“I assumed as much.” Stabbity Joe’s skill with knives is both legendary, and his weakness. He’s faster than me, and he practices with knives the way Father practiced with Pabst—no, no, no. You just yelled at Lou to stay in the moment. Take your own advice.
Stabbity Joe’s hands are empty. He’s wearing short sleeves, so the most obvious knife cache is gone. They’ve got to be in his pockets, or maybe down the back of his collar—no, that collar looks tight underneath his tie.
A gust of wind skitters sand past us. Joe’s tie doesn’t flutter.
That’s one knife, then. He’ll have a bunch more, hidden somewhere nastily clever.
Not as nasty as when Father got mad at the neighbor and—no, stop it stop it stop it.
“Who’s your friend?” Stabbity Joe says.
I don’t look at Lou, but he doesn’t answer. J
