What Would Satan Do_ - Anthony Miller [89]
Liam followed the man into the kitchen, which appeared to have been designed solely for the purpose of being photographed for one of those fancy, “This is how people who are richer and better than you live” magazines. It was beautiful, but utterly unusable. Liam glanced around and noticed there wasn’t even a microwave. Large, untarnished copper cookware gleamed at them from hooks on the ceiling. The countertops – made from the Elgin Marbles – were endless expanses of spotless, open space. The cabinets were “antiqued,” which means that someone paid a lot of money to have them finished to evoke timelessness and Solomonic wisdom or something, without actually looking old. Mostly they just looked expensive. To top it all off, there were five separate floral arrangements.
“Sit,” said Liam, shoving the man toward the island. He spun an uncomfortable-looking – but very fashionable – stool around. The man in the crusty jeans set down a piece of plastic fruit he’d been examining and hopped up onto the stool.
“What are you doing here?”
The man looked around, as if what he was doing here was pretty obvious. “I guess I’m sitting.” He nodded an earnest nod.
“Why did you come here?”
“‘Cause I was told.” He nodded. “They told us to come here.”
Liam let out a tiny, barely-perceptible sigh. He’d dealt with recalcitrant interviewees plenty of times, but this wasn’t recalcitrance. This was stupidity.
“‘Us’? Who is ‘us’?”
“What?” The man squinted and shifted his jaw to the side as if he were concentrating real hard.
“Is there someone else here?”
“I saw that lady.” The man smiled. It wasn’t a smart-assed smirk. It was a smile of recollection. “She’s here. Wherever you sent her.” He nodded and smiled an earnest, open smile that would have made June Cleaver want to start handing out knuckle sandwiches.
“Did you come here with someone? Were you alone?”
The man’s eyes went wide. He started to shake his head, but stopped. “Way—”
Liam wondered whether the man wasn’t a lot smarter than he’d assumed. His face looked more surprised and worried than confused. Was this a new tack? Then it occurred to Liam that the man was looking at something. Something behind him.
Liam spun, and three things passed through his mind in rapid succession: the words “frying pan,” a loud, clanking sound, and “ow.” He collapsed onto the floor, unconscious.
Chapter 33. The Militant Arm of the American Geriatrics Association
Most people think the City of Austin is run by a mayor, a comptroller, and a council of elected representatives. Actually, that’s not true. In fact, most folks don’t really think this at all, but that’s only because most, when asked to rattle off a list of their elected representatives, get as far as “Who’s that guy who lives in the big white house?” before they have to turn their attention back to whatever is on TV. The city could be run by fairies and unicorns for all most people know. The truth of the matter, however, is that the elected officials do not run anything. (Nor do the fairies or unicorns.) The real power lies in the hands of a ruthless and callous band of crotchety old men – men hardened by years of street fighting and long nights at the bingo parlor. They call themselves the “Krijgsheren Wijsheid.”
It is a silly name. The men who picked it did so because they thought it sounded mysterious and vaguely ominous, which is helpful for any organization in the business of doing Really Bad Stuff, such as attacking supermarkets en masse to hog all of the weekly specials, slowing down traffic, and kicking the crap out of all the damned know-nothing, whippersnappers around town. They also liked it because they tended to get a lot fewer angry letters from trademark lawyers than when they had gone around calling themselves “The Militant Arm of the American Geriatrics Association.”
The town car sat, looming at Satan, Eli, and the old couple. It did not move – not even a little bit. It was almost