Off the Edge (The Associates) (5 page)

Furthermore, she’d spent two whole songs wondering what color his eyes were—something light for sure, maybe gray, blue, hazel. That was one good thing about the net hat; she could brazenly stare at people and they never knew.

She wound the cable around her elbow, thinking about putting the net back down so she could stare at him some more. He was much larger than she’d thought. He’d come off a bit studious back there, but up close he looked so solid and fit in the way he filled out that jacket that she revised her thinking. Maybe he was studious, but he was also an athlete—a boxer. A scholar and a boxer.

Hellbuckets, that was hot.

Then, as if he felt her watching, he looked up. Smiled.

Her heart just about sprung out of her chest. She smiled back. Nodded. “Hey,” she said, and went back to her cord-winding.

He got up.

Oh, God, he was coming near.
It was one thing to muse about men; it was another thing to engage with them. She still didn’t much trust men.

“Need any help with that? Are you carrying all this alone?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“It’s the least I could do,” he said. “Your show was…quite moving.”

Big, fat liar,
she thought to herself. He was just a guy hitting on her. Telling her what he thought she’d like to hear. Pretending like he’d listened. He’d been watching the audience and talking with his friend all night. Still, she was polite. “Well, thanks.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“No, I appreciate it,” she said.

“Meaning no, you don’t believe me, but you appreciate my bullshitting about it?”

She stopped her winding and smiled. “Yeah, I suppose that’s what I mean.”

He tilted his head, looked into her eyes.

And she forgot to breathe. She had her answer. Blue—his eyes were light blue with gray shards and a pale line around the iris, as if to emphasize their blueness. But blue was just a color; the word did nothing to suggest content: humor. Intelligence. Sparkle shot through with challenge. He had a look that said,
I have something wonderful for you.

“I meant exactly that,” he said. “Moving.”

“Okay,” she said.

“Though I have to say, that song—
You in the Alley
?”

She kept winding. That song listed the junkiest, dirtiest, cheap and chipped dragons in the neighborhood, though it never used the word dragon. Laney didn’t like to be obvious, and also, the dragons were a lot of things. Rajini always insisted
You in the Alley
was about old boyfriends.

She sort of wished this guy wouldn’t talk about her songs, because he hadn’t been listening.

“You left out the best one,” he said. “I was curious why.”

“The best one what?” she asked.

“The best forgotten dragon.”

Her heart skipped a beat. He’d gotten it. She looked up. “Well, aren’t you observant.”

He crossed his arms, half-sitting and half-leaning on a table top, so calm and confident. Like his posture alone was reply enough.

Did he know the song was kind of about her? She felt exposed, suddenly, at the thought that he might. Even she hadn’t realized it when she first wrote it. She’d just felt so horribly sorry for the dragons being crushed by the unforgiving city. She imagined that someday they’d be all gone, and it broke her heart. She’d reflected on it only later, realizing it was how she felt, and Rolly was the city, crushing everything out of her with his hard angles and force. “I’m sure there’s a lot of dragons I missed.”

“You didn’t miss any of the others of that type on Tamron Road or the alleys off it. The song lists out every dragon in this area except the plaster one near the bazaar. I was waiting for it because it’s far and away the best. Well, they’re all wonderful, of course.” He had a whiff of an accent. Like he didn’t learn English in America.

She narrowed her eyes. “There’s no plaster dragon over by the bazaar.”

“Oh, yes there is.” He didn’t smile as he said it. Nah, this guy, he
shone
.

“That you can see from the street?”

“Yes. Just before Pim Song Palace.” A lock of blond hair escaped from its swept-back position and kissed his cheek, grazing the gold rim of his glasses. Her pulse sped. “I was curious,” he continued. “I wondered if it was because it didn’t fit your thesis, the idea that they’re losing the battle.”

Her heart pounded. She felt held…invaded…
ravished
by how much he’d heard. As if she’d been undressing in front of a mirror, only to learn it was a two-way mirror, and he’d been on the other side, enjoying her. She almost couldn’t believe he was real, this man starting in about secret dragons.

He smiled lazily. “To the left of Pim Song. You’d like this one.”

“Because it doesn’t fit my thesis?” Funny that he’d called it a thesis. Like he took her songs really seriously. “Does that mean you think it’s winning?”

“Well, I think they’re all winning, but with this one, it’s obvious. When you’re a dragon and your habitat is
legends
, the shadow of a high rise, a bed of wrappers, that’s nothing, don’t you think?”

She felt like bursting into laughter. It was as if she’d put a message into a bottle and cast it into the ocean, thinking that was the end of the conversation.

“I go by there all the time,” she said. “If there was a dragon there I would know about it.”

“It’s not obvious.”

“I would’ve seen it. You’re getting your streets mixed up.”

And then he put out his hand, strong and golden like him. “A thousand bhat.”

Around thirty bucks.

She could touch him now. She very much wanted to touch him. It was the craziest thing.

His lips formed a hint of a smile and he watched her with those blue-gray eyes so full of knowing and humor; the way he looked at her, it made her feel special. It made her feel
seen
. “Are you frightened, little dragon?”

Heat rushed to her face.

Little dragon.
She fought to keep her expression neutral. So he had gotten it all—even that she felt lost and walled in like the dragons. It was sexy and scary, and she wanted him to say more things like that to her, and suddenly she felt less lost, less walled in.

Less alone.

And suddenly she was putting out her hand. “An easy thousand bhat.”

He took it and squeezed. A shiver of excitement flowed clear through her.

“We’re not just betting that it’s a dragon,” she said. “It has to be the best ruined dragon.”

“I understand.”

“Meaning I’ve got to be able to see it from the street and admit it’s the best.”

He let her hand go with a nod. “Full surrender or nothing.”

Twinges curled through her belly. Had he meant that sexy? Because she sure heard it sexy. Her whole body heard it sexy. She swallowed. “How do we prove it?”

“I tend to go with visual confirmation in circumstances like these.”

“Meaning go look? Like right now?”

He tilted his head, all playful confidence, and something in her longed to rise up and meet him there. She didn’t know the first thing about him, but he got the dragon thing. He’d
connected
. It made him feel familiar from the inside out. You didn’t need a man’s name when you had a feel for the inside of him.

He said, “You can buy yourself something if you win. You won’t win, of course, but you can tell yourself that for now.”

“You are so full of it.” She smiled, full of such a crazy, good feeling. Maybe she could trust this good feeling. And what the hell, the all-night market was a safe place. She’d wear her hat. She’d bring her Ruger. She needed to go anyway—to pick up a backpack. If she was going to be mobile, she needed to have a backpack with essentials ready to go. She’d be less noticeable shopping with this guy alongside.

She narrowed her eyes. “Fine.”

“We’ll take a tuk-tuk. I’ll carry your things—they look heavy.”

She slid her gaze over to see Dok Shinsurin, who was watching her from behind the courtyard bar.
Crap
. “Let me put it in my room.”

“You stay here? At the hotel?” He sounded surprised.

“Yeah,” she said.

He took hold of her computer bag. “May I help?”

“No, please.” She took it from him. “Meet me out in front in five minutes. Outside the doors.” Her stuff felt light as she picked it up.
She
felt light. He seemed to not want her to go.

“Five minutes.” With that she walked off.

Niwat Shinsurin, the most rational of the Shinsurin brothers, had joined hothead Dok by the bar. She walked over and gave the formal Thai greeting of a woman, “
Sawadee Kha
.” She loved saying it, loved the music of it. “Did Rajini mention about my passport?” she asked Niwat. “I’m getting itchy without one. I know you have a lot on your plate, but I’m feeling like it’s reckless that I don’t have one. I should be prepared for anything, you know?”

“
Passpoto! Pom Khortot Khap,
” Niwat apologized. “You asked for that months ago.”

Yes, she had. The Shinsurin brothers were usually more up on things. “And you have my hotel ID picture. That’ll still work, right?”

Niwat nodded. “No problem.”

“I just want to say, I would be more than happy to pay for it. I know you pay someone for this sort of thing. I’d have to wait until Monday to get my money—”

“No. You don’t pay,” Niwat said.

Dok flicked an ash off his cigarette. “You should not be separated from the herd,” he said. “It’s what Rolly would like. He would like you to leave our fortress of safety.”

“I agree,” she said. “But you always want to keep all your doors open.”

“You do.” Niwat shot a glance at Dok. “I apologize. I see our man tomorrow. I’ll put it at the top of his list.”

“Thank you,” she said.

Dok frowned, offended. He was always offended, always ready to fight somebody.

“Our man will require a few days,” Niwat said. “You will have your passport after the weekend.”

Dok gave his brother a funny look.

“Thanks,” she said.

“Who was that?” Niwat nodded his head where the man had stood.

“Just an audience guy.” She smiled brightly. “Thank you. Good night.”

Anders sat at the far end of the lobby of the Bangkok Imperiale Hotel Des Roses noodling on his phone, adjusting the cotton in his cheek with his tongue. The cotton helped create the late-middle-aged Indian executive look he favored on jobs in Asia. Late-middle-aged was key. People underestimated how age let you fly under the radar.

He liked this seat, right at the edge of a cluster, turned just so; it allowed him to see the elevators, the desk, and the only way into the building from the outside courtyard.

The show had ended and bar was closing down. The patrons were returning. Some of them headed up to their rooms, others up the stairs to the lounge. The place had been made over with spare surfaces of dark woods and bold colors, but some decorator had ruined it with a profusion of brass ornamentation—bannisters, planters, mirrors. Not a good look. But he wasn’t there for the décor.

He was there to identify and kill Macmillan.

The Association knew about the auction. They’d be desperate to get their hands on Jazzman and his weapon. Which meant they’d have to send Macmillan, the invisible hunter. They always seemed to send Macmillan around when they needed intelligence, details,
more
. You never knew Macmillan was there until well after the shit hit the fan and by then he was gone.

Nobody knew what Macmillan looked like or how he tracked his targets. There was a rumor he was some type of psychic, or even a remote viewer. That would be bullshit, of course, but it made for a good story and it gave the newbies a certain thrill.

Well, not just newbies. Over the years, Anders had seen numerous cartels, factions, and crime families get whipped up into a paranoid frenzy about the Association, and Macmillan in particular.

Anders wasn’t surprised by how difficult it was to find the man. He was far more surprised nobody had tried to have the man killed before now.

He spotted people he knew from the Somali contingency, and the German group, too, but they didn’t recognize him. Earlier, he spotted the man who had taken out the contract on Macmillan—a Russian in a Greek fisherman’s hat. They’d never met, but Anders always vetted his employers.

People like his Russian employer feared the Association because they didn’t understand the Association. Most criminal organizations were in it for the money and power. So were government agencies, when you got right down to it.

But not the Association.

As far as Anders could tell, the Association had to be bleeding money, and they didn’t have power, or at least not the kind you could wield. Sometimes they seemed to be working for themselves. Other times they appeared to freelance for various governments—usually Western governments, though not always. They were clearly picky, and when you put together all the operations they’d gotten involved in, and looked at what side they got in on, you could see a hero complex in operation. They would be solidly on the “stop the auction side” of this affair.

Which meant Macmillan was here. Hunting. He made a note of an Aussie roughneck type tracking Thorne, the Hangman lieutenant. People looked at Thorne as a dangerous thug, but Anders had seen Thorne be very shrewd.

The Chinese man in the corner seemed overly observant. A blond man had been at the postcard rack near the Germans and the Moroccans; the man felt wrong somehow, but he didn’t look around once. Not a hunter.

Anders was a journalist by training; he could research a mark better than any hitter out there. He wished he could talk about his data mining techniques, but he didn’t want his rivals to copy him.

Macmillan didn’t exist ten years ago—that was one known fact. Which meant he’d jumped identities ten years ago. Which meant something had happened ten years ago to push Macmillan into the Association, or to alert the Association to his existence.

Possibly both.

Anders had run through the obvious databases and archives, going at reports of brawls, arrests, and tragedies from different angles. He was running through the more obscure databases and archives now, paying special attention to suppressed information.