The boss nodded and flashed Romano an angry look; Romano hadn’t noticed that he didn’t like his name being used.
The customer was a mystery; only the boss had talked to him though Romano had probably been nearby, pretending to offer some protection. Pendleton hadn’t asked about him or their orders and his blunted curiosity didn’t provoke any questions now.
After all, what good did questions ever do? No good, that was what. Questions always lead to answers. Most people seem to love questions; who are you, what are you doing, why did you shoot him? But answers, they hate those with a passion. Especially Pendleton’s answers.
Pendleton shook his head, disoriented for a moment as he returned from deep thought.
The idiot grinned again, his weak excuse for a sense of humour returning. “You’re terrified. But I tell you what, lummox, even I’m a little scared of our customer. So you must be quaking in those enormous boots of yours, pissing the pants that some team of nigger women had to sew together to cover your giant ass.”
“I ain’t scared,” Pendleton rumbled. His height meant he had to order his clothes specially, a sore spot that Romano enjoyed prodding. “He’s only a customer.”
From what little the boss’d said, he knew the customer was a hard case, the kind of man who’d kill you because it took less effort than having a conversation. But that didn’t bother Pendleton much; either the guy paid and went away happy or he refused to pay and a fight had to happen. It was that simple.
“You say that but you didn’t see him; he’s the kind of guy you never want to mess with,” Romano continued. “I met people like him during the war, tough sons of bitches who’d sold their souls and didn’t care who knew it. Whatever dark powers our customer has given himself to have made him terrifying, lummox. Terrifying.”
The boss wouldn’t do something like roll his eyes – he was too classy, too loyal to his family to disrespect them like that – but the sharp movements he made in eating betrayed annoyance at his cousin.
“That way he walks everywhere but doesn’t make a sound?” Romano said, eating some beans. He spoke with his mouth full, something that would’ve earned Pendleton a whipping when he was a kid. “And that he doesn’t carry any weapons with him? Those are the warning signs. In the war with you Americanos, guys like him killed and raped, women and children, just because it was the done thing; they didn’t get any pleasure out of it, just thought it was what was expected. He, lummox, is a monster.”
The boss looked up. “Hush, Rome.”
Romano frowned. “Why?”
Pendleton turned and faced the way the boss was looking.
“Because our customer’s nearly here,” Pendleton said.
It was still the middle of the day and the sky was pristine, the earth golden. On the horizon, stared at the ground, not caring what was around him, was their customer. His pace was lazy, gentle. He wore a wide-brimmed black hat that covered his face in shadow and expensive-looking black clothes. Corpse-thin thumbs were hooked in his pockets, leaving his hands to dangle.
“He can’t hear me from there,” Romano said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“Want to bet?” Pendleton asked, deciding to rib Romano. “A tough guy like that, sold his soul and everything?”
The little man’s eyes narrowed but he kept his tongue still. Apparently that wasn’t a bet he wanted to take. If for no other reason than he could shut Romano up, Pendleton liked their customer already.
They ate in silence until the customer arrived at the camp fire, with Romano shifting between shooting aggressive looks at Pendleton and watching the customer approach with dread and awe. The boss simply stared into the distance and ate. Pendleton took his cue and polished off his food.
He was setting his plate down when the customer took a place at the fire, right beside him. Then he closed his eyes. Romano had at least been right that he didn’t make a sound; the only sign of him had been the approaching shadow.
Now he was close, Pendleton saw that the customer wore a mask under the shadow of his hat; a fabric construction, probably with a little wire under there to keep its shape, it hung around his pale white ears and curved round his face to join over his nose like the bow of a ship. His mouth and nose were covered entirely by the black velvet, into which someone had sewn silver patterns that made Pendleton’s eyes feel twitchy. All he could make out of the customer’s face was that he had been badly scarred somehow; the topmost edge of a wide patch of twisted skin on his cheek peered out from the mask.
The boss continued eating. Romano watched the customer like a yellow hawk.
The customer’s silence was almost a solid thing, like steam in the air. The long it went on, the more nervous Romano became. Even Pendleton felt his cool being eroded but a deep breath every fifteen seconds cleared the feeling.
Eventually, the customer spoke. His voice was bland, unremarkable; it had no accent and no tone. All Pendleton retained was the word; “Report.”
“We’ve been going at Crucifix every night, not once going before sunrise,” the boss said, slowly putting down his plate, “but they still haven’t budged, are holding firm. We’ve used the artefact just as you asked but the things it summons can’t seem to get past whatever protection the priest’s using.”
The customer opened his eyes and looked into the fire. “Has he weakened at all?” Pendleton remembered him saying.
The boss shook his head. “Not that I can tell.”
The customer nodded again. “And you’ve been attacking as well?”
“I don’t know if you remember,” the boss said, narrowing his eyes, “but we ran out of bullets a couple of nights ago and we don’t have the time to run back and get some more.”
That was unusual; the boss never got pissy with a customer. Something must have rattled his cage.
“Did you bring us more ammo?”
The customer shook his head.
A twitch of disdain, a mere moment of unhappiness, crossed the boss’ face. “Then there isn’t a lot we can do. If you could spare one of us for a night, we could stock up on some dynamite, blow the chapel’s doors to pieces-”
“No,” the customer said with another slow shake of his masked head. “Three of you are needed to make the artefact work.”
That explained Romano being here.
The boss didn’t find the response quite so gratifying. He stood, balled his fists. “Then what do you want us to do? If your creatures aren’t up to the job and we can’t get any ammo or go before dawn, I don’t see any options. You’re paying us to do this quietly, your way, but frankly it isn’t working”
“Boss, calm down,” Pendleton warned.
The customer looked up and fixed Pendleton with dead eyes. His irises were silver discs that reflected the light of the camp fire like mirrors.
“You stay out of this, lummox. We obviously has a problem here.” Romano spat. It seemed that he’d found his tongue, if only to berate Pendleton.
“We don’t,” the customer said. It looked like he was smiling beneath the mask. “You do.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Romano asked.
The customer stood up and brushed some dust from his jeans. All three of them watched, tense, ready for a fight. Pendleton noticed that he couldn’t see any shoes beneath the customer’s jeans; there was just darkness. The sight concerned him more than he liked so he looked up, put his questions out of his head.
