by J. D. Brink
No, it’s worse than that. Their skin is too pale, eyes too milky to just be drunk, and their stink too horrible for them to still be living. Wherever they’re coming from, it was a lot rougher trip than just the Pacific. They’re coming from the far side of the River Styx. And yet, they’ve come prepared. Entwined among the random pansy blossoms around their necks are some familiar, purple flowers: wolfsbane.
“Selene!” I shout, shoving one dead man away by the face.
The Irishman slips free and takes off. Three more dead Hawaiian tourists break from the throng and limp after him.
The streets are too densely packed for him to get far. Red’s slippery, but not that slippery.
My two dancing partners clumsily try to grapple with me. This being my time of the month, as Selene put it, I’m short on patience, and her pulling this stunt has spent all I had. Having two dead guys slap fighting and trying to take a bite out of me would normally send me over the moon, if it weren’t for those damn leis.
One grabs my left arm in both hands and bites down, only the sleeve of my trench coat blunting his teeth. The other seems to want brains for dinner, and his mouth comes too close to my face. I punch him in the stomach but it holds like a dried drum. Stumbling backward to escape proves futile with bystanders clamoring around behind me. One complains when beer spills on his new costume, then a few more scream. They must have suddenly noticed the rotten cannibals in their midst.
Changing directions, I surge forward. One corpse trips and goes down, freeing my right hand for punching the other in the head. He lets go and drops to the ground, but won’t stay there long.
The partygoers are starting to back away now too, opening an arena for the fight. But kicking and punching only delay the dead.
While one is crawling back up, I slip the lei from over his head and toss it over a girl close by. She’s mortified.
I bounce the second zombie into the bystanders and he gets churned away into the movement of the human wall behind him. I’ve got enough space away from the wolfsbane now, and probably only seconds before some flatfoot shows up.
“Ready to see my costume, folks?” I ask the circle of onlookers. They cheer, probably thinking I’m going to strip down and streak the party. Then I show them, and they’re all screaming and surging in the opposite direction.
I’m all fur, claws, and teeth in one-point-five seconds. My clothes are restrictive now, especially these damn leather shoes, but I don’t have time to undress. One slash of my claws opens the belly of the lei-less zombie. His innards are stuffed with flowers, herbs, and talismans. I yank a handful out into the street and he goes back to sleep, permanently. The other zombie is lost in the tumult of panicking partygoers now, and I’m happy to leave it that way.
I scan the cobblestones for my prize, but there’s too much random garbage lying around. Did I drop the tissue, or did the Irishman grab it again before he fled? I could try to find it here, or chase after Red. I’m fairly sure he doesn’t have it, so no real reason to go after him. Other than possibly saving his butt. Do I care that much?
I wriggle out of my jacket and shoes, pop a few buttons off my shirt for comfort, and bound after Red’s scent on all fours. Navigating the rush of people is easy from behind. I either dodge past them or just knock them aside.
Red has run down an alley and found a brick wall. Three color-clad Hawaiians are doing the braindead two-step, closing on him fast. I leap into the alley and pause—no smell of wolfsbane. That’s why these three were holding back, to allow the first two to grab me.
Disassembling them is easy.
The Irishman’s cowering like hell now. His feet keep pedaling backward but that wall ain’t going anywhere. Not such a wise guy now, I want to say, but my jaws can’t form words. I growl instead and close on him real slow.
“I don’t have it!” he yells, eyes so wide they just might burst. He’s got both hands in the air, twinkling his fingers. “You took it! You have it! Please, Lawrence, I don’t have it…” His volume crashes into whimpering.
I sniff him good, my wet nose brushing his bristly cheek while his eyes clench behind their lids.
When he opens them, I’m sitting in front of him like the family dog. Ethics and morals, I want to say. Everything about this deal has suddenly changed.
The Crone’s favorite coffee shop isn’t as busy the next day. Seems something’s got the locals spooked and most of them are staying safe at home today.
A waiter in a green tie brings her something special: a little blue bottle. “On the house, ma’am,” he says politely, though she’s too busy watching me come in to pay much attention.
“You look surprised to see me, Selene,” I say, sitting down.
She blinks away her shock and instead puts on her annoying little tease routine. “Not at all, Lawrence. I was hoping you’d show up. Did you bring my item?”
I hesitate. The silence is more uncomfortable for her than for me.
“You mean your friends from Hawaii didn’t bring it back for you last night?” I ask.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You don’t?” I growl. “You mean you didn’t stuff five bodies with Grandma’s secret recipe and send them to cut me off?”
No answer.
“I asked you a question, Crone.”
“Don’t call me that,” she snaps. She fiddles nervously with the blue bottle on the table. “I suppose I did. It was your fault, Lawrence, you’re the one who gave me doubts.”
“I’m a professional,” I tell her. “And that was some very unprofessional double-play you tried to pull over on me.”
“Well, did you get it or not?”
I place a folded triangle of tissue on the table and hold it down with a rather pointy fingernail. “Where’s the other half of my money?”
She produces a rubber-banded roll of bills from beneath the table. We trade.
“What the hell is this?” she screeches, holding the little green clover between forefinger and thumb. “This only has three leaves! I was told he’d found a four.”
“I did,” says the waiter behind her. The Irishman pulls up a chair and sits down. “But thanks to you, ma’am, it’s lost again. I do have other precious little treasures in my stash, though. Like that.” He gestures toward the small blue bottle in front of her.
She snatches it up, her youthful face beginning to show its true age in anger. She examines it savagely and sticks it too close to her eye, peering inside.
Poof! Selene vanishes in a puff of azure smoke, the vapors drawn instantly into the bottle.
I catch it in midair and Red inserts a matching glass stopper into its mouth.
“Genie bottle,” he quips. “I thought she’d like it.”
An old man stares at us over his newspaper with his mouth agape. I send him back to his obituary readings with a mere look.
“So, who keeps the Crone?” Red asks.
“Your bottle,” I say, standing to leave, “she’s all yours.”
“And what about sharing some of that cash, Larry?”
“Don’t press your luck.”
ONE-EYED JACKS
Part One
Rails End
One
“Don’t you believe in magic?” the bartender asks me.
On stage, cast in purple light, Marvin the Magician pours milk into a hat. It’s a trick as old as he is, maybe older. The audience, at less than half the club’s capacity, carry on their own conversations and pay the aged illusionist no mind.
“Smoke and mirrors, Jerry,” I tell the big barkeep. “I’ve been on the other side of those mirrors and there’s nothing there.”
“That’s a depressing attitude,” Jerry says.
I agree.
“You want a drink?”
“Better not,” I say.
The Speakeasy is aptly named. It’s got the look and feel of the 1930s, the walls, woodwork, and even the furniture showing fifty-odd years of stains and neglect. Stained glass chandelier
s hanging from the vaulted ceiling, dim light filtered yellow and blue. Tonight there are less than twenty patrons in all, mostly couples, and they don’t seem to give a shit about the entertainment and his worn-out routine.
Marvin the Magician chuckles to himself, trying to stir some interest. His costume’s reminiscent of Vaudeville: a black tux that’s loose on his bony frame, a silken cape, and top hat. At his throat is a string tie wound around an old brooch of blue stone, shaped like a beetle.
That scarab is even older than Marvin, by millennia, and it’s the reason Edgar and I are here.
Edgar returns from the toilet, wiping his wet hands on his Bermuda shorts. His neck cranes toward a young lady laughing with her boyfriend at one of the tables as he plops down on the stool next to me, fire-colored Hawaiian shirt glowing in the gloom of this place.
Eddie is the self-described “Mexican Tom Selleck,” a devotee of the Magnum, P. I. television show. But the only thing he and Magnum have in common are the wardrobe and lip hair.
“Yeah, I’d like to make her laugh like that,” he says. “Sad thing is, she’d be laughing at me, you know?”
He gives me his goofy grin, then sticks his chin toward the stage. “That what you used to do, Jack? Pour milk into hats, hammer expensive watches? That’d be a good way to lift them, right? Smash a Rolex from some volunteer and give him back a fake. Felix probably has a few you could use.”
I nod dismissively.
Marvin’s venturing into the audience now, trying to stir some participation. He asks a red-haired woman in a scarlet dress to draw a card. She rudely tries to ignore him, but her date shrugs and tells her to go ahead.
“And fortune telling too, right, Jack?” Edgar puts two fingers to his temple in a bad Johnny Carson Carnac impression. “Nnnnn, a priest, a rabbi, and an old magi who makes money disappear…” He rolls his eyes, chuckles to himself, and smooths his mustache with finger and thumb.
“You missed your calling,” I tell him.
Marvin’s victim draws a king of hearts from his hand. She flashes it around the disinterested room, Marvin covering his eyes with his wrinkly old hand.
“Bam,” Edgar says, pointing at me. “What does it mean?”
It’s the suicide king. My father.
“A hypocrite,” I answer. “And a coward.”
I rap my knuckles on the bar, extra hard, to feel the sting in my bones. “You know what, Jerry, why don’t you give me that drink after all? Gin and tonic.”
“So you really were a magician?” Jerry asks, pouring it out.
I roll the gin around in my mouth, savoring the flavor. Edgar stares at me from the corner of my vision. I ignore him.
“Yeah, kind of. I was the sorcerer’s apprentice, you might say. Ever hear of Damien Deshanko, in Vegas? Real name was Karl.” Jerry just shrugs. I stare at the ice in my glass. “We had a falling out. I tend to fall out a lot... Anyway, I learned enough to know that there is no magic in the world. Everything’s just Disney bullshit. There’s no great mystery left worth exploring. The only real trick I ever pulled was my own disappearing act.”
I follow this with a big jolt from my glass.
“Well, you’re in rare form tonight, Jack.” Edgar’s tone is one I rarely hear from him: quiet and serious.
This life is ending, and the drink knows it. Sorry if it’s depressing.
“So, uh, who else you planning to make disappear?” The big bartender looks a little nervous.
“Nothing like that,” I assure him. “Marvin agreed to make regular payments and hasn’t. We’re just here to collect what doesn’t belong to him.”
Jerry steps away to help another customer, a fat man with a skinny girl on his arm. I eye up the bartender: he’s a bull of a man, shoulders like mountains supporting a curly-haired rock of a head, no neck in between. Jerry’s big, but not bright. It’s obvious that he and Marvin are friends, which makes me wonder if Jerry could be a problem, if push comes to shove.
Then again, I have Edgar. Eddie’s more pear-shaped with chubby cheeks crowding his dark mustache. He’s a caricature of himself, though that’s his greatest asset: he doesn’t look dangerous. Jerry’s bulk is obvious, but I’ll bet on Eddie if things get rough.
Marvin’s finishing up his act. The audience doesn’t seem to notice. This lack of popularity and his known gambling habits explain why he hasn’t had the money to pay for the brooch. These days, he’s just the opening act for someone bigger. Tonight that’s an up-and-coming comedian trying to get attention from the talent scouts down south. But he’s hoping for too much on this side of the river. Hollywood-types don’t venture this far north into Rails End.
Marvin bows for some courtesy applause and disappears when the lights wink out. And here I am, only half done with my drink. I set it aside and we get to our feet. Jerry holds out a meaty paw, tells us to wait.
Just as I feared. He’s getting a waiter to fill in for him so he can escort us backstage.
We wind between tables and into a narrow hallway in the back, barely wide enough for the chubby comedian to pass by. He smiles at us but gets no response. We’ve got our game faces on now.
An exit sign glows red at the end of the passage and I make note of it, just in case. Another sign is glued to the dressing room door: Talent Only. I go to knock and feel Jerry behind me, trying to bump by to get in first, so I forgo the polite formalities and head on in.
It’s obvious that Marvin is the only regular act here. The sole dressing room is crowded with things found at a stage magician’s garage sale: trapdoor tables, trick handcuffs, the Cabinet of Mystery. The talent himself is seated in front of a big mirror, cape draped over his chair, wiping sweat from his brow with his impossibly long handkerchief. His lined face melts when he sees us.
Edgar claps. “Hell of a show, Marvin, hell of a show. But if you don’t mind a bit of advice, you need a lovely assistant. You know, a cute little blonde in pink tights and cleavage. All the greats have a lovely assistant.”
The old man turns away from our reflections to see us in the flesh. “What are you guys doing here?”
“Wanted to catch your act,” I tell him. “See if that scarab was all you said it was.”
According to legend, the brooch Marvin bought from Felix is an ancient Egyptian amulet that was used by Akhenaten’s priests during the pharaoh’s religious reformation. It disappeared from Berlin’s Altes Museum years ago and eventually found its way into Felix’s collection. I don’t know how Marvin found out about it, but he’s a believer and had to have it. You’d think an illusionist would know better, but the old guy’s obviously a romantic.
“If this is about the money—”
“Of course it’s about the money,” I say. “And I know where all your money went. A little pony told me you lost it all at the track, Marvin.”
“Well, I...” The old magician wipes his brow again, looking at the floor. “I was trying to get enough to just pay Mr. Caterina outright, you see.”
“Betting on the long shot, eh Marv?” Edgar pokes a finger into a gilded cage of doves, but the birds want nothing to do with him.
I’m aware that Jerry is still behind me, blocking the closed door, so I sidestep and lean against the Cabinet of Mystery, the kind that makes people disappear. Now Edgar and I are on either side of Marvin and we can both keep an eye on the big barkeep.
“The odds weren’t horrible,” the old man insists. “Just bad luck, that’s all. I’ll have Mr. Caterina’s money after next weekend. I have another show—”
“Marvin,” I say, “you haven’t made a payment in five weeks. Felix gave you that trinket on the condition you’d be by every two.”
“I know but—”
I raise a finger toward him: “I’m not finished.”
Jerry’s bulk stirs to my left. Edgar notices, too, and he stops playing with the birds.
“Marvin, I don’t think you appreciate the break you were given. Felix Caterina doesn’t do loans. He buys things, he sells things.
You were sold this item on a payment plan, which is a first since I’ve been working for him.”
“And they say the old man has no heart,” Edgar puts in with grin. “Must have been the Sacred Brotherhood of Grey-Haired Old Bastards, eh, Marv?”
“I’ve known Felix a long time,” Marvin says. He looks up at me with nervous brown eyes. The old stone brooch is still fixed around his neck, ancient blue against his starched white collar.
“Which is why we’re being so nice,” I say, rolling open my hand.
Marvin’s hands go to his neck but they aren’t working to free the item, just cover it up. Sad. I feel like a stepfather demanding a boy’s favorite toy.
The other boy steps forward. “Hey, guys, we’ll give you the money next week, okay?”
“It’s too late for that, Jerry,” I say, my eyes still on Marvin.
“I don’t want to insist,” Jerry says.
“Then don’t.”
But he doesn’t heed my advice. I see the big dark shape come at me from the side, but he’s intercepted by my partner. There’s the muffled sound of fists impacting clothed bodies, an evacuation of air from lungs, and two knees pounding hard to the floor. I don’t have to see the action to know the results. I just ripple my fingers for Marvin.
The old man frowns, unties the stone beetle, and sets it in my hand.
Two
The next night I’m sprawled face down, drunk as hell. There’s buzzing in my ears and a mechanical hornet stinging the shit out of my back.
The immediate world below me is a familiar black and white checkerboard. Drops of spittle glisten on the dusty floor. Drool, no doubt. Mine.
I remember dragging myself through the door now. The hornet digging into my shoulder blade is a tattoo needle. It comes to me when I hear Skunk’s nasally voice.