The Translated Man and Other Stories - Chris Braak [35]
His patience was rewarded. The boxes began to empty at intermission. Pairs and trios of the well-dressed, highlyesteemed citizenry of Trowth strolled down the hallway, taking the opportunity to stretch their legs, and to see who had come to the theatre with whom. Wyndham-Vie and his friend left their own box in the midst of conversation.
Edgar, as he stepped through the curtains: “...don’t care what you say, I still think it’s tedious…”
His friend: “…but you have to understand, it’s a comment on the style of modern . . . oh. Hello.”
Edgar Wyndham-Vie was glaring furiously at Beckett. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Language, Eddie. Whose your friend?”
“Robert Rowan-Harshank,” the man said, extending a hand. “I work at—”
“Shut up, Robbie,” Wyndham-Vie snapped at him. “He doesn’t care who you are.” Edgar took a step closer to Beckett. He was taller than the coroner by a few inches, but not as blocky. Beckett wasn’t sure his joints could handle it if the gentleman was spoiling for a fight; they felt like someone had crushed had filled them with jagged metal splinters. Edgar clenched and unclenched his fists. “Do you think your little brass shield means anything to me, junkie?” He practically spat the words into Beckett’s face. “I am a Wyndham-Vie. My Family has the ear of the Emperor…”
No way, Beckett told himself, as his choler rose. It was old and the pipes were rusty, but that black-and-red fury of his youth still clutched at his heart. He pushed it down. No anger. No fear. I am too old to fight young kids nowadays. Look at him. He’s too tall. I’m too old.
“…I could have you stripped of your authority…”
Too old, he insisted, as recklessness surged again.
“…and thrown into a cell in Old Bank so fast…”
To…aw, the hell with it. Beckett balled up his fist and punched Edgar Wyndham-Vie in the face. Beckett’s withered body remembered the old ways, and for a fraction of a second Edgar’s cheekbone was connected by a line of force that passed through Beckett’s fist, shoulder, and hip, straight to the ground. The blow was hard enough to send Wyndham-Vie crashing against the wall, and painful enough to keep the man from getting up right away. It was hard enough to split Beckett’s knuckles, too, but between the veneine and the numbness in his fingers he hadn’t felt it. All in all, Beckett found the experience to be extremely satisfying.
The Esteemed Family members moved quietly back into their boxes, pointedly not noticing the altercation in the hallway. The only thing worse than being involved in scandal was being seen to take too much of an interest in one.
While Edgar Wyndham-Vie was still stunned, Beckett whirled on his companion.
“Now, hang on a second here, friend…” Robert said, backing away. He held up his hands. “I don’t . . . just . . .I mean… who do you think you are?”
“Beckett. Detective-Inspector, Coroners.” He thought about flashing his shield again, but his hand had gone completely numb, and Beckett didn’t want to spoil the effect by dropping it.
Robert Rowan-Harshank blanched, and his eyes grew very wide. “Oh. Oh. I see. Well, look…” he smiled weakly, and tried to help Edgar to his feet. “I mean, look. Eddie…he’s got a bit of a temper, that’s all. I’m sure he didn’t mean anything…”
“Shut up Robbie,” Edgar muttered thickly to his friend. A dark purple swelling was beginning to grow beneath his eye, and blood trickled from his nose. He jabbed a finger at Beckett. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re doing, junkie…”
“Come on, Eddie,” Robert whispered. “Let’s just go back inside.” He turned back to Beckett. “He didn’t mean anything. Really.” Robert dragged his friend back into the booth.
Beckett turned away thoughtfully, and came face-to-face with Skinner. “What the hell was that about?” She asked.
“You heard it?”
“I kept trying to listen from across the way. I could hear once you got outside. What’s going on?”
Beckett took her by the arm and led her back down the stairs. “Did you recognize the man with Wyndham?”
“No. What did he say his name was? Robert