Scoundrels' Jig (The Chronicles of Eridia)

by J. S. Volpe

  * * *

  “What are you looking for?” Marcy asked Lucifer Brown as he yanked open another drawer.

  They were in the cramped room he rented above Grandma Hecuba’s Bait & Booze Shop. Lucifer was kneeling in front of the dresser and rummaging through its jumbled contents. Clothes lay strewn about the floor, the bed, and nearly every other surface of the room. Marcy hovered above the bed, watching him.

  “I’m lookin’ for my gloves,” Lucifer mumbled.

  “Not those hideous fingerless leather ones,” Marcy said.

  “Yeah.”

  The drone groaned.

  “I look good in ‘em,” Lucifer protested.

  “Nobody looks good in fingerless leather gloves.”

  Lucifer rolled his eyes and went on rummaging.

  “What boggles my processors,” Marcy continued, “is how you can even insist on looking for such a thing when time is clearly of the essence. Does your manner of dress matter that much?”

  Lucifer stopped rummaging, sat back on his heels, and fixed Marcy with a cool, level look.

  “Style is everything. To succeed, you gotta look like you deserve to succeed. I mean, everybody always babbles on about how it’s what’s inside that matters, but that’s a bunch of horseshit. Appearance is what matters. Your first impression of someone colors the way you think about them forever, no matter what they’re really like on the inside.”

  “That’s all very well if you’re arranging a job interview, or to use an example more comprehensible to a man like you, being questioned by the local constables, but you, on the other hand, are hurrying off to get a chunk of gold along a route upon which you are likely to meet no one other than soldiers, gorgim, wandering monsters, and assorted criminal sociopaths. It is almost certain that you are currently already better dressed than any of the above-mentioned entities.”

  Lucifer shrugged, then resumed rummaging. “You never know who you might meet.”

  “Very well. Do as you will. It is your gold, after all. I have no use for such things.”

  “It doesn’t matter how long I take anyway,” he said.

  “How so?”

  Lucifer opened his mouth to respond, but then pulled a mustard-colored shirt out of the drawer, uncovering a pile of women’s underwear.

  “Whoa!” Lucifer cried with a huge grin. “My old panty collection! I haven’t seen that in ages!”

  The drone flew up next to him and focused the oblong optical sensor on its front end at the heap of underwear in the drawer. There had to be at least six or seven dozen pairs, all of different colors and patterns and sizes.

  “You wore those?” Marcy asked.

  “What? No! These are, like, mementos. Of my conquests.”

  “Oh, for the love of the galaxy. Do you mean to say that you kept the panties of all the women you slept with as if they were war trophies?”

  “It was when I was younger. I was practically just a kid. I gave up after a couple of months. Besides, I was running out of room.”

  “Hmph. And there I was, hoping you wore the underwear yourself. It would have finally demonstrated the existence of some actual depth to your personality.”

  “Geez, you can be a real bitch sometimes—oh! There they are!”

  From the back of a drawer he pulled his fingerless black leather gloves. Beaming with pride, he pulled them on, then held up his hands for Marcy to see.

  “Don’t they look great? Wasn’t I right?”

  “When combined with your black leather vest and black leather boots and most especially with your carefully coiffed hair, they make you look like a gay biker.”

  “A what?”

  “Never mind.”

  Lucifer stood up and surveyed the room. It looked as if a hurricane had blown through it.

  “Fuck it. I’ll clean this up when I get back.”

  As he and Marcy headed to the door, Marcy said, “To get back to the question I asked before we got sidetracked, what did you mean when you said it didn’t matter how long you took looking for those hilarious gloves?”

  “Oh, that.” Lucifer closed and locked the door behind them, and they descended the unlit stairwell to the first floor. “I said that because it doesn’t matter. I can take as long as I want, and I’ll still wind up with the gold.”

  Marcy swung around in mid-air to fix its optic sensor on him. Despite the movement, the drone’s angle and direction of descent never changed, which meant that it was now heading down the stairwell sideways.

  “Ah, you’ve gone mad, then.”

  Lucifer rolled his eyes. “No, Marse, it’s like I keep tellin’ you: I’m destined for this. I’ve been marked by the Twelve. I know I have. Clearly it wasn’t an accident that I was in Moe’s when Ichabod stumbled in. I was meant to be there because I was meant to get the gold because I was meant to be rich and famous and beloved all over the world.” He shrugged as if the matter were simple. “I was born for greatness.”

  “You were born for self-delusion.”

  They reached the bottom of the steps. Lucifer stopped there and turned to Marcy, shaking his head.

  “You’re so melodramatic. I know you’ve only known me for a couple of months, but trust me: Things have a way of just sort of falling into place for me. The Twelve favor me. I’m goin’ places.”

  Marcy sighed. “And because of your delusional self-image, you have allowed time to waste. The others who are after the gold are no doubt already halfway to this ominously named Ghost Gulch, while you haven’t even left the building you live in.”

  “That doesn’t matter. Most of the others are on foot. Their horses got killed, remember?”

  “Yes, but so did yours.”

  “But, see, I’ll get another one.”

  Marcy turned to the right, then to the left in an exaggerated demonstration of looking around.

  “And where, pray tell, will you get a horse at midnight?”

  Lucifer smirked. “Watch and learn, my little metal lady.”

  Two doors stood in the small foyer they were in. One led out to the street. The other led to Glinda “Grandma” Hecuba’s private rooms (the entrance to the Bait & Booze Shop was around the corner, on Bloop Street). Lucifer rapped lightly on Grandma Hecuba’s door.

  Marcy exclaimed, “What in the Hog Nebula do you think you’re—”

  Lucifer shushed her. From the other side of the door came a series of creaks as someone crossed an old wooden floor. The creaks stopped at the door, and a low, distrustful voice said, “Who is it?”

  “It’s me, Ms. Hecuba. Lucifer Brown from upstairs.”

  There was a series of clicks, clacks, clunks, chacks, clinks, and rattles from the other side of the door as various locks were unlocked. Then the door opened just wide enough to reveal a thin, wrinkled face framed by long, limp locks of bathwater-gray hair. The woman threw a quick, disapproving frown at the drone hovering over Lucifer’s left shoulder, then fixed her gaze on Lucifer himself.

  “What d’ye want? It’s late, Mr. Brown.”

  Lucifer gave her a broad, beaming smile.

  “I’m very sorry to bother you, Ms. Hecuba, but I’m in kind of a sticky situation.”

  Ms. Hecuba’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Sticky? How d’ye mean?”

  “Well, I just discovered that some men are on their way to steal something that belongs to me. The problem is, I can’t do anything to stop them or try to get this item before they do, because one of them murdered my horse.”

  Ms. Hecuba’s mouth dropped open. “Oh! Your poor horse!”

  “So, um, I know this is asking a lot, but I was wondering if you’d be kind enough to loan me your horse for a couple of days?” He smiled. This time it was hopeful and boyish, like that of a kid asking his mom if he can stay up late.

  “That is indeed asking quite a lot, Mr. Brown,” Ms. Hecuba said with a frown. Her eyes studied Lucifer’s face, then she heaved a weary, put-upon sigh. “But I guess I can give ye Mr. Alexander for a couple of nights.” A shri
veled hand extended from the doorway and wagged a finger at Lucifer. “I’ll need him back afore Wednesday, though. Ye hear?”

  “I understand perfectly, Ms. Hecuba,” Lucifer said, ignoring Marcy’s muttered “Unbelievable,” behind him. “You’re a life-saver.”

  “Ye better take good care of the old boy,” Ms. Hecuba said. “I’ll hold ye pers’nally responsible if anything should happen to him.”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t even ask this much of you if it weren’t a matter of the utmost importance.”

  “Aye, well, I understand. Now give me a minute to get meself more presentable and grab the keys to the stable.”

  “Thank you so much, Ms. Hecuba.”

  The door closed. As Lucifer and Marcy waited in the dark foyer for Ms. Hecuba, Marcy said, “That was actually rather astonishing.”

  “Told you. It’s destiny.”

  “On the contrary. I believe your success in this instance arises from the fact that you are visually pleasing to other humans, particularly females, and have acting skills sufficient to convince the average person that you are a nice, well-meaning fellow rather than a vain, greedy, piggish, and self-absorbed crook.”

  “Well, yeah, but it’s not just that. Things have a way of working out for me. Most people slave like, well, like slaves just to put food on the table. All I have to do is put in a little token effort and everything just falls right into place. Plus, here’s another thing to think about: You yourself just said I’m visually pleasing, right? So you have to ask yourself just why am I so visually pleasing? Why was I born looking so damn good? Easy. It’s because my way has already been paved.” He smiled beatifically.

  Marcy just stared at him for a moment, then shook itself from side to side. “I was about to comment on the errors in your logic, but I’m not sure it even qualifies as logic.”

  Lucifer opened his mouth to reply, but then the door opened and Ms. Hecuba stepped out, now clad in a thick overcoat despite the warmth of the June night. In one hand she gripped a large iron key-ring crammed with keys.

  She gave Lucifer a brisk nod (she ignored Marcy completely), then led the way to the stable.