•  •  •

It’s night in a seedy Minneapolis neighborhood. Perhaps not as seedy as other neighborhoods in other cities, but even Minneapolis has armpits and nether regions. Una is necessarily alone, because even with his long hair, Lev is still highly recognizable.

“I wish I could go with you into these places,” he said before she first put herself in harm’s way.

“You couldn’t anyway,” she replied. “They’re all bars, and you’re underage.”

Of course, at six months shy of her twenty-first birthday, Una is underage as well—but her ID says otherwise.

She walks into the third bar this evening—twelfth one since arriving in town. Her long black hair is pulled back with a colorful ribbon, the kind that Wil always would untie because he liked her hair to flow free. There is a pistol in her purse. Small and dainty, a little .22 caliber. She much prefers her rifle, but that’s not exactly something you take with you into a bar. Even a sleazy one like this.

For three nights she has been trolling these gutter spots, where bad news meets more bad news and maybe gets lucky. But no luck for Una. She hasn’t come across a single sign of the parts pirates she seeks.

This place—the What Ales Ya Saloon—has long faded from a glory that wasn’t so glorious to begin with. Greasy booths where the dark leatherette seats are held together by matching duct tape. A linoleum floor that may have once been blue. Light low enough to rob what little color there is left to the place. The only thing sorrier than the establishment is the clientele, sparse and mostly sullen.

Una sits down at the bar, and the bartender, a man who’s had some exceptional good looks bashed out of him by a hard life, comes over to her. Before she’s asked, she shows him her ID, and flashes her medical alcohol license. Sometime around the Heartland War, they made alcohol a controlled substance. So now everyone has a medical alcohol license. Scalpers sell them on street corners, and you can even buy them from medical vending machines. So much for separating mankind from its favorite vice.

“What’ll it be?” the bartender asks.

“A pint of Guinness.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re a gal after my own heart.” He has a Texas twang to him that is out of place in Minnesota. Una offers him a pained grin that says Just get me my beer.

When he returns, she drinks it slowly, taking note of the people around her. There are two tattooed guys playing darts, not seeming to care about the drunks crossing their path as they launch their sharp projectiles. Deep in the dim booths are couples making deals she doesn’t want to hear. Sitting with her at the bar is a predictable collection of lonely-hearts and career alcoholics. The one sitting at the far end of the bar pays for her drink without her permission, and gestures to her with a two-finger wave and a grinning display of yellow teeth that say it’s Halloween all year. Una’s response is to put her own cash on the bar when the bartender passes.

“Here,” she says. “Give Skeleton Jack his money back.”

The bartender, who must see exchanges like this on a regular basis, is happy to oblige with a chuckle. She doesn’t know if he’s pleased with her self-reliance, or just enjoying the drunk’s misfortune in the matter.

When the bartender seems to have a free moment, she delicately broaches the subject that brought her here. “Maybe you could help me,” she begins, trying to be more polite than she actually feels. “I’m looking for two gentlemen who make their living in the flesh trade.”

The bartender laughs at that. “First time I ever heard parts pirates called ‘gentlemen,’ ” he says. “Sorry to disappoint you, darlin’, but parts pirates only brag to one another. They don’t tell the likes of me their business.”

Una ignores him and continues. “Their names are Hennessey and Fretwell.” Then she watches the bartender for a “tell.”

“Never heard of ’em,” he says, then casually goes about his business of washing dirty glasses—but Una notices him washing a glass that was already clean. Bingo!

This is closest thing to a lead she’s had in three days. Now it’s all up to her. She must play this carefully. She wonders what this man is worried about. Is it that he just doesn’t want to get mixed up in business that’s not his? Does he think she’s a Fed come to crack down on his patrons? Well, whatever the reason for his silence, perhaps she can appeal to his wallet.

“Too bad,” she says. “I hear they’re the go-to guys for a high-value catch.”

The bartender doesn’t meet her eye. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“And,” adds Una, “I was planning on a nice finder’s fee for anyone who could put me in touch with them.” Then she finishes her beer, pushes the empty glass in his direction, and puts a fifty beneath it.

He glances at the bill, but doesn’t take it.

“Of course, that’s just for making the introduction,” Una says. “If I actually make the sale, there’ll be a whole lot more.”

He goes farther down the bar and serves a sad-looking woman a Tom Collins that Skeleton Jack will probably pay for. When the bartender returns, he’s had enough time to think about the proposition. He takes Una’s glass and the fifty, making it disappear like a magician. He glances around, then leans closer, speaking in a voice so low, she can hardly hear him.

“If it’s the guys I’m thinking about, you probably won’t run into them here,” he says. “I don’t know about Hennessey, but Fretwell spends his time hustling pool at the Iron Monarch Pub, down on Nicollet Avenue—but listen—he’s a scummy guy, and that’s a scummy place. You oughta think twice about this.”

Una can’t help but laugh at that. “You mean there’s a place scummier than this?”

He’s not offended by the observation, and remains dead serious. “Plenty of them,” he says. “There are pits and there are snake pits. Lemme tell ya, that place has venom to spare.”

Una shivers in spite of herself. “I can handle it,” she says. She knows it’s true, but the intensity in this man’s eyes makes her doubt herself the slightest bit. She gets up from her barstool. “If a deal goes down, you’ll be hearing from me,” she tells him.

“I sincerely doubt that,” he says with the resigned grin of a man who’s been around the block—and in this neighborhood, that’s saying something.

“Well,” says Una, “worst-case scenario, you never see me again, and you’re up fifty bucks.”

He accepts her evaluation of their situation, offers her a “You take care, now,” and she leaves to find a pit of vipers called the Iron Monarch.

10 • Fretwell

To say that Morton Fretwell is ugly as sin is a grave insult to sin. He knows this. He’s had a lifetime to come to terms with it—twenty-nine years, to be exact. Fretwell’s development took him through various comparative species. He began life as a bat-faced baby, grew into a coyote-faced boy, and finally matured into a goat-faced man.

But rather than lament his unprepossessing nature, he chose to embrace it—revel in it, even. His ugliness defines him—for what would he have without it? When he and Hennessey bagged that SlotMonger kid and sold him for a small fortune, Fretwell’s share was enough to pick himself out some nice new facial features, if he wanted. He had considered it, but not for long. Instead he spent the money on some of the finer things in life that his face usually denied him. But now that money is gone, and it’s back to the day-to-day of trolling the streets for Unwinds to sell to those who will pay.

As he plays pool alone in a corner of the Iron Monarch he notices the girl. Actually, he noticed her when she first came in, looking like a nice drink of water in the desert. But now he notices her noticing him.

She’s young. Twenty-one, maybe younger. She’s alone in a booth, and already there are vultures around the Monarch with their eyes on her. She has dark hair, tied tightly back. When she came in, he noticed how it fell all the way to her tailbone. Fretwell has a thing for girls with long hair.