Supernatural 1 - Nevermore

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  John's mouth fell open. "You hold him?"

  Clare couldn't believe he'd even ask that. "Of course. But now when I try, he—he hisses."

  Bernie bit part of his lower lip for a second, which Clare thought was just adorable. "Clare, can I ask a favor?"

  "Of course," she said without hesitation. Then added with what she hoped was a coquettish smile, "You can ask."

  "Can we—can we see Dean?"

  That wasn't what she'd been hoping for, especially since it meant she would have to disappoint him. "I'm sorry, but I so totally can't. Right now, they're just letting me in there."

  John leaned forward. "Well, if you say it's okay—"

  "It's not up to me. They only let me in because I'm their handler. We may wind up sending them both back to Philadelphia because of this. I'm sorry, but I'll get in a huge amount of trouble, and—and then they won't even let me see them anymore."

  Bernie was cute, but he wasn't that cute. Hank and Dean were her boys, and she wasn't letting anything jeopardize her relationship with them.

  Not even Bernie.

  They asked a few more random questions and then they got up, which surprised and disappointed her. "Well," Bernie said, "thanks for your help. If you think of anything else to share with us, give me a call, okay?" He reached into his pocket and pulled out a ratty piece of paper. "I'm sorry, we're outta business cards. We ordered them, like, three weeks ago, and still nothing."

  All of a sudden alarm bells were going off in Clare's head. Why weren't they asking more questions? And they hadn't been taking notes or anything. Still, she took his phone number. She wasn't a complete fool. Maybe she could talk to him without his partner and his drooling. John shook her hand for a little too long and said, "It was a real pleasure meeting you, Clare. I hope Dean gets better."

  "Thanks." She broke the handshake before John did, and then watched them both walk toward the staircase that would take them up to other parts of the zoo, or to one of two exits.

  And that was it.

  Frowning, Clare stared at the number, which had a 650 area code. She was pretty sure that NG was located in Washington, D.C., and their area code was 202. She was also pretty sure that 650 was in California somewhere. Of course, that could've been Stanford's area code, in which case Bernie would've had it from when he went there, but why wouldn't he have changed it to D.C. when he moved there after leaving Stanford?

  And why didn't they ask more questions about Dean or the drugs that were used or any of the other questions on Frieda's list?

  She shook her head, got up, and walked over to the small wooden ticket booth near the entrance to Wild Asia.

  "Hey, Clare," the woman in the booth said, her voice echoing in the small booth and coming out through the glass partition. "What's up? Who were those guys you were talking to? The shorter one was hot."

  "Gina, can you call Bill for me? I need to talk to him."

  Bill was the head of security—and the one who fired Jimmy and Allan. Much as she hated to admit it, she was pretty sure he needed to know about John Mayall and Bernie Watson...

  FIVE

  On the road

  The Bronx, New York

  Thursday 16, November 2006

  "Nice work, givin' her your phone number."

  Sitting in the passenger seat, Dean had been hoping to get more than a sigh from his brother. But then, Sam was driving, since Dean had decided that he didn't want to get behind the wheel again until they were somewhere sane.

  Sam was rationalizing like crazy. "I just wanted her to be able to get in touch with us, in case—"

  "In case she wanted to stare at you some more? C'mon, dude, she was totally into you. I mean, I even brought her a napkin when she got all misty-eyed, and she barely noticed." He leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head. "She was tuned in to Sam-TV."

  "Well," Sam said, "maybe she appreciated somebody not trying so hard."

  "That was not trying hard. That was trying normal."

  "Maybe you woulda had better luck if you gave your real name." Sam grinned. "I mean, she obviously likes to hold guys named Dean. Or maybe you're not hirsute enough."

  Dean had been hoping Sam wouldn't bring that up. Not that there was a chance in hell that Sam wouldn't, but he liked to dream, sometimes. "Look, it's just—" Then Dean cut himself off. An orangutan had the same name as him. There was just no comeback for that, and he was a good enough poker player to know when it was better to lay down than to keep playing. "So what's the next step?"

  "You're just embarrassed 'cause you don't know what 'hirsute' means."

  "I'm not an idiot, Sam. It means hairy. Now will you focus for a second? What's our next step?"

  "You're the one carrying on about how she was into me,' and I need to focus?" Sam kept going before Dean could answer that. "It's almost six, I think we should head back to Afiri's, see if he's home."

  "Fine by me." It had taken the better part of a day just to get someone at the zoo to talk straight to them. It had taken all of his considerable charm and Sam's sincere facial expressions to convince the zoo brass that they just wanted to ask some questions for a magazine. "All we got for a day's work is that someone drugged the monkey, brought him out to do the two students, and then left it for Animal Control—which we pretty much already knew."

  "You think it was someone from the zoo?" Sam asked.

  Dean shrugged. "Maybe. That'd explain how they got past security, but—well, c'mon, you saw these people. Clare, that Frieda lady, they were nuts about the critters. They'd have to be to work there. I can't see one of them abusing an animal like that, just for some kind of literary re-creation."

  "If that's what this is." Sam sighed as he got off the crowded highway and into a tangle of traffic at the end of the exit ramp, making Dean wonder if there was an open road to be found anywhere in this stupid city. "I wish I could figure out what they're trying to do here."

  "No bells going off, huh?"

  Sam shook his head. "Not so far. I'll dig into Dad's journal tonight, see what's up. It's still another four days until the twentieth—that's the new moon, so that's probably when the next one's gonna be. So we've got time to figure it out."

  Eventually, they worked their way back to Afiri's place. Dean, who prided himself on an excellent sense of direction and on being able to find anything as long as it was on a road, had no idea how they got there. This whole area of the Bronx was hilly and twisty and turny and it gave him a headache. Give me flat, straight roads any day. San Francisco wasn't as bad as this.

  This time when they pulled up to Afiri's Colonial, there was a dirt-spattered four-by-four in the driveway with a bumper sticker that said, DON'T LIKE MY DRIVING? CALL 1-800-U-BITE-ME. However, there was a spot on the street next to the driveway, so Sam pulled into it. The front of the Impala was blocking the driveway a little, but Dean figured they were going to be in the house of the guy they were blocking, so no big deal, and it beat trying to find somewhere to parallel park.

  "Whoa! Ash wasn't kidding, that is one fine ride you got there!"

  Dean looked up as he got out of the car to see a man standing on the porch. He had long scraggly hair that was mostly brown, a thick beard that was mostly gray, and a pair of thick plastic tinted glasses. He wore a Grateful Dead concert T-shirt and ratty jeans that were stained with brown and green and yellow. Dean decided he could live a happy life without knowing what caused those stains. He was also barefoot.

  "You gotta be Manfred Afiri," Dean said. "I'm Dean Winchester, this is my brother Sam."

  "Yeah, Ash said you'd be comin' by. How is that old bastard anyhow? Please, God, tell me he finally got a better haircut."

  Smirking, Dean said, "Nope, still all business on the top—"

  "—and a party in the back." Manfred shook his head. "I mean, hell, I ain't one to talk about retro 'dos, but at least mine is a retro that's respected, know what I'm sayin', man?"

  "Absolutely," Dean said. He and Sam walked toward the front porch.
>
  Sam said, "We heard you have spirit problems."

  "Yeah, it's kinda harshing my mellow, y'know? But we'll get to that in a minute. I was just puttin' on a cuppa joe. C'mon in, put your feet up, and we'll rap." He grinned. "Sorry, retro slang to go with the retro 'do. We'll hang. It's hang, right?"

  "Close enough." Dean looked at Sam and grinned. I think I like this guy.

  That feeling was cemented when they came into the house and Dean heard the strains of Jethro Tull's "For a Thousand Mothers." Dean found himself involuntarily air-drumming to Clive Bunker's riff.

  "Good music choice."

  "Yeah, I been on a Tull kick lately. I wanna cover 'em, but nobody can play the flute, and it ain't Tull without the flute, y'know?"

  "Got that right," Dean said as he looked around the house. The front door opened to a foyer that was covered with framed concert posters that dated back to long before he was born: the Beatles at Shea Stadium, the Rolling Stones at Fillmore East, the Isle of Wight Show in 1970.

  Turning left, he saw the massive living room, which was covered in dusty old furniture—a couch, an easy chair, and a rocking chair, as well as a big china closet and a sideboard that was covered with bottles of alcohol—piles of newspapers, magazines that had musical instruments on the covers, three guitars on stands in one corner, several amplifiers, an entire wall filled with vinyl records, another wall filled with tapes and CDs, and an entertainment center that included a battered old television and a shiny metal stereo system that included turntable, tape deck, and six-CD changer. At first, he couldn't see the speakers, then realized there were four of them spread around the room for maximum killer sound value.

  It took Dean a second to realize that Manfred and Sam weren't around. Turning, he saw they were heading toward the kitchen, which was through the hallway next to the staircase, straight back from the foyer.

  "You'll have to excuse my brother," Sam said, "he's in the midst of having an orgasm."

  A grin peeked out from Manfred's beard. "Sorry 'bout the mess, but the housekeeper ain't come 'round this year yet. C'mon."

  They went back into the kitchen, which was also a mess, with dirty pots and pans in the sink. Manfred shoved some of them aside so he could fill the coffeepot with water.

  "That's a nice setta wheels you got there, fellas." Manfred grinned again. "Sorry, what is it, 'ride' now? Anyhow, it's a 'sixty-seven, right?"

  "Yup," Dean said with pride. "Had to rebuild it from scratch a while back, too."

  "Whoa." Manfred poured the water into the coffee maker and then opened the freezer and took out a jar filled with coffee grounds. "Special blend," he said at Sam and Dean's quizzical looks. "Where'd you find a 427 engine?"

  "Got a friend with contacts. Runs a junkyard. He tracked it down for me." Besides giving them a place to stay after Dad died, Bobby Singer also had been vital in providing Dean with the parts to rebuild the Impala after the truck totaled it.

  "Groovy. Or, maybe, cool. Sweet?"

  "Sweet works, yeah," Dean said with a grin.

  "Used to have one'a them back when it was a new car. Wouldn't do me much good now—the trunk's big, but it don't fit the rig, y'know? S'why I got the Soccer Mom-mobile. Anyhow, that old contraption died on my way down to Florida back in 'seventy-eight." He chuckled. "Funny, I was drivin' down there with Becky t'get married, and the damn car died. Shoulda seen that for the omen that it was. We split back in 'eighty-six."

  "So, Manfred," Sam said, "you have a ghost?"

  "Yeah, it's pretty bad." After scooping the grounds into the receptacle, Manfred put the jar back in the freezer and retrieved a carton of milk from the refrigerator, placing it on the kitchen counter next to the coffee maker and a chipped sugar bowl. "I dunno how much Ash toldja, but I'm with a band called Scottso. We play up in Larchmont every weekend—Friday, Saturday, Sunday night, we do three sets. It's our thing, y'know? And every time I get home from a gig, there's some crazy broad makin' awful noises and screeching and goin' crazy, and I just gotta get outta the house."

  "It's only on those nights?" Sam asked.

  "Yup." The coffee maker started making gurgling noises as the now-boiling water mixed with the grounds and were poured into the waiting pot.

  "Oh, wait, not every time. There was this one Friday night when someone rented out the Park in Rear for a private party, so we didn't play that night."

  "And no ghost?" Sam asked.

  Manfred shook his head.

  Dean had to ask: "Is it really called the Park in Rear?"

  Another toothy grin—well, mostly toothy, as Manfred was missing a molar or two. "Yeah, but don't try that in the phone book. Nah, it's called 'Nat's Place,' but nobody calls it that. See, there's this gigunda sign that says 'Park in Rear' real big on top, 'cause it ain't legal to park on the street there, and the parking lot entrance ain't easy to see from the road. So we all call it that." He pulled three mugs down from one of the cabinets and poured the coffee. Sam got the one that had the dictionary definition of the word coffee written on it, while Dean's said there's too much blood in my caffeine system. Manfred kept the one with the Metallica logo for himself, which disappointed Dean somewhat.

  Dean left his coffee alone, having always preferred it to be as black as his car. Sam, of course, dumped half a ton of sugar and then filled it almost to the brim with milk. For his part, Manfred just poured a bit of milk into his.

  Sam picked up his coffee but didn't drink it. Dean, being no kind of fool, waited until after his brother took a sip before trying it himself.

  "So," Sam said, "this spirit is tied to the band, you think?"

  "Damfino, Sam, that's why I called Ash. I knew he was into that spooky jazz. Me, I'm just a carpenter for the city who plays rock and roll. I don't know nothin' 'bout crap that goes bump in the night." He gulped down about half his coffee, which made Dean think his throat was lined with ice or something, since it was still boiling, even with the milk cutting it a bit. "Gotta tell ya, it's seriously interferin' with my life. I mean, there are times when I wanna bring someone home after a gig, know what I mean? It messes with the mojo, havin' some broad screechin' in the house."

  "Have you ever seen it?" Sam asked. Then he took a sip, and cut off Manfred before he could answer. "Wow. This is great coffee, Mr. Afiri."

  "Please, it's Manfred. Mr. Afiri is what my kids' teachers used to call me those few times I went to parent-teacher conferences back in the day."

  "You have kids?" Dean asked, immediately sorry that he asked.

  "Not to hear them tell it. Far as they're concerned, the only father they care about ain't me, it's that jackass Becky married in 'ninety-two. Nicest thing they ever say to me is, 'Ain't you got a haircut yet, Dad?'"

  "Sorry to hear that," Sam said in a quiet voice. Manfred shrugged. "Nothin' I can do about it. I do what I can for 'em, but they don't need me much. And hey, I just screwed their mom—that don't make me a father, since we split when they was just babies."

  Dean might have said something in response to all that, but he was too busy savoring the taste of the finest cup of coffee he'd ever had in his life. Admittedly, his standards weren't all that high.

  Generally he and Sam made do with whatever they could get from cheap diners, motel lobbies, and gas stations, which usually amounted to caffeinated dishwater. Their father had taken to using the phrase "a cup of caffeine," since what they usually had was so bad, Dad didn't want to insult it by calling it "coffee."

  Not this, though. Dean would drink this flavorful wonderfulness even if he didn't need a caffeine jolt after a day dealing with New York traffic, Bronx Zoo bureaucracy, and women hitting on Sam instead of him.

  "So you've never seen the spirit?" Sam asked. Shaking his head, Manfred said, "No, but I ain't looked, either, y'know? I mean, I hear that yellin', and I get outta Dodge. I don't even come home no more, just wait till sunup. That's a bitch on Mondays, though—I gotta get to work."

  "You said you work as a carpenter for the city?" Sam asked.
>
  Manfred nodded.

  "If you don't mind my asking, then—how can you afford this place?"

  Dean blinked at Sam's question, but now that he thought about it, it was a legit question. If Manfred was divorced, he probably had child support, and he couldn't believe that a city carpenter got paid enough to buy this place, especially given how much property cost in New York. True, he had the music, but if that was anything great, he wouldn't need the day job.

  Another grin. "It's handy being the son of two really rich lawyers. Well, Dad was rich—Mom was always doing pro bono work, but still. I was the shame of the family—doin' the whole Summer of Love–antiwar–goin' to Woodstock thing while Dad was representing oil companies—but I was also an only child, so I got the house when they croaked."

  "I'm sorry," Sam said, again in a quiet voice.

  "Nah, s'no biggie. Listen, I'm really grateful to you two for helpin' me out."

  Dean sipped some more coffee. "We haven't done anything yet, Manfred. We'll check it out, though, see what turns up."

  "Great. And hey, listen, you guys got a place to stay in town? 'Cause if you don't, I got a couple guest rooms upstairs."

  That almost made Dean sputter his coffee. He managed to hold it in, which was good, as that would've been a waste of a fine beverage. "Seriously?"

  "That's very kind of you, Manfred, but—"

  "We'd be happy to," Dean said quickly, before Sam's politeness got them shoved into yet another motel room. He wasn't sure what excited him more, the prospect of sleeping in the same house as that record collection, being able to wake up to this coffee, or not having to share a room with Sam. He loved his brother more than anything in the world—except maybe the Impala—but they'd been sleeping in the same room (or, all too often, the same front seat of the car) with each other virtually every night for over a year now. If the opportunity to get separate rooms—for free, no less—presented itself, he was for damn sure taking it.

  "Great! Listen, I got practice tonight—we usually rehearse in Tommy's garage. He's the drummer. We used to rehearse here—I got tons'a space in the attic—but the neighbors started bitching. Didn't want 'em callin' the cops on us, what with the weed and all, so we moved to Tommy's."