He sighs, tongues the wood in his mouth, and saunters to the right, down an aisle, till he is almost out of sight. Then reaches up and picks up a plastic piece with tubes and glass. A mask. I hope my sigh of relief isn’t audible. “This is the smallest one I have. You just need one?”
I nod.
He shakes his head, moves back to the counter. “Young pretty girl like you. Walks in and wants one gas mask. Seems suspicious.”
“Do you have the chemical?” I interrupt this bullshit waste of speculation.
“Well now that makes me even more suspicious.” He sits on a stool, one with dog-bitten legs and nowhere convenient to rest a foot. His legs stick out, like a kid’s.
“It’s a yes-or-no question.”
He chuckles. Slowly. As if he knows the time-eater will drive me crazy. I can feel the madness creeping. Can feel my slippery grip on morality sliding. Dark thoughts sneaking in, every line of the smirk of his face expediting the process.
“Fuck you,” I spit out, grabbing the mask from the counter and digging into my pocket. I fish out two hundred-dollar bills and slap them on the counter.
“Now wait just a minute.” He pushes to his feet, shuffles down the counter, then bends over, hidden from view. “I don’t have any incapacitating agents per se, at least that’s my line for any suits that walk in the door, but I think this is what you’re looking for.” He straightens, lifts a box out, and sets it on the counter. I move closer, glance at the contents while trying not to drool all over the counter.
White aerosol cans. Fifteen or twenty. Lined up in a neat row like jewels in a box. Shimmering under the dim light of the overhead fluorescent. I place my hand gently on the edge of the box, my irritation forgotten. “What is it?”
“Capsicum. It’s not gonna knock anyone out, but will wreak havoc on their senses. Can cause blindness, will definitely disorient someone, give them one hell of a headache, blurs vision, dizziness, pretty much a one-two punch of fucking you up. It’s the same stuff that is in pepper spray, but this is an aerosol form. Set four or five of these in a room, pop the tops, let the mist fill the room. You’ll have about fifteen minutes of knock-you-down air before it’ll start dissipating. Just keep your mask on. It’ll linger in the air for a few hours; even the afterburn will cause your eyes to tear up and your throat to close.”
“I’ll take ’em.”
“How many?”
“All of them.”
He tilts his head at me, brown eyes scrunching underneath brows that have never seen the beautiful sharp end of tweezers. “All of them? Who’re you going to war with?”
I don’t respond, reaching into my pocket for more cash. “How much?”
He works his mouth and I can practically hear the inflation rising. “Sixty each.”
“Twenty.” I have no earthly idea what capawhateverhesaid goes for. Have never heard of it. ToothpickDick could be selling me mini-cans of hairspray, my attempt at mayhem giving me one hell of a stiff hairdo. But the price had been tossed out with suggestion, like there is some room to haggle.
“Naw, I can’t do that. Not for all of them.” He works the piece of wood, flipping it straight out, and I wonder suddenly, if I stiff-hand his face, if it will puncture anything important, or just slide down his throat and cause him to hack like a furball-afflicted cat. “Thirty.”
I make one last volley. “Twenty-five.”
He answers by withdrawing a small stack of cans, shutting the box lid, and sliding it across the glass toward me. “Cash. I’ll sell you fifteen.”
“Cash.” I grin, count out four hundred more bucks, and lay it on the counter, backpedaling with the box in hand, not waiting for change.
Then FtypeBaby and I get the hell outta there, gas mask and arsenal in hand.
CHAPTER 82
AFTER TWENTY-SOME HOURS of driving, and one overnight spent in five-star luxury, Marcus reaches 23 Prestwick Place. A small house underneath big trees, the thin lot cozies right up to the neighbors, a fact that sits ill in Marcus’s stomach. Neighbors are a bitch. There is a reason his house sits on fifty acres. Neighbors hear screams. Neighbors report if a naked bitch stumbles out on the lawn with bloody wrists.
This yard is clear. No vehicle present. Now is the time to go in, while the house is empty. Damn the neighbors, damn the daylight flickering through the trees. He parks on the street, a few houses down, and pockets goodies from Thorat’s package: zip ties and a syringe preloaded with ketamine, the veterinary anesthetic that will knock a grown man on his ass within twenty seconds. A grown man fighting, less time. A quick pop of the trunk and his casserole dish from hell joins the party.