One
8 May, 1995, San Francisco
He was grimy and the sun was too bright. These were his thoughts as he made his way through the crowded street. Finally, Logan’s eyes found the man he for whom he was searching. The man was standing by a hotdog cart, under the broad umbrella, casually munching.
Logan’s eyes were narrowed, partly from the sun, partly from distrust. He approached the man in the fedora, keeping his eyes away, always glancing at something else, until he was right next to him.
“I want him dead,” Kilpatrick informed the man, under his breath. When there was no immediate response, just loud chewing noises, he turned his gaze on Whistler. “Did you hear me? I said I want him dead. I’m tired of waiting.”
“I don’t make promises like that,” the demon answered him, swallowing a large mouthful of San Francisco’s finest, “just suggestions.”
“Then I suggest you deliver what we agreed upon.” Logan’s voice was cold and hard, tempered with years of smouldering anger and regret.
“See, I don’t make agreements either,” Whistler answered, balling up the napkin and tossing it in the waste basket. “Still just suggestions.”
Kilpatrick gripped his fist in his hand. “I want him dead,” he hissed, his eyes staring across the street.
“Well, Those Who Happen to Be want him alive,” the demon began to walk away, expecting this man to catch up, which he did. He glared forward through his grimy blonde bangs. “You need a haircut,” the demon informed him, then glanced down at his ratty blazer, “and a new outfit.” A grin flashed onto his face. “Come with me,” he said happily.
Logan glared even more distrustfully at the man he was following. “Where are we going?” He demanded, stopping in mid stride.
Whistler turned back to him, flashing him that charming smile. “Shopping.”
Logan frowned, turning around to examine it in the mirror. “I look stupid,” he said irritated, making no attempt to hide his dislike of doing anything unrelated to killing the vampire he was hunting. “I look like a pirate.”
“Who said pirate’s are stupid, eh?” Whistler turned Logan around, delicately tugging at the white silk, making it billow. “There, now that looks keen.”
“It’s ridiculous and I’m not wearing it.” He stepped back into the changing room and began to undress. “I sent three trained assassins after him,” Logan said to Whistler, who he knew was waiting for him outside the room, “and he killed them in eighteen seconds.”
“Well, he wouldn’t still be around if he wasn’t the best.” There was a pause, during which Logan could tell the demon was pondering something very profound. “What do you suppose is the opposite of a Power That Be? A Power That Doesn’t? A Power That Isn’t?” There was another small pause. “Like the Little Power That Couldn’t?”
Logan emerged, wearing again his grimy blazer and matching khakis. He threw the white silk shirt over Whistler’s head with disdain. “I’m gone,” he dismissed, brushing past the demon. “If you’re not going to help me dust this son of a bitch-”
“I want you to do something for me,” Whistler interrupted. “Well, o’course it ain’t for me. But I want it all the same.”
Logan stopped, a surprised and almost amused look on his face. “You want something from me?” He scoffed. “And just why the fuck should I help you?”
Whistler retained his gentle demeanor as he folded the silk in his arms. “Because I have friends.” He stated simply. “Friends Who Happen to Be.”
Kilpatrick whirled on him with a cautioning finger. “If you’re fucking around with me!” He hissed, aiming his finger between the demon’s eyes.
“I told you I just make suggestions,” Whistler answered amicably.
Logan took a breath. “Well, may I suggest, then, that you suggest the best way to kill William the Bloody, or I will take myself and my significant mystical resources and leave you hanging from the Golden Gate Bridge.”
Whistler actually grinned. He opened his mouth but merely took a deep, refreshing breath. “Come with me,” he said at last.
This time, Logan followed without a word, fully confident that he had left himself in the stronger position. It was always a game of cards with Whistler. He never gave anything away. Nothing you wanted to know. Only what he wanted you to know. Only what Those That Be wanted you to know, or whatever hadn’t been filtered out by their fedora-wearing, hotdog-toting, morally-superior throwback / interloper. Logan gritted his teeth as Whistler stopped for another hotdog on their way to the airport. He’d been waiting seven years, and he’d be damned before he’d wait another seven. Some part of him laughed. What an apt expression. Everything would happen before he was damned. Everything.
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