Page 65 of Roma Queen
Archie looks like he's about to fall down dead from shock. He holds the coin in the air, inspecting it on one side, and then the other, like he's checking for damage. “Bad luck to steal a coin from a gypsy, Boy,” Archie says. “But…” He pauses. “Better luck to return it to him.”
I remember Archie's face that night at the fair—the astonishment, clear as day, when he'd turned over all three of the cups and the coin wasn’t there. I’d thought he was playing another trick, expanding on the ruse. It hadn't occurred to me for one second that he was being genuine, and Garrett had palmed the coin while Archie wasn’t paying attention.
Relief pours off Archie as he slips the coin back into the small pocket of his waistcoat, patting the silver dollar once it’s been safely secreted away.
Garrett's just about as rueful as a man can get. He points a finger at me, nodding his head toward me at the same time.
“What? You want me to give it to her?”
Garrett shakes his head. Points at me again. I'm about to try and find him a piece of paper and a pen, when he holds up his hand, fingers pinched together as if he's holding something, and he rotates his wrist in a turning motion once, twice, and then a third time. Understanding flares in Archie's eyes. Garrett repeats the motion as to be sure, and then he points at Sarah's mask.
“Oh, well I ...” Archie says awkwardly. “Yes, right. I s’pose we could try,” he says. I only understand his discomfort when he reaches down the collar of his shirt and pulls out a single, thin black ribbon on the end of which dangles a small brass key. The very same key I traded with Archie for a question at the Midnight Fair. Archie had randomly declared the key lost back in hisvardo, but it turns out that it’s been safe around his neck this entire time.
“No reason it should work,” Archie offers sheepishly, as he slides the key over his head and holds it out to me. “Luck's a strange creature, though. So are gypsy favors.”
I study my old college mailbox key doubtfully. I can't help but wonder why the hell Archie had the thing on a piece of ribbon around his neck, like it was a cherished family heirloom or something.
Whatever his reasoning, it’s worth a shot. I slide the key into the lock on the side of the scold's bridle, initially anticipating that the teeth of the key won’t fit. And they don't. Not really. The key’s a little too narrow, a little too thin, but as I wiggle it, angling it up and down, left to right, I begin to feel resistance. A pressure that intensifies as I slowly turn the metal to the right.
“It's no good. It's going to snap.” But then, out of nowhere, I feel an unexpected click and a release…
…and the lock to the hideous scold’s bridle pops open.
Thirty-One
PASHA
The Motel6 on Drover’s a fucking shithole. I had the misfortune of visiting someone there once, and I vowed I’d never go back. Hookers, Johns, dealers, tweakers, pimps: an array of Spokane's finest, shadiest, most disreputable criminal elements are all represented amongst the Drover 6’s long-term residents. I’d rather be doing literally anything than heading back there right now, but I have to know for myself. I have to hear her admit it to my face. I need her to see what I've done to the man she loves more than her own son. The man she sacrificed me for. No matter that he was a lying, murdering pedophile.
Lazlo hammers against the trunk until we’re halfway across town, and then abruptly stops about a mile from our destination. Part of me revels in the thought that he might have passed out from blood loss, but the more suspicious side of me pictures him lying there, mind working overtime, plotting, planning what he's going to do when I finally open the trunk. The fucker's been beaten half to death and shot twice, though. If he thinks he's gonna be able to get the jump on me, then he's got another thing coming.
When I pull up in the Motel 6's parking lot, I'm stunned to see the truck I secured the Ski-Doo to back in the national park this morning sitting outside the reception office.
Taking a chance, I leave Lazlo in the trunk as I park the Mustang in a secluded corner of the lot and jog across the blacktop to peer in through the window. At the counter, a man stands with his back to me—a man I instantly recognize. I’d know him even from the back of his dumb shaved head. It's Patrin, talking to the woman behind the desk, who seems quite agitated. Unsurprising. Patrin has that effect on people. I can't hear what's being said and there's no way I'm going inside, so I turn away from the window and rest my back against the wall, waiting for him to exit.
Five minutes later, the bell on the door chimes, and Patrin steps out into the slushy, half-melted snow that covers the parking lot. I emerge from the shadows, whistling low under my breath, and Patrin nearly fucking shits himself. “Jesus fucking Christ, Pasha! What are you playing at? You nearly gave me a goddamn heart attack.”
I consider round-housing the motherfucker where he stands, but then I decide to err on the side of caution instead. “What are you doing here, Pat? You voted for me last night, and yet here you are, showing up out of the blue at the same shitty motel where my mother’s chosen to lay low.
Patrin crosses his arms over his chest. “God, you are so precious. Has anyone told you what a little bitch you are?”
“Nope. No one's ever been stupid enough.”
He ignores my barbed insult. “I'm here looking for you, you moron. I've been looking for you all afternoon. I asked your Korean dentist friend to run a search on the plates from the van Shelta took this morning. I figured, find Shelta, find you. And look! Surprise, surprise. Here we are. The dentist found the van’s plates entered into the motel's system.”
“Bullshit. Seo-Jun would never help you, and even if he did, this is all just a little bit too coincidental, don't you think? You could have just called me.”
“Yeah? You been paying much attention to your phone today?” Patrin snipes. I pull the device out of my pocket, and there on the screen, I see:
15 MISSED CALLS - PATRIN
5 MESSAGES - PATRIN
Well,shit.
The level ofsmugradiating off Patrin is sickening. “Apology accepted.Dick. No, your boy didn't want to help me. Apparently, a certain redhead threatened to report him to the Feds earlier on today, and now he's none-too-happy with you and yours. Took a while to persuade him it would be in his best interests if he gave me what I wanted.”
“So you hurt him?” Seo-Jun’s going to shoot me in the face if I ever try and speak to him again. Poor bastard’s had one hell of a day because of me. It's funny that Zara threatened to report him to the cops, though. There aren’t many women who’d blackmail a black hat hacker to bend them to their will. She really is quite something. Sounds like she made him her bitch.
