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My Interview with Vishous:

Out on the compound’s lawn, Butch and I pack up the duffel and take Edna back to the mansion, where we spend about fifteen minutes weeding through the rose garden picking up the rockets. After we find all four and detach their parachutes, we go into the library and Butch gives me a hug. He smells good.

Butch:

Himself is waiting for you in the basement.

J.R.:

I’m not looking forward to this.

Butch:

(smiles a little) Neither is he. But look at it this way, it could be worse. You could have to write another book on him.

J.R.:

(laughs) Roger that.

I head off, crossing the foyer and going into the dining room, which has been cleaned up. On the other side of the flap door into the kitchen, Fritz, butler extraordinaire, is polishing silver with two other doggen. I chat with them and end up trying to fend off offers of food and drink. I fail. As I go down into the basement, I have a mug of coffee and a homemade raisin scone wrapped in a damask napkin. The scone is delicious and the coffee is just the way I like it: superhot with a little sugar.

At the bottom of the basement stairs I look left and right. The cellar is huge, with great stretches of open space broken up by storage rooms and HVAC piping. I have no idea where V could be, and I listen, hoping for direction. At first all I hear is the sound of the ancient coal furnace that is up ahead, but then I catch a beat.

It’s not rap. It’s a rhythmic, metal-on-metal clanging.

I follow the sound all the way down to the far end of the basement. It takes me a good five minutes of walking to get to where V is, and along the way I finish the scone and the coffee. As I go, I try to think what the hell I’m going to ask him. He and I don’t really mix all that well, so I figure this is going to be short and not-so-sweet.

As I come around the last corner I stop. V is seated on a stout wooden stool wearing heavy leather chaps and a muscle shirt. In front of him is an anvil on which is a deep red dagger blade that he’s holding with a pair of calipers. He has a blunt hammer with a special grip in his glowing hand and is pounding the tip of the weapon. Between his lips is a hand-rolled, and my nose registers the woody smell of Turkish tobacco, the sharp acid of hot metal and dark spices.

Vishous:

(without looking up) Welcome to my workshop.

J.R.:

So this is where you make the daggers. . . .

The ovenlike room is about twenty by twenty and has whitewashed concrete walls like the rest of the basement. Black candles are lit all around, and next to the anvil is an ancient brass pot full of sparkling sand. Behind V is a sturdy oak table on which are a variety of daggers in various stages of creation, some just the blades, others with handles.

V turns and thrusts the still-red metal slice into the sand, and I’m struck by how strong he is. His shoulders are roped with muscle, and so are his forearms.

As he waits, he releases a stream of smoke from his lips and taps the hand-rolled on the edge of a black ashtray.

I am uneasy around him. I always have been. It makes me sad.

V:

(without looking at me) So you survived the rocket-man routine with the cop, huh.

J.R.:

Yes.

I stare at him as he takes the blade from the sand and wipes it with a thick cloth. The metal stretch is irregular in shape and consistency, clearly in the process of being birthed. He examines it, tilting it around, and as he frowns the tattoos on his temple move closer to his eye. Putting the hammer down, he brings his glowing hand back to the blade and clasps it. Light flares, pulling sharp shadows out of the softer candlelight, and a hissing sound sizzles into the air.

When he removes his hand the blade is brilliant orange, and he lays it down on the anvil. Picking up the hammer, he strikes the hot metal over and over again, the clanging sound ringing in my ears.

J.R.:

(as he pauses to look at the blade) Who are you making that