“yes, yes,” he says, as if the hundred-seventh time. “grandfather’s side, at some remove. once heard there’s resemblance, but—what does that prove? everyone’s got it who thinks on crime.”
“shit not? i’m all talk. i just read that name historical, some scopter out of time. t’weren’t meant to be no oracle.”
Eliot’s tapping foot, checking watch, dragging deep. “i just wish they’d come done, green or grey, let me get some sleep tonight. so i say: it’s worse’n fright, the waiting.” he ponders a moment, shakes head, slouches in seat on the curb. “keeps me up.” he pulls a flask, swigs and smiles. “thank high for the djinns.”
Haumer takes the offer, drinks, coughs, grins. “kindly. so, if it goes through . . . what’re you gonna do, round up your own eleven?”
“nah, nears a dozen; too dirty. i’ll need me some luck. find six to make me seven.”
a bell above; [s]low creak of doors as heavy as high. Ell twists and cranes his neck to see, inhales an inverse sigh.
“‘last, here come. let’s see what the simplemen say.” down the steps proceed the quorum: they’re each and all wearing grey.
he tosses flask trashward, stubs out smoke, stands into spinestraight position. “that’s it,” he says. “they’ve signed it lawful. my job now’s Inhibition.”