by R. L. King
Stone didn’t push it—he didn’t want a reluctant mundane along if he had to deal with supernatural threats. He did regret, though, that Verity had once again begged off on joining him. He didn’t blame her—she was right in the middle of packing to move, and had another big job with Scuro scheduled for tonight—but that didn’t mean he didn’t miss her company.
Ah, well. Couldn’t be helped, and he didn’t have time to dwell on it.
The area the Sixes Posse controlled was on the east side of the city. He’d consulted Jason for some intel on the area a couple days ago, and his friend had, after checking with some law-enforcement contacts, given him a map showing the boundaries of the gang’s influence along with the names of a couple of bars the members frequented.
“You’re really gonna go talk to guys in a gang?” he’d asked. “That’s probably a bad idea, Al. No offense, but you’ve got the street smarts of…well, a British dude who grew up in a mansion and went to private school.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Stone had replied with a wry grin. “But I’m not worried. I can be very persuasive if I need to be. And it’s not as if I haven’t spent my share of time hanging about in dodgy pubs.”
“Just don’t get too cocky. I think you underestimate us mundanes sometimes. We can still catch you by surprise. And besides, the Sixes are rumored to be into stuff like devil worship. That could mean they’ve got mages, right?”
“It could, but it’s not likely. And even if they do, they’re almost certainly nothing to write home about, talent-wise. I can handle them.”
“Yeah. Just—be careful, okay? You sure you don’t want me to come along? I’m working on a case right now, but I should have it wrapped up in a few days, and—”
“No, that’s quite all right. I’ll be fine, and I haven’t got time to wait.”
It was dark by the time he reached the hotel and dropped off his gear. A light rain fell, more annoying than inconvenient, and the air had a cold bite that suggested winter here hadn’t quite given up its hold yet, even this late in the spring. Downstairs, he calibrated his disguise amulet to make him look like a pale, middle-aged man in a cheap suit and a drab tan overcoat, then hailed a cab outside.
The driver turned around to look at him in surprise when he revealed his destination. “You sure, buddy? That ain’t a nice part of town.”
“I’m sure. I’m meeting a friend there.” Stone used his American accent. He worked on it periodically, enlisting Jason and Verity to give him honest assessments on his success, and they’d assured him that as long as he was trying to sound like a middle-of-the-road guy from California, he was doing fine. When he attempted other accents, he could see from their polite attempts not to laugh that he still had a lot work to do, so he stuck with what he knew.
“Okay…” The driver still sounded apprehensive, but he pulled out into the brisk evening traffic without further comment.
Stone watched the bleak scenery go by, growing bleaker as they got closer. It was no wonder the Sixes and other gangs like them turned to crime, Stone decided, if they had to live in a place that looked like this. He’d seen plenty of bad neighborhoods, both in London during his university days and elsewhere in his travels, but this little corner of Pittsburgh seemed to be in the grip of a debilitating blight. The buildings here were old, with rows of multi-story townhouses giving way to a haphazard business district dominated by grungy, multi-story brick buildings. Many of both were abandoned or condemned, boarded up and sagging, their facades rotting or crumbling from years of neglect.
“Here y’are.” The cabbie pulled into an open spot in front of a check-cashing business with its front picture window replaced by a sheet of plywood. “You sure you want me to let you off here?”
“I’m sure. Thank you.”
Morrie’s Tavern, next door to the check-cashing place, was in better shape than many of its neighboring structures. It didn’t look much different from many other lower-class bars Stone had seen in the States: tiny windows, faded old sign that had probably been there since before he was born, and several flickering neon ads for various pedestrian beers. A couple lounged outside, having a conversation under the slim awning that ran the length of the place. Next to them, several news racks had been broken open, and the only papers remaining were ads for escort services and for-sale circulars. The couple looked briefly up from their conversation as Stone passed them and descended the short flight of stairs to the entrance, but said nothing.
Inside, the place was barely lit. It smelled of beer, some kind of spicy food Stone couldn’t identify, cigarette smoke, and cheap perfume. Pounding hip-hop music boomed at a volume level that allowed conversation only if the participants were sitting right next to each other.
The bar was also packed. Stone kept magical sight up as he limped through the crowd, looking for signs of anything unusual even though he had no idea what he was looking for. He saw nothing at the moment, only the typical flares of excitement and occasional lust along with the darker patches indicating poor health in some of the customers. The majority of the patrons were male and most were young, ranging from late teens to early twenties.
Around Ian’s age. Stone wondered what his son was up to, whether he was hanging out in places like this, and then chuckled. For a while in his own youth, he’d frequented bars every bit this seedy. It would be worse than hypocritical for him to take issue with Ian’s choices.
As he approached the long, scarred bar, he gradually became aware of several young men wearing similar clothing. It wasn’t as if they all wore black leather biker jackets with Sixes Posse emblazoned across them, but more than a few of them sported Steelers or black Penguins jerseys with either 6 or 66 on the back, others wore black stocking caps even in the oppressive warmth, and all of them had dark circles around their eyes—either naturally or added with makeup. Stone couldn’t tell which, but either way it did give them a sinister aspect. A few of them were casting Stone odd, suspicious glances when they didn’t think he was looking.
A stool opened up at the bar as a hefty young man slid off and disappeared into the crowd, and Stone quickly moved to occupy it.
The bartender, a dour, solid bottle-blonde woman in a backward-facing Steelers cap, ignored him when he tried to catch her attention to order. At first he thought it was accidental, but when she dropped a plate of chicken wings in front of the man sitting on his left and then, a couple minutes later, brought a fresh bottle of Yuengling to the guy on his right without acknowledging his presence, he knew it was either some kind of test or this place really didn’t like strangers.
He studied the area behind the bar, noticing the lifelike human skull behind the ancient cash register, the detailed painting showing some kind of hellish scene of torture and dismemberment hanging at the back, and the upside-down cross suspended from the ceiling. What he didn’t notice was any hint of magic, malevolent or otherwise. He almost smiled, until he remembered his disguise: these guys were posers. If there was an ounce of magic in the lot, he’d eat his boots. What that meant for the rumors of a guy with real healing powers he didn’t know, but at least it looked like he didn’t have to concern himself too much with being jumped by a bunch of wannabe baby mages trying to prove themselves.
As the bartender prepared to walk past him again, he used a bit of subtle magic to stop her forward progress, then shoved a twenty-dollar bill in her direction. “I’ll have one of those, please,” he said firmly, nodding toward his neighbor’s bottle of Yuengling.
She looked startled, but already Stone had dropped the magic. “Yeah,” she said with grudging annoyance, sweeping up the bill in a stubby-fingered hand and clunking a bottle down in front of him. “Hang on, getcha change.”
“It’s fine. Keep the change. I—I’ve got a question for you.” Stone deliberately made his voice sound tentative, darting a quick glance around the area as if he’d suddenly realized he was surrounded by potential hostiles.
“Yeah, whatcha want?” She looked
impatient. “I ain’t got time to chat.”
“Well…” He forced a nervous chuckle. “It’s just—I heard a rumor about something, and I sure hope it’s true.”
“What kinda rumor?”
Now the two guys on either side of Stone were paying attention to his words as well. They hadn’t moved, but he could see the telltale flares in their auras indicating sudden interest.
He chuckled again and pulled at his collar. “Well…I know this sounds crazy, but I’m kind of desperate and I’m out of options, so I figured I’d take a chance.”
The two guys were definitely listening now, even though they appeared intent on their own thoughts.
“C’mon, spit it out,” the woman said, making a ‘go on’ gesture. “I ain’t got all night.”
Stone dropped his gaze. “I heard there’s a guy around here who can…you know…fix people. Heal ’em. Like they do in those church meetings on TV sometimes. I thought that stuff was all fake, but what I heard is that this guy’s the real deal.”
The bartender snorted. “You’re crazy, man. You musta wandered into the wrong part of town. You sure you’re not already shitfaced?” Her aura, however, belied her words, its muddy orange indicating definite interest. She knew something, even if she didn’t want to say so.
“Yeah…I know. I figured it had to be crazy.” He sighed and fidgeted with his beer bottle, projecting dejection. “Hey, I’m sorry to bother you. Guess I’ll just finish this up and head back home. Thanks.”
“Yeah, you do that.” She moved quickly off to serve another customer, but her aura remained on high alert.
Next to Stone, the guy on his right picked up his beer and melted into the crowd. The guy with the chicken wings continued methodically chewing through them, but like the bartender’s, his aura appeared interested as well.
“You know,” the guy said as Stone finished his beer and prepared to leave, “I couldn’t help overhearin’ what you were sayin’ to Wanda there.” He jerked his head toward the bartender’s broad back. “That’s pretty fucked up, a guy who can heal like one o’ those TV preacher guys. They’re all frauds, you know.”
“Oh, I know.” Stone twisted around, settling back in. He made another exaggerated sigh. “It’s stupid. Just wishful thinking, I guess.”
“Yeah.” The guy sucked the sauce off another wing. “And anyways, even if that kinda guy existed for real, he’d be an idiot to do it for free. Ain’t nobody do nothin’ for free, y’know? If I could do somethin’ like that, I’d charge a shitload of money to do it. Only fair, right?”
“Well, yeah,” Stone agreed, forcing his aura to remain calm and desperate on the off chance he was wrong about anyone around here having magic. “Sure, it’s only fair. I probably wouldn’t even have enough money for a guy like that to look at me.”
“You got some kinda problem?” The guy, who had medium-brown skin and stringy black hair under a black Penguins stocking cap, turned his stool toward Stone. He shoved the plate of wings over. “Want one?”
“No, thanks, I’m good.” Stone bowed his head. “Yeah, I have a problem.”
“What kinda problem?”
He looked around. “I…don’t really want to discuss it right here in the middle of the bar, you know?” He sighed. “Ah, what’s it matter anyway? Like you said, it’s crazy. Stuff like that isn’t real—those guys are just frauds, trying to take people’s money away.”
“Yeah. Maybe so.” The guy pulled his wings back and selected another one. “Where’d you say you heard this rumor, anyway?”
“Friend of a friend. You know.” Stone deliberately did a bad imitation of a down-on-his-luck schlub trying to sound cagey.
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” He considered. “But if a guy like this did exist—if he was the real deal—how much would you be willing to pay to get whatever this problem is fixed? Hypothetically, you understand.”
Once again, Stone kept his aura under control. “Not enough, I’m sure. I figure maybe I can come up with a thousand. Even that’d be hard. I’m sure a guy like that wouldn’t look at me unless I had a lot more than that. I wouldn’t, if I was him.”
“Yeah, you prob’ly got that right.” The guy finished the last wing on the plate, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and downed the remainder of his beer. “Well, you take care, man. Hope you find somebody to help out with your problem.” He clapped Stone on the shoulder and walked off into the crowd.
Stone watched him go until his dull yellow aura disappeared into the colorful swirl of other ones, then turned back around, unsure of whether he’d accomplished anything. With both guys who’d been listening gone now and the bartender off flirting with someone at the other end of the bar, he wondered if the potential of a thousand dollars hadn’t been enough to pique anyone’s interest to take a chance on a stranger. He’d played it careful at first, figuring if he threw around talk of too much money, they’d probably just try to roll him in the alley after he left. That wouldn’t go well for them, of course, but it would also mean his chances of finding the healer—assuming he existed at all—would likely evaporate. Either that, or he’d be forced to lean on people a lot more than he wanted to.
He finished his beer and was about to try his luck in another part of the bar when another man slid onto the stool to his right, where Chicken Wings had been. This one was a little older, broad-shouldered and thin-faced, with short dark hair and a Penguins jersey over a black hoodie.
“’Sup, man?” he muttered, waving for a beer. Apparently he rated better service than Stone had, because Wanda instantly abandoned her flirting, poured him a pint, and placed it in front of him.
“Hey,” Stone said without looking at him.
“I hear you were talkin’ to my pal Spud about some kinda crazy-ass thing. Somethin’ about a—what—faith healer?”
Stone shrugged. “I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just I heard a rumor, so I took a chance. I was just about to go. I don’t want any trouble.”
“Nah, man, no trouble. You’re good. So you got yourself a problem needs fixin’?”
“Yeah. I guess I do.”
“Wanna share it?”
Stone glanced up at the man. He was maybe in his late twenties, with a series of tattoos on his neck that disappeared into the top of his hoodie. They included three sixes, one stacked on top of the other two, on the side of his neck. He had the same dark circles under his eyes as the others Stone had spotted, making his narrow face look even more skull-like. “What good would it do? There’s no such guy, right? It’s just an urban legend.”
“Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. Why don’t you tell me what you need and maybe I might know somebody who can help.”
Stone allowed a little hope to reach his face. His heart pounded, but more with exhilaration than fear. It had been a long time since he’d had to rely on his acting chops, and it felt good. “Really?”
“Let’s see.”
Stone crossed one leg over the other and pulled up his trouser leg, weaving an illusion as he did. The several layers of gauze wrapped around it were real—he’d put them on in his hotel room before leaving—but the angry wound seeping blood through the bandages was not.
“Holy fuck,” the guy said. “What happened to you, man? You should go to the hospital with that shit.”
“Yeah, I know.” Stone bowed his head again, looking glum. “The problem is, I’m not supposed to be here. My wife thinks I’m in Philadelphia. If I go to the hospital, I’m afraid she’ll find out. Especially since I got this…uh…” He offered a sheepish, conspiratorial smile “…from a jealous boyfriend.”
The guy’s grin matched his. “Oh, I get it. You were steppin’ out on your old lady and you don’t want her to find out nothin’.”
“Yeah. Plus, our insurance isn’t that great, so…” He shrugged, then winced. “I tried to take care of it myself, and figured I’d get it looked at there at a clinic or something when I get back to Philly, but it’s getting worse. I’m getting scared. So when I
heard about this guy…”
“Who’d you hear it from?”
“I don’t know the guy’s name. Friend of a friend kind of thing.” Stone was taking a chance that if these guys were holding the would-be healer and exploiting his talents for profit, they’d have to make it known somehow that those talents were available. If that wasn’t true and they were only using him to patch up their own guys, things could go south in a hurry. He tensed, readying magic if he needed it.
“Yeah, right.” The guy seemed to take it in stride. “Okay, listen. I might know somebody who can help ya. My man Spud was sayin’ you could come up with a grand. That true?”
“Yeah. I got some of my own money put away, that my wife doesn’t know about. It’ll be hard, but I think I can get that much.” He gripped the guy’s arm with a hopeful gaze, then quickly pulled back as if realizing that was a bad idea. “Are you saying…you can help me? That this guy does really exist, and he really can do this stuff?”
“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’. But here’s what I want you to do, if you’re serious.” He pulled out a scrap of paper and scrawled something on it. “You get the money, cash, then come to this address in a half-hour. It’s a few blocks from here. Somebody’ll meet you there, check you out to make sure nobody followed you, and we’ll go from there. Don’t be late. Got it?”
“Uh—yeah. I got it.” Stone took the paper, then flashed the guy a worried glance. “How do I know I won’t just get rolled for the money? A thousand’s a lot to carry around in cash.”
The guy patted his arm. “You don’t, friend. Ain’t no guarantees in this world. But if you don’t want your old lady findin’ out you been steppin’ out on her, maybe you oughtta grow a pair and take a few chances, y’know?” He nodded toward Stone’s leg. “Besides, that thing looks like it’s gettin’ infected. Better not wait too long.” He raised his glass and then walked off before Stone could say anything else.
Stone remained where he was for a couple more minutes, staring down at the paper and doing his best to look both troubled and in pain. Then he got up and limped out of the bar. He didn’t miss the flares of auras around the room as several of the Sixes watched him leave.