by J. P. Sloan
The words came out smoothly. Not rehearsed. They felt familiar as if I were pitching an actual client. But I knew I was only trying to lure him into something I couldn’t sell.
It was the bait-and-switch from Hell.
“My guess, I’m suffering from the rock.”
“Granted. But what got you started? You mentioned a mistress on your message.”
He stared down at the bar for a moment, then cracked his neck.
“Yeah. Her.”
“She introduced you to the drugs?”
“Bull’s-eye.”
“And you were cheating on your wife at the time? What led you to that?”
He turned to me slowly and shook his head.
“The kid.”
“Your kid made you cheat on your wife?”
“She put on, like, twenty pounds with the baby. And she never lost it. Went the wrong way, even. It was like she didn’t care anymore. You know? Didn’t want sex. Didn’t wear nothing but stretch pants and t-shirts. What was I supposed to do?”
If he had been a prospective client, I would have already walked out. This man was a victim of his own device. And by that, I mean he was an asshole who was reaping what he had sown.
He glared at me. “What?”
“I’m trying to get to the source of your hex. It would help if I determined when it took hold. Perhaps narrow down its source.”
“Whatever, man.”
I was starting to lose my guilt over handing this piece of work over to Osterhaus. Perhaps that was how he slept at night.
“How are you getting by? You lost your job and your home, right?”
“Got a guy I’m crashing with.”
“What about your prospects?”
“What fucking prospects?”
“Are you still smoking crack?”
He grumbled something unintelligible.
Through a sigh, I continued, “You’re clearly struggling under some kind of curse, Mister Brandt.”
A curse of his own making, but he didn’t need to hear that.
“No shit.”
I watched as he lifted a finger to order another beer, rolling his empty bottle on its base. It lost purchase and slipped from his finger, clattering on the bar with a sharp rebuke from the bartender.
This was going nowhere. I stood up and shoved the stool back to the bar. Brandt looked up at me with sudden animation.
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t feel I have your attention. If you’re not interested in helping yourself, that’s your call. Enjoy your life, Mister Brandt.”
I turned and made for the door. It was a gamble, but I sensed that he was getting off on controlling the conversation. Even if I was desperate for him to cooperate, my pride wasn’t going to take much more of this.
He almost let me reach the door before he called out, “Hold up.”
All right. Now I was driving this bus.
I turned and waited at the door, making him come to me.
He pulled a box of cigarettes from his pocket and pushed the door open. I followed him out to the street and to the side of the building. He lit up a cigarette, pulled off his sunglasses, and finally looked me in the eye.
“I know my situation’s pretty screwed. But I’m tired. Tired of wondering when the damn hammer’s going to drop. Look, like I said, this is pretty much my last shot.”
“I agree.”
He took a drag and squinted at me.
“What can you do for me?”
This was my opening. I hadn’t figured out how to actually pitch this, so all I could do was improvise. Good thing I’m pretty good at improvisation.
“I don’t think this is a hex, Mister Brandt. It’s a full-blown Nether Curse.”
“Curse, huh? Sounds worse.”
“It is. A hex is something I can clear without too much trouble. A curse, though? Those are powered by something darker. Older than Man. It’s already got its hooks in your soul, and the only way to navigate this is to break with your soul entirely.”
His eyes widened slightly, and he took a long pull from his cigarette.
“You’re talking about selling my soul.”
“That’s right.”
“You can do that?”
“Well, I can arrange it. The question is, are you ready to accept your fate? Considering your options, it’s a choice of a short life of misery and whatever fate you’ve earned after you die. Then there’s the alternative.”
He grinned.
“Gotta be better than this.”
“You need to be sure, Mister Brandt. This is your soul we’re talking about, after all.”
“Which may not matter. Right? I might have already totally fucked myself out of, well… whatever good is out there.”
“Possibly.”
He paced for a minute, then tossed his cigarette onto the ground and mashed it with his heel.
“Let’s do this.”
A strange mix of relief and dread flooded my chest. Somehow, I thought this would have been harder. The man had ruined his own life, and he blamed others for his downfall. His karmic worth was probably nil. He didn’t seem to really even believe in his own soul, much less give much thought to its disposition. And he was willing.
But as I looked at his bleary, but animated eyes, I realized that he was about to be damned. Regardless of his personal views on the afterlife, any hermeticist would feel reluctant to deal with that kind of permanence.
I told Brandt to sit tight while I contacted Osterhaus. I wandered back to my car to ensure a private conversation, and dialed Malosi’s number. He answered quickly.
“Yes?”
“It’s Dorian Lake. Is Osterhaus nearby?”
“Yes, he is.”
I waited for a pause, then continued, “I need to talk to him. I found one.”
“One what?”
“A replacement.”
That seemed to get his attention. Malosi handed me over to Osterhaus.
“So soon, Lake?” Osterhaus asked immediately.
“Yeah. This guy’s ready to roll.”
“Very well. Bring him to my office. I’ll be here for another hour and a half.”
“Suits me.”
I looked over to the Onyx Lounge, half-hoping Brandt had found a reason to chicken out. He was still hunkered in the alley, itchy on his feet, shuffling side to side. I started the car and pulled up to the front of the lounge. I unlocked the door and waved him in. When he sat down in the car, the smell booze and tar filled the interior. I kicked the air conditioner to the outside vent and moved us back onto Pulaski.
“What’s your price?” he asked.
“We’ll just get this done first, and we’ll settle up later.”
“No good. I don’t want you coming back for terms.”
“Fair enough.” I pondered his question as I turned west to the city. If I didn’t charge something, he might have felt suspicious of my motive. However, he didn’t look like he had a tremendous amount of discretionary funds to spend. Brandt looked like he was bone-weary and self-destructive, but he gave me the impression that his sense for bullshit wasn’t dulled by his circumstances.
“Truth is, I’m brokering your sale.” I gave him a sidelong glance to gauge his reaction. “I’m getting paid by someone else.”
He stared forward as we reached the shadow of the downtown buildings.
“All right.”
A line of brake lights flickered into view. A garbage truck attempted to make a three point turn in the middle of the city block. I slowed down the car and watched as impatient drivers tried to get creative with the available space on the road.
“So, what did you do?” I asked, desperate to break the silence. “Before everything went south?”
“Hmm?”
“For a living?”
He turned to me with a sour expression, then shrugged.
“Worked for the cable company.”
“Technician?”
“Manager.”<
br />
“Oh yeah?”
I couldn’t imagine the man in a uniform, much less a suit.
“Started off as a line tech, but I got a promotion to the East division technical office. Worked three months before they had a few guys transfer or quit for one damn reason or another.”
“Sometimes, it’s all about timing, right?”
“Yeah, I guess. Anyway, I made assistant manager, then my boss got promoted. I stepped up. Pulled down seventy kay before things…”
Money. Rapid money. So often people with Brandt’s appetites couldn’t handle wealth. They spend and indulge, and they get their first taste of the drugs they could never afford. Then it consumes the money and leaves them with nothing but the addiction.
“Well, maybe you’ll get a second chance, here. Do the things you should have done.”
He smirked.
“That’s the idea.”
The truck finally made its agonizing turn, and we proceeded through the city. Brandt fidgeted in his seat as we moved closer to Osterhaus. I figured the closer we got to the destination, the closer the gravity of the situation would press upon him. It wasn’t until I knocked on the door at the bottom of the basement steps that it occurred to me that he shouldn’t have known how close he was to our destination.
Malosi opened the door and gave us a studied look. I turned to Brandt and searched his face. He was hanging his head and curling his lip impatiently.
None of this was unfamiliar to him.
Malosi waved us in, and I stepped into Osterhaus’ office with a weight in my stomach.
Osterhaus sat at his desk, a parchment already spread out in front of him. He watched with a stolid face as Brandt wandered in behind me, hands in his pockets.
I squinted as Osterhaus said, “Mister Brandt, pleasure to see you again.”
Brandt didn’t make eye contact with me when I turned to him.
“Should have known,” I grumbled. “Rapid promotion. You cut a deal already, didn’t you? What were you trying to do, transfer your debt?”
He simply shrugged.
Osterhaus snickered as I paced away from Brandt.
“I assume you realize, Mister Lake, that I can’t accept a soul I’ve already acquired.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“I am heartened, though, to see you have dedicated yourself to the task. It couldn’t have been pleasant for you.”
I resisted the urge to give Osterhaus the finger.
Osterhaus let me baste in my own juices for a moment, then waved a hand to Malosi.
“Reed, perhaps you should escort Mister Brandt to the street, so that he doesn’t waste any more of our time?”
Malosi closed quickly with Brandt, who held up his hands and shuffled through the door. When the door closed behind Malosi, I found myself alone with Osterhaus.
He stood up from his desk and shuffled toward one of the display cases in the corner, opening the dark oak doors with a brass key. He slid a service out from the inside of the cabinet, holding a decanter and four crystal glasses.
“Bourbon, Mister Lake?”
“Yeah.”
Osterhaus chuckled as he busied himself pouring the whiskey. He handed me a glass with a shaking hand and stared at me as he took a belt.
“I knew it was too easy,” I mused. “Everything about him was just right. Guess you saw that a long time ago.”
“Actually, when he first came to me, he was a bright and hopeful technical school graduate with a young wife, a baby on the way, and a thirty-something mistress. It seems he hasn’t been quite the steward of his consideration as one would have expected.”
“Does this always happen to your victims?”
“I prefer to call them clients. And no. Some go on to become successful businessmen, celebrities, politicians, even family members. As with any boon, it depends on the person, and how they invest it.”
“Well, Carmen looks like hell. Like, not literally, but you know. Scared. Scared enough to bother with me, so that should mean something. It would if you knew me.”
He narrowed his eyes slightly and cocked his head.
“Ms. Gomez. She’s more than simply a friend, I’ll assume?”
“Not really. And it’s none of your business.”
“I don’t mean to intrude. Makes no difference to me, I assure you.”
I sipped his bourbon. It wasn’t bad.
“Tell me something. What’s going to happen to her when the contract is terminated?”
“Every benefit she received will be withdrawn with every consequence that entails. Often the forces that power the contract will exact a degree of penalty.”
“Define ‘penalty.’ We’re not talking about dollars and cents here, Osterhaus. Functionally, what will happen?”
He lifted a shoulder casually. “She will suffer.”
“Suffer?”
“I’m afraid I can’t be terribly specific. The nature of the penalty is entirely determined by the forces of the contract.”
“The Dark Choir, you mean?”
“An interesting term. But yes, there is a consciousness at work on some level we humans can’t fully understand.”
“Oh, I understand it all too well.”
Emil certainly understood it. It cost him his life, and possibly worse.
“Nonetheless, for a person with a sense of the hereafter, the penalty is an acceptable price to pay. I’m sure you would agree.”
“I do.”
He finished his bourbon and continued, “For a man like yourself, this is a simple concept to grasp. Happily, not everyone in the world is blessed with such an understanding. Otherwise, I would have no work. No, most do not accept the permanence of the soul. On an animal level, the average Tom Brandt doesn’t really believe he will be damned.”
I set down my glass and stepped toward the door.
“Carmen believes. And if you had an ounce of decency, you wouldn’t ask me to do this.”
“Tell me, Mister Lake, what have you learned today?”
“Sorry?”
The door opened, and Malosi nearly bowled into me as he checked to see if we were behaving ourselves. I held up a hand to keep him at a comfortable distance, and shook my head.
“Finding Brandt,” Osterhaus said, “what did you see that you have never seen before? Something in the human condition, perhaps? Something in a man you would never think twice about?”
“I saw a man who was out of options. He was reaching for his last lifeline.”
“And now he is denied that.”
“Looks that way. What’s your point?”
“We shall see. Should you complete this little errand for me, we shall finish this conversation.”
Malosi opened the door again and gestured outside. He didn’t escort me to the top of the stairs, which suited me. I was in no mood for chatting.
I shuffled back to the car, and had my keys out when I spotted Brandt lurking by a dumpster. I braced my keys in the palm of my hand, ready to stab him if he decided to get physical.
“Hey,” he whispered, gesturing for me to approach.
I shook my head, and he inched closer.
“Hey.”
“What?”
“Just wanted you to know, it’s nothing personal.”
He jerked his head and stared over to a shaded alley corner behind the dumpster, his eyes wide.
“Okay. Well, we’re done here,” I grumbled.
“I don’t know what business you got with Osterhaus,” he muttered, “but watch your ass.”
“That was my plan, but thank you.”
“He doesn’t tell you what really happens.”
“Come again?”
He stepped closer and whispered, “What happens when the contract’s up. He doesn’t tell you what the shadows do.”
“The shadows?”
“They move.”
I blinked at Brandt and shrugged. “Okay.”
“I’m serious. They know. They know you’re ripe. Ready to
pick.”
He jerked again and moved behind me.
“See?”
The alley was still except for a plastic bag that blew in the breeze between buildings.
Brandt whimpered, “They’re coming for me.”
“Who?”
“The shadows.”
He stepped away from me, his face drawn in fear.
“Need a lift or something?” I offered.
He turned and walked out onto the sidewalk. “Don’t trust him,” he shouted before rushing out into the street.
A city bus slammed on its brakes, its wheels squealing in protest, but couldn’t slow its speed enough to keep from pounding into Brandt’s body. He flung forward, hurtling at unnatural angles into the oncoming lane. A sedan rolled over him, his skull popping against its undercarriage with a crack.
I fell backward against my car, staring in shock as the sedan driver jumped out in a panic.
It wasn’t long before police arrived, pushing the crowd to a reasonable distance. A fire truck followed in a few minutes, along with an ambulance. People came and stared, then left. Some walked by without stopping. Brandt’s body was ultimately loaded onto a stretcher and hauled away.
It had to have been a half hour before I moved. My neck was sore, and my mouth was dry. I stretched my neck and rubbed my eyes, trying to collect myself. As I turned to open my car, I found Malosi lingering by the basement steps, watching the scene on Light Street.
“Can you believe that?” he barked.
“I suppose I can.”
Malosi pulled off his sunglasses and gave me a nod. “I think you’d better get back to it.”
He turned back down the steps, disappearing with a thud of the door.
I drove away after the emergency vehicles had gone and the traffic jam had eased.
An image popped into my head as I found my way back to the MLK expressway. An image of Carmen standing in my house, jumping at nothing in particular. Her haunted eyes. Her dread.
Her fear.
The shadows were coming for her.
had just witnessed a suicide. Not just any suicide, either. I stood and watched as a man consigned himself to damnation.
Damnation.
The term was so archaic, so wrapped up in moral judgments and images of unnecessarily grim mythological torture that it was hard for a professional hermeticist to take it seriously. But a state of spiritual bondage existed for those that willingly bartered their soul to the Dark Choir. I couldn’t believe any competent hermeticist would claim to know what that state was like. And not knowing made it all the more terrifying.