Page 38 of The Kill Society (Sandman Slim 9)

She upends the bottle, drinking a good potion of what’s left.

“It’s just an expression. I count the days by when we reach a new town or the Magistrate says to camp.”

“He’s Father Time, too? The guy knows a lot of tricks.”

“That he does.”

She hands me back the bottle. The stuff we’re drinking is vile. Greasy and fishy, but even flounder-flavored turpentine will taste good when it’s the only drink in town.

I say, “How long have you been with him?”

Daja shakes her head. “I don’t know. There weren’t a lot of us back then. Hardly any vehicles.” She holds out her arms and turns in a half circle. “But now look at us.”

I hand her back the bottle.

“You’re a whole army.”

“Damn right,” she says.

“Onward Christian soldiers.”

Her eyes narrow.

“What does that mean?”

“It’s an old hymn back where I grew up . . . not that I actually spent a lot of time in church.”

“Must be a Protestant thing. What were you? Methodist? Baptist?”

“I have no idea.”

“I figured. My family practically worshiped the pope. It felt like I was in church all the time,” she says. “Four times a week at least. Not that I minded. Except I couldn’t be an altar boy, but I’d sneak in after services and put on their gear anyway.”

“You ever get caught?”

“Never. But it was still a sin, so here I am.”

I hand her back the bottle.

“You think you were damned because you played dress-up?”

“Why else?”

“You never killed anybody or robbed a bank or short-sheeted the pope?”

Daja smiles.

“Nope. I was a very good girl.”

“And here I was thinking you were Ma Barker back upstairs.”

“Nah. I didn’t learn to ride till I got here. I never even threw a punch back home.”

She looks me over.

“I bet you were exactly the way you are now.”

“Only prettier.”