by J. P. Sloan
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© 2014 J.P. Sloan
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he tricky thing about screwing with other people’s karma is, from time-to-time, it screws you back. I took quick stock of my personal karma as I stared at the end of Gina Desalo’s snub-nose revolver. I didn’t consider myself to be a bad person, necessarily. A man in my line of work has to take a somewhat liberal view of morality, after all. But it wasn’t my view of morality that mattered at the moment.
It was Gina’s. After all, she was the one holding the gun.
“What did Jackie ever do to you?” she sputtered from across the table, her hands shaking from what I hoped was anger, and not drugs. Anger I could work with.
“Who’s Jackie?” I whispered.
In hind sight, I could’ve come up with a dozen more intelligent, survival-motivated responses, but having a gun shoved in my face wasn’t doing the logic center of my brain any favors.
Gina slammed a hand down on the worn Formica card table between us.
“You know God damn well who.”
I really God damn didn’t.
“Thing is, Gina, I don’t even remember you. If we’ve done business―”
“You don’t remember me? You ruined my life, and you don’t remember me?”
“You’d think I’d remember something like that.”
The gun inched closer to my nose. I had to watch what I said, or Gina was going to redecorate this cheap motel room in Smartass Red.
“I know it was you. Jermaine told me.”
Jermaine. That name was familiar, but I was having trouble getting past the gun.
“You weren’t my client, then?”
“Jermaine told me he hired you. Gave me your name. Dorian Lake. How to find you. So I found you.”
She had the right man. But my brain was in a fog. I struggled with the name “Jermaine.” My life depended on remembering who he was and which exact service he paid for, but I couldn’t conjure it.
“Gina,” I said in a low, calm tone, “I seriously doubt anything I did could’ve ruined your life. That’s not the business I’m in. Now, I want to help. But to be frank with you, I’m having trouble thinking with a gun in my face.”
She jumped up, lunged over the card table, and gripped my sweater vest with a trembling hand, shoving the gun underneath my chin.
“I don’t care what you remember.”
Her breath reeked of whiskey and tobacco tar, and her eyes drooped. Doubting any kind of reason was going to pierce the liquor she’d guzzled before ambushing me in this hour-rate motel in Dundalk, I tried speaking a language she could understand.
“You really think I’m the one who ruined your life? What about Jermaine? He’s the one who contracted my services. He’s the one who ruined your life. I mean, I would have never known who you were if he hadn’t hired me.”
The truth was I still didn’t know who she was, but I needed her to refocus her rage long enough to keep my head from getting blown off my shoulders.
“He already begged me to forgive him before…”
I wasn’t crazy about where this was going.
“Before what?”
Her eyes narrowed, and she pursed her mouth a little. “Before he moved back in.”
“And did you? Forgive him?”
“What was I supposed to do?” she asked as she released my vest, waving her gun at the worn Santa Fe pattern drapes they always put in these motels. “He was sorry. I was sorry. Everything was the way it was before Terrance.”
“Okay, so who’s Terrance?”
She paused to wipe a tear from her eye with the thumb of her gun hand, then shook her head.
“You are Dorian Lake, right? You sell curses and shit?”
“That’s my name, but I don’t sell curses. Hexes and charms, but no curses.”
“The hell’s the difference?”
“There’s a world of difference, Gina, but I still have no idea who Terrance is.”
Gina sucked in a ragged breath and closed her eyes. “He’s the man I was seeing.”
My heart was pounding. I broke out in a sweat, and white-knuckled the card table. Despite the mental fog, however, something made my brain click.
Jermaine. Terrance. Gina.
“You were cheating on him.”
Gina looked up at me and trained the gun back on my face.
I held up my hands and shushed her. “I think I remember. You had an affair with Terrance, right? Jermaine found out about it, and you left him.”
She pushed closer with a fierce look in her eyes. “Keep talking.”
“Jermaine acquired my services. Yes, I do remember you, Gina. He bought a hex from me.”
“And it killed Jackie!”
I shook my head. “Not possible.”
“It is. It has to be.”
“This was two years ago, Gina. Besides, hexes don’t kill people. I wouldn’t deal in hexes if they did.”
“That’s not what Jermaine said.”
“If I recall, Jermaine isn’t exactly a rocket scientist.”
“No, he’s not.”
“I think this is a huge misunderstanding,” I said, gesturing at the other chair at the table. “Let’s talk it out.”
Gina’s eyes moved from me to her gun, and to the chair behind her. She eased slowly into it, keeping the gun aimed at my chest.
“Ok. Let’s talk.”
“Yes, I hexed you. And that sounds a lot worse than it actually is. Jermaine’s pretty heavy set, isn’t he?”
“He’s a fatass.”
“But you’re not. You’re a fit, attractive woman.”
Her eyes shifted uncomfortably, and I knew precisely why.
I continued, “When Jermaine found out about Terrance, he was angry. Understandably. But he knew there wasn’t anything he could do about it. Terrance is an athlete, right?”
“Yeah. He plays football.”
“Right. Jermaine wanted to hurt someone, but he couldn’t. So he came to me. I know a thing or two about revenge. What works and what doesn’t. I sat him down and walked him through his real issue. His self-image. His inadequacy.”
She rolled her eyes at me. “What’s the point?”
“I gave you an eating disorder, Gina.”
Her eyes widened, and her nostrils flared. “You what?”
“A hex isn’t a curse. It’s a close-ended realignment of your Fate. It has conditions for execution and for completion. It’s like a bump in your karma. If you have it coming, I coerce the Cosmos into shipping it to you ahead of schedule. In your case, you were cheating on your fat boyfriend with a football player.”
“Eating disorder?” she stammered.
“Right. The conditions of execution were that you were ditching Jermaine over something superficial. If I was successful, then you would binge eat until you gained enough weight for Terrance to dump you for the same reason.”
A fresh tear ran
down her face. “How can you do that?”
“It’s an ancient art form. Lots of practice. Lots of dead languages. Anyway, the hex should’ve dissipated when he left you. By the looks of it, that’s exactly what happened.”
“And that’s it?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
She lowered the gun a couple inches. “What about Jackie?”
“I still have no idea who Jackie even is.”
“She was my champion Brussels Griffon.”
I let go of the table and dropped my hands to my lap, blinking furiously.
“Jackie’s a dog?”
“She got sick last month. Vet said it was cancer, but it was so fast. She died two days ago.”
I forgot the gun for a second, trying to keep the veins in my head from bursting.
“You were going to shoot me over a dog?”
“She was my baby, Mister Lake! She suffered. Her little body was so tiny, so thin…”
A stream of tears flowed over her narrow cheeks. She looked pitiful sitting in her chair, now cradling the gun like a doll. I tried to summon a measure of sympathy, but all I felt was indignation.
“God damn it, Gina! I didn’t kill your dog. I don’t kill dogs, or anything else for that matter. I have too much self-preservation to deal in Netherwork.”
She wasn’t listening to me. She rocked in her chair, eyes closed, tears falling.
I reached over and snatched the gun from her lap. Standing up with the gun, an immediate rush of safety and control washed over me. My anger subsided as I watched her weep to herself in a heap of misery.
“Gina, look. I’m really sorry you’re hurting. But it’s likely your dog just got cancer. Shit happens, and the Cosmos doesn’t need people like me to make it happen.”
She sniffled and composed herself. After a long moment, she stood up, wiped off her cheeks, and reached out an open hand.
“Can I have my gun back?”
“I don’t think so.”
She sneered, then turned for the door. I watched as she struggled with the lock. When she finally managed to open it, she leaned against the frame glaring at me.
“What if Terrance didn’t leave me?” she asked. “What if we were in love?”
“Then the hex wouldn’t have taken. Fate’s funny like that.”
She sniffled and shook her head. “You disgust me, Mister Lake.”
“Goodbye, Gina.”
She left.
I leaned over the table, steadying myself as my head spun. I’ve had clients confront me before when a charm or a hex didn’t go according to plan, or their expectation. But this was the first time anyone had threatened to kill me.
The motel room was quiet and alien. A sense of unease crept over me, and I was overcome by a craving for something familiar. I needed to get home, or anywhere that felt safe. But I was in Dundalk, across the city from my two-story in the heart of Baltimore, and the sun was setting.
I plunged out into the evening, tossed Gina’s gun into a dumpster at the edge of the parking lot before getting into my Audi, and pulled out of the Shady Pines Motor Lodge with urgency. As I drove into the city, I spotted the sign for the Jones Falls Expressway onramp. Instead of going home, I found myself steering north toward Druid Hill.
And the club.
he Druid Hill Social Club, that white-bricked beauty, sat beneath the dark line of oak trees on top of the driveway, precisely as I remembered it. I put the car into park, and sat staring at the aging mansion, drumming my fingers against the steering wheel. My stomach was turning flips. This had been my second home, my turf, the one place I could always feel welcome.
Yet, as I sat in my car grinding my teeth, I wondered why I felt this intense anxiety. Halfway up the drive, I realized how long it had been since I’d last graced the old Club with my presence. I couldn’t imagine why I’d stayed away for so long. The Druid Hill Club was about as old as some of the Square States, founded just after the Civil War by Baltimore’s industry kings. Since that time, all manner of notable politicians and businessmen frequented the club for its atmosphere, seclusion, and the company of young women.
It was exactly my kind of joint.
“Hell with it,” I grumbled as I stepped out, my shoes crunching on the gravel alongside the pavement.
There was a time when I would drive directly up to the porte cochere, hand the valet my keys, and plunge into a world of discrete inebriation. By the time I reached the double oak doors, however, I didn’t even see a valet on duty. It was the first indication things had changed for the worse.
The second appeared in the form of a twenty-something coat girl giving me the evil eye as I stepped through the foyer.
“Sir? May I see your card?”
I paused and turned slowly to the girl. “Excuse me?”
“Your card. This is a members-only club, sir.”
Something about the way she said “sir” made me feel twenty years older.
I smirked at her and pulled my wallet.
“Okay,” I drawled as I handed her the dog-eared paper card I kept stuffed between the grocery store discount club card and my driver’s license.
She gave it a few seconds more scrutiny than I felt was necessary, but finally returned it with a chipper grin.
“Welcome back, Mister Lake!”
“You new here?” I asked as I pocketed my wallet.
“No, sir. Been here over a year.”
Over a year. Shit.
“Pleasure, Miss―”
“Kim.”
I gave Kim a nod, winking away a stabbing headache that was reaching over my right eyeball and driving an ice pick into my frontal lobe.
“I’m going to go drink heavily now, if that’s all right by you.”
She gave me a tight-lipped grin and melted back into the coatroom. Suited me.
I rubbed my temples and stepped into the great room, an open space vaulted by columns, decked in Persian rugs and worn furniture arranged in tight clusters for conversation. The occasional potted palm broke the space into islands of perceived privacy. I knew from experience that this privacy was an illusion, one I had capitalized on many times in the past.
It looked and felt like the old club, but it was stranger. Darker, somehow. As I wandered to the long mahogany bar along the near wall, it occurred to me what was missing.
People.
I checked the date on my watch. It was the fourth, Saturday night. The place should have been packed. The only patrons I could see were a group of young lions in business suits huddled in a corner, two of Mama Clo’s girls draped across their wingbacks.
“Dorian Lake, my God in Heaven,” a warm, husky voice called from the bar.
I turned to find Big Ben Setley gawking at me, a couple crystal lowballs drip-drying in his hands. Ben was a short, wide man with a broad, continually sweaty forehead and a double chin. He had a ruddy tone to his face that gave him the look of a man who had been dying from the same heart attack for the past three years, but no one had the heart to tell him. He may not have owned the club, but he was the man who kept it running.
“Evening, Ben.”
Ben stowed the glassware and dried his hands before shaking mine in a vise-like grip.
“Jesus, Dorian.” He stood wide-eyed for an uncomfortable moment, and I had to pull my hand away before he composed himself. “Thought you went back to New York.”
“No. I’ve been around. Catching up on sleep, washing my hair. You know.”
“Well, it’s damn good to see you, son.” He gestured to the end stool. “Sit! What’ll you have? Want your Glenny?”
My scotch. My vintage seventy-eight Glenrothes. Just what my frayed nerves needed.
“Figured you’d have sold it out from under me by now.”
Ben recoiled with a scowl. “Well, now I’m offended.” He pulled a stepladder from the end of the bar and added, “I’d drink it long before I sold it.”
He unlocked a tiny leaded glass door above the backbar, and produce
d my scotch, blowing a puff of dust off the bottle. As he busied himself with a controlled descent, I eyed one of the young lions approaching the bar with two empty martini glasses.
“Two more, Ben,” the blond haired executive purred.
Ben lifted a finger and nodded as he poured three fingers of my Glenrothes into a lowball. He gave me a wink and slid it slowly across the bar.
“Saints preserve you, Ben,” I muttered as I lifted the lowball to my nose and closed my eyes, transporting myself into the sheer sensation of a perfectly crafted spirit.
I could feel the blond man’s eyes on me as I took a sip, and lifted an eyebrow at him.
“Hi,” he chimed.
“Good evening.”
“What are you drinking, there?” he asked, nodding to my glass.
“Glenrothes seventy-eight.”
I didn’t feel like entertaining a stranger at that moment, and he was getting between me and my scotch lifeboat. However, as he sucked in a surprised breath, I realized he knew a thing or two about finer rye whiskey.
“Shit, Ben. You’re pouring Glenrothes, and you didn’t tell me?”
Ben chuckled as he poured gin into a shaker.
“Julian, if I could afford to pour Glenny, I wouldn’t be on this side of the bar. Belongs to Dorian, here. I just keep it for him.”
“Outstanding.” He turned to me with a ravenous expression in his eyes. “Where the hell did you find it? You travel to Britain?”
“No. I’d had a pretty good week, and a distributor’s rep found me two-and-a-half sheets into the evening.”
“Had a good week, huh? What do you do for a living?”
Here’s the point where I typically decide between aggressively marketing my admittedly peculiar trade versus playing it safe. Blondie was crowding my bar stool with a little too much unwarranted congeniality, so I went for aggressive.
“I sell hexes and charms for select clientele.”
The words hung there, like they usually do. Only, he wasn’t turned off. If anything, his eyes flickered with titillation.
“You sell hexes?”
“And charms.”
“That’s a hell of a living.”
I gestured at Ben. “Pour the man a finger, Ben.”
Ben shook his head with a snicker and obliged.