Anarchy of the Mice

Chapter Four

Durwood walked north. Sue-Ann gimped along after, nose low. Paws echoed bootheels like sparrows answering blackbirds. Sixth house on the left, they found their noise.

Crew of three men working outside. House was a small two-story like Molly's. Owner had tacked an addition onto one side. Pre-fab sunroom. Ferns, plastic chair. The men were working where the sunroom met the main structure. Dislodging nails, jackhammering between fiberglass and brick.

No permit in sight.

"Pardon," Durwood called out. "Who you boys working for?"

One man pointed to his earmuffs. Others paid no mind whatsoever. Heavyset fellas. Big stomachs, big muscles.

Durwood walked closer. "What sort of job y'all into? Those corner boards getting beat up."

The addition was poorly done to begin with. Loose gussets, cornice already sagging. Shoddy craftsmanship. But that didn't mean the owners deserved to have it stolen. Just trying to improve their property, make a better life.

Jackhammer was plugged into outside GFI. Durwood caught the cord with his bootheel.

"The hell?" said the operator as his juice cut.

Durwood observed, "You're thieves. Fixing to steal scrap metal."

The men denied nothing. Looked at Durwood like he was a muskrat chasing its own tail.

"Call the cops," one said. "See if they come."

Man spoke with a hard edge. Sue-Ann bared her gums.

Durwood said, "Don't believe we need to involve law enforcement."

And turned back south for the Vanagon. Crime such as this—callous, brash—was a sign of the times. Folks sore about this "new economy," how the rich were making out. Lawlessness is like plague: unchecked, it spreads. Even now, besides this sunroom dismantling, Durwood saw a half-dozen offenses in plain sight. Low-stakes gambling on a porch. Coaxials looped across half the neighborhood roofs: cable splicing. Rottweiler roaming off leash.

Each stuck in Durwood's craw.

Addressing such transgressions was Durwood's chief interest in Third Chance Enterprises. Which was a silly name—just thinking it, Durwood ticked his head back and forth. "Branding," Quaid called it. Right. More like tarting something up with words.

Durwood walked a half-block to the Vanagon, climbed inside. Hunted around, boots clattering the bare-metal floor. Pushed aside Stinger missiles in titanium casings. Squinted past crates of frag grenades in the bulkhead he'd jiggered himself from ponderosa pine.

Yep, here she was. Pressurized tin of Black Ops epoxy. Set quick enough to repel a flash airstrike, strong enough to hold a bridge. Durwood had purchased it for the Dubai job. According to his supplier, the stuff smelled like cinnamon when it dried. Perfectly normal. Something to do with chemistry.

He removed the tin from its box. Brushed off the pink Styrofoam packing favored by his supplier. Allowed Sue-Ann a moment easing herself down from the camper, then started back up the street. Caught a glimpse of Molly through the living-room window. Fingers pressed to brow.

Moll was a strong woman who needed sympathy from no one. Yet Durwood felt it. Quaid was lying to her. Which was nothing new, Quaid stretching truth to a woman. In the seven years Durwood had known him, Quaid had rolled in hay with dozens—and every one, in the moment, he'd tell you he cared for. Believe it too. Open that mouth, start talking. Anything liable to come out.

These lies were different, though. Molly's safety was at risk. Truthfully, they knew little of the Blind Mice. Their capabilities, willingness to harm innocents. The leader called himself Josiah, used Twitter to spew mumbo-jumbo. Announced targets ahead of time. Talked of his penis. Volatile. Reckless.

One thing was certain: they were dangerous. If they'd have been jokers, they'd have been caught by now.

Heavyset fellas were back at it. One on the roof. Other two around east of the sunroom, digging up the slab.

Durwood set down the epoxy. The men glanced over but kept jackhammering. They would not be the first, nor last, to underestimate this son of a West Virginia coal miner.

Air compressor was set up in the lawn. Durwood found the main pressure valve, cranked her throat full-open.

Man on the roof's ratchet came roaring out of his hands. He slid down the grade, nose rubbing vinyl shingles, and landed in petunias.

Back on his feet, the man swore.

"Mind your language," Durwood said. "There's children about."

Other fellas hustled over, shovels at their shoulders. Fattest of the three circled to Durwood's backside.

Sue-Ann coiled her old bones to strike. Ugliness roiled Durwood's gut.

Tubbo punched first. Durwood caught his fist, torqued his arm round behind his back. Next man swung his shovel. Durwood charged underneath and rammed his chest. Man wheezed sharply, his lung likely punctured.

Third fella got hold of Durwood's bootheel, smashed his elbow into the hollow of Durwood's knee. Durwood scissored the opposite leg across the man's throat. Gritted his teeth and clenched. Felt the man's Adam's apple wriggling for life. A black core in Durwood yearned to squeeze.

He resisted.

The hostiles came again. Again Durwood whipped them. Automatically, in a series of beats as natural to him as chirping to a katydid. The men's faces changed from angry, to frightened, to incredulous. Finally they stayed down.

"Now y'all are helping fix that sunroom." Durwood nodded to the epoxy tin. "Mix six-to-one, then paste 'er on quick."

Luckily the thieves had made little progress in their thieving. Repair was uncomplicated. Clamp, glue, drill. Epoxy would increase the R-value on the sunroom 10, 15 units. Few bucks off the gas bill in winter anyhow.

Durwood did most of the work himself. He enjoyed the weight of the panels. Strength of a well-formed joint. Muscles free and easy as though he were back home tending Johnsongrass.

Thieves helped what they could given their injuries. Durwood caught one slacking and felt that black core flare. His fist clenched around a hammer.

Done, he sent them off.

Turned back south. Sue-Ann scrabbled alongside. "Well, ol' girl? Let's see how Quaid made out."