The Lies of Locke Lamora - By Lynch, Scott Page 0,146

leather portfolio full of them, and he occasionally made good silver selling them.

“Mmmm,” said Chains, “you got your asses walloped by a pack of Half-Crowns.”

“How did you know?”

“Stopped by the Last Mistake last night. Heard about it from the Full Crowns. Told me their seconds might be sweeping the neighborhoods, looking for other juvies to push around.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I figured if you were being adequately cautious, they’d never be able to get the better of you. Looks like your attention was somewhere else.”

“They said they wanted our preferences.”

“Yeah,” said Chains. “It’s a juvie game. Most of the seconds don’t get to pull real jobs just yet, so they train themselves up by pushing other seconds around. You should be proud of yourselves; you finally got noticed. Now you’ve got a little war until one of you cries mercy. Soft talk only, mind you.”

“So,” Locke said slowly, “what should we do?”

Chains reached over and grabbed Locke’s fist, then mimed swinging it into Calo’s jaw. “Repeat as necessary,” said Chains, “until your problems are spitting up teeth.”

“We tried that. And they jumped us while Jean was away. And you know I’m not much good at that sort of thing.”

“Sure I do. So next time, make sure you’ve got Jean with you. And use that devious little brain of yours.” Chains began melting a cylinder of sealing wax over a small candle. “But I don’t want to see anything too elaborate, Locke. Don’t pull the watch or the temples or the duke’s army or anyone else into it. Try and make it look like you’re just the pack of ordinary sneak-thieves I tell everyone you are.”

“Oh, great.” Locke folded his arms while Calo and Galdo washed one another’s bruised faces with wet cloths. “So it’s just another bloody test.”

“What a clever boy,” muttered Chains, pouring liquid wax into a tiny silver vessel. “Of course it is. And I’ll personally be very upset if those little shits aren’t begging and pleading to give you their preference before midsummer.”

2

THE NEXT day, Locke and the Sanza brothers sat on the very same pier at the very same time. All over the Shifting Market, merchants were hauling down canvas tarps and furling canopies, for the rains that had drenched the city all night and half the morning were long gone.

“I must be seeing things,” came the voice of Tesso Volanti, “because I can’t imagine that you shit-wits would really be sitting there right where we beat the trouser gravy out of you just yesterday.”

“Why not,” said Locke, “since we’re closer to our turf than yours, and you’re going to be using your balls for tonsils in about two minutes?”

The three Gentlemen Bastards arose; facing them were the same half-dozen Half-Crowns, with eager smiles on their faces.

“I see you’re none better at sums than you were when we left you,” said Tesso, cracking his knuckles.

“Funny you should say that,” said Locke, “since the sums have changed.” He pointed past the Half-Crowns. Tesso warily shifted his head to look behind him, but when he saw Jean Tannen standing in the alley behind his gang, he laughed.

“Still in our favor, I’d say.” He strolled toward Jean, who simply looked at him with a bland smile on his round face. “What’s this? A fat red bastard. I can see your glass eyes in your vest pocket. What do you think you’re doing, fatty?”

“My name’s Jean Tannen, and I’m the ambush.”

Long months of training with Don Maranzalla had left Jean looking little different than when he’d first begun, but Locke and the Sanzas knew that a sort of alchemy had taken place beneath his soft exterior. Tesso stepped within his reach, grinning, and Jean’s arms lashed out like the brass pistons in a Verrari water-engine.

Tesso reeled backward, arms and legs wobbling like a marionette caught in a high wind. His head bowed forward; then he simply collapsed in a heap, his eyes rolling back in their sockets.

A minor sort of hell broke loose in the alley. Three Half-Crown boys charged Locke and the Sanzas; the two girls approached Jean warily. One of them tried to dash a handful of alley gravel in his face. He sidestepped, caught her arm, and swung her easily into one of the alley’s stone walls. One of Don Maranzalla’s lessons: let walls and streets do the work for you when you fight with empty hands. As she bounced backward, Jean clotheslined her with a swift hook from his right arm and sent her face-first to