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but Cyrus had taken the guy by the arm, none too gently, and walked him around out back till he sobered up enough to listen to reason. |
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"You mind?" Kyna pointed to the couch and then took a seat before he had a chance to reply. She set the empty glass on the end table and folded her hands protectively around the envelope in her lap. "Tell me about yourself." |
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I don't need this shit, he thought. But his eyes strayed to the envelope. "You mean like how many notches do I have in my gun? Or how many bad guys have I beat up?" |
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The blood crept up her neck. |
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"Maybe I've made a mistake," she said, rising to her feet. |
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Cyrus thought about the stack of past-due bills sitting on the desk in his bedroom and drained his glass. "Hold on. I guess I'm not much on oral résumés." He got a towel from the closet in the hall and dried his face. "I was an MP, first in Okinawa and then in Berlin . . ." |
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"MP? You mean like a soldier?" |
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The way she said it was like he cleaned stalls with his bare hands. |
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"Nowadays I mostly do personal security work, sometimes like with your friend I do conventions and shows. I know some guys down at the sheriff's department that send jobs my way. If things are real slow, I bartend." |
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He didn't bother to mention that "bartend" meant bounce, or that once in a while he collected money for . . . friends. |
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Kyna eyed his body under the bulky warm-up jacket. He was short, but his shoulders were wide and he had big hands. His face was tanned from working outdoors, but unlined, almost boyish. He had calm eyes and heavily muscled runner's legs. More important, if what Julie had told her was accurate, he had the one qualification that was absolutely indispensable: he worked cheap. Kyna could ill afford to throw away a lot |
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