The Nameless Ones by John Connolly
Chapter VI
Angel and Louis ordered from Saiguette on Columbus Avenue. They got extra for Mrs Bondarchuk, although they did not invite her to join them and she did not ask. They ate grilled lemongrass pork shoulder banh mi and crispy shrimp, accompanied by half a bottle of German Riesling. When they were done, Louis washed up while Angel sat in his favorite armchair and read a book entitled I Await the Devil’s Coming. Parker had originally recommended it to Louis, but he set it aside after two pages on the grounds that he had no interest in the affairs of nineteen-year-old girls; never had, never would. The book dated from 1902 and had been written by Mary MacLane, the nineteen-year-old girl in question, a native of Butte, Montana. Angel hadn’t yet journeyed very far with MacLane, but he liked her already. She was a thief, but one with a coherent criminal philosophy.
‘It has been suggested to me that I am a kleptomaniac,’ she wrote. ‘But I am sure my mind is perfectly sane. I have no such excuse. I am a plain, downright thief. This is only one of my many peculations. I steal money, or anything that I want, whenever I can, nearly always. It amuses me – and one must be amused. I have only two stipulations: that the person to whom it belongs does not need it pressingly, and that there is not the smallest chance of being found out. (And of course, I could not think of stealing from my one friend.) It would be extremely inconvenient to be known as a thief, merely.’
Angel thought that, had he ever been fortunate enough to have a daughter, he would have wanted her to turn out like Mary MacLane.
Louis appeared from the kitchen.
‘You still reading that book?’
‘You should give it another try,’ said Angel. ‘She was a singular young woman. Listen to this: “I am not trying to justify myself for stealing. I do not consider it a thing that needs to be justified, any more than walking or eating or going to bed.”’
‘You ever consider telling that to a judge?’ said Louis.
‘It never crossed my mind.’
‘If it ever does, I recommend that you bite your tongue.’
Angel looked at him from over the top of his spectacles.
‘You seem distracted,’ he said.
‘I’ve got a feeling, like something scratching at my brain.’
Angel let the book close, but used a finger to mark his page. He knew better than to utter some platitude in reply. When Louis was disturbed like this – and such instances were rare – clouds were gathering. It was not a psychic ability, or any form of sixth sense. It was simply a function of Louis’s instinct for self-preservation, and linked to his predatory capacities. It was an atavistic response that had, in recent years, extended itself to encompass all those under his protection.
‘Are we in trouble?’ said Angel.
‘No,’ said Louis. He thought for a moment. ‘But someone is.’