first show of impatience. “Well?”
“This doesn’t interest me,” Evan said.
“Why not?”
“I’ve dealt with enough tin-pot tyrants and back-alley philosophers for one lifetime.”
Rene drew his head back, just slightly, but Evan could see that he was stung. His complexion was bloodless, save for tinges of pink rimming his nostrils and eyes. Despite all his efforts, he looked unwell.
His fingers drummed on a BlackBerry that sat next to the clicker. He peeked at the screen, let it darken again. Since BlackBerry was a Canadian company, many believed that it gave better protection from the NSA. Evan guessed that René used a mirror system for his comms, transmitting every text or call through several intermediaries. Only his inner circle would know where he was, keeping him as safe and hidden as a cartel kingpin gone to ground.
René broke in on Evan’s thoughts. “I assumed you would understand,” he said. “After all, we function outside the rules.”
“No.” Evan thumbed another nugget of venison into his mouth. “I’m the sum of my rules.”
“Your rules, perhaps. Not the rules.” René waited for Evan’s counter until it was clear that none was forthcoming. “There aren’t many things I do well. But what I do do well? I do that better than just about anyone. Discerning financial patterns. The ebbs and flows of accounts. Reading the digital droppings people leave behind. It wasn’t the $235,887 you spent on that sword that sank you. It was the forty-one cents.” He leaned forward, searching for a reaction. “That’s my superpower. I see things in numbers others can’t. And I know how to … rearrange matters to get those numbers in my column rather than in someone else’s. My father, he didn’t view that as work. No ‘value add.’ To him it wasn’t a gift. It was just manipulation. He never saw my talent. In another life I could’ve been a director at Goldman Sachs.” His smile was a memory, cold as a ghost. “Imagine that. Imagine if there was one thing, one thing you were meant to do. And it wasn’t acceptable in the eyes of anyone. And yet it was who you are.”
Evan thought of the scattering of freckles across Mia’s nose. The way she swayed when she listened to jazz. The fact that they had decided — for her safety and Peter’s — that he should stay away from her.
René said, “Whether you want to admit it or not, I can see that you understand me. People like us, we exist out of time, really. The day-to-day wear and tear that grinds ordinary folks down. Cubicles and carpool lanes. Earning a penny at a time. Why wade through it all when it’s so easy to … not?”