Continuation from [ â Â | @autumnswordsman ]Â
With no regard to the other individuals gathered around, most of them middle-aged to older ladies he noticed early on, Hawkins instead kept a serene-looking gaze on the man. A gradual once-over took in the otherâs attire, emitting the slightest hum once arriving at his face. He noted with some interest at where the otherâs focus was while his hands continued to slowly shuffle until he swiped up the laid out cards.
âI donât tell them any more or less of what they ask. How they interpret the rest of it is up to them,â he answered, curt and to the point. Rather than commenting on the benign little jab, he retrieved a metal briefcase from where it was hidden beside him and carefully began to tuck the tarot deck into a sash. It disappeared into the briefcase before he pulled out a fresh deck of playing cards, still unopened in its plastic wrapping. The deck was then held out in a gloved hand, a taunting offer, while his own unwavering gaze lingered on that single sharp eye.
âFor you, Iâll keep this one simple. If itâs not interesting enough for you, I can pull something out of somewhere else.â The tone of his voice held a hint of promise, almost inviting, save for the lack of change in his expression. He waited for the cards to be taken and checked, calm guise almost disinterested without a twitch before taking them back. It was clear the man was a skeptic, which Hawkins didnât want any other way. Those were his favorites. Without flourish or fancy, he then shuffled them slow and thorough, never taking his eyes off the crowd. Instructing and moving at the same time, he held the fanned out deck for the man from before to choose, letting him keep the card while he took the deck back to set onto the wooden surface. âRemember the card and, as a show of good faith, please place the card into your front left pocket. Now if youâll give me a number-â
Despite no apparent change to his visage, Hawkins was impressed by the sufficient answer. It almost made up for the fact that he was interrupted without apology.
âThree,â he repeated with a roll of his tongue, veiled with something heavy. When he raised his hand again from behind the makeshift table, a closed butterfly knife appeared in his grip before he flicked his wrist. The sharp offensive blade glinted like a request, revealing only a flash before it closed once more. Like the cards, Hawkins held the weapon out for the man to check that nothing peculiar had been done to it, watching perhaps a little too long on the otherâs change in expressions before taking the knife back. âThen, the knife game will go three rounds.â
Another turn of his hand and wind of his wrist had the blade curl back out, a yawning serpent, into basic Twirls before he struck the tip into the table. Like a snake shedding skin, Hawkins smoothly peeled off his left glove which he also set aside, before setting his left palm to the table unbudging. Without pause, he retrieved the blade and began to tap the point of the knife in between the gaps of his fingers, from behind his thumb to the outside edge of his pinky, pace steady and without hesitation. The playing deck remained untouched all the while.
1-2-1-3-1-4-1-5-1-6
2-6-3-6-4-6-5-6-4-6-3-6-2-6
1-2-1-3-1-4-1-5-1-6
The sequence repeated three times, each round picking up speed until the makeshift table trembled under the bladeâs onslaught but before the deck of cards could turn askew, he stopped to draw himself up to full height. A backward draw of his arm had some of the crowd parting in surprise, and for good reason, for the next moment, he dropped his hand and let the knife fly from his grip to land true against the wall on the other side. Pinned to the brick like a flayed specimen to the gawking onlookers laid the Jack of Spades. Hawkins, however, had eyes only for the man whose tongue seemed as sharp as his gaze. âIs this your card?â
In the sudden uproar of applause from the crowd, Hawkins had already begun to clean up his belongings from the table back into that metal briefcase, even as someoneâs voice slowly carried over the din, a name repeating with annoyed urgency.
âHawkins!â the voice echoed once more from the mouth of the alley, where another man stood waiting, intimidating by his naturally sharp features and the ominous long queue of hair swinging behind him. âVanâs finally here. Stop playing around with the old ladies, we got work to do.â
Hawkins, on the other hand, didnât appear in a rush as he moved from behind the table to retrieve his knife, which was smoothly pocketed. It wasnât the end until the prestige, which was the reveal of the card on the wall but also the missing card from the otherâs pocket. The very same card was now held up between gloved fingers like an afterthought as he regarded his friend before glancing towards the other man one last time. He extended his hand to offer him the card, only the faintest line of amusement flickering in a carmine gaze.Â
âA token, if only as a reminder of something interesting,â he hummed and turned away to meet the man at the end of the alley, Italian drifting out of his mouth when he answered in kind. âIf this is how Japanese hospitality is, I canât imagine what their boss will say.â
âThe messenger said he was sorry. More importantly, remember to be polite-â
âIâm always polite.â
â-and youâve got a full week ahead, not to mention your frozen alive gig, so donât piss off the gangsters here.â
âSpeak for yourself.â
