The Clarity of Cold Steel

STORMING ACROSS the deck of the Cartagena, the Gremlin comes at me with a knife, though to call it a mere knife is to undermine the considerable degree of danger which it poses. It’s a kukri, which means it’s nigh on a foot long, angled midstream to add weight to blows, and it’s about half an inch thick along its spine. I’ve seen them used as pry bars with considerable success.

And the little fucker’s fast, faster than me. I know because he beats me to the door, and I was hauling like you read about. Hand on the doorknob, the Gremlin just turned towards me and sprang, grinning like some chittering half-wit, trying to skewer me through the heart with that gleaming steel barb. Lords, he’s fast. A bleeding blur fencing for keeps. Innate cowardice, as usual, saves the day as I leap back, shrimping over in half, midair, as his blade whisks three buttons off my greatcoat.

“What the hell?” I yell for what good it does me.

But it doesn’t stop there. The Gremlin’s not satisfied with tailoring alterations into my one good coat. He swings and swings back and forth like a mad gardener hacking weeds as I careen backward over a table, stumbling, scattering dinnerware and spilling wine, rolling to my feet, overbalancing and cartwheeling half-assed onto the wooden floor. The patrons of the joint mutter and watch intently as I scuttle back on my ass and hands. A waiter dodges me. Deftly. Forks skewering meat stand poised before expectant maws. A bit of dinner theater. Not a one lifts a finger to help. Can’t say I blame them.

The Gremlin vaults the table and stomps forward, blade out, intent clearly ensconced within his mad eyes.

“Stop right there, you shitty midget.” I draw my Webley-Colt out, aim, arm shaking a bit. Okay, a lot. Wouldn’t want to be any of the good Samaritans seated behind the Gremlin right about now.

The Gremlin does indeed stop, however, when he sees the Webley-Colt. His eyes narrow. Gauging. He could still kill me, no doubt, but I might him. Knife against gun at our distance is an even match. At best. For me. A fog horn sounds outside the porthole to my left. I nearly shit myself. Again.

“You are cheat,” the Gremlin spits, offended.

“I’m what?” I demand, still on my ass.

“I say you are cheating!” He stamps a foot on the ground, hands akimbo.

“Sure, I heard you, you crazy fuck.” I grab onto the edge of a table I’m practically under, steady myself. Someone kicks me, and I elbow them back. “I just don’t know what the hell you mean.”

“You use gun!” He stamps again, the petulant child, lower lip protruding.

“You use knife!” I counter, easing myself up, keeping my pneumatic fletcher savvied his way. “And tried to kill me.” I slap my chest, hoping the past tense is accurate.

The Gremlin fingers the tip of his blade. With his span I’m surprised he can reach it. “You say you are the Shakteel.”

“Sure. Yeah. That’s what I said.”

“You are the Shakteel, the knife-fighter.” He points with the kukri. “They say you are the best.”

“Me?” I shake my head. “No. You want my brother Nikunj. He’s the best. I’m the worst.” I’ve a history with knives and usually on the side that doesn’t record results.

“Where is he?” he demands. “He is here with you?” He glances around like maybe Nikunj is going to pop out of a crock pot or something. He doesn’t.

“No.” I scoff. What would he be doing here? With me? “He’s at home. Fucking my wife. I’ll give you his address if you’re dead set on dying.”

“Oooooh…” Nodding, he looks down and circles a toe on the deck like I just chided him for peeking at his neighbor’s algebra test and not a near-capital offense. “Forgive me,” he begins, swallows, “I am so very sorry for my rudeness.”

“Rudeness?”

The patrons are all eating again, ignoring us. Dinner theater has ended. Ho hum. No one’s going to die. Not me, anyways. I lower my gun. The Gremlin seems sincere, and I’m a fair judge of character despite the lack of my own. “Well, you’re forgiven, I suppose.” I straighten the lapels of my greatcoat and lament the loss of its three buttons.

The Gremlin knuckles his forehead then scans the deck. “Aha!” He pounces like a cat upon one then proceeds to scour the floor hound-like for the rest. Patrons lift their feet and grumble — not too loudly — as he scurries under their tables. He finds the final two in short shrift and proffers them to me as though they’re fire opals and I’m the gods-damned Maharajah.

“Thanks.” I holster my weapon and take the buttons in hand, stuff them into a pocket. The Gremlin stands there grinning as though one minute prior he wasn’t about to surgically implant me a split personality. There’s more than a few who’d consider it an improvement.

“Can I see Mac Heath now?” I venture, glancing toward the back door and hoping for a depreciation of the homicidal outbursts department.

“You say you would tell me your brother’s address.”

“That I did.” And so I do.