The Miser's Dream

by John Gaspard

  “They aren’t his effects,” she said, placing her hands defiantly on her nonexistent hips. “They’re my effects. Mine to take. Mine to keep.”

  This statement was outrageous enough to make Tracy turn and look at the woman for the first time since we had stepped into the lobby.

  “Really,” she said, her voice still quavering with anger but now back down to a normal register. “And why is that?”

  The woman eyed the three of us, and then turned her glare directly on Tracy.

  “Because Tyler James is my husband.”

  This statement hung in the air for what seemed like a long time. Two other patrons, obviously recognizing the tone of the tableau as they headed into the lobby to buy a snack, quickly turned and headed back to the relative safety of the auditorium.

  “Regardless of your alleged marital status,” Tracy said, closing the distance between herself and the scary duo, “you are not entering that projection booth without a police order.”

  The twosome mirrored her actions, the man less confidently than his companion, so the three of them were now in a tight configuration in the middle of the lobby.

  “We’ll see about that,” the alleged Mrs. Tyler James hissed.

  Megan gave me a look and a head nod which could have meant either “let’s get out of here” or “get in there and do something.” I was hoping it was the latter, but when she tilted her head at the growing fracas I realized my options were down to one. Against my better judgment I stepped into the middle of the hostile trio.

  “Okay, okay, let’s just everybody calm down, take a breath and, well, calm down,” I said, sensing immediately that my future as a professional negotiator was limited. “I’m sure we can sort this all out like adults.”

  “Mind your own business, clown.” This was said by Mrs. James’ surly companion and I was tempted to point out, with his tiny hat on his oversized head, he resembled a clown far more than I did. But instead I attempted to use humor to deflate the situation.

  “Hey, hey,” I said, using my “hey, we’re all having a good time here” tone. “Watch it. Some of my best friends are clowns.”

  If nothing else, this got their attention and they both turned toward me as Tracy stepped behind me.

  “Why is this any business of yours?” Mrs. Tyler James asked, and her companion nodded menacingly in support.

  That’s a good question, I thought. Really an excellent notion. Why was this any business of mine? Feeling the need to supply some justification for my presence in this conflagration, I finally stammered, “Well, I found Tyler’s body.”

  This must have given me some small sense of authority, for the woman turned her full attention on me as Tracy faded behind me.

  “He’s got some of my stuff,” she said. “He’s got stuff at my place, I’ve got stuff at his place, and I want to get my stuff.”

  “I thought you said you were married to him?” I asked, more intrigued than I really had any right to be. “Why do you live in different places?”

  This led to a deep sigh and a shake of her unruly hair. “It’s a sad situation. We were separated on a temporary basis in order to work individually on some recurring issues in our relationship.”

  I gestured toward the lanky hipster to her left, who had been nodding in agreement at her pronouncement. “Who’s this, your marriage counselor?”

  She clucked her tongue and sighed heavily. “Gunnar is a dear, platonic friend who is helping me through this very stressful time,” she said, using a phrase I suspect she had taken from countless celebrity tabloids. Gunnar dutifully nodded in concurrence.

  “Really.” I tried to make this sound like I was agreeing with her, but she must have heard the sarcasm buried deep beneath it.

  “Hey, don’t think Tyler didn’t have his own share of tramps, morons and nitwits during our separation,” she added defensively. Gunnar again nodded along and then stopped in mid-nod as the full weight of her statement landed. He had no time to really consider it, as the Widow James was just getting warmed up.

  “As Tyler’s legal, common-law wife, I have every right to reclaim items which might have been in his possession at the time of his demise, but which are in reality my property. The police wouldn’t let me into his apartment,” she continued, gesturing in Tracy’s direction, “but I’ll be damned if this tall drink of bathwater is going to prevent me from reclaiming my personal property from my late husband’s place of employment.”

  She and Gunnar made a move toward the stairs to the booth, but I quickly sidestepped and put myself in their path.

  “Look, nobody wants any trouble, least of all me,” I said quickly. “But if you persist in this course of action, I have to warn you I will have no other option but to call the police.”

  “And if you don’t get out of my way,” Gunnar growled, “I will be forced to punch your lights out.” He curled the fingers of his right hand into a fist and held it in the air, in some sort of pre-punch pose he might have seen in a movie.

  “I would not recommend that,” I said in what I hoped was a firm voice, free of any errant high-pitched cracking. “I have several very close friends in the police department and I can assure you I have them on speed dial.” As if to prove my point, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and held it up in the air. Like that might scare them, it being a phone and all.

  Oddly enough, it did. First Gunnar’s eyes went wide and then Mrs. James’ face began to pale as well. They began to back away from me, so I advanced on them, holding up the phone the way Professor van Helsing would hold up a crucifix to ward off Count Dracula.

  “Let’s just put this little incident behind us. You two hit the road or I hit the speed dial button—and it’s number one on my speed dial—and you can tell the rest of your story downtown with the one and only Homicide Detective Fred Hutton.”

  This last threat must have done the trick, as the motley pair turned and burst through the lobby doors and out into the falling snow. They scurried across Chicago Avenue and disappeared into the night.

  “With people like that,” I said confidently, turning to Megan as I returned my trusty phone to its resting place in my coat pocket, “the threat of the police is always a strong motivating factor.”

  Megan smiled and nodded, and then looked from me to Tracy. I turned to look at her and realized that, during the course of my short exchange with the duo, she had ducked behind the candy counter. She had returned with a very solid and menacing baseball bat, which she now slung casually over her shoulder. I suspect her pose moments before had been far less relaxed and was likely the actual motivating force behind the couple’s quick departure.

  “And of course there’s the baseball bat,” I added. “Which is also a motivating factor.” I looked to Megan to see if any shred of my masculinity remained.

  “I thought I was number one on your speed dial?” she said, barely masking a look of hurt.

  As the universe had predicted, it was going to be just that sort of day.

  Chapter 15

  Despite the short debacle over who, in fact, held the Number One position on my speed dial, the rest of my evening with Megan was surprisingly pleasant, with no bursts of jealousy on my part that had marred our other recent encounters. It helped that Quinton’s name never came up.

  The only interruption during the evening was the quick phone call I made to Deirdre to report our near-violent encounter at the movie theater.

  The call confirmed Mrs. Tyler James’ assertion that the police had denied her access to Tyler’s apartment and I also learned they had rejected her request to claim his body from the morgue. Deirdre, being surprisingly chatty, went on to explain that Minnesota doesn’t recognize common-law marriages, which put Mrs. James’ dubious claims on even weaker footing.

  After scrounging through Megan’s remarkably sparse refrigerator and larder, I cobbled together a decent
spaghetti sauce, pasta and salad. Both were exponentially improved by a bottle and a half of red wine. I noted that Megan’s wine rack was clearly not suffering from the same lack of attention she paid to the pantry.

  “You certainly were brave tonight,” Megan said out of the blue during a short lull in the conversation while I opened the second bottle of wine. “I mean, facing down those two creeps. And you didn’t even know Tracy had gone to get a baseball bat, did you?”

  I shook my head and smiled smugly, as one does when one has demonstrated meritorious bravery.

  “What choice did I have, really?” I said, refilling her glass and topping off mine. “I considered shirking, but how would that look? I mean, come on, I’m no shirker.”

  “You don’t shirk,” Megan agreed.

  “And as a basketball player, Tracy has a lot more experience in scuffles and such. I couldn’t be shown up by a mere girl.”

  “At over six feet, there is nothing mere about that girl,” Megan said as she sipped. “Hey, did I mention how horrible customers were today?”

  “You might have said something in passing,” I said as I slid back into my chair. “But I never get tired of hearing about horrible New Age customers and their petty, self-righteous but environmentally-friendly needs.”

  That was all the push she needed. I sat back, sipped my wine and smiled as she recounted multiple examples of their innate horribleness.

  The next morning I knocked lightly on Harry’s door on the way up to my apartment, in order to join him in our daily breakfast ritual. However, when he didn’t appear after repeated knocking, I hit the Number One on my speed dial, making a mental note to move Megan to that slot as soon as possible. Harry answered on the third ring and the tiredness in his voice gave me my answer before I even raised the question.

  “Thanks, Eli,” he said quietly, “but I’m beat. I think I’m going to sleep in for another hour. Are you okay to get breakfast on your own?”

  I assured him I was. I started to head up to my apartment, but on the spur of the moment I decided to head over to the coffee shop on the other side of 48th Street. A change of locale for breakfast would do me good, I decided, and since I was already bundled up for the cold, it felt like the notion had been almost predestined.

  Five minutes later I was sipping coffee and biting into a warm, flaky croissant with a chocolate center. I flipped open my iPad and was deeply engrossed in an article in Genii magazine about the pros and cons of the Erdnase bottom palm when my cell phone buzzed. I noted it was 9:01 and then answered the phone.

  “You’re at work early.”

  “The early bird has got nothing on me,” said the far-too-chipper voice of my agent, Elaine. “I’m calling with a last minute gig for tonight. You interested? Available?”

  I was both, but my primary reaction was one of tempered wariness. I hadn’t heard from the elusive Mr. Lime in several days and this sort of last-minute gig scenario was his favorite gambit as a set-up for his patented creepy one-on-one meetings.

  “Probably,” I said noncommittally. “Is this a client you’ve worked with in the past or is this a one-off?”

  “Oh, this is a meeting planner I’ve known for years. A bit flighty, not great with details, a bit of a lush and a complete clotheshorse, but a real sweetheart,” she said in what could have been a perfect self-assessment if she had been so inclined. “Seems she got the call at o-dark thirty this morning from up on high that the one thing missing for her client’s event tonight was some walk-around close-up magic. She called me. I called you. And here we are.”

  Here we were indeed, I thought. With the client properly vetted, I quickly decided to accept the offer, as my evening was open and—still stinging from Harry’s recent criticism—I could always use the chance to polish my act to a level close to that of the almighty Quinton Moon.

  “Sure,” I said. “Text me the details and I’ll make you proud.”

  “You always do. Now I’ve got to deal with the fallout from a recalcitrant and possibly inebriated piano player who got mad at a gig last night and played ‘Piano Man’ for two hours straight,” she said with a laugh.

  “What was his excuse?”

  “He claimed once you get into the song, there’s no way out,” she explained with another laugh. “To be honest, he might have a point.”

  “We lead weird lives,” I said.

  “We do indeed,” she replied, still laughing as the phone clicked.

  “You know what Hunter S. Thompson said to do when the going gets weird?” The voice behind me was familiar and though I couldn’t identify him on a conscious level, my unconscious reacted with a chill which ran the length and breadth of my body. I turned and looked up to see Mr. Lime. He gestured to the empty chair across from me and I nodded more out of habit than agreement.

  I had never seen him ambulatory and was surprised at how tiny he actually was, noting he wasn’t much taller standing than I was in a sitting position. He moved like a marionette being operated by a drunken puppeteer, as if each joint was being operated separately and badly. I had also never seen him in the sunlight, and the early morning glow bouncing off the snow outside made his skin look even more translucent, not unlike the visible man model we used in biology class in high school.

  Recognizing, correctly, that I was at a loss for words, he continued his explanation as he lowered himself into his seat. “Mr. Thompson opined, ‘When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.’ It’s an odd expression, but once you hear it you’ll be surprised at the number of applications to which it applies on a day-to-day basis.”

  I felt my brow began to furrow as I worked on forming a question, but he waved it away with his bony hand, which looked so thin I suspect it didn’t even move the air as he passed it in front of me.

  “Not to worry, Mr. Marks, I’m not following you. On the contrary, I was on my way to see you this morning. Harpo,” he continued, gesturing toward the counter, “stopped into this lovely establishment to purchase some tea to help me stave off the chill and came back to the car with the happy news that you were already comfortably ensconced within.”

  I looked over at the queue which had formed at the counter and recognized Mr. Lime’s silent henchman patiently waiting in line, just like anyone off the street. He saw I was looking at him and gave me a subtle tip of his nonexistent hat. I turned back to Mr. Lime, who now for the fourth time in my life was seated across from me, smiling his skull-like grin from ear to ear. Seeing him there, right out here in public, was wildly disconcerting, like seeing a mermaid sitting poolside at the YMCA…if that mermaid were a scary old psychopath.

  “You were coming to the store?” I said. Saying the words aloud provided a chill all their own. “To the magic store?”

  “Yes. I have never seen your establishment and figured by this time you’ve most likely had the chance to interview the four suspects I had suggested to the police. I’m looking forward to hearing your thoughts and am, admittedly, impatient by nature.”

  Again he smiled and again it was all I could do to keep from jumping up and running out of the coffee shop, screaming into the snowy morning.

  It took effort, but I was able to suppress the desire, but at the same time I made a mental note that it would always provide a good hip pocket option.

  “Did you have a chance to meet with them?” He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, and then intertwined his bony fingers and settled his chin upon them. The look would have been coquettish if he were a seventeen-year-old high school cheerleader, but the sheer ingenuousness of his pose simply made it all the more dark and frightening. “Did they prove thought-provoking?”

  The question was presented innocently enough, but it was backed by such menace that—for a moment—I had a sudden fear for each of my interview subjects, sensing one or more could be in some form of homicidal peril.

  “Each was thought-pr
ovoking in his or her own way,” I began, not at all sure where I was headed. “I haven’t spent much time in the past with extremely wealthy people.”

  Lime clucked his tongue and nodded. “Yes, money does…” He paused, thinking for a long moment. “It does funny things to people,” he finally said, putting a spin on “funny” which made it sound anything but.

  It looked like he had more to say on the topic, but Harpo arrived at this moment, bearing a cardboard cup of tea which he placed gingerly in front of Mr. Lime. The old man removed his elbows from the table and leaned back as Harpo reached past me for the sweetener options. He found two packets of actual sugar and opened them daintily, to ensure—I suspected—that no errant crystals found their way to the front of Mr. Lime’s well-tailored black overcoat.

  With the sugar safely deposited in the cup, Harpo produced a stir stick and gave the liquid what appeared to be the standard and regulated number of stirs. He tapped the wet stick on the side of the cup and then stepped away as silently as he had arrived.

  Mr. Lime reached for the cup with both hands, looking up at me as he did. “Excuse me,” he said, “but I have a bit of a chill.”

  “Me too,” I agreed and we each raised our respective cups to our lips. He gurgled softly while sipping his tea. For my part, I couldn’t take my eyes off his hands.

  They were clasped tightly around the cardboard cup and I swear I could actually see the coffee shop logo through his rice paper skin.

  He swallowed happily, set the cup down and licked his lips, his tongue darting in and out of his mouth like it was afraid of the sunlight. He smiled up at me and gestured with both hands.

  “Proceed,” he said. “I am very anxious to hear about your adventures.”

  Mr. Lime was remarkably quiet throughout my recap, nodding encouragingly and offering an occasional “Ah,” or “Oh, yes, I see,” but otherwise letting me recount the substance of the interviews, and my alleged perceptions, at my own halting pace.