A Matter of Inspiration

Black Swan (Part 2)

When the master sees me lingering by one of the ventilation boxes, he beckons me forward. I do not hesitate. You can never hesitate in this line of work. But I do make a careful observation of the man standing beside the master as I approach.

The curly black hair on his head is starting to go grey, standing out starkly against his brown skin. When he notices me looking at him, he smiles broadly, revealing a large gap between his two front teeth. I get the feeling this man approaches everything with that kind of smile. The kind that finds the world simultaneously horrifying and amusing—like a terrible sort of joke.

"This the girl you were talking about?" the man says, the tone of his voice bordering on grandiose. Theatrical.

"She is ready," the master replies, nearly making me stumble in surprise.

But I don't, instead managing to cross the last few steps to them. I glance at the master, then once more at the man, taking in his shabby, patched coat. The frayed collar can't quite hide a thick white scar across the side of his throat.

He is the Bowery King.

He is the one who gave John Wick seven bullets with which to kill Santino D'Antonio.

I stand stock still as the Bowery King walks a circle around me. My shoulders are loose, my spine supple and ready. I keep my eyes on the master, even though every bit of attention I possess is focused on the King.

Thick fingers under my chin make me flinch and my hands move of their own accord, reaching to snatch at the hand they belong to so I can break his wrist. Then I stop, forcing myself into stillness, meeting the Bowery King's deep brown eyes.

"Doesn't seem to talk much, does she?" he commented.

"Her skills speak for her," the master returns. I possibly fool myself into believing the gleam in his eyes is one of pride.

The Bowery King lets out a great, booming laugh. "Skill don't mean shit."

I can't help it. I scoff. The King stares at me, and I meet his gaze unflinchingly. This seems to amuse him even more. He laughs again and says, "Or maybe it does." He claps his hands together, turning to the master. "I like her."

Unsure why that has anything to do with what we are discussing, I nevertheless appreciate the sentiment. I glance at the master, a question written clearly in the slight lift of my eyebrow.

"The Bowery King has a job for you."

That much I have deduced on my own, funnily enough.

The King looks at me, his eyebrows lowering in thought. "I want you to follow John Wick."

The world seems to stutter for a moment. Like there's a slight hiccup in the flow of time. Is he crazy? 

None of this shows on my face. "Why?" I finally dare to speak. "If you want him dead, why don't you kill him yourself."

That great booming laugh echoes around us again. Still chuckling, he says, "That sounds like you have no interest in the fourteen million on Johnny boy's head."

"It's a lot of money," I concede. "But you can't spend it if you're dead."

The King smiles, tucking his hands in the pockets of his long jacket. "I'm not sending you on a suicide mission. I don't want John dead."

Considering how many have tried, and the resulting pile of bodies left in Mr. Wick's wake, it seems he might be the only one in New York—possibly the world—who doesn't. I wouldn't take the job if he did. 

I'm confident. Not stupid.

"Then what do you want?" I ask when the master does not.

"I need to know what John's doing," the King says. "I want to know where he goes and who he talks to. I want a goddamn body count."

"Why?" The question is flat now.

"You don't need to know." The Bowery King's answer is frank, his face calm, but I get the feeling this is a man who hasn't been questioned in a long time. 

So I shrug. "I can follow Mr. Wick. But only to the lifeboat."

I enjoy the surprise that flickers across the master's face. The Bowery King frowns and I realize he doesn't have any idea that Mr. Wick is here, just below his feet. So I turn to the master. "He's come here, demanding his ticket be torn."

Again, there is silence. The master knows that for me to follow Mr. Wick now would be a breach of the Ruska Roma's rules. 

I'm saving my ticket for myself. It is not worth it to me to use it in the hopes of following John Wick.

"Do you know where this lifeboat lands?" the King asks.

I just shrug. "Anywhere Mr. Wick would like it to."

"I see." The King stays quiet for a moment, obviously thinking. Then he shakes his head. "John'll be back. They've pissed him off too much for him to just run."

That seems likely. From what I've heard, the High Table has become involved. Mr. Wick has no where to run. No where that will be safe.

But the High Table should be more wary.

In my opinion, they should have just left him alone. When a man is willing to shed so much blood over such simple things as a dog and a car, it stands to reason that he is a man willing to shed blood over anything.

And no one is better at spilling blood than John Wick.

The Bowery King lets out another soft chuckle. Turning to me, he says, "Then you'll just wait and see when he gets back."