by Steven Brust
I put my back against one of the side walls, closed my eyes, and let the tears come.
16
NOODLES DONOVAN
He appeared after the slipwalk, and clapped his hands to turn the light on. At first, he thought Nagorski wasn’t there and he started to panic, but no, there he was, huddled up at the top of the stairs. Awake, too: When the lights came on he covered his eyes and used language Grandma would have rapped Donovan’s knuckles for.
Donovan took his time going up the stairs. He smelled urine.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to keep you here so long. Let’s go get you cleaned up. You can use my shower, and I have a spare bathrobe.”
Donovan took his arm—Nagorski didn’t seem inclined to resist. The door had unlocked when Donovan had turned on the lights. He checked the peephole to make sure the laundry room was empty, then turned the handle, opening up the door and the wall behind it.
He guided Nagorski carefully around the folding table—his eyes had obviously not adjusted yet. Donovan led him to the elevator. They did not, fortunately, run into anyone on the way to Donovan’s apartment.
By the time they got there, Nagorski was obviously seeing better. Donovan pointed him toward the bathroom. “Towel and bathrobe hanging on the door. Take your time; the one nice thing about this place is that there’s plenty of hot water, though the water pressure kinda sucks. I’m going to cook us something. Do you eat meat?”
Nagorski nodded and stumbled into the bathroom, shut the door.
Donovan had some hamburger defrosted, so he cooked it up along with some tomato sauce and a few spices, then turned the heat down and boiled some macaroni.
Nagorski came out of the bathroom and stood there while Donovan drained the pasta, put it on some plates, poured the hamburger over it, and added some Parmesan cheese. “There,” he said. “Noodles Donovan. Want a beer?”
He nodded and Donovan got them each one.
“Donovan,” he said. “That’s your name?”
“Yeah, and if you call me Mellow Yellow I’ll hit you again.”
They sat at the kitchen table. The day before, it had been him and Marci and Susan.
Susan.
Shit.
Nagorski was pretty hungry, so Donovan just let him eat, and then realized that he was, too. He got them each seconds, and another beer. He had three bottles left from the case. Always keep track of how much beer you have.
When they’d both gotten some food down, Donovan went off and grabbed a pair of old coveralls. “Not what you’d call stylin’,” he said, “but you should be able to fit into them, and they don’t smell like piss.”
Nagorski nodded, then went off to change. When he came back, Donovan didn’t make any remarks about what Nagorski looked like in them. Instead he said, “So, tell me something—”
“Is this the interrogation?”
“Yeah. If you don’t answer, I might torture you by making you get the next beer. I just want to know, for my own curiosity, how it started.”
“How it started? Jesus. I got a job, and I got married. What the fuck. How it started. I don’t know.”
He was tired, Donovan could see that. No, not tired, weary. A bone-deep kind of weariness, where you feel like you’ll never be truly rested again.
“Nick—can I call you Nick?”
“Yeah.”
“Nick, I’m not about torture, or putting pressure on you, or whatever. But my friend is dead, and I’m sort of a little ripped up about it. So if you don’t want to talk about shit, then okay, don’t. But if you start getting sarcastic with me, I’m going lose it all over your face. Feel me?”
Nick nodded.
“So, yeah. I’m curious about what happened. Like I said, you don’t have to tell me. But you seem like a nice guy. Like someone who wouldn’t do that stuff I know you did. I just wonder why.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said.
“All right. That’s cool. I’m pretty sure I know most of it anyway.”
They continued eating.
After about five minutes, Donovan said, “Except there’s this one piece I just can’t figure out.”
“What’s that?”
“The time-stop.”
“What about it?”
“That was your heavy artillery, man. That was the one you could have been saving for an emergency. Why blow it so early?”
“Charlie’s idea. He—you know about Charlie?”
“Your supplier? Yeah.”
“He needed me to be convinced. I mean, in magic. We couldn’t do anything more if I didn’t know, all the way into my bones, that it was real. And, man, when I clicked that thing, and walked through that restaurant full of, like, statues. It was weird. It was creepy. I mean, if you ever want someone to know for sure that this shit is real, have him cast that.”
“I get it,” said Donovan. “Makes sense.”
They went back to eating.
A little later, Nagorski said, “I had a list, you know.”
Donovan kept eating.
“It was—I had to—it was supposed to work out different.”
Donovan nodded.
“It was in order of how fucked up they were. Charlie gave me the details about them. He said he had his own thing going, but he wouldn’t tell me what it was, just that he’d help me with Whittier, if I’d help him with the others. There was a whole plan.”
“I know,” said Donovan. Under the table, he started his cell phone recording.
“The first one on the list,” said Nagorski, “was Georgio Byrne Lawton-Smythe.”
* * *
Marci wheeled herself back to her room, took a long, slow breath, then made a call. It was answered at once. “Sweetie! Where are you?”
“I’m all right, love. I got banged up a little, but nothing serious.”
“Jesus, honey! What does ‘banged up’ mean?”
“My legs hurt, but that’s all.”
“What happened?”
“An accident.”
There was a long pause from the other end. Then, “I hate this.”
“I know.”
There was another long pause. “All right. What do you need me to do?”
Marci felt herself smiling, and felt tears at the same time. “Feed the goldfish?” she said.
“We don’t have a goldfish.”
“Oh, right.” She sniffed. “Okay, never mind that then.”
“Are you okay? You sound like—”
“I’m fine. You’re just making me fall in love with you all over again, and it isn’t fair.”
“Ha,” he said. “My fiendish plan works.” He sounded like he was crying, too.
“I’ll be home in a couple of days. I may need crutches for a while, to be safe—”
“Crutches!”
“I promise, it’s nothing serious.”
“All right.”
“Should we get a goldfish?”
“Maybe. It’ll give me something to do when you get banged up.”
“We’ll talk about it. I’ll see you soon.
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
* * *
Nick had gotten Donovan up to the point where he was about to use magic to murder a California State Senator when the buzzer rang. Nick stopped talking and looked at him. Donovan shrugged. “I’m not expecting anyone.”
He got up and pushed the intercom button. “Hello?”
“Hey, Donovan. Can I come up?”
Matt. Well, son of a bitch.
“I can’t think of anyone in the world I’d rather see. Uh, are you armed?”
“Yes.”
Well, fuck. Donovan thought about it, then said, “Do you have beer?”
“No.”
“Go get some, then come back.”
“Sam Adams all right?”
“In that case, hurry back.”
“All right.”
Donovan sat down again.
“Who�
�s that?” said Nick.
“Someone who wants to be a good guy.”
“Yeah, don’t we all.”
Nick went back to his story as if there’d never been an interruption. Half an hour later the buzzer sounded again. Donovan buzzed Matt in, and opened the door when he knocked. He stood there, wearing a coat that was a bit too big for him—something of an accomplishment. Donovan took the case of Sam Adams and went into the kitchen, sticking all of it in the refrigerator. He brought Matt one.
“Well,” said Donovan. “I assume you’re here to get your cell phone back? Bad news about that. It’s kind of in pieces.”
“Oh, you found it?”
“Well, you know, it wasn’t like you hid it all that well.”
“Yeah.”
“This is Nick. Nick, meet Matt. Nick worked for the guy who hired you to kill us.”
“I didn’t work for him,” snapped Nick.
“Right. Sorry. He was working with the guy who hired you to kill us.”
They sat down, Matt on the other side of the couch from Nick.
“I’m checking those cushions this time when you leave,” said Donovan.
“How are things?”
“Susan is dead.”
Matt stared at him. “How—”
“We ran an operation. Things went bad.”
“I’m sorry. Shit. Was that in Connecticut?”
“How the fuck—”
“I got a call from a guy named Becker, who wanted me to show up there. I missed my flight and by the time I got there it was all over except the flashing lights.”
“Mother fuck,” said Donovan.
“I’m sorry.”
Donovan nodded, and focused on his kitchen window for a while. Then he said, “Nick was just telling the story of his life. Want to listen?”
“Sure.”
“Carry on, Nick. He’ll get to hear about all the excitement he missed.”
Nick nodded and continued his story.
* * *
Manuel Becker sat down at his computer. He typed in the password: a random set of numbers, letters, and symbols that he memorized anew every week when he changed it. He opened the file called “Personnel” and let his mouse hover over “Kouris, Susan Dionisia.” He clicked it. He checked the box marked “Deceased.” When another screen opened up, he checked the box marked “Line of duty.” He meticulously filled out the other fields that would see to it that death benefits and funeral costs would be released, then clicked “Close.”
With her file still open, he clicked on “Next of kin.”
It read: “Father: Andras Lyric: South Barrington, Illinois, USA. Mother: Dionisia Kasia: South Barrington, Illinois, USA.” It gave a single phone number for both of them.
Becker picked up the phone and started to punch in the number, stopped, and stared at the hand holding the phone. He tried to think of the last time his hands had trembled. He couldn’t remember.
He punched in the number.
* * *
Nick spoke about waking up in the narrow stairwell, reciting it almost in a monotone up to the point where he fell asleep. Then he stopped and looked down at the remains of his food.
Donovan got up and cleared the plates, put them in the sink.
“Well,” said Donovan. “Okay. That gives me some stuff to play with.”
Nick nodded. “Now what?”
“Now what? What do you mean?”
“What happens to me now?”
“Oh. Now you finish your beer.”
“Then what?”
“Then I make a call to a guy named Becker, and he comes and picks you up.”
“What’s he going to do?”
“Talk to you.”
“Is that all?”
Donovan shrugged. “I don’t know exactly. And, you know, I don’t care all that much.”
“I—”
“Shut up. I got some sympathy for you. Some. You went through bad shit. I get that. But you know, you’re a fucking psychopath. How many people have you killed in two weeks? A lot of people had their lives fucked up, they didn’t go on a magic murder spree. So shut your hole, and finish your beer.”
Nick finished his beer. Donovan felt Matt looking at him, but didn’t look back.
Donovan turned to his computer and brought up Skype. “Mr. Becker,” he said when the pale bald guy came on. “I have Nicholas Nagorski here for you. You want to come fetch him?”
Becker gave no indication that there was anything surprising in the call. “Can you deliver him to your slipwalk room? We’ll pick him up from there.”
“Sure. Five minutes.” Then he looked at Nick. “Let’s go. You can keep the coveralls.”
Ten minutes later, Donovan let himself back into his apartment. He got himself a beer, drank some, nodded to Matt. “That’s done,” he said.
“Now it’s my turn,” said Matt. “What’s next?”
“You want to help?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
He picked up his phone, and punched in a number.
“Hey, Marci. How you feeling?”
“I’m okay. I still can’t walk.”
“Still in the infirmary?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Hang tight. We’re going to get this taken care of.”
“I know.”
“You remember Matt.”
“Sure.”
“He’s working with us now.”
“You trust him?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
“When can you be here, Marci?”
“The casts come off tomorrow, but I’ll be on crutches. If you don’t mind, I don’t.”
“I don’t. I need you here. We got to deal with this.”
“Yes,” said Marci. “We do. And we will. I’ll be there tomorrow.”
“What about your boyfriend?”
“I’ll talk to him. It’s all right. I’ll be there tomorrow.”
“See you then.”
He disconnected and said, “Matt, do me a favor and take a walk, all right? I need to make a couple of calls, and I’d rather do it alone. Give me an hour.”
“See you in an hour,” said Matt.
When he was gone, Donovan brought up Skype and punched in a number.
“Mr. Longfellow.”
“Mr. Becker. I need contact information for Susan’s next of kin.”
“I’ve made that call already, Mr. Longfellow, so you don’t need to.”
“I don’t give a fl—” Donovan closed his eyes, opened them again. “If it’s all the same to you, Mr. Becker, I would like to call as well.”
Becker hesitated. “I need to tell you the cover story.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Mr. Longfellow, this is not a negotiable matter.”
“Mr. Becker, I have no intention of telling them how she died, or anything related to her death beyond hearing that it happened. Yeah, I’m going to lie to them. I’ll leave it to your imagination how much I like doing that. But I’m going to. I knew her; I worked with her; I cared about her. I would like to call and express my sympathies to her family even if I have to lie to do it. But I’m not going to play your game. Please provide me with the contact information.”
There was a short pause, then, “One moment, Mr. Longfellow. There. It should arrive in your email shortly.”
“Thank you, Mr. Becker.”
While he was waiting to make the unpleasant phone call, he made an unpleasant Skype call.
“Well, this is a surprise, Chumpy. You forget about me for almost a year, and now two calls within a week.”
“It’s not good, Grampa.”
“Oh. What happened?”
Donovan’s mouth felt dry. He was suddenly afraid that if he didn’t say it Croshack would guess, and that would be worse, so he blurted it: “Susan is dead.”
He watched on the screen as the old man’s head drooped. The silence went on for a long time, until finally Grampa
looked up and said, “Oh, Chumpy. I’m so sorry. Was it the thing you called me about?”
“Yeah. A rogue sorcerer backed by a couple of foot soldiers and a guy with an artifact that strips magical defenses. It was a mess.”
“And you’re blaming yourself, aren’t you?”
Donovan laughed in spite of himself. “Sure. And Marci is blaming herself. A guy you’ve never met who isn’t even part of this is blaming himself. Even Becker is blaming himself. We got a whole thing going down here. Gonna get T-shirts.”
“Well, don’t leave me out of it.”
“Huh. I think you’re the one person who’s got no reason to beat himself up over this.”
“More reason than the rest of you, Chumpy. I’m sorry.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Shut up and let me talk. It’s the least I can do.”
“I … all right, I’m listening.”
“Years ago I was ordered to keep a secret. I kept it. I shouldn’t have. Hang on a minute. I need a glass of water. No. I need a whiskey. Be right back.”
Donovan got up and poured himself a horseradish-infused vodka on the rocks. When he returned to the screen, Crosheck was already there. He gestured toward the drink in Donovan’s hand and said, “Good choice,” then had a drink himself. He didn’t sip it; Donovan watched as the old man tossed it down, then poured himself another, which he set somewhere out of sight of the camera.
“The secret,” he said. “I was on the team that caught Becker and stripped him of his sorcerous ability.”
“Fuck,” said Donovan. Then, “That’s a lot to take in, old man. For one thing, it means Becker’s been lying a lot. Or misleading. He keeps claiming not to know how sorcery works.”
“Yeah, he knows. He has many faults, has our Mr. Becker, but excessive trust has never been among them.”
“Fuck. Okay, you’d better tell me about it.”
“He—Becker—used to be with the Mystici. He was a sorcerer in their R and D division, which is considerably bigger and better funded than ours. And mostly, their R and D department works on good things, or at worst harmless. It’s all the other stuff the Mystici do that got to him.”
“I know about some of that. There’s probably a lot I don’t know.”
“Yeah, me too. So Becker and another guy got pissed off at all the bad things the Mystici were doing, or allowing to happen, and just started going after the worst of them. Near as we could tell, one or the other of them had a brother or sister or mother or father or wife who was killed by a sorcerer. The sorcerer was protected by the Mystici, so they weren’t allowed to take any action.”