Hellbent Read Free Page A

most wanted items in the world are those traded by immortals, after all.
    “I don’t have a castle. If I did, I would totally put you up and give you one of the hookers. And maybe a stake. But in lieu of a castle, this will have to suffice.
You’re
the one who was dying for a powwow, so go on. Scoop. What’s so important that it’s worth sitting here, listening to this?”
    “Almost nothing,” he purred, but he leaned forward—or started to, then saw the crimson splash from where my wine had arrived and retreated, keeping his prissy, pristine elbows dry. The waitress picked this moment to deliver his Manhattan with the same messy verve she’d used to give me mine, then disappeared back into the fray. He sampled the beverage, gave a head-tossing shrug that pronounced it surprisingly drinkable, and gave in to a full swig.
    “Almost nothing?” I prompted.
    “Almost.”
And then he said what people always say, when they’ve got a whopper to share. “You’re not going to believe this shit.”
    “Try me!” I said, with a mixture of both real and fake enthusiasm. Horace has been known to embellish, in order to get me on board with an uncertain gig or two, but he’d gone to real effort this time. I was curious.
    Using two fingers and his cocktail napkin, he swabbed the little deck between us. “Okay, get this. Last month I was doing a gig with this assessment show.”
    I didn’t know what he was talking about, so I said, “Can you be more specific?”
    “Oh, you know,” he waved his hand. “
Attic Treasures
. That PBS production where people dig out their old junk and hope it’s worth money.”
    I tried to picture it, wee and fabulous Horace, being shown Hummel figurines by octogenarians. “Seriously? Why the hell would you take a gig like that?”
    “Because sometimes”—he was purring again, which meant trouble, but maybe the good kind—“we find great stuff that way. All the big auction houses send people along on those things, you know, because usually the first thing Grandpa wants to do with his newfound Renoir is sell it. God knows most people can’t afford to insure their treasures, even if they’re sitting on family heirlooms—and they usually
aren’t
. They’re usually pieces of shit found in abandoned houses, or in dead people’s basements, or estate sales, or whatever. But yeah, all the big guys, including my employers, send people along.”
    “And you drew the short straw?”
    “Oh, shut up. It isn’t
that
bad,” he insisted. “Don’t get me wrong—I bailed on the Bible Belt tours because, fuck me, I can’t stand that folksy shit. I did an East Coast leg and a West Coast leg, figuring I might find some colonial loot or maybe some Indian stuff out this way.”
    “Native American,” I corrected him, not because I care but because I’m contrary.
    “Oh, fuck
you
. Those Eskimo toys go for a mint, and I have a buyer in Spain, of all places, who’d pay me in blood if he thought I’d take it.” He gave me a meaningful look, but I waved it away.
    “No way. I’m never that desperate. It’s cold hard cash with me, darling, and you damn well know it.”
    With a harrumph he said, “It’s just an expression. Anyway, when was the last time anyone gave you
cash
?” He pronounced the word with disdain. “Wire transfers are so much cleaner and easier.”
    “And easier to get through customs,” I admitted. “So correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re about to tell me something that will involve a very fat wire transfer in my immediate future. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble. And”—I bobbed my head toward the busker—“you’d have never set foot in this joint. So come on. Out with it. Where’s the carrot at the end of this stick?”
    “Don’t let me savor it or anything.” He took another full drink, swallowing half the cocktail and beaming a Cheshire smile that should’ve been mine. “It’s like this: I’m in Portland, you know. Just last