Free California Bones by Greg van Eekhout Page B

like a flattened potato.
    “Okay,” Short-Pudgy said.
    Moth shut the cooler and began a sentence that was probably about the money when the guns came out and the shooting started.
    The Sawtelles were such fuckers.
    Daniel didn’t see much, because Moth had thrown him to the dirt. He landed facedown, and when he rolled over onto his side, it was a storm of muzzle flash and gunshots. Daniel screamed as a spray of something struck his cheek, but it was only gravel from bullets striking the ground. Moth wasn’t so lucky. Blooms of red appeared in his side and back as bullets tore through him, but the gunfire tapered off as he reached the shooters, and then the sounds became high-pitched screams and snapping bones. Moth laughed hideously, which meant he was hurt and in pain and also really angry, and by the time Daniel managed to reach for smell-memories and bring a fuzz of kraken electricity to his fingers, the five Sawtelle Boys were sprawled on the ground, cradling broken limbs. Short-Pudgy shrieked like a tropical bird and stared at the white, splintered bone emerging from his calf. The shrieking died in a gurgle of pain as Moth jostled him, searching his pockets for money.
    “I don’t think they have any.” Daniel got back to his feet.
    “I know, but I at least need to check,” Moth said, somber.
    “I could have told you it would play out like this.”
    “D, I’m shot. Like, a whole bunch of times. So let’s not do I-told-you-so.”
    “Okay, I’m sorry. But can we go? In case of cops?”
    The Sawtelle Boys, those who could still move, rolled in the dirt, groaning or weeping. Moth gave up on his cash and picked up his cooler with a bleeding hand.
    “Total waste of a kidney,” he said.
    “You’ll grow an even better one,” Daniel soothed.
    They turned and walked away and left the leeches behind.
    “How’re you feeling?”
    “Enh,” Moth said. “Hurts like a meanie, but I’m healing pretty good. New one should be ripe in a few hours.”
    “I meant the bullets.”
    Moth grinned like a maniac. “Little bullets,” he said.
    When they reached Daniel’s boat, Daniel tossed Moth a towel from the trunk. “Still up for Original Tommy’s?”
    “Let’s make it Tom’s Number 5, and I’ll hear you out about this job.”
    Daniel opened the passenger door and let Moth squeeze gingerly onto the seat.
    “I’ve missed you, buddy,” Daniel said.
    “You, too,” Moth said. He set the cooler containing his kidney on his lap and buckled in.

 
    EIGHT
    Daniel could tell Otis was serious about security by the number of guys standing watch around his warehouse, and by the armed guys outside the door to his office, and by the wraiths milling around, prepared to throw themselves in the line of fire in the unlikely event the Hierarch’s cops showed up and Otis needed time to bail.
    His office was outfitted with a folding picnic table, chairs, a chalkboard on a rolling stand, and a big bucket of fried livers from Pioneer Chicken. Moth and Jo were bonding over some bootlegged Broadway musical Jo had acquired, while Emma sat a few chairs away, observing them. Cassandra leaned against piled sacks of birdseed. She observed Emma.
    Daniel took a seat.
    “You’ve all met,” Otis began, taking a position in front of the chalkboard. “But let’s do formal introductions. Moth is our utility muscle. Josephine is our shifter. Cassandra is our yegg—”
    Emma raised her hand. “Excuse me, I’m somewhat new to this. Yegg?”
    “Can-opener, peterman, boxman, safecracker,” Jo cheerily provided, “and all-around thief.”
    “How delightfully colorful,” said Emma. “My apologies.”
    “Daniel is our osteomancer and field leader,” Otis went on. “And Emma will be our guide.”
    Otis handed Emma a piece of chalk as if passing a baton and yielded his position at the chalkboard.
    With a courtly little bow, Emma began. “You’ve all worked together, whereas I am new to your enterprise. An unknown quantity, and one