“T his is my friend Ma-ka-tai-me-she-kia-kiak,” Billy the Kid said as the small powerboat bounced across San Francisco Bay.
The sharp-featured man nodded to Machiavelli. “You’ll find it more convenient to call me Black Hawk,” he drawled. He was dressed, like Billy, in faded jeans, old cowboy boots and a T-shirt. Unlike Billy, though, who was thin to the point of scrawniness, Black Hawk was a solid mass of muscle. He handled the bucking powerboat with ease.
Billy tapped him on the shoulder. “Over there; my car is at Pier-”
“I checked. Your car is gone,” Black Hawk said, and then laughed aloud at the stricken look on Billy’s face.
“Stolen! Someone stole my car!” He turned to the Italian. “That’s
… that’s criminal!”
Machiavelli kept his face expressionless. “I’ll wager the Sorceress took it.”
Billy nodded eagerly. “I bet you’re right. She’ll look after it, though, won’t she? I mean, she’ll know it’s a classic car and treat it with respect?”
Machiavelli caught Black Hawk’s eye and then had to look away quickly before he laughed. “I do believe I read in my files somewhere that Perenelle Flamel only learned how to drive recently,” he said innocently.
Billy sank down to the side of the boat as if he’d been struck. “She’ll ruin it. She’ll wreck the transmission and she’ll probably scrape the tires against the curb. Do you know how hard it is to find those whitewall tires?”
“If it’s any consolation,” Black Hawk said with a grin, “in about an hour, you’ll never need a car again. The last time I saw our master this angry was in April 1906… and you know what happened then.”
Billy’s face set in a petulant snarl. “Well, I don’t know what you’re so happy about. I was going to leave you that car in my will.”
“Thanks.” Black Hawk shrugged. “But I’m not a Thunderbird person; I prefer Mustangs.”