Bomber stood outside the worn canvas tent, feeling stupid. He looked down at the young man who had brought him to the tent, as if to ask him where he would knock on a tent.
“Max! Sharl! Someone here to see you!” Then the young man looked up expectantly at him. Bomber fished in his pocket and handed him a ten dollar bill. “Have a nice night!”
The tent door opened and a woman stood there. She looked Bomber up and down, then smiled. “Can I help you?”
“Mr. Cromwell sent me.”
She nodded. “Come in. Watch your step.”
Bomber looked down and had to step up onto a wood pallet. The front of the tent wasn’t well lit, but with his abilities he could see through the dimness to see a few boxes with shoes in front of them, and jackets thrown on a coat hanger. This was blocked off by blocks of decorated canvas. She wove her way between a couple of the canvases. He wiped his feet before going into the tent proper.
This was more well lit with a few battery-operated lights. A wooden picnic table was in the center of the room with what looked like embroidery on it, and a CD player played some classical music that he didn’t know. She went over to shut off the radio. “Did he send you to see just me?”
“He sent me to see a man and a woman.”
“Oh, my husband Max. He’s over with the Rom, I can send Penny to get him.”
“Up to you. Is he doin’ anythin’ important?”
“Losing money, most likely.” She looked him over again. “Why don’t we go get him?”
“Would he be upset if I was with you?”
She waved her hand and grabbed a shawl. “I’ll just say Mr. Cromwell sent you. You can leave that bag here.”
He looked around for someplace to secure it, and tucked it under the table. “Don’t worry, it’ll be safe here. We’re better than any neighborhood watch.”
“Then you pro’lly knew I was coming.”
She smiled slightly and parted the tent for him.
“Who’s Rom?” Bomber asked.
“The Romany. Gypsies?”
“Gypsies? Really?”
“Don’t call them that to their face unless you want a knife in your gut. You might be big but they’ve taken out men bigger than you.”
“I believe that,” he said, in utter seriousness.
She looked sideways at him while they walked. He wondered what that was about. They went further into the camp, toward the southeast, closer against the war walls than he would have liked to be.
There were customized vans of many different degrees of repair and disrepair among the tents, the modern gypsy’s mode of transportation, Bomber figured. The area was clean, though, with controlled fires in barrels and assorted propane lanterns hung all about. Two burly men stood at the entrance of the camp, and the lady walked in. However one put his arm out to stop Bomber.
Bomber looked at the arm, and then the man. He sniffed – a normal human. He could take him down easily.
Cromwell said to not show his abilities, and he probably shouldn’t show it to gypsies especially. He swallowed his fury and said, “What’s wrong?”
“Philip, he’s with me,” said the woman.
“Who’s this Gaujo?”
“Mr. Cromwell sent me to see Mr. Valhoun,” he said calmly.
“What for?”
“I’d rather discuss it with him.”
The woman said, “Philip…”
Philip brought his arm down. “Next time you’ll need a chit.”
“Sure,” Bomber said, and followed the woman.
She looked at him sideways again. “I would have thought you were going to pop him one with that look on your face.”
“I had a look?”
“For half a second, yes.”
Bomber frowned. Obviously the Beast’s fury shows on his face faster than he can control it. He would need to work on that.
She walked over to a brightly lit tent, where men were laughing. Bomber could smell the distinct scent of pot and some other sweet herb that he couldn’t quite place. She parted the tent and yelled, “Max!”
The men silenced, and then “You’re in trouble!” and other voices expressing similar sentiments filled the air. Bomber waited patiently outside, knowing he was being watched.
“Who’s outside, show yourself!” yelled a man’s deep voice. Bomber stepped into the tent, filling the doorway.
Men were gathered around a makeshift card table, some with more money than others, and a white-haired smiling man was starting to get up as someone else was exchanging his chips for cash. A man with long black hair, dark skin, and black eyes examined Bomber in the doorway, and he was drawn to him immediately.
Kindred.
The man took a long drag from a cigar and peered at Bomber through the smoke. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m called Bomber. An’ who the hell are you?”
The men chuckled and the dark man snorted. “I’m called Kalo.”
Bomber looked over to see that the man stood close to the woman. Seeing that they were safe, he started to leave.
“Hey, Gaujo,” Kalo called. “I didn’t say you could leave.”
Bomber had played this game in the Army. He turned around slowly and faced Kalo square on. “May I leave, sir?”
Bomber knew he said the words coldly, but he said them in the same tone he gave to his commanders when they pulled that on him. Kalo smiled and pulled a drag from his cigar. “Come back soon.”
“Your bulldog out there said I’ll need a chit, whatever that is.”
From nowhere, something came flying at him. Bomber reached out and caught it – it was one of the poker chips. He didn’t even see the man move. He wondered if Kalo actually tossed it. Bomber pocketed the chip, parted the tent and held it open for the man and woman.
The man shook his head. “You’re crazy, alda.”
“Some have said that.”
“So what do you need us for?” the woman asked.
“Well, what’s your names?”
“I am Maximillian Valhorn, and this is my wife Charlotte.” He had a slight German accent, though it wasn’t prominent in most of his words – he didn’t hard stop his S’s. Out in the brighter light of the Rom camp, he could see them clearly. Both of them looked about their mid 30’s, athletic and trim. Charlotte would probably look nice in a sequined suit.
“You already heard my name, then.” He stopped in the middle of the Rom camp. “I’m hired as a trick shooter. I need someone to hold and throw targets.”
“Like what?”
“Want to go talk about it in your tent?”
Max nodded, and put an arm around his wife’s waist as he led her through the camp.
————-
Bomber took the hard cider with a nod of thanks. Charlotte had cleared away the embroidery and sat next to her husband. Maximillian’s eyes were a light gray, almost translucent. His skin wasn’t pale, though, tanned dark from working in the sun.
“So what kind of trick shooting do you do?”
“Rifles and pistols. I was doing some reading on it, and I did some practicing. I have a hard time throwing the targets up myself and shooting, though I can shoot with my off-hand better now.”
“What kind of targets?”
“Annie Oakley used to shoot cigarettes in half out of her husband’s mouth. There’s a couple others who would shoot ten or twelve two-inch blocks of wood thrown in the air. Then there’s the usual ducks. And one guy would make an Indian head in a target out of bullets. A lady could shoot coins thrown in the air from 40 feet.”
They looked at each other.
“I heard you were jugglers, too.”
Max nodded. “Ducks are usually the most impressive – they explode when you hit them, ja?”
“Impressive, yeah, but not very challenging. Any graze from a bullet and they shatter.”
“The ruses don’t know that,” said Charlotte. “I say do mostly ducks, and do some of the more challenging stuff for the non-believers.”
“Can you juggle those, maybe?”
Max smiled, “That’d be amusing, ja? We juggle the ducks between us an’ he shoots ’em out of de air?”
Charlotte also smiled, “I was just thinking that. Do you have any ducks on you?”
Bomber nodded and rummaged in his bag. “I didn’t know if Cromwell wanted me to show him what I could do tonight, so I brought a few.” He pulled out a small cardboard box and opened it. Encased inside were six florescent-colored pink clay disks.
Max pulled one out. “Heavier than I thought for being so fragile.”
“Do they have different colors?” asked Charlotte, also taking one and hefting it.
“Yes, but they’re all neon, so you can see them. Green, yellow and pink are all I’ve seen.”
“It’ll be nice to have a bunch of different colors. Do they explode in those colors?”
“Nah, they’re clay, it’s just grey.”
“Too bad they don’t sparkle,” said Max.
Max picked up two more and tossed one in the air. He picked up the second and tossed that from hand to hand. Then he reached down and picked up the third and added it to the two, and started to juggle the three clay targets. “Not much heavier than torches, really.”
“I could set torches on fire maybe?”
Max shook his head but kept his eye on the clay ducks. “You don’t want to shock the guy tossing the stuff in the air. If something burst into flame right in front of his eyes, that’ll mess things up.”
Charlotte stood up and made a motion. Max smiled, still watching the ducks, and Charlotte tossed her a duck. He caught it deftly, and then tossed her two. They exchanged tossing for a little bit, and then he said, “Toss me another, Bomber.”
Bomber pulled out another clay duck, and tossed it. The man caught it with a shake of his head. “Not a natural,” he said, and added it to the others, They tossed them back and forth, one always suspended in the air between them. Bomber sat back, shocked and amazed at the ability. Max said, “We could do, what, ten?”
Charlotte nodded, also watching her ducks. Then they both suddenly stopped, as if there was a communication between them to stop. Max said, “We can do that. You have any blocks?”
Bomber pulled up the duffle bag and pulled out the guns, then his costume. Charlotte lifted the old leather jacket. “Wild West?”
“I couldn’t think of anything else.”
“Playing the Lone Ranger?”
Bomber stopped, and blinked. That would go against his entire reputation, but he wouldn’t be a bad guy. He’d be like a vigilante, doing what needed to be done. He’d still be badass, but in a good way. He looked at the clothes. “I could…”
“I am not going to be Squanto,” said Max with a smile, crossing his arms.
“No Indian clothing, that’ll offend people,” said Charlotte, putting the ducks back.
“You could dress like Annie Oakley. And you could dress like Buffalo Bill, with all the fringe and stuff.”
“Hats get in the way,” Max said. “But we’ll go over to Wardrobe and see what they have.” Bomber unpacked the blocks, and thick metal circles the size of silver dollars that he was going to use as coins. He also brought cigarettes and matches, to show that he could light a match with a gunshot.
“Whoa, a little at a time,” laughed Max. “Let’s work on the ducks an’ the blocks.”
“We’ll have to get used to the gunshots, too,” said Charlotte carefully. “So we don’t keep flinching.”
Bomber repacked his bag with the guns and costume. “Want to start tomorrow?”
“Give us a couple of days to practice with the ducks and blocks. You can think up ideas, too.”
Bomber nodded, and gathered up his bag. “Thanks alot.”
Max asked gently, “One thing, Bomber? How good are you?”
“I got 40 out of 40 in rifle and 39 out of 40 in pistol in the Army.”
Both of them looked impressed. “Were you in competitions?”
“I didn’t believe in it,” Bomber said. “I’m not the competitve type.” Though now…he’d have to be.
Words: 2023
Inspiration: Last night’s RP
Music: Makes me Wonder, Maroon 5