Barron felt his face grow flushed as he turned to face Horatio, who was yelling at Bexley and the rest of them to leave his house. “Look, get the hell out of here! She is done answering questions!” the tall man was screaming, trying to look as imposing as possible as he attempted to order this well-armed group to comply with his demands.
Barron parted his coat and tucked his thumbs nonchalantly into his belt, but allowing the hilts of his kukri conspicuously exposed as he moved in to intercept the tall man’s ire. “Listen chummer, relax,” he said with icy coolness. “We are just trying to figure out who killed yer friend. We are on y…”
“I don’t fucking care!” Horatio screamed, turning his angry gaze towards Barron – seemingly unimpressed by the “unintentionally” menacing demeanor that Barron had been trying to convey. “Get the fu…”
Barron’s fist lashed out; iron knuckle rings connecting with the man’s chin with a sickening crunch and Horatio head snapped back from the impact, and he dropped wordlessly to the ground. Shit! Did I kill him?
Barron was a product of the streets. Insults and threats were answered with fist and steel, but he wasn’t in that world now and he knew that he needed to find new ways to deal with people. But old habits die hard – while soft people in the Capitol City seem to die easily, by comparison.
Barron turned to face his companions and mumbled a quiet apology in answer to their aghast expressions, as he bent down to check the man’s pulse – thankfully finding one. He looked up a bit sheepishly towards his companions. “Sorry. He was asking for it, though…being rude to you like that,” he said at last, directing his apology towards Bexley. The woman had only been doing her job in trying to find Farrow’s killer when Horatio had come in at them all hot and bothered. Well, five well-armed strangers had kind of invited themselves into the home of his girlfriend and begun hounding them with questions; but that is exactly the time to practice hospitality and civility, lest the long knives come out…wasn’t it?
A teapot flew passed Barron’s head and exploded in a shower of fragrant spice and scalding water. Barron glowered at Calfernia and felt the familiar rage rising within him, but Marrow’s stern hand on his shoulder calmed him almost immediately. “We will be leaving now, sorry for the disturbance,” Bexley stated coolly, shooting Barron an icy glare. “We will let you know if we find out anything else about Farrow.” She then pressed a silver coin into the trembling girl’s hand as she turned to leave.
When the group emerged onto the street, Barron apologized again, “Sorry, I will stay outside next time. I…I…don’t have the temperament for this type of work it seems.” When all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail, or so the saying goes, though in Barron’s case, every solution was a fist to the face. He needed some more tools in his tool chest, he realized grimly. He knew that he lacked Bexley and Sinikka’s way with words; nor did he have Marrow’s imposing stature and earned confidence; nor Mordantyr’s smarts; nor Burryaga’s trained detachment. No, Barron had only a quick temper sparked by righteous indignation and an even quicker right hook.
As they walked down the street, Barron began smiling to himself as he recalled the sound the pompous Horatio had made as he dropped to the ground. Yes, he might only have one tool in his tool chest, but it sure worked to solve a lot of problems…