Kaleidoscope Read Free Page A

countenance. Jack squirmed in spite of himself, wishing he could scratch under his arms, his balls. Bladehorn smiled wider.
    “Danaus Plexippus,” he had a refined voice.
    “I beg your pardon?” Jack returned clumsily.
    “And so you should, but I refer at present to the Monarch, Mr. Romaine. King of the butterflies. Danaus Plexippus. You see this one here?”
    Bladehorn fielded a Monarch on the fly.
    “The distinctive coloration? The russet wings set with these black veins? They are veins, you know. And then of course the black border, I especially like that, a black border with two rows of spots…” Bladehorn paused. “D’you know what they’re for? The spots?”
    “No, sir,” Jack confessed. “I don’t.”
    “Warns predators to expect an unsatisfactory encounter.” Bladehorn freed his captive king. “The Monarch is unpleasant to the taste, you see. So even when you catch him—you pay a price.”
    A smile spreading through the seep of spit.
    “I see,” Jack pumped his head.
    Where the hell was this heading?
    Bladehorn regarded the man before him critically, thoughtfully.
    “I have butterflies from all over the world, Mr. Romaine. The world—imagine. Men have died bringing me butterflies from Borneo and Madagascar. Died solely for my pleasure. At my…instruction. Beautiful creatures, the butterflies, I mean. They come from caterpillars, you know; contemplate if you can that transformation. Gives one hope that something beautiful, something worthwhile, can come from something mean and ugly. Perhaps even vile. You follow me, Mr. Romaine?”
    “Don’t believe I’m tracking quite yet, sir.”
    Bladehorn’s laugh was abrupt and shrill.
    “Why, I have high hopes for you, boy! I see in you the potential for royalty even though to all appearances I have before me only a worm.”
    Jack felt an added heat at his collar.
    “Don’t blush. It speaks to a lack of control.”
    “Go to hell,” Jack blurted, and dropped to his knees as Fist drove a mitt deep into his gut.
    Nothing quite like a punch below the sternum to get your attention. Your gut cramps, you want to shit and stars swim before your eyes in unfamiliar constellations.
    Trying to breathe. Failing.
    “He can break your neck, you know,” Bladehorn resumed his lecture unperturbed. “I have seen Mr. Carlton break bones like twigs with those talented hands. Is that what you want, Mr. Romaine? Speak up, son.”
    “…Nnnn…no.”
    “Good.” Bladehorn smiled. “Very good, in fact. Much better.”
    Jack pulled himself erect on a potting table. There was a trowel, there. A couple of pots. And a handgun. A revolver.
    A firearm just sitting there in the open?! Was it loaded?
    “Don’t be a sucker, Mr. Romaine,” Bladehorn swept the weapon into the table’s molded drawer.
    Jack’s arms retreated in a clutch about his stomach.
    “Whadda you…want with me? Mr. Bladehorn?”
    “I have an opportunity for you, sir, a transformational opportunity, which is to say—a job. You have trouble remaining employed, don’t you, Mr. Romaine? Staying on the payroll not one of your strengths, is it? And whatever pay you get, whatever your foreign mother-in-law can’t extract from your gin-sodden pockets, whatever doesn’t go to your whelp of a son, gets pissed away in booze or gambling.
    “You are a welch, a drunk, and a cheater at cards, Mr. Romaine. Your debts chase you like the hounds of hell, as do the men you’ve cheated. Some of them very dangerous men.”
    Bladehorn padded drool from his lips.
    “To a certain extent I can sympathize. Many a man turns to drink after losing a loved one. And then with responsibilities, pressures, a man can make mistakes, can fold before a variety of temptations. I understand these things, I do. Makes life uncertain, at best, doesn’t it?”
    Jack was just beginning to be able to breathe.
    “Mind getting to the point?”
    Bladehorn frowned. “I was robbed. Property taken, family property. I want it