Page 20 of It Takes a Thief

I actually spit out some coffee onto the keyboard. I started to say “what the fuck?” but choked on it.

Santiago Slayer’s handsome face was serious, his glossy eyebrows pinched together. “Yes. You can tell how sterling my rep is by my use of the word ‘sterling.’ He served only a month in Tucson for this incident, mainly because it appeared that he bore the brunt of the altercation.”

It was always pleasant to hear about violent acts coming from Slayer’s glorious, Spanish-accented lips. He could make the most gruesome flaying and corpse-burning sound like Shakespeare. He had been highly educated in Mexico City but had somehow been lured into this occupation he seemed perfectly fit for. “Who was he, ah, dueling with?”

Slayer held out a horizontal hand. “Nobody of any import. Some cray-cray screwball from a small-time riding club. It appears they staged a stick fight out in the desert, quite possibly the juego del garrote technique of Venezuela. While our man Muldoon, now known as Noodlum for a very good reason, was busy concocting fancy figure eights, his lowbrow opponent lunged with a forehand strike.”

Though I loathed Noodlum, that made me cringe. It occurred to me I hadn’t seen one of his eyes. He kept that curtain of greasy hair covering it. “And? Where was he hit?”

“The first time, he was struck in the neck. The scumbag’s lance was shattered into splinters, and Noodlum’s brain was sloshed around in his skull. He could not react. Then, the opponent used his momentum to jam the splintered stick right into the third eye of his forehead, where it raked across to his eye socket.”

“Wow.” That was really the only reaction possible. I could almost feel a shred of pity for the crazed biker, especially after what Slayer said next.

He paused dramatically, his eyebrows practically wiggling. “The brain was swollen, slamming into its own bones. It was the rotational force that got to him, the torque that tore up millions of tiny hemorrhages into the brain. Neurons popped off everywhere in reaction.”

Now I frowned. “Do you have medical training?”

Slayer nodded concisely. “Yes. The sudden electrical activity would have been like a miniature seizure. A major concussion ensued. With stick shards emanating from his eyeball, Noodlum was arrested and placed in a cell. You must know of this, being married to a medical lady. Flaws in the brain can erase entire systems, such as speech and memory. Sometimes it’s a small but important mishap. Wipe out one node and people can write but not read. In Noodlum’s case, he believes he has a ghostly third arm protruding from his torso.”

Holy fuck. Noodlum’s flailing arms during our face-to-face. “Like a phantom limb?”

“Yes. Only this limb never existed to begin with. There have been phantoms in stranger places. Removing teeth can bring about phantom teeth. Colorectal procedures can create phantom hemorrhoids and booming phantom flatulence. But I will tell you the worst thing. Noodlum has lost all fear of death.”

“Holy fuck,” I said.

“I agree. Other people with this sort of brain damage become chronic liars or severe kiddie fiddlers. In any case, they all live a dramatic life on the edge.”

I chuckled. “Like your life.”

Slayer gasped. “You think I am dramatic?” he cried.

“So this guy has nothing to lose. And he seems to have a fixation on Maddy. Did you find anything about that?”

He shrugged and looked down his nose, still offended by my labeling of him. “Just that you’re the Prez, and you guys stole their workers. A simple google search can reveal who your spouse is.” He sighed deeply, exhaling energy from his chakras. “I understand your position. I have a job in Tijuana this week, but when I return, would you like me to put him in my crosshairs?”

“Nah. It’d be too obvious it was us, and I don’t want to lose you either.”

Slayer returned to the affronted air. “I am a professional. It’s not like I am going to live-tweet the burial. #GoSlayer. #SlayerMyLover. #SandyForever.”

“Who’s Sandy?”

He pursed his lips. “Is that not ‘Santiago’ in American?”

I had no idea. “Well, it’s just too much exposure. Just keep an eye on him. Sounds like this is turning into a major blood feud, all because we offered some guys more money.”

“#TooLegitToQuit,” Slayer added. “I am on it like a rat on Cheeto Man.”

We hung up—unfortunately not before Slayer got up from his chair and turned around to show me his bare ass as he spoke to the masseuse—and I thought about that brain-dead motherfucker. The way he slapped his nonexistent arm was obsessive-compulsive—terms I’d learned from Maddy. If he was OCD, what was preventing him from developing an unhealthy fixation on my wife?

I tried calling her, but it went straight to voicemail. Checking my texts, I saw I had ten unread ones from her. Rolling back in my office chair, I thumbed through message after message, strictly need-to-know stuff such as

Taking Fidelia to hiplet with me

and

Lytton is taking Niko to the zoo.

Other people sure were doing a lot of things with my kids, and it riled me, but what could I do? I got to the Citadel at 6AM. It was nonstop meetings, mostly of the construction kind. Occasionally club business would take over. Right now, it seemed to be a combination of both that I couldn’t extricate myself from. Maddy’s last text read: