He broke off, left the thought to hang. He didn’t need to finish it. Alan’s hand went to his smooth belly, the spot where real people had navels, old scarred remnants of their connections to real, human mothers.
“So you hate monsters, Krishna, all except for the ones you sleep with and the ones you work for?”
“I don’t work for anyone,” he said. “Except me.”
Alan said, “I’m going to pour myself a glass of wine. Would you like one?”
Krishna grinned hard and mirthless. “Sure, neighbor, that sounds lovely.”
Alan went inside and took out two glasses, got a bottle of something cheap and serviceable from Niagara wine country out of the fridge, worked the corkscrew, all on automatic. His hands shook a little, so he held them under the cold tap. Stuck to the wall over his work surface was a magnetic bar, and stuck to it was a set of very sharp chef’s knives that were each forged from a single piece of steel. He reached for one and felt its comfort in his hand, seductive and glinting.
It was approximately the same size as the one he’d used on Davey, a knife that he’d held again and again, reached for in the night and carried to breakfast for months. He was once robbed at knifepoint, taking the deposit to the bank after Christmas rush, thousands of dollars in cash in a brown paper sack in his bag, and the mugger—a soft-spoken, middle-aged man in a good suit—knew exactly what he was carrying and where, must have been casing him for days.
The soft-spoken man had had a knife about this size, and when Alan had seen it pointed at him, it had been like an old friend, one whose orbit had escaped his gravity years before, so long ago that he’d forgotten about their tender camaraderie. It was all he could do not to reach out and take the knife from the man, say hello again and renew the friendship.
He moved the knife back to the magnet bar and let the field tug it out of his fingers and snap it back to the wall, picked up the wine glasses, and stepped back out onto the porch. Krishna appeared not to have stirred except to light a fresh cigarette.
“You spit in mine?” Krishna said.