The Foul Mouth and the Cat Killing Coyotes (The King Henry Tapes) (13 page)

“It’s a workshop.  I got hobbies.”

“What kind of hobbies?”

“Mechanical, artistic, stuff like that.”

“Explosives?”

“No, not explosives.  But I admit sometimes something shorts out.”

“Do you have a permit for that kind of work?”

“I believe so.”

“You aren’t sure?”

“My employer handles all the paperwork.”

Ribera pulled out a folder from under the desk.  She flipped through it, found a paper, and then read a bit aloud for me, “Dale Innovation and Enterprises?”

“That would be her.”

“DIE?”

“Excuse me?”

“The initials . . . D . . . I . . . E.”

“Huh
. . . never noticed that . . .”

“Are you running a front for gang activity, Mr. Price?”

“No, I’m not.  We going in circles now?” I shrugged. “Could talk about your kid again if you want.”

“Why would you want to talk about my child, Mr. Price?”

“Seems more productive then you trying to pin this crime on the innocent victim.”

Ribera didn’t think so
.  “No one is innocent.”

“Shit
. . . see . . . .now you’re singing to the choir.”

“Tell me about the incident last night.”

I frowned.  “Come again?”

“There was a fist fight a block from your shop the night before last.”

Huh.  Just kept getting worse.  “I don’t think I know anything about that.”

“It was dark, but witnesses seem to recall a truck just like the one blown up in front of your shop.”

“How about that . . . say, have any of you called my employer yet?”

“Another officer is as we speak,” Ribera told me.  She quirked an eyebrow.  “Are you ready to change your story?”

Yup, definitely getting worse.  Now Ceinwyn would become involved. 
Please let her be in Libya or some other shithole where she’s going to need to charter a plane . . . all I need is a few days . . .

“Sticking to my story.
No idea why this happened.”

“Do
you make bombs and convert automatic weapons for criminals, Mr. Price?”

“Damn, d
o I look that much of a badass?  I thought I always came across as a petty thief but you got me as a big time.”

“Are you a thief?”

“No . . . well, I did steal my principal’s flash drive and put some domination pics of him up on the internet . . . but I was like fourteen at the time, not thinking that’s what you lot are after.  Plus, getting him fired was a community service.”

“This isn’t a game, Mr. Price.”

“Yeah, I know . . . I got shot at with machineguns, remember?”

“Your shop isn’t a front?”

“No.” 
Not for gangs at least . . .

“You don’t make weapons?”

“No.” 
Only defensive artifacts . . .

“You know nothing about the altercation near your shop?”

“No.”

“Tell me about the girl.”

“No . . .
huh
?”

“Tell me about the girl you had dinner with last night.”

“What are you, Sherlock-fucking-Holmes?”

“Machineguns make people remember facts, I find,” Ribera told me.

I thought about that.  “My sister.  That’s who the girl was.”

“You had an argument.  She cried.”

“She did.”

“She left in a truck like the one outside your shop.”

“Can’t say I noticed.”

“Did you threaten her, Mr. Price?”

My eyes rose up from the table in front of me, locked on Ribera’s.  Think you’re something, copper?  Think the system works for you?  Think you know what I am?  Look inside me.  See the earthquake made flesh looking back at you.  See that landslide just waiting . . . see your house crumbling and all you love and cherish crashing down with it. “I told her that our mother had died.”

Ribera flinched at something she saw.  “Do you want to hit me, Mr. Price?”

“No . . . I don’t want to hit you . . .” 
I want to break every piece of metal in this room, especially your fillings.
  “You’re not going to arrest me,” I decided.  “You have some theories you’ve spread out like shotgun pellets, Detective, but not any facts and in real life . . . cops need facts.”

When I stood up from the table, she stood up with me.  “If you’re scared for your
safety, Mr. Price, or for your sister’s safety, you need to work with us.  We can protect you.”

“No thanks.”  I pointed m
y finger at her.  “A good conversation, wasn’t it?”

“Don’t do anything you’ll regret, Mr. Price.”

“Yeah . . . I guess I look how I feel, don’t I?”  I wish I could say I grinned at her, but it probably looked more like a full on going-to-eat-your-throat-out snarl.

[CLICK]

I barely got all my shit back from the cops before my phone rang.  I let it go to voicemail, where it joined
four other messages.  Three from T-Bone and now two from Ceinwyn.

“Out of one cell and into another,” I mumbled to myself.

The cop I’d been handed off to after the interview smiled at me.  “Cells are better than dealing with Ribera.”

“Yeah
. . . wish I’d been guilty of something just so I could confess and get her off my back.”

A wave of a hand, another customer at the window, and I was free to go.  Guess I was always free to go, but now
even the cops were tired of me.  They’d never charged me with anything, guess that’s a plus.  But they knew about the fight outside of the grocery store . . . a few minuses and more besides.

Can’t know it’
s me
, I figured. 
Can’t have tape of it.
  Only been a few hours since my shop got shot up though.  The cops didn’t have the tape yet, that didn’t mean one didn’t exist of me pounding in Coyote Nation face.

So what
? I asked myself, walking my way through the rest of the police headquarters and outside into the night.

Co
ld night.  March in Fresno ain’t winter but it sure as hell ain’t spring either.  The air was cold, filled with breezes and gusts and all things air.  Above my head the clouds raced west to east, working their way towards the mountains just like usual. 
To the Asylum
.

Few hours away.  I figure you could make it in four or five if you pushed it.  Glancing at my phone again I stared at the message box.  Five.  Important number for the Mancy.
  Geo.  Aero.  Hydro.  Pyro.  Necro.  Five.  The
High Five
as the Recruiters called it.

So what?
I asked myself again, standing in the cold air outside the police headquarters, taking in the sights.

First time I’d ever actually
been downtown in Fresno.  The County Courthouse, the Police Headquarters, the County Jail, the Sheriff’s Department, and the Fresno City Hall were all in that area.  Most looked like flashbacks to the 70s.  All brick and concrete trying to form into lazy squares.  Not pretty at all, just functional.  Not City Hall though, that’s one fucked up building.  Brand new looking.  Fuck the cops, fuck the sheriffs, fuck the judges, but the politicians got themselves some ugly looking triangle-like space age pyramid shit going on.  Probably got itself a nice huge meeting room for the city council no one bothers to show up to see.

W
ho has the time nowadays?

Cogs be too tired to fight
. . .

So what?
  I asked myself thrice, wishing for the first time in a long while that I had myself a cigarette to light up.  That night felt noir if any ever has felt noir.

So I protected some lady getting picked on by bullies.  Used my fists to do it.  Bullies come back and shoot up my shop.  If all the cards go Ribera’s way that is.  If she gets a tape.  If the tape shows it’s me.  If the tape shows the fighting.  If they want to go to trial on that.  If a jury will convict.
  If Ceinwyn doesn’t call in some favors to quash it.  If Horatio Vega hasn’t killed me by then.

If.

If
is what protects the world from the Mancy.  Hard for me to care about conversations with a detective like Ribera when I got so much
if
in the way.

I found a bench, sat down on it.  I cross
ed my arms, keeping my hands warm inside my coat.  “What’s the move, Price?”

Better question:  what can I accomplish in one night?  Ceinwyn knew.  Meant my ass was about to be spanked hard.

“One night,” I gritted out, my entire face freezing.

All around me I could hear the city
. . . my city, I guess.  Fresno.  What did I do to deserve it?  Cars, always cars . . . even at night, even past midnight.  Cop cars, taxis, tow trucks, just people that should be home sleeping.  Squeaking brakes, fuming exhaust, and crunching asphalt every one of them.  A police helicopter flew by overhead, just like it had over my shop.  Loud ass helicopter, like nails across a chalkboard and it follows you, not letting up.

“One night
. . . and no cigarettes . . .”

Ceinwyn hadn’
t told me about this King Vega.  Still pissed me off.  Meant she didn’t think I could handle him.  Didn’t want us knowing each other, didn’t want us dealing with each other.  Could have been just about JoJo, but I’m doubting it.  Something about this Vega worried Ceinwyn.

Back a few months, Annie B seemed to think the
Coyotes were tough too.  Then there’s JoJo . . . that expression.  Scared for me.

“One night
. . . but you messed with my shit . . . you married my sister, keep her under guard . . .”

Got to do something.

Got to find out where these Coyotes are at.

Got to ha
ve me a word with Horatio Vega.

“Or else send him a message he understands.”

My hand dug into my pocket, pulled out my cell-phone.  I hit a few buttons, dialed up T-Bone.  “King Henry!” he greeted, not letting me respond.  “You aren’t in jail, are you?

“No
. . . cops just wanted to press me a little, see if I spilled on the Coyotes.”

“That’s good
. . .”

“Yeah
. . . I’d hate to have to break their bars, you know?”

“It’s not funny
. . . this is . . . Ceinwyn found out . . .”

“Yeah, means we don’t got much time.
”

“
. . .
Huh?”

I found myself
staring across the street at a building.  “You work with the Sheriff’s Department, right?  Got yourself a nice security card?”

The birds came out before the sun.

The sun came out before the mancers.

It was decided in our tent that Jason and me would be the first two to exit.  Jason on account of being gigantic and me on account of my natural pugnacious outlook.  It surprised me how quickly Welf agreed to the plan.  He probably hoped I’d get ate.

Blood on the tent, sun ticking into the sky, and we had no place to go but out.  We weren’t stupid about it.  We knew something strange
and probably violent had just happened.  Welf, Pocket, and Jason just knew it was a dangerous situation.  Me . . . I was skeptical.  I half expected Samson to be standing around with a clipboard marking down names for a grade on when we jumped out.

It’s the Asylum.

Best be suspicious, motherfucker.

Jason and I weaponed up.  He got the spade.  I got a thick wooden stick Pocket had found and was keeping for some reason.  Could have been worse.  At least my stick hadn’t shoveled a hole for
Welf’s crap the night before.

Pocket was on the left side of the tent, Welf on the right.  Each had a hand on a zipper, ready to yank it down.  Jason was up front, easily twice my size.  I got a healthy respect for my ability to be a badass, but
if something got through him I’d be lucky to serve as a speed bump.

I had an odd sense of flashback in
the moment just before hell opened up.  Back to my shithole in Visalia.  If you got yourself some normal parents you don’t have a clue on what I’m talking about, but if you don’t, if you got some drunks like mine . . . opening your bedroom door can lead to just about anything.

When I slept at home my door was always closed, stolen deadbolt always swung shut.  Big man like Dad probably
could have blasted through in no time, but it was the only assurance I had.  Back before the deadbolt, back before I knew to spend weekends away from home, the only defense was silence.  Silence and stillness.  You got a drunk parent with a habit for dishing out punishment and you learn to fake sleep.  Learn to lie there and listen to the footsteps.

I didn’t even realize how still I’d got
ten kneeling inside that tent, waiting for a go-sign.

Remembering them howls
from the night before, glancing at each other, we gave nods.

Zip.

Zip.

Loud, so damn loud.  Any boogey out there
would be alerted.

Sunlight, early morning, just breaking through the trees, coming in at an angle.  It hurt my eyes, so long
in the dark of our tent.  Pupils dilated, wisps of sun bracketing Jason in dark shadow.

If I wouldn’t have been
so worried about not fucking up it would have been funny.  Big black kid in corpusmancer red and white jumping up out of a tent, swinging a collapsible spade at air, twisting back and forth to try to see everything.

I went
next, my stick in my left hand, leaving my right fist curled up to throw.  I didn’t try to pool anima.  When I tried it never worked.  Instead I just let the emotions flow, hoping something inside me would know I needed the help. 
Iron fist, I could use you, bitch!

Jason waited on me, twirling left then right.  I came
up behind him, slow.  Remember . . . he thought he might get attacked by some furry ass creature looking for buttsex.  I thought I was just getting screwed in the ass by the Asylum like usual.  I was ready, but I was even more suspicious.

I wasn’t looking for threats.

I looked for tricks.

But there was no sign of either.

No sign of Samson too.

The camp was empty of movement, everyone st
ill inside their tents but us fucktards.  The fire was well dead.  The benches were in just the same spot, looking like no one ate at them the night before.  The lake was oddly peaceful.  Nothing had really changed . . . except for the blood.

Blood was everywhere.

You could smell it.  Got right up inside your nose like some girlfriend ain’t buying you want to break up, clinging, whiny, annoying you.  Iron and salt.  Strong odor, knock you down if you aren’t used to it.  Poor Jason scrunched up his nose, tried to cover it with an elbow.  Me, I’d smelt it some.  Done so much fighting I’d cut and been cut.  I knew the smell . . . just never so much of it.

More than the smell there was sight.  Red fluid splashed around the camp in more than five places.  Across tents, down trees, droplets melding with the dirt and sticking to stray blades of grass.

“Ain’t a doctor but I think this is too much for one guy, specially a pruned up bastard like Samson,” I said, not bothering to stay quiet.

No one here.  This is bullshit
.

For once, Jason didn’t slam
my ass across the camp for talking.  “He killed some of them ‘fore they took him down, what you bet?”

“If you say so,” I muttered.  Turning towards the tent I motioned with my stick.  “Come on out, it’s clear.”

Pocket was first.

For being better than everyone
, Welf sure didn’t want to be the first into the gap, did he?

“Dude!” Pocket said over the blood.

“Disgusting,” was Welf’s comment.

“
Hey, fuckers!
  Get out of your tents and quit being punks,” I yelled.

Zips
sounded across the camp.

[CLICK]

After everyone calmed down and a few people stopped throwing up, the thirty of us gathered to the side of the camp, circling one of the largest trees l
ike some Indian powwow.  Except without any psychedelics.

“We need to choose leaders,” Welf decided for us. 
Wonder who he has in mind?
  “A legislative body never does well in a situation like this, much less thirty people voting their own interest at every fork in the road . . . or path.  We need a leader who can keep us together.  One vote, right now.”

“I vote we don’t play their games,” I interrupted, earning my usual response of rolled eyes and groans.  “Chill out by the lake, get a fire going, cook us up some fish.  Samson will eventually get bored and come get us.”

Debra Diaz, sitting next to her boyfriend Estefan Ramirez with his arm wrapped around her shoulders, spoke for the class: “You really are retarded, aren’t you?  I’d wondered if you just played at it . . . but . . . that’s a pretty retarded plan.”

“It’s a trick,” I said, very firm in my conviction.

“You heard the werewolves!” Debra’s an electromancer, same as Estefan.  Electromancers got this weird thing where they all get along; with them they became a couple the first week, dated their whole time at the Asylum, and married the moment they graduated.  The most stable couple in the class, maybe the school.  “We all did!”

Some people laughed.  “Maybe
wolf
, but there is no such thing as a
werewolf
,” Asa Kayode huffed.  “You westerners and your love of fables . . .”

Hope Hunting stared dag
gers.  “Heinrich, forget a vote; they’re too stupid to save, we should just go.  They don’t even know about Weres.”

“It wasn’t a were
wolf,” I tried again. “Samson is screwing with us.”

“Samson got lunched up
,” Jason Jackson muttered, still eyeing all the blood.

“Werewolves
are real?
” Asa’s dark face actually had a touch of brown to it for once as she paled.

“Of course they
are,” Welf said to try to get people focused back on him.  “But don’t worry, if they Switched last night, then they won’t Switch today . . . it would be too dangerous for them from what I understand.”

I barely contained a
string of obscenities beyond my usual favorites.  “Miss Dale told me that werewolves are in Montana or some shit.  She also made it sound like they weren’t tough and if
she
can take them, then Samson can take them. 
Thus,
screwing with us.”

“Mr. Samson,” Debra said
to me like my IQ was about sixty-five, “was very old.  He saved us last night . . . you shouldn’t disparage his legacy like you are.”

Before I could continue my theory, Welf interrupted, “Everyone who votes for the Foul
Mouth’s plan of doing nothing . . . please raise your hand.”

Not even Pocket was with me.  The only one who did was Jesus and on account of him not speaking much English he wasn’t following all of the conversation.
  Might have thought we were voting to tie me up and shove a gag in said foul mouth.

“What happened to all that big talk about
how people voting on stuff doesn’t work, Welf?” I complained.

“And you bring me back to our dilemma,” Welf smoothly dove-tailed, “a vote on who should lead us.”

“And what to do,” came from a new place.  Ronaldo Silva was friends with Estefan and Miles Hun Pak.  They were into soccer and sports and stuff.  Silva was from Brazil, spoke with a surprisingly high voice, and had warm brown skin.  He was a cryomancer just like Hope Hunting.  No idea if he also had a frozen twat.

“I think that’s rather obvious.” Instead of frowning like most would upon hearing some other point of view Welf had a habit of giving a small placatin
g smile.  “There’s a road half-a-day away, we only have to reach it and eventually we’ll find civilization.”

“Are you in the same place I am, Nazi?” I asked.  “This ain’t anywhere near civilization.  See all the fucking trees?
  Smell them?”

“We’re in California, not Africa,” Welf laughed.

“And what do you have against Africa?” Asa asked, very nationalist about Nigeria.

I winced.  “Think you just lost a vote, Welf.”

“We should stay here,” Debra decided.  She got some nods of support.  “The teachers know we’re here.”

“So do the werewolves,” Hope pointed out, petite nose wrinkled in disgust that we were arguing and not
doing
. “We’d have to worry about them, fight off the wild beasts . . . just like
Africa
.”

“No one makes fun of Africa again or I show you what I’ve learned from my continent,” Asa told us with a smile not so friendly.

“We could get weapons,” Estefan supported his girlfriend, “build barricades.”

“And food, water?” Welf asked.  “Staying will take longer; the teachers won’t even learn we’re missing until tomorrow night.  That means two nights here instead of one.”

Estefan shrugged.  “We have the lake for food and water, as long as we manage a fire.  Just like King Henry said.”

Welf bristled at my name.  “This is
exactly
why being a group is such a horrible idea; we need to vote for a leader.”

Miranda Daniels raised her hand.  Being about as ginger as you can get
, Miranda took worse to the outdoors than I did.  She looked on edge.  Didn’t help that she’d thrown up from all the blood or that her glasses gave her trouble over all the rough terrain.  “I agree about a vote but I think the leader should have to give us an idea about what their plan is, like a political platform.  Majority rules.”

Welf nodded to her, all civility.  “Finally a good idea
. . .”

“Who’s running then?” a new voice, Curt Chambers.  He sounded more wheezy than usual.
  Curt was usually in charge of the gamers and grunge kids.

“I nominate Estefan,” Debra was first.

“Then I nominate Heinrich,” Hope was next.

You’ve already heard the ideas so I’m going to skip over the rousing speeches of Team Barricade and Team Road.

“That’s it I suppose,” Welf said, finishing up.

“Show of hands should work,” Curt agreed.  He’d taken on the middle ground as a kind of peacekeeper.

I thought our situation over.

Stay or go.  I wanted to stay, but I wanted to stay and flip off the woods
and let the teachers know I’m onto them.  Are you doubting me too, kiddies?  Maybe you should . . . maybe I’m wrong and my plan would have gotten us all killed.

I wanted to stay
. . . but the ones voting to stay weren’t into flipping off the woods.  They wanted to clean the tents and build barricades.  That sounded like a lot of work.  Besides, if I couldn’t have my way, why not make Samson track us through the damned forest?

Only I wasn’t about to vote for Welf.

“I nominate Pocket,” I said.

“We already nominated people!” Welf hissed at me.

“Why you doing this to me, dude?” Pocket asked, in freak-out mode over the idea of leading the class.

“Pocket has the same idea as Welf, ex
cept he actually knows what he’s doing.” I stood, giving a speech for my friend that I admit . . . had a lot in common with throwing someone off a building.  “You see him build the tent?  Welf’s never been camping before, he screwed up like all of us did with the fire, why should we follow him?  Pocket’s been camping. 
All the time
.  He rocks at it.  He can get us to the road in no time.  Shit . . . with Pocket leading us we might even have a shot at showing up at the Asylum on time, forget getting rescued.”