Emmy And Me

Seeing the power that Prince Marfan’s knife had over the Night Children, it occurred to me that I needed a symbol of my own. Sure, waving that knife around showed that I was more powerful than Prince Marfan had been, but I wanted to stamp my own authority. I needed my own intimidating knife.

Chewing on this idea in my head for a while, I realized that the blade I needed wasn’t in any knife shop.

I called my mom and asked her to ship me Dad’s old footlocker with his uniforms and such in it. I told her I wanted something to display in our house that would remind me of him, and Mom was happy to oblige. A few days later I was rooting through it looking for what I’d remembered from my childhood, and there it was: a black-handled dagger with a simple leather sheath, badly in need of a good polishing. It was heavier than I’d expected, and the brass metal showing where the black paint had worn off the handle told me why.

That Saturday, after some googling, I made my way to a local South Bay knife shop that had been recommended as the best for real enthusiasts.

“Can I help you?” the bored sales guy asked when I walked up to the counter.

“Well, there are a couple of things I want,” I began. “First, I want the best EDC tactical folder you’ve got,” I said, using some of the jargon I’d learned in my research.

Surprised, the guy asked “And what do you want that for?”

“Personal defense,” I answered, knowing this was going to be a struggle.

“You know, a Taser might work better for what you want,” he said, apparently being what he thought was reasonable.

After a few minutes of convincing the guy I actually did want a folding knife, he eventually did bring out some knives for me to look at. I rejected all of them that he showed me originally as too small, too slow, or too wimpy. Finally he started showing me knives that fit the bill and I settled on four from different manufacturers, explaining that only by carrying and using them would I be able to truly evaluate them.

“You said you had a couple of things you were looking for?” asked the sales guy, whose name tag read 'Mike". He had apparently re-evaluated me as a customer by that time and was treating me with much greater respect.

“I need the name of somebody who can do custom restoration work, and somebody who can sharpen these,” I said, indicating the four knives in their boxes on the counter.

“I sharpen knives here,” Mike offered. “But these come pretty sharp from the manufacturers.”

“I want them sharper than sharp,” I said, making myself clear. “I want ‘em so sharp they’ll cut you if you even look at ‘em. I mean, hair-splitting sharp.”

“Um, I can do that, but it’ll cost you.”

“Fine. I’ll pick them up tomorrow. If they’re not frighteningly sharp, though, I won’t be a happy customer.”

“They’ll be sharp,” Mike promised.

“So do you know anybody that can do restoration work?” I asked, since the whole ‘sharp’ thing seemed settled.

“Like what?” he asked. “I mean, I do some restoration work myself. I make custom blades, too. Those are mine there in that case,” he said, pointing to a glass display case with a bunch of really Hollywood-looking knives of various designs.

“Well, I want this sharpened and cleaned up,” I said, pulling Prince Marfan’s wicked-looking curved blade from inside my jacket pocket. I drew it from its sheath and laid it on the glass counter for Mike to look at.

Curious, he picked it up and studied it closely, swinging a desk lamp over to get more light on the subject. “Where did you get this?” he asked after a minute or two of examination.

When I didn’t answer he repeated the question, so I knew I was going to have to make something up. “It’s from the Near East,” I told him, which was true enough.

“I don’t recognize the style, exactly,” Mike muttered, engrossed. “May I?” he asked, indicating his desk in the back of the shop.

“Sure,” I agreed, and watched as he searched online for knives like Marfan’s, eventually giving up.

“Well, it’s obviously old,” he said. “You see this?” he asked, pointing at something on the handle. “This hilt isn’t original, but it’s really old, too. If I had to guess, I’d say this blade is Eighteenth Century at the latest, probably made in Northern Iran or what’s now Azerbaijan or Armenia. The hilt, though, that looks more Arab to me…” he said, lost in thought.

“So, can you clean it up?”

Jarred from his train of thought, Mike looked at me as if I had two heads. “This should be in a museum,” he admonished. “Sharpening it would be a crime. You don’t want to wear any of the material of the blade away- this is real Damascus.” He really did look offended at the idea, so I tried to smooth things over.

“Well, it has been sharpened recently, but not very well,” I pointed out. “Look how rough the edge is. I just want it cleaned up. It’s going to go on display.”

“Did you do that?”

“No, the guy I got it from did it. I couldn’t sharpen a knife to save my life.”

“Neither could that guy,” Mike said, still horribly offended that anyone would mistreat a blade that way.

“So you’ll do it? Clean it up and sharpen it, I mean?”

“Yeah, but I’ll need a few days,” he agreed. “You can’t rush art.”

Laughing at Mike’s use of the line from the Disney movie Toy Story, I said O.K. to what he asked in payment.

“Here’s another,” I said, taking out Dad’s old dagger.

At first glance, Mike was a bit dismissive, but then did a double-take as he got the knife under the light.

“Where did you get this one?” he asked.

“It was my dad’s. He always had it with him when he served.”

“And he let you have it?” Mike asked, curiosity pouring off him in waves.

“Well, he died when I was ten. I couldn’t really say he just let me have it.”

“What branch of the military was he in?”

“He was a Marine,” I responded.

“Semper Fi,” Mike responded automatically. Then, back to the subject at hand, he said, “These weren’t issued to the Marines.”

“No, this knife was my great grandfather’s, from World War Two. He gave it to my grandfather when he enlisted, then it got handed down to my dad,” I explained.

“Was your great grandfather English?”

“No, he was American.”

“But this blade is English,” Mike protested.

“I don’t know the story very well. Dad told me, but I was young and don’t remember the details. Something about North Africa is all I know.”

“Hmm…” pondered Mike. “So what do you want done with this?” he asked, holding up the dagger.

“It needs a new sheath, one without any belt loops. Just a simple leather sheath, snug enough it won’t fall out on its own, if you know what I mean. Like a boot sheath. I also want it sharpened, and given a really serious polishing. I want the blade to gleam.”

Looking pained, Mike said “This is a museum piece!”

“No, it’s not. It was Dad’s working tool. He told me he’d had to use it more than once, and so had Grampa and his dad. This is for stabbing people, not for sitting in a glass case somewhere.”

“So what do you plan on doing with it?”

“Stabbing people,” I answered, shrugging my shoulders as if his question was ridiculous. I mean, what else would I use it for, right?

Giving me another long look, but deciding not to pursue it any farther, Mike said “O.K. Give me until Wednesday to get these two cleaned up. Meanwhile, I’ll have the lockers sharpened by the end of the day if it stays slow like this. Call me around four and I’ll let you know if they’re done. Here, fill this out,” he said, handing me a duplicate receipt form with lines for my name and so on.

The only thing I filled out was my phone number (which I knew was untraceable), but no name or anything. I counted off the twelve hundred-dollar bills to pay for everything, causing Mike to give me another of his re-evaluating stares.

“Name?” he asked, to fill the paperwork in.

“You don’t need it,” I said.

“No, I guess I don’t. So what should I call you, then?” Mike asked, eyeing me thoughtfully.

“Spike,” I suggested, giving him the name that Kerry had started calling me towards the end of last season. “That’ll do.”

“Spike it is,” Mike agreed and wrote that down. “Well, Spike. It’s been a pleasure.”

“Oh, I almost forgot!” I said, mentally slapping myself. “Could you take a moment and put an edge on this one for me?” I asked, pulling out Dad’s old Buck folding knife, flicking it open with my thumb before I set it on the counter.

“How sharp do you want this one?” Mike asked, clearly impressed. Little did he know I’d been practicing that move for days.

“Sharp enough,” I answered.

Giving me another of his stares, Mike went back to a workbench and in a few minutes handed the knife back. “That’s sharp enough to shave with,” he announced, and it did seem to be pretty sharp when I checked it.

“That’ll work for now,” I agreed. “I don’t expect to need it any sharper in the next few days.”

I could tell Mike was watching to see what car I got into, which made me happy that I’d gotten the address wrong and had missed the shop driving down the one-way street, so my car was a block down and around the corner. I looked over my shoulder and saw Mike standing out in front of his shop, watching me. When I gave him a little wave he went back inside. I was definitely going to park a block away and out of sight next time, too, I resolved. I wasn’t sure why I had been so paranoid, but it somehow seemed to me that the less Mike knew about my business the better.

I got really busy that afternoon and didn’t call, then the shop was closed Sunday and Monday. At that point I figured I’d just wait until Wednesday and pick up everything at one time. When I finally did return to the knife shop there was another man at the counter talking to Mike. When Mike glanced up as I entered the door he nodded to the second guy to look at me, which made me a bit nervous.

“Ah, Spike. Your things are all ready.”

“Thanks,” I replied. “Any problems?”

“No, none at all. In fact I was just talking to Jim here about this little thing,” he said, pulling Dad’s dagger from its new black leather sheath and laying it on the glass countertop.

Acting casual but wondering what was going on, I picked it up and looked carefully at what Mike had done to the blade. “What were you guys talking about?”

“We were wondering where you got it,” answered Jim, speaking for the first time. His voice sounded somewhat hostile and put me on edge.

Looking at how Mike had followed instructions and polished the blade but hadn’t touched the worn, knurled handle of the knife, I kept Jim in view in the corner of my eye. “What does it matter?” I asked, trying for nonchalance. Yes, I was happy to see the double edges of the dagger were incredibly sharp and even, and the tip had been returned to a needle-like pointiness.

“It matters,” answered Jim.

Looking straight at him for the first time, I made eye contact and held it when I responded. “I know why it matters to me,” I said, tapping my chest with the tip of the dagger. “Explain why it matters to you, and maybe I’ll tell you.” The guy was big and burly, but middle-aged and going soft. If it came time to throw down, I was pretty sure I could take him, especially given that I had an exceptionally stabby dagger in my hand. This guy was not going to intimidate me, no matter how hard he played at being Mr. Tough Ex-Military, with his old-style BDU jacket. There were a lot of his type back home in Fallbrook, so as far as I was concerned he was nothing special.

He finally broke eye contact, looking back at Mike for support. Mike was standing a little back behind the counter, looking like he wanted no part of the discussion. Mike raised his hands in the classic ‘leave me out of this’ gesture, so Jim turned back to me. “I think I know who that blade belonged to,” he finally said.

“Great,” I replied. “I’m sure I do.” With that, I slid the dagger back into the really nice sheath Mike had made for it and slipped the thing down into my right boot, where it fit perfectly behind my anklebone.

Turning back to Mike, I asked “Are the other knives ready, too?” summarily dismissing Jim. Mike opened a box and brought out the new folders I’d bought and a kraft-paper wrapped object that turned out to be Prince Marfan’s knife.

I had just opened the box the Benchmade folding knife came in when Jim took me by surprise, grabbing my wrist. “Now, listen, Missy-” was all he had time to say before all my hours of training with Ruben kicked in and I had Jim face down on the floor, his arm twisted behind him and the freshly sharpened folding knife just below his ear. It happened so fast even I was stunned. In retrospect I think I was a little primed and ready, given how hostile the guy had seemed, but still… it was a little scary to me how I’d responded.

“No. You listen. I don’t care what you know or think you know. It’s none of your business, got that?” I hissed, wrenching his arm a little bit harder. “I’m going to let you go, but you’d better not lay another hand on me, ever. Got it?” When Jim nodded, I stood off him and flicked the blade closed.

“Nice action on this one,” I said to Mike as I put the folding knife in my pocket. “So far I can’t complain. I didn’t get to see how sharp it is, though,” I said, turning to look at Jim getting up from the floor. I was watching his hands, but didn’t see any sign of him reaching for the gun I thought I’d felt holstered in his lower back when I’d pinned him.

Confident the situation wasn’t going to escalate, I grabbed the box off the counter. “Mike, it’s been a pleasure,” I said. “Jim, I hope we meet again under better circumstances,” I said to the ex-Marine rotating his sore shoulder, and walked out.

I glanced back but neither of the two were watching me, so I rounded the corner and jumped in the car and drove away, wondering how things could have played out differently, and why I’d gone into defensive mode with the shop owner, and then with the guy named Jim.

A week later I returned to Mike’s knife shop. He looked surprised to see me, but he was dealing with another customer, so I waited patiently until the guy left.

“Look, I’m sorry-” I started to say, but Mike spoke at the same time.

“Spike, um, Jim, he-” Mike began, then we both shut up to let the other talk.

Laughing, I said “Mike, I’m sorry about getting violent in your shop last week. It’s just-”

“No, it’s alright. Jim had no call to grab you like that,” Mike said. “What he did was wrong, and he knows it. He won’t do it again.”

“I shouldn’t have pulled the knife on him like that,” I said ruefully. “Him grabbing my arm didn’t justify it.”

“Well, maybe not, but at least you got to test the action on that Benchmade, didn’t you?” Mike joked, lightening the mood.

“Yeah, there is that,” I agreed.

“So, uh, Spike, I did some asking around…” Mike admitted, not looking directly at me. “If you’re who I think you are, your dad was a great man.”

“If I’m who you think I am, my dad was a great soldier,” I corrected. “He left his wife and two daughters behind. I’m not sure that makes him a great man.” Yes, my voice was bitter, I admit it.

Surprised by my reply, Mike looked up at me. “I guess I’d never looked at it that way,” he said, thoughtful.

“I do,” I told him. “Every time I see that folded flag.”

Somber, Mike asked “What can I do for you today?”

“You did a really nice job on both those restorations. I wanted to thank you for that. Also, the folders I bought were very sharp. I appreciate that you did what I asked.” Mike nodded his thanks for the compliment, so I continued. “I’ve decided that I like this one the best,” I said, setting one of the smaller of the four I’d bought down on the counter. “I need about a half dozen of these.”

“A half dozen?” Mike asked, looking surprised. “I’m not sure I’ve got that many in stock,” he said, rubbing his chin as he walked back to the shelving where the knives were kept. He returned after a few moments with five of the same little boxes, setting them on the counter. I checked them all and they seemed fine, so I said I’d take them.

“Um, Spike,” Mike began. “Why do you need so many?”

“Gifts,” I answered, making it clear we were back in the ‘mind your own damned business’ territory.

“Do you need these sharpened?”

“No, they’re fine as is,” I answered, checking the edge on one of the new knives. “They’ll do.”

Looking at the filled-out the duplicate receipt, I saw that Mike had given me a twenty percent discount, effectively charging me for only four knives, the fifth being free.

“What’s the discount for?” I asked, grateful but still curious.

“Well, I would have given you a little bit of a discount as a repeat customer who pays in cash, but most of it is in honor of your father’s service.”

Jim walked in just as I was counting out the cash to pay for the knives. He stood a respectful distance away, waiting until I’d paid Mike for the knives.

“Hey, look, I didn’t mean-” he began when I turned to face him, but I interrupted.

“Look, Jim, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have overreacted the other day,” I said. “I’m sorry for that.”

“No, look, I shouldn’t have grabbed you. I was upset, because I thought I knew who’d owned that blade and I thought it didn’t belong in the hands of a little girl, but I guess you showed that you’re worthy of the history that thing carries with it.”

“Thanks,” I said, but I have to admit I didn’t like the idea that these guys knew who my dad was just by seeing the knife.

“I knew your dad when he was fresh out of Annapolis,” Jim continued. “Sometimes you can just tell who’s got it and who doesn’t, and he certainly had it.”

Not knowing what to say I just thanked him, trying to make it clear I had no interest in continuing the conversation.