Page 8 of Shadow Ticket

Hicks and Thessalie meet one day at Velocity Lunch, a quiet joint with an upstairs you can loiter in and not be bothered, meet briefly for a handoff, or for hours of matrimonial business, even to eat at.

Lunch dramas passing like storm fronts, pies in glass cases slowly losing their a.m. allure, grill artists taking care of various counterside chores while whatever they’re flipping is in midair rotating end over end.

Fluorescent light through Today’s Special, a vivid green salad centerpiece the size and shape of a human brain, molded in lime Jell-O, versions of which have actually been observed to glow.

“We used to dim down the lights before bringing it in to the table, but eating it in the dark made too many people uncomfortable.”

Thessalie is a nice enough trick if brainy and resourceful is your type.

Although knowing what men are thinking about doesn’t take supernatural powers, still it has often put a certain kibosh on her social life, which she doesn’t mind complaining about.

The mind-reader angle doesn’t strike Hicks as much of a selling point either. So maybe he’s a little nervous.

After a brief guess at Hicks’s arm length, she sets her purse out of reach and switches on a smile. “Boynt mentioned you have something on your mind you want to talk about.”

Him and his big mouth. “Thessalie, if you ain’t just the spit of that Joan Blondell.”

“Widely remarked on, and don’t change the subject.”

“Just that I wouldn’t know how to—”

“It’s OK, no taboos, you can ask me anything, long as it isn’t state capitals.”

“Well…say you’re just about to…you know, give somebody the business, OK, only it doesn’t happen, not because your aim is off, see, but because your weapon all of a sudden somehow isn’t…uh…”

“Isn’t there any more? Sure, happens a lot, an often heard excuse. ‘It withdrew into its own space, it asported to safety.’ ”

“It, um…?”

“Asported. When something disappears suddenly off to someplace else, in the business that’s called an asport. Coming in at you the other way, appearing out of nowhere, that’s an ‘apport.’ Happens in séances a lot, kind of side effect. Ass and app, as we say.”

“This was outdoors, during a strike. Solid one minute, there in my hand, then…” Small shrug, palms up and empty, “I had a pretty good look around, figuring I dropped it someplace, but—”

“A firearm of some kind.”

“A beavertail. Kind of a loaded sap.”

“Been out socially with a number of them. How long ago’s this been now?”

“Dunno, a while.”

“And it’s still on your mind.”

“Thing is, is if I’d ever connected, I would’ve killed somebody.”

“Someone who was trying to kill you?”

“Yes, maybe no…”

“Well, and this vanishing beavertail, did it ever come back?”

“A little later that night. Looked in my pocket and there it was again.”

“Again? Or there all the time?”

“No, that’s how I knew to look, was I could feel the extra weight, when it came back.”

“Narrows it down to temporary amnesia, or ass and app. Less likely, maybe something out there didn’t want you to commit the assault, some unnamed force. Grace of God, another technical term we use.”

“Presbyterian, myself.”

“Well, and the beavertail—how about the next time you had occasion to use it?”

“Never did. That was around the time I pretty much quit working strikes. Ended up hiring on at the U-Ops instead.”

“Where now you get to pack a revolver instead of a sap. Nice career step.”

“Sure, but I still have to sign for it, plus ammo.” It took Hicks a while to get comfortable carrying heat. First time Boynt sent him off on a case, handing over a little S&W .32, “These li’l Smiths here, Federal B of I loves ’em. Better set aside some room in your pocket.”

“Loose in my pocket? What if I have an accident?”

“Good to see you respect that—here, this is called the safety, OK?”

“Thanks, Boynt.”

“Now,” Thessalie continuing, “I can look this up, but since you’ve been with the U-Ops, how many rounds would you say you’ve fired, total?”

“Hmm, ten, twelve maybe, haven’t been keeping count, who wants to know?”

“Hit anybody?”

“Hard to say.” Explaining how he tries not to show up heavy but if he has to, never to aim that straight.

Usually it’s been at night, or during some fog, once or twice returning fire, but mostly just expending ammo into an unlighted distance.

Maybe a couple of over-the-shoulder type blind shots while he was running the other way.

“And the sap, you still don’t have it around by any chance.”

“Long gone, sorry.”

“Too bad. Sometimes it takes no more than lightly touching an object to read the traces of where it’s been and who with and what they’ve been up to.

We want to believe that objects are pure, innocent, when the truth is that they lie open to every vibration that comes their way, law-abiding, criminal, everything in between… ”

“Wait, you’re saying an object can have a living personality? Same as you and me?”

“Same as me, I hope not. Same as you, maybe you better hope not. But if a human soul can be defined as a structure of memories, if to ‘read’ an object is somehow to gain access to what it remembers, then how can we begrudge it a soul?”

“Lemme think about that.” Soon as he figures out what it means, of course. “And this ass ’n’ app, now, this instant skip, are these objects doing it all on their own? or is there somebody doing it to them?”

“Some apportists believe that it’s all them—others think of themselves only as go-betweens, mediums, stooging for unseen forces.”

“Like some special…gift, or…”

“Not the word that comes to mind, a gift is usually free, whatever this is has a price tag stuck onto it whose amount might surprise you. Speaking of which, including the professional discount, this’ll be ten dollars U.S.”

“What? Where am I supposed to find—”

“Try inside your hatband, toward the back, new bill, folded twice, you want the serial number?”

“Forgot that was there,” trying to blink away some temporary brain fog, handing over the sawbuck. “That’s amazing, Thessalie, could revolutionize the whole field of daylight robbery, how do you—wait, second thought, don’t tell me.”

“All right, but listen—whatever it was, apports or whatever, you were lucky once. Just don’t count on luck every time. If you’re going to be carrying a weapon, it’d also help to have some insurance.”

“Like what?”

“Talk to Lew Basnight.” Get him to teach you the Curly Bill Spin. Something every gunslinger should know.”

“Somehow I took you for more of a nonviolent type.”

“A couple of times it saved my life. Talk to Lew.”