When Blackwell spoke, Laney was unexpectedly aware of another sort of intelligence, something the man must ordinarily conceal, "No," Blackwell said, almost gently, "it fucking well isn't, is it?" One large, pinkly jigsawed hand, like some clumsy animal in its own right, began to root in the taut breast pocket of Blackwell's micropore. Producing a small, gray, metallic object that he placed on the bar.