Anarchy of the Mice

Chapter Ten

We interpreted "6:66" to mean 7:06, carrying the one from minutes, but just to be safe Durwood and I started waiting at six. If form followed, the Mice would provide their next instructions via text. "The mark," from what we could determine online—not all sources agreed—referred to the nose-eyes-whiskers tattoo. Did they want to give it to me? Would I actually interact with a member of the Blind Mice?

"Ideally," Durwood said.

I was divvying out pasta, Zach and Karen busy in their rooms. "I suppose there's no good way to, maybe, opt out of the tattoo?"

Durwood's brow crimped.

"I've never gotten one."

He said, "Folks redo 'em. Change them into flowers and such."

"Right." I set out the kids' plates and began making Granny's. "But with Zach, I have this strict 'no body art' policy."

"He wants body art?"

"No. Well, I don't know. I hate to be hypocritical though."

Durwood retrieved his food from the microwave. Over my objection, he was eating Tuesday leftovers. "Be a risk to refuse."

I knew he had all sorts of gizmos in the Vanagon, prosthetics, colored contacts. "There's no kind of ... fake skin? Something we could paint over my ankle and peel off after the job?"

He stabbed a hunk of stew meat. "Nothing good enough. Not to the touch."

I sighed and, sniffing the lightest carton of milk, called Granny and the kids to dinner. The children gave no indication of hearing. Granny came downstairs in her best calico dress.

She smiled at Durwood. "Wonderful, you left the louse at home."

Durwood ducked his head respectfully. "Quaid had work with the mayor."

"Mayor Diaz? Mayor of New York City?"

"Yes."

Granny whistled, tucking her napkin into her bodice. "Boy that makes a pair."

Durwood did not answer. From earlier remarks and his clenched expression now, I knew he wasn't sold on Quaid's mission tonight. He and the mayor were meeting some kind of security equipment salesman at an exclusive Manhattan party. Quaid thought Finley's company might be linked somehow to the Blind Mice and believed "cultivating the relationship" might "bear fruit."

Fruit?, Durwood had asked, hearing of the party.

Quaid had said yeah, fruit. He hoped to make it back in time for my engagement (or non-engagement) with the Mice.

Now Granny said, "Anyone every told you you resemble Harry Truman?"

Durwood choked on his water.

"Bridge of the nose," Granny said. "It's subtle."

Sue-Ann, sprawled out like a rug, cocked an eye up at her master. Behind Granny's back, I mouthed Sorry. Durwood shrugged it off.

Eventually Zach smelled sustenance and came to the table. Karen followed, and we enjoyed a pleasant meal despite Durwood and I being on high alert. Our standing explanation for the guys' presence was that they were sizing up home repairs; so far, the kids had accepted this without quibble. Tonight they were talkative with the ex-marine, whose eyes warmed in a silly stumps me face at tidbits from their day. Apparently the Mice's antics were filtering down to the schools. Zach said the eighth graders now grabbed extra pie with impunity from beneath the sneeze-guards. Karen's class trip to the planetarium had been canceled after the sponsor, a member of the Despicable Dozen reeling from lost online sales, had pulled funding.