The Kill Society (Sandman Slim)(29)

Most of the others in the pack are the same forgettable assholes you meet in any gang. Loyal idiots with a chip on their shoulder, but a talent for following orders if you keep them simple like “Kick that guy to death.” There’s a toothless weather-beaten one-percenter with heil tattooed on one hand and “1488” on the other. An older woman with a Louise Brooks haircut who looks like she’d be more at home baking cookies for the PTA, except for the small panabas and butcher knives hanging from her belt. A square-jawed guy named Frederickson who looks like an ad executive if it wasn’t for the fact that the whole top of his head is crudely stitched together and looks like it might blow away in a strong breeze. Somewhere, sometime, someone scalped the fucker. I hope he did something to deserve it. The Mohawked Hellion woman who drove Traven’s truck one day is there. The sweat pig whose bike I stole after kicking him in the head. Billy. He’s looks utterly delighted to have me in the fold. Two of the women are twins with mismatched eyes. One has brown and blue. The other has green and gray. Everyone calls the handsome black kid Gisco.

“He sings like an angel, but don’t try talking to him,” Wanuri says. “He only speaks some gibberish. Old Greek or something.”

“Carthaginian,” says Johnny.

“That’s it. Something old as dirt. The Magistrate is the only one who can talk to him. With us, it’s mostly grunts and charades, ain’t that right, Gisco?”

He raises his eyebrows and makes a series of quick hand gestures. Everybody laughs.

“Same to you, sweetheart,” says Wanuri in a teasing way.

I say, “Gisco. You understand what these animals are saying?”

He nods.

“But they don’t understand you?”

He nods again.

I look at Wanuri.

“Interesting. At least I know who the smart one around here is.”

“Fuck off,” says Frederickson.

“Watch your mouth, mate,” says Johnny.

The sweat pig says, “Anyone can sucker-punch, faggot. Fight me face-to-face sometime.”

I say, “I don’t think I could stand looking at you that long.”

“That’s enough,” says Wanuri. “Yes. The kid is smart. That’s why we like having him around.”

“Was Megs smart?”

Everyone laughs at that.

“Is a dog smart?” Wanuri says.

“I don’t know, but one time at a carnival a chicken beat me at tic-tac-toe.”

“Megs couldn’t beat a rock at tic-tac-toe.”

“That why I’m his replacement?”

“You’re in because Daja says you’re in. Anyway, you’re not in yet.”

“Now you’re going to make me cry.”

“Soon, Sonny Jim, but soon,” says Johnny.

Apparently that was hilarious. Laughs. High fives. Fist bumps. Great.

I’m joining a community-college frat.

The little celebration is still going on when Daja rides up. She looks tired and annoyed.

“Truck’s fixed,” she says. “But since we’re stopped, they want to check the other chains and do some other repairs.”

I don’t want to hang around with the dog pack long enough to get into a brawl, but I don’t want to disappear and make people more suspicious.

I say, “When will we start moving?”

“When the Magistrate says,” she snaps.

Wanuri hands her a bottle of water. Daja finishes it. She points at me.

“You introduce the asshole to the pricks?”

Wanuri smiles.

“He’s been charming. We’re all looking forward to tea with him.”

“I’ll serve,” says Daja.

Daja puts her arm around my shoulder.

“You look like the milk-and-sugar type.”

“I don’t drink tea,” I say.

“Everyone drinks tea here. But you only have to do it once.”

Quick as a bunny, she swivels and plants an armored fist into my gut. I’ll admit it. She catches me off guard. It knocks the wind out of me, but before I can return the favor, the twins smash clubs into the back of my knees, knocking me onto the ground. Right. I get it. Teatime. Dog-pack initiation. It’s like getting knighted. The king or queen touches you with a sword and it’s the last time anyone can touch you with a weapon without having every other knight gunning for them. Sadly, the dog-pack version isn’t as classy. Basically, everyone in the pack gets to punch and kick the shit out of you until the boss calls time. It’s all good alpha-wolf fun. No one is trying to kill you, but I get the feeling a few of these boots are coming in a tad harder than is technically within the rules. I just curl up and take it. I’ve taken worse beatings than these creeps can dish out, but that doesn’t stop it from hurting.

“Enough,” shouts Daja.

Everyone backs off. I open my eyes and start to sit up when Sweat Pig gives me one more good kick in the ribs. Without missing a beat, Frederickson swings a fist and bloodies Sweat Pig’s nose.

“What the fuck?” he yells.

“She called time,” says Johnny. “Open your ears, you lardy bastard.”

Sweat Pig wants to pop Frederickson, but he knows the rules. If he made a move, the rest of the pack would be on top of him and give him worse than they gave me. At least these idiots have rules. Points to them for that. First chance I get, I’ll use them against them.