It was my turn to chuckle. “Possibly. Or possibly, we’ll stop the Gray Men. We will shut them down and stop the assassinations. We’ll become heroes for our side. Hopefully, the rest of the Community will forgive me for Meng’s—accident.”
Gilling began to pace, still eyeing the ring. “We can claim that Rostok sponsored the whole effort. That Meng was in league with the Gray Men.”
“It’s possible,” I said. “Why else would they keep coming and letting me go?”
Gilling stopped pacing and smiled at me. “You are charming me, aren’t you?”
I started to deny his odd statement, but he shushed me with fluttering hands.
“No, no, it is very clear,” he said. “First you bring these killers to me—unwittingly, perhaps. Then you request my help to stop them. You create a crisis and then require more blood from me as the only solution. And to think that we considered you as a source of blood at one time! Ironic.”
“Are you in or not?” I asked. “Because I’m going to move on them one way or the other. They won’t leave me in peace, so I might as well end it. I’d rather die than have them kill every interesting person I meet.”
Thin fingers waved away my words as if they stunk up the air.
“No more bravado, please,” Gilling said. “I’ve had all I can stomach. But I will join you anyway. I will march my fledgling army against the Gray Men. It will be glorious—or tragic. At least it will be better than sitting in this hole awaiting a fate decided by others.”
Over the next several hours, Gilling made a number of quiet cell phone calls. Soon thereafter, his people began to arrive. I watched the security cameras as the driveway filled up and they kept filing in. Gilling and I had moved up from the cellar into the main living area. I got the feeling there would be a lot of people coming.
They were a motley crew. Most were disheveled and a few appeared homeless. I supposed that the introduction into one’s life of high technology—or magic, take your pick—was always disruptive. How could you keep your mind on a retail job when the inexplicable object in your pocket begged to be used?
I was surprised by one familiar face. It belonged to the bearded, homeless-looking fellow I’d met on the Strip late last night. He nodded to me and pulled out the pack of McKesson’s cigarettes I’d given him. He rattled the empty package at me hopefully.
“More smokes?” he asked.
I shook my head. “What’s your trick?”
He slowly removed his hat in response. He reached up and plucked a penny from the top of his bald head. He handed it to me. I snorted.
“Your hat makes pennies?” I asked. “That’s it?”
“No,” he said. “Usually it makes paperclips, nails, or nickels. Always something metal. Sometimes, I get lucky and find a quarter.”
I peered at his hat. It looked normal enough. It was a hunter’s cap with a long visor. It could have been old or new. It was hard to tell with objects, as they didn’t age.
“Where does the stuff come from?” I asked.
The man shrugged, putting his hat back on his head. I got the feeling he didn’t like the way my eyes were crawling all over his prized possession. He needn’t have worried. I was intrigued by it, but it had to be the most pathetic power I’d encountered yet.
“I don’t know where the stuff comes from,” he said. “But it seems to come from nearby.”
I smiled at him suddenly. “The casinos,” I said. “That’s why you walk up and down the Strip, isn’t it? You pull coins out of the slots.”
The man shrugged shyly. “They won’t even let me into those places to go to the bathroom. I figure it’s payback.”
“Quentin’s the name,” I said, shaking hands with him.
“I’m Old Red,” he said. “My hair’s not really red anymore, but it used to be.”
I nodded and began to turn away. He reached up under his cap again, and this time he frowned at me. He stared oddly at an object in his hand and then slowly handed it over.
“Is this yours?” he asked.
It was a .32 caliber bullet. I realized with a start that he had pulled it out of my pocket—or my magazine. I was instantly glad I didn’t have a surgical pin in my knee or a pacemaker in my chest.
“Um, thanks,” I said, pocketing the ammo.
Old Red steered clear of me after that. Maybe the fact I was armed worried him. To me, he looked like a bystander rather than a combatant.