Intimate Relations, Rebecca Forster [best ereader for manga .txt] 📗

school's festival when I was in fifth grade," Finn said.

"Then we're on the same page," he said. "So I get in here..."

He pointed to the glass booth from which he had recently emerged. It didn't look much like a dunk tank to Finn. There was no water, but there were metal grommets running up and down the two solid walls that faced one another. The grommets anchored hollow copper tubes. There was no plank for the man to sit upon, but before Finn could ask about any of this, he was being given directions.

"You stand here." he pointed to a mark on the floor. Finn obliged. "As soon as the door closes and I put my arms above my head you throw the ball at the target, okay?"

"Got it."

Finn palmed the ball with both hands as the young man waddled inside and closed the door behind him. He turned laboriously. When he was finished, he pulled his mask down, secured it, and then held his arms up.

"Okay, boyo," Finn muttered. "Prepare yourself."

Finn wound up, threw the ball, and hit the pin. The minute it made contact Finn fell back, cursing. Fire shot out of the grommets. It burned so hot it was blue at the heart of it; it was propelled so furiously it sounded like the roar of a jet engine. The flames engulfed the man inside. Finn froze, but the blast only lasted seconds before the flamethrowers embedded in the wall clicked off.  Finn lunged for the door thinking to rescue the man, but there was no need. He opened the door, waddled out of the booth, and when he snapped up his face mask he was laughing.

"It's okay. It's okay," he said. "Awesome, isn't it? I mean, did your heart stop or what?"

"'Tis a heart attack you'll be giving everyone if you don't warn them what's coming," Finn said.

"It takes a lot to get people excited this days," he said. "Anyone who sees this at a Comicom or something is never going to forget it. And this suit is incredible. I could get burned up all day, and not feel a thing. You don't even get hot."

"I'm going to be having nightmares." Finn ran a hand over his head and tugged at his jacket to compose himself.

"I didn't even scream. I've got resonators, so when I scream it makes everything super horrifying. Do you want to do it again and I'll scream?"

"I've enough horror, thanks," Finn said.

"Yeah, you're right. I've been playing around with this all morning." He peeled off his suit and tossed it on top of something that looked like a helicopter with hair. He rotated his shoulders under a T-shirt that had a cat with a knife through its head on the front. He held out his hand. "Peter. O'Brien, right?"

"That's it," Finn said, noting the man's skin was cool to the touch.

"So what can I do you for?" Peter said.

"I need to get to your roof. It's about what happened last night, " Finn said.

"What happened last night?" By his reaction, Finn chalked the young Peter off the list of those who had a personal interest in the woman in the loft.

"A woman was killed here early this morning." Finn said.  "I understood that news didn't take long to be shared at The Brewery."

"Depends on the news," Peter said, only to be distracted by a hat with big goggles attached. He offered it to Finn. "Total virtual reality. Want to try?"

"Not unless it's a time machine and will take me back to the wee hours of the morning," Finn said, all the while thinking how difficult it would be to deal with children if he could not keep this man's attention. "How is it you didn't hear about the murder?"

"Because I don't live here, which means I'm not a part of the whole artist community thing. There's kind of a weird split at The Brewery."

He walked through the warehouse. Finn followed, feeling like he was on the back lot of a carny. His eyes were everywhere, even though he concentrated on Peter's steady stream of conversation.

"You've got the real artists in the low rent buildings. Those guys are literally hand-to-mouth. They live and work in the studios, and spend more on raw materials than they do on food. They are the true believers. Most will never be successful, but when they are they move out."

Peter raised his arms and waved them over his head. A garage-size door opened. He never stopped talking.

"Biggest artist colony in the country, subsidized by the city. It's fantastic concept. Great PR for L.A." Peter said. "Take a load off."

They were in an office. The door closed automatically, rolling down from the ceiling, and landing on the floor like a vapor lock. Air conditioning kicked in. Lights shined softly at the end of the room. Finn sat down on a plastic chair shaped like a large hand. The upturned palm was surprisingly comfortable.

"Want some water?"

Peter didn't wait for an answer. The bottle he handed Finn looked like it should hold wine.

"So you've got the starving artists," Finn said as he pulled out the glass stopper.  "What else?"

"Past the park, you've got the nice lofts with windows and separate work areas. Lots of furniture makers, interior designers, jewelry artists. That group has a market; they make a living from their art because they make useful things.  And then there are a few like me and my brothers."

Peter grabbed a bottle for himself, and perched on the edge of a long table.

"Me and my brothers get paid to play. Best job in the world." He chuckled, thinking fondly of his oversized toys, only to sober a minute later. "We work long hours, but we don't live here. Sometimes we stay over if we're on a tight deadline, but this isn't home."

"From the look of things you're successful," Finn said.

"We are because we're businessmen first and creative second. We make a lot of money catering to a specific high-end market. One