The King

“You learned how to knock a cigarette out of someone’s mouth with a whip?”

“One of the first skills she taught me, yes,” Søren said.

Now Kingsley knew what Søren’s “other hobbies” were. He’d learned the art and science of sadism over the past decade. Sounded far more useful to Kingsley than a degree in theology.

“I traveled a great deal while in school,” Søren continued, “but when I was in Rome, not a week passed that I didn’t find myself at her home.”

“She let you hurt her?”

“She did,” Søren said. “Although she herself is a sadist. And a very good one.”

“How good?”

Søren looked away and smiled at something before looking back at Kingsley.

“She was very mean to me,” Søren said.

Kingsley pointed at him. “Good. Someone needs to be. Is the reason for all this...” He waved his hand again.

“This what?”

“Good behavior?”

“I just told you I went to a brothel every week in seminary to learn sadism from a madam. You have an interesting definition of good behavior.”

“When I started at St. Ignatius, everyone was terrified of you. Everyone. Tout le monde. Even the priests were afraid of you, and they liked you. You didn’t even speak to other students. You were this impenetrable blond fortress, and everyone hated you—for good reason. What happened?”

“I grew up,” Søren said. “I’m not in high school anymore. That does wonders for a person.”

“I don’t like it,” Kingsley said.

“You don’t like me?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know,” Kingsley admitted. “When we were in school, we were all like scared puppies, and you, you were a wolf. I don’t like seeing you...”

“What?”

“Domesticated. They even put a collar on you.”

“I put on my own collar.”

“You used to scare me.”

“Have you considered the possibility that the reason I don’t scare you now is that you aren’t a puppy anymore?”

Søren waited.

Kingsley looked at Søren and barked. Søren only looked at him. Maybe he should try a bite next time.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Søren said, “the wolf is still there, but he’s on a stronger leash.”

“You let the wolf off the leash with me.”

“Which is why I needed a stronger leash.”

“I don’t know if I want to pay this Magdalena person for making you boring.”

“What she did was make me take myself less seriously, which is, as you know, the first of three miracles she’ll need to qualify for sainthood.”

“I envy her,” Kingsley said. “She had you in her life. I never thought I’d see you again.”

“We wouldn’t be having this conversation if it wasn’t for her,” Søren said. “I wouldn’t have been able to face you without her help.”

“Then I suppose I owe her, too. Even if you do yell at me.”

“I don’t yell.”

“What’s her address?” Kingsley asked.

“Why?”

“I’ll send her a check. If she’s the reason you’re here right now, then I owe her and you both.”

Søren sighed, picked up a pen and a scrap of paper off Kingsley’s desk and wrote the address. He held it out, and Kingsley reached for it. Søren pulled it back out of his grasp.

“I know what you’re doing,” Søren said.

“What am I doing?”

Søren glanced to the right and looked pointedly at Kingsley’s filing cabinets.

“Blaise has a big mouth,” Kingsley said. “One of her better qualities. Usually.”

“Here,” Søren said and gave Kingsley the address. “You should visit her. She could help you like she helped me.”

“I’m fine,” Kingsley said. “You act like I’m falling apart.”

“You were shot last year and almost died.”

Kingsley shrugged. “Worked out well for me, didn’t it? Someone came to my death bed and left me an ‘I’m sorry’ gift.”

“It wasn’t a gift. And it wasn’t an apology. It was a payment.”

“Payment? For what?”

Søren reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a tiny clear plastic tube. He sat it on Kingsley’s desk.

“What is this?” Kingsley asked as he picked up the small tube. A few flecks of metal danced in the afternoon sunlight.