Benny got up and fetched the coffeepot. He poured the artist a fresh cup and set the bottle of whiskey down next to it. The artist stared at the bottle for a while, then poured some into his coffee, sipped it, then got up and poured the coffee out in the sink.
“Thanks for telling me all this,” said Benny. “Most people don’t want to talk about First Night or what happened after. And those that do … They always make it sound like they were the heroes.”
“Yeah, I sure as hell didn’t do that.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” said Benny.
The artist sneered. “I ran away and left an infant and a little girl in a house surrounded by the living dead. I sure as hell didn’t do anything right.”
“Could you have carried them out? Both of them?”
Sacchetto gave a single wretched shake of his head.
Benny smiled at him. “Then at least you tried to do what you could do,” he said.
“Kid, I appreciate the effort, but that thought doesn’t even get me through the night.” He closed his eyes. “Not one single night.”
18
“TALK TO TOM,” SAID THE ARTIST AS HE WALKED BENNY TO THE DOOR. “If he’s willing to talk about it, then he can tell you the rest of it.”
“I will.”
“You never did tell me, though. … What’s your interest? You don’t know her. What’s she to you?”
Benny was expecting the question but hoping it would slip by unasked. He shrugged. He took the card from his pocket and held it up so they could both look at the image. “It’s hard to put into words. I was sorting through the new cards with my crew, and I saw this one. There was something about it, something about her. I …” He stopped, fishing for the right words, but he came up empty. He shrugged.
However, Sacchetto surprised him by nodding. “No, I get it, kid. She kind of has that effect on people.”
Sacchetto opened the door to a bright spill of September sunlight. The light was clean and dry and seemed to belong to a totally different world than the one Sacchetto had talked about. They lingered in a moment of awkwardness, neither of them sure if this was the whole of their relationship or the first chapter of an acquaintanceship that might last for years.
“Sorry it didn’t work out with the job,” Sacchetto said with a crooked smile.
“Well, it’s not like I’m invested in killing zombies. If you’re hiring, I’m still avail—”
“No,” Sacchetto interrupted, “I mean, I’m sorry your art kinda sucks. You’re a nice kid. Easy to talk to. Easier to talk to than your brother.”
“My art sucks?”
“You can draw,” conceded the artist.
“I …”
“Just not very well.”
“Um … thanks?”
“Would you rather I lie to you, kid?”
“Probably.”
“Then you’re Rembrandt, and having you around would make me feel inferior.”
“Better.”
They grinned at each other. The artist held out a paint-stained hand, and Benny shook it. “I hope you find her.”
“I will,” said Benny.
That got a strange look from the artist, but before Benny could say anything, a voice behind them said, “Well, well, what’s that you got there?”
Benny knew the voice, and in the half second before he turned, he saw Sacchetto’s face tighten with fear. Benny turned to see Charlie Pink-eye, standing on the street right behind him. Next to him, smiling a greasy little smile, was the Motor City Hammer.
“Whatcha holding there, young Benjamin?” said Charlie with the slick civility he used when he was setting up a bad joke—or something worse.
Benny was suddenly aware of the card. It was small, but at that moment it felt as big as a poster. His hand trembled as if the card itself felt exposed and nervous.