Free A Plain-Dealing Villain by Craig Schaefer

it’s been mopped clean. It felt like an overcrowded office building buried under a thin layer of grit. I found a small food court and grabbed a cheeseburger and an order of fries at a McDonald’s kiosk. I’m all for sampling the local cuisine when I travel someplace new, but at the moment I just needed something solid in my stomach.
    I sat at a round plastic table on the edge of the food court, idly people-watching while I dug in. I was down to the last couple of stubby fries when I took out my phone and called Stanwyck back. He picked up on the first ring.
    “Yes.”
    “Faust here,” I said. “You in town?”
    “Not yet. Flight leaves in two hours. Green light?”
    “All systems are go. I just got off the plane. Any suggestions for a safe house?”
    “Motel in the south ’burbs,” he said, “about twenty minutes from downtown. I’ve used it before. The management has selective amnesia: slip him an extra twenty and he’ll forget you were ever there.”
    “Sounds good. Let me get something to write down the address—”
    My voice trailed off as I looked across the concourse and saw who was heading my way.
    “Have to call you back,” I said and hung up the phone.

9.
    The last time I’d seen Mack and Zeke, I was stealing their keys at gunpoint behind a family diner in Richfield, Utah. Mack had a weightlifter’s build, but with a little bit of pudge around the belly. He was dumb but reasonable. Zeke was a scrawny guy with cropped ginger hair and a fascination with knives. He was dumb but bloodthirsty.
    They had sold their souls for rock and roll. I mean that figuratively: souls were a buyer’s market. Nonetheless, they were the welcome wagon for Prince Malphas and his Court of Night-Blooming Flowers, and they looked about as happy to see me as I was to see them.
    At least they’d stopped dressing like Mormons, but I wasn’t sure the death metal concert T-shirts were an improvement.
    “You’re a long way from Utah,” I said as they walked up on my table.
    “And you’re a short way from the
grave
, asshole,” Zeke hissed.
    “You,” I said, “have been working on your quips. I’m impressed.”
    “We lost our old jobs after we ran into you,” Mack said. “That car we were driving? Wasn’t ours, man. It belonged to our manager. When he got the bill for the locksmith, he was
pissed
. I mean, dude’s from the Choir of Wrath, so he’s basically pissed all the time, but still.”
    Zeke loomed over me. “We got transferred and busted down to airport duty. Know what that means? We patrol the airport. All day, every day, looking for enemies of the court trying to sneak into Flowers territory. Know how many we’ve found?”
    “A dozen?” I shrugged.
    “One.
You
. You’re the first one we’ve caught, and now you’re gonna help us get our old jobs back. It’s a sign. A sign from our infernal master below.”
    “We gotta get out of here,” Mack said, shaking his head. “I’ve put on six pounds since we started this gig. It’s those Auntie Anne’s pretzels. You get one of those big, soft, salty pretzels with the dipping cup of cheese sauce…I just can’t say no.”
    “Every time we pass by, he’s gotta buy a pretzel. That’s
your
fault, Faust.”
    “Could be worse,” I said. “Could be Cinnabon.”
    Mack and Zeke shared a sidelong glance.
    “We don’t talk,” Zeke said, “about the Cinnabon.”
    I held up my open hands. “I’m not looking for trouble, guys. Here on personal business, nothing to do with you or yours.”
    “That’s what a spy would say,” Zeke muttered.
    “You know my face, and you know my name. That’d make me a pretty lousy spy, wouldn’t it?”
    “That,” Mack said, “is
definitely
what a spy would say.”
    I sighed and slumped in my chair. “Okay, fine, you caught me. What now?”
    They shared another glance.
    “We could—” Mack started to say, then fell silent.
    “You know,” Zeke said.
    “No, I—I mean, you were the one taking notes at the