They found her. It wasn’t hard, given the level of the technology the two of them had access to. Her name was Penelope Mallory, and she worked at a grocery store. Rollie confronted her at the checkout.

            “Been to any galleries lately?” He didn’t know what he’d expected—certainly that she would look as empowered in the flesh as she was in the blown-up photo he had of her on his computer.

            He also knew that he was acting with no aplomb at all. He really didn’t have time for this. He was an agent, for crap’s sake. He had work to do, saving the world. At best, this could only be construed as saving his family’s interests in art. Among their holdings were two of the most prestigious galleries in town. They were old money, but they maintained and built on quite a bit of it with a thriving import-export business in art and artefacts.

            His question had discomfited her, but she seemed to be handling it with more aplomb than he. She checked, then asked him bluntly, “Are you a stalker?”

            Rollie went for charm mode. It had always worked with the ladies before. He dimpled his cheeks in a suggestive grin. “I own a gallery,” he told her, stretching the truth a little. His Aunt Denise would be quite surprised to find he was even interested in the gallery. He’d been avoiding her—and the family business—for years.

            The woman behind him in the checkout line did the equivalent of beeping her horn. She cleared her throat impatiently and nudged him with her cart.

            “I visit,” Pen admitted, scanning his tacks, pens, and artichokes. He had a couple of rolls of toilet paper there, too. Quite an eclectic assortment.

            Rollie wasn’t accustomed to shopping for himself. He ate out, and Hans the butler did all his grocery purchases. He’d thought this cartload out carefully. He's wanted to appear average, but manly. No perfumed soaps or decorated paper towels. Even his toilet paper choice was coarse and recycled—“save the world” and all that. They’d taught him well. Never do anything which will make you stand out. He kept his questions casual. “What kind of art do you go for?”

            She smiled. “Etchings...”

            His eyes lifted then, and he looked directly into her green ones. An invitation...

            Only, it wasn’t. She chuckled, but it was more like a chortle.

            Delightful...

            “I always wanted to say that...”

            He saw her face change. She realised he must think she was stupid or flighty. She went for serious.

            It was difficult, because the woman behind Rollie was ramming her cart into his back now. She knew it was no good changing checkout lines, because they were all backed up.

            “They say the soul of the artist resides in his work.” Pen tossed at him with a fake nonchalance which told him how much she wanted his comment on it.

            “The difference between art and craft.” Noncommittal. “I’ve heard that...” ...but it sounds like I don’t believe it.

            Bash. Ram. Rollie turned around and looked death at the woman behind him.

            She subsided slightly, but squeezed her purse suggestively. One move, and he’d be a dead man.

            Pen’s skills at reading people weren’t nearly as refined as her skills at reading objects. She refused to look at him, after his little comment, but pride stung her to retort, “It’s not always the artist.”

            He snorted rudely. “Yeah, that’s right.” Sarcastic as h*ll. At the same time, some part of him was squirming. How did this happen? What buttons had she pushed to make the Evil Rollie appear? He’d been in control of this conversation.

            Her eyes glinted. He had, more or less, laughed in her face. “Some people ‘get’ it, I guess, and some people don’t.” It was obvious which group she thought he was part of. Her glance at the woman behind him told Rollie she thought he was right where he belonged...and deserving of anything the woman behind had to dish out.

            Bitch Woman at his back chose that moment to run over his heel. It hurt like h*ll.

            And it made Rollie mad as h*ll. He took it out on Pen. It was easy, once he remembered Flick. He reminded himself that before him stood a woman who could walk through a gallery full of masterpieces, and by the time she was through, reduce them to charming replicas, admirable only for their brush strokes. “I deal in art, and I bullshit all I have to...for the customers. Art is, essentially, bullshit. There is nothing to ‘get’, but whether you like a piece, or whether you don’t—whether you like a piece enough to buy it, or whether you don’t. I expect my gallery managers to ‘verbally enhance’ a piece’s charm enough to attain a substantial profit.” His grin was devilish, then, and it must have been the Devil himself who prompted him to ask, almost like a dare, “Would you like to come to work for me?”

            Bullshit and all...

            He was insulting her, and they both knew it. He was calling her a bullshitter, and assuring her that her facility with it would get her into even a Rys gallery. In some twisted way, it could have been construed as a compliment.

            Only, it wasn’t.

            And he doesn’t expect me...ever...to take him up on it...

            So, of course, she didn’t hesitate. “Yes, I’ll come to work for you. Oral contract?” she asked, extending her hand.

            Bitch Woman snorted.

            Rollie’s eyes widened in horror, and he hesitated before touching her fingers. The little boy part of him, which still dreaded cemeteries and dark corners, was superstitious, too. And, no matter what he’d said about art for profit, he secretly agreed with her comments about the soul of the artist.

            What have I done?!

            Nor could he forget what she’d done to Flick. Now, he wondered whether she’d find a way to steal his soul, too. His fingers were cold when they contacted hers.

            “I’ll come see you tomorrow, to get my schedule,” she threatened.

            No, it wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.

            Rollie stood there, slightly numbed. It had blown up in his face. He should have told her no contract, oral or otherwise. He couldn’t figure out why he’d been so stupid.

            Maybe she’s stolen a piece of my soul already...

            All he knew was that the last person on Earth he wanted working in the family gallery...

            ...was Pen Mallory.

                            ***

            Rollie groaned, covering his face with his hands. “‘How did it go?’!” he repeated. “‘How did it go?’” He shook his head, eyes closed as though in pain. He was so embarrassed—so positively shamed—he could only admit in a whisper. “I gave her a job...”

            Jast’s eyes widened. He couldn’t understand such a...lapse...on Rollie’s part. “Did she play you?”

            The logical conclusion would have been to assume the opposite—that Rollie had played her, but Jast knew him too well. Rollie sensed there was an insult there, but he also knew Davey wouldn’t have intended it that way. Still, there were others who would be as kind, should they hear about it.

            Beginning with my Aunt Denise...

            “Let’s keep this to ourselves, okay?”

            “If you mean the Department, that’s a given. None of their business...” Jast gave him a slow smile. “Auntie Denise is going to have to know.”

            The pitbull of the Rys clan. No—the Fila fighting dog. Denise Rys was the most formidable woman Davey Jast had ever met, and he’d encountered a few female assassins and terrorists, since he’d joined the Department.

            It was apparent Rollie felt the same. Compared to Aunt Denise, the woman behind him in line at the Price-S-Mart could have applied for sainthood. “I’m sure she’ll be pleased I’m finally taking an interest,” he ventured.

            Jast’s laughter sounded almost like a short, sharp bark.

            How apt, Rollie thought dismally. It was from him that Rollie had picked up the bad habit of comparing all their adversaries to dog breeds. It was Jast’s thing. Rollie turned it on him. “You sound like a neutered Chihuahua,” he insulted.

            “Better than a Doberman. That’s what Auntie Denise is gonna be, once you tell her the news.”

                            ***

            He couldn’t put it off, either—so, of course, he did...put it off, that is. If it were a matter of an assassination attempt on a dignitary, or a bomb threat, or gathering information clandestinely from an embassy library, Rollie had no problem with it. But when it came to family...

            Aunt Denise had expectations, when it came to her nephew—all of them bad. Rollie’s self-esteem took a horrific beating whenever they met up. His aunt’s opinion was fixed in concrete, and could have sunk and drowned him in the East River ten times over.

            Change her mind?

            Not likely. He strongly sensed that she’d rather see him dead, so she could mourn him, than in her company.

            Several other members of the family felt the same, he was sure, so he had bad habits where familial confrontations were concerned: he avoided them entirely. Out of the country, called away, out to lunch, business meeting, emergency trip. He could have added “saving the world”, but they wouldn’t have believed that. He was good for nothing, and did nothing good. They accepted him, he accepted it, so if family called, Rollie procrastinated, vanished, and lied through his teeth. It was a scenario they could all accept. In fact, he was sure by this point, it was what the family expected.

            Works for me...

            He worked extra hard at Saving the World this time. He and Jast had dispatched two assassins and uncovered an enemy spy ring. It took him three weeks, and he commended himself—modestly, of course—that he and Davey had drawn a successful conclusion from their fellow agents’ preliminary.

            They’d been able to bask in Departmental glory for all of two hours, before Rollie dropped Jast at his apartment.

            “You’re sure you’re okay?” Davey had asked him worriedly. He would have offered to drive Rollie himself, except that Rollie wasn’t really the one driving. He’d summoned Hans the butler to pick him up at the subway station. “Fine,” Rollie told him with a pained sigh. He was feeling particularly noble. Hans had given him a concerned look when he’d seen his arm in a sling.

            Rollie had, of course, lied to Hans about the injury. “Skiing accident. Dislocation.”

            Hans didn’t have much respect for his station. In his own words, the class system was dead. “Your dislocation’s bleedin’.” It also prompted him to do something he never would have considered otherwise—he warned Rollie he had company.

            Rollie could tell the warning smarted. Hans disproved the class system by playing Evil Butler. He claimed even the word “butler” had “butt” in it, calculated to diminish an employee.

            Rollie didn’t bother elaborating on the way “but” differed from “butt”—there was really no point.

            And, today, Hans was into doing him a favour. The fact that he waited till they were parked in front of the house to warn him, “It’s your Aunt Denise”, with gloating satisfaction, couldn’t have been planned. It barely gave Rollie time for panic.

            If Hans had really wanted to ruin his day, he would have warned him about his Auntie, the moment they’d turned into the circle drive.

                            ***

            “Thought it was yer arm that was hurt,” Hans remarked.

            Rollie flushed. In his nervousness, he’d added a limp to his gait. Just a slight one—a phantom of a bullet he’d taken in Geneva two years before, and that hadn’t pained him in a year. “Strained it,” he attempted.

            Hans nodded, and opted for civility. He knew as well as Rollie did it was feigned. Rollie hadn’t been favouring the leg when he’d climbed into the car.

            It was Rollie’s opportunity to diminish the limp down to nothing—to “work out the kinks”, as it were. But, Rollie Rys hated being wrong...and he hated worse being caught out doing something stupid. So, instead, he exaggerated the limp, ever so slightly.

            Hans retaliated by bumping him “accidentally” into the door jamb, so his injured shoulder made contact. Rollie sucked in a quick breath, all traces of ruddiness fading.

            Hans did his version of contrite. “At least now, you won’t have to think about the leg.”

                            ***

            Hans roared down a side drive, “roar” being the operative word. Short of blowing the engine and dropping it on the cobbles, he couldn’t have made more noise. He was ensuring Rollie’s guests knew the “Master” had arrived.

            Hans or not, Rollie would have opted for the servant’s entrance if he could have made it that far. His evil butler had done him in.

            And Rollie knew he was going to lose it. His gut was churning, and there was something wrong with his vision. It was all spotty and swimmy.

            He fumbled with his phone, and punched Jast’s number on speed dial.

            Jast was not happy about the call. Their last mission had been harrowing, to say the least, and he was jet-lagged as h*ll. He’d fared better than Rollie, but he still felt bruised and battered. His “Jast” was more of a growl than an answer.

            Rollie’s whispered, “Bleeding”, was enough to roust him, though. He practically shouted back, “Be there in fifteen. Hang on, Rollie!”

            Rollie sat for a moment in the front hall, taking deep breaths. When he could see again, without all the floaty bubbles, he opted for feet over seat. With his dark coat over his shoulder, rather dramatically, he thought, he moved determinedly toward the library. It’s where he knew Hans would have situated his guests, because it was the room where Rollie felt the most uncomfortable...and his guests did, too. Dark and sombre, with ancestral ghosts lurking in the frames, and old, smelly books with titles like, “Financial Reverses Following the Lusitania Disaster” lining the shelves. None of the beeswax and sunny aspect here. Hans only dusted the shelves Rollie could see, and it wasn’t with beeswax. The heavy curtains were always drawn, because there was a chance some of the books would fade.

            Rollie knew his guests would hate him by now. Their nostril hairs would be tainted by the odour of rotting book and dust.

            And unhappy ancestors. He couldn’t forget the crappy Ryses, lining the walls.

                            ***

            Pen turned her head as he entered, announcing this second coming with a dramatic creak of the door. He was drunk—to the point where he had trouble walking. Denise Rys had warned her that this encounter might be “difficult”, and Pen had prepared herself to be unfazed.

            The good thing about a drunken arrival at eleven in the morning was the opportunity to be the bigger person—or better person, anyway. She’d been a bit nervous about seeing him again...having enhanced his charms a little in her imagination, while he’d been away.

            He wasn’t very charming now. He looked directly at her, then muttered incomprehensibly, “Should cut these loose, you!”. Incomprehensible to his Auntie Denise, but not nearly so indecipherable for Pen. He’d gestured toward his gloomy antecedents, staining the walls.

            He knows...

            But he can’t have proof. Nerves and guilt were getting to her, though. She’d already learned from her week at the gallery that profit meant everything. He’d been right about the bullshit, too. It was applied thickly and chewed down by customers, on a regular basis. A bit like improvisational theatre, really—too much repetition made for stale, unbelievable rhetoric. You needed to freshen your faecal discourse on a daily basis.

            And after all that, this refreshingly annoying individual was proving to be a disappointment in manhood. Drunk as a skunk, to the point of nonsensibility.

            The noble Hans came in then, every inch the efficient butler. Even Denise’s lips twitched watching him enter in such a stately fashion. The man was bordering on six foot two, and had the build of a weight lifter. Now, he bore a tray, and it had something more on it this time than five stale rice crackers and two cups of tepid tea. This time, in honour of his master’s arrival, he carried a pot of coffee and some sandwiches. He seemed to realise the master required sustenance.

            The tray didn’t make it all the way to the table, though. Hans took one look at Rollie, and jumped to a conclusion that she and Denise had somehow missed, Pen realised. Hans practically tossed the tray onto the desk in the corner, all the while swearing, “Why the bloody h*ll didn’t you tell me?!”

            “No need,” Rollie replied blithely. “It’s all good.”

            Just then, the front door slammed back, and Jast’s loud, “Rollie!” echoed in the hall. “Where are-” and then a quick and sarcastic, “Never mind—I’ll just follow the blood-” He tore in through the library door, then stopped, taken aback at the sight of Rollie’s formidable Aunt Denise.

            She might as well not have existed as far as Hans was concerned. Rollie was white to the lips now, and Hans scooped him up, as though he weighed nothing. Nor did it stop Hans from swearing. He used words Pen had never heard before, and that, she was also sure, the books lining the walls had never seen.

            Hans hauled Rollie out of there, and David Jast, at a bit of a loss, snapped a bow from the waist, saying, “Sorry—need to fly. Appointment...” and tore out of the room. Overhead, a helicopter rumbled and throbbed the glass in the lampshades.

            Aunt Denise appeared unperturbed by all the ruckus. She leaned forward and picked up the pot, then asked calmly, “Coffee?” Her only reference to the incident took place later, as they were leaving the now empty house. It was a muttered, “Tsk, tsk. I do hope the stain will come out of the rug...”

            It might have been easy for Pen to read paintings, but she couldn’t begin to fathom what Denise Rys was thinking. The woman actually smiled at her, which she gathered was rare—there were no pre-existing creases, and judging from the rest of her face, Denise had never opted for collagen or Botox. “I’m going to make sure you report directly to Rollie,” she told Pen, a glint in her eyes. “And, of course, he’ll pay your wage.”

            Pen would have felt far more comfortable if Denise hadn’t been laughing as they strolled to her car.

                            ***

            “Nice to know I have backup,” Rollie remarked, as he leaned back in the hospital bed.

            Jast didn’t hear him. He was too busy racing Hans in the Grand Prix. He’d beaten him twice already.

            Rollie was bored. He’d been here eight hours, and he felt great now that he’d had a couple of units of blood—ready to take on the world. He tossed back the covers, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He had a mind to visit the coffee shop or one of the machines in the waiting room—get himself some candy.

            But his companions weren’t as mindless as they seemed. Rollie looked up as a big shadow darkened the fluorescents. It was Hans, appearing broad as the doorway beyond him. And Jast, d*mn his hide, was standing guard...gun drawn.

            Rollie focussed on the gun. “You were gonna shoot me?”

            “Only in the leg. Flesh wound—a little more blood—”

            “—and some plastic surgery!”

            “—and you’d be right.” Jast seemed to realise then that Rollie wasn’t in the mood for joking, and lowered his voice, while making an effort to look alarmed. “Actually, it was automatic,” he said toughly. “Thought you heard something.”

            “I did. The sound of the vending machine dispensing chocolate is really loud from here.”

            Hans rolled his eyes, then pulled Rollie’s wallet out of his own pocket. “Don’t you have any more money in here?”

            “‘More’?” Rollie repeated. He’d had two hundred dollars in there, the last he remembered. “Have I been robbed?” he asked caustically.

            “Yes,” Hans told him baldly. “While they were stitching you up, Jast here and I needed to eat. Playstations don’t come cheap, either.”

            “It’s new?” Rollie realised he was sounding a little querulous and invalidish, so he avoided asking about the TV. Now that he was paying attention, it was pretty obvious there was still a price sticker on the corner. He swallowed hard, and couldn’t resist, “Why’d you get the flatscreen? You’re balancing it on a chair...”

            “Because my room’s too small for a table model,” Hans told him practically. “Whereas, I don’t have any family portraits to display, so I have plenty of wall space.” Somehow, he made it sound as though his lack of family was all Rollie’s fault.

            As though I went out and murdered them all... The only one Rollie wanted to murder at the moment was their sole heir. And since Hans’ room was bigger than Rollie’s, he wasn’t feeling any too sympathetic.

            Jast hooted. “You’re a card, Hans. Get over yerself, Rys. Hans here, saved yer life.”

            Rollie didn’t looked convinced.

            “Blood, urgency, all that—Hans picked you up like a baby and ran you to the chopper.”

            Hans blushed.

            “If he hadn’t put the pressure on, you’d’ve bled out.” Jast realised he wasn’t sounding too heroic, so he added, “Of course, I got the Medvac boys over there...”

            Rollie forced a smile. Hans’ fingers had put on so much pressure that they’d made dents. Rollie would be wearing the finger marks for weeks.

            Hans none-too-gently spun Rollie’s legs around and tucked the blankets in so firmly Rollie had trouble breathing. Then Hans tossed the wallet to Jast. “He needs chocolate,” he ordered Jast. “Dark stuff only—better for the blood.” Hans was going to take care of him, whether he liked it or not. He confirmed it in the next moment with a reassuring, “I woulda bought you the chocolate myself, but I just don’t make enough.”

            Rollie sighed, nodded, and closed his eyes. There was only so much affection he could take.