Police said that arrests are expected in the near future.
Eighteen
LIBBY CHASTAIN CAME in to her living room from the kitchen, holding a half-full pot of coffee. “I thought I’d have a second cup,” she said to Quincey Morris. “How about you?”
“I’d love one, thanks,” he told her. Morris never declined Libby’s coffee. She mixed her own, from freshly ground beans. The ingredients of what she called “Libby’s Brew” were no mystery: Jamaican Blue Mountain, Hawaiian Kona, Free Trade Columbian Dark, and something called Kicking Horse Coffee, which is roasted in Canada (although, of course, they don’t grow the beans there). The proportions, however, were a closely held secret, having been learned – Libby sometimes claimed – from a hundred-and-forty-two-year-old witch in St. Louis who credited her age and general spryness to the fact that she drank a pot of the stuff every day.
Knowing what went into the stuff, Morris had tried to recreate it in his own kitchen a couple of times. The results, although very tasty, were never quite as good as Libby’s Brew. He’d said as much once, and she had replied, “Oh, you probably forgot to add the eye of newt. Crucial ingredient.”
They had already exchanged the relevant parts of what they had learned the night before. Libby had told Morris that it might be a good idea for them to find a device that would fire a fruit pit through the air with reasonable speed and accuracy. Morris had related what he’d found out in Strangefellows, in the company of Barry Love.
“So, although djinns are associated with the Middle East, the fruit pit doesn’t have to come from there?” Morris asked.
“No, it doesn’t,” Libby said. “Not according to Ashley, anyway. Good thing, too – the only fruits native to the Middle East with pits in the center are dates. And their pits are oblong.”
“Good enough for David, apparently.”
“Yes, but he used a sling, and even then had to trim the date pit down to something more circular, so it would fly better.”
“Well, as long as it doesn’t matter...” Morris scratched his chin. “What are you thinking about using?”
“To an extent, the choice depends on what we use to fire it – a slingshot, one of those paintball guns, or something else.”
“Um. I assume you’ve been doing research,” Morris said. “Which fruit has the biggest pit?”
“Looks like the papaya,” Libby said. “But those things can have pits that weigh a half pound, or more.”
“Too big for our purposes, then – unless we get Roberto Clemente or somebody to throw it at the fucking afreet. And I think we might have trouble getting Roberto interested in the gig.”
“Quincey.” Libby’s voice reflected the smile on her face. “Roberto Clemente was a right fielder, not a pitcher.”
“Oh.”
“And he’d be operating under the additional disadvantage of being dead.”
“Well, you know what I mean.”
“Yes,” Libby said. “No papaya pits for us.”
“Guess we’ll have to try some of the others, like avocados and peaches, and see which works best in our chosen mechanism of propulsion.”
“‘Mechanism of propulsion.’” Libby smiled again. “You’ve got such a way with words, Quincey – it almost makes up for the fact that you don’t know shit about baseball.”
“There’s lots of things that I don’t know shit about,” Morris said. “And one of them is the Knights Templar – the current incarnation, anyway. That’s why I was thinking about dropping a line to this David Kabov fella, then paying him a visit in a few days. Care to come along?”
“I might as well. Some warm sun would feel good, right about now, although I don’t imagine we’ll be staying all that long.”
“Not unless Kabov tells us that the Knights Templar are based in Miami Beach, or someplace.”
“Guess we’ll have to find out,” Libby said. “While your letter’s in transit, maybe we can check out some ‘propulsive mechanisms.’”
Morris tossed down the last of his coffee. “You know, I remember hearing about a stripper who was famous for shooting ping pong balls out of her, um, neither regions. Wonder if she’d be of any use to us.”
Libby thought for a minute, then nodded solemnly. “You might be on to something there, Tex. Could be just what we need to kill this afreet.”
“Um, it was a joke, Libby. I was just foolin’ around.”
“No, think about it. If we send Bambi – or whatever her name is – after the afreet, firing peach pits at him out of her twat – heck, there’s a good chance the darn thing will just die laughing.”
Nineteen
SWEETWATER VILLAGE RETIREMENT Community consisted of a number of near-identical small houses that the property management insisted on calling “bungalows.” Each sat on a small lot full of grass, kept green, even in the current drought, by a sprinkler system that never seemed to stop running. Most of the houses had discreet signs that said “quiet, please” or some variation. So seriously did the management take the residents’ wish for peace and quiet that no motorized vehicles were allowed anywhere on the facility, although Quincey Morris assumed that exceptions must be made for delivery trucks – not to mention ambulances. But everyone else traveled by electric golf cart, which visitors could rent from the management office for a nominal fee. As he and Libby Chastain made their near-silent way through the winding streets, Morris noticed some golf carts parked in driveways that appeared to have been heavily customized – sort of like low-power hot rods. He supposed the old folks had to express their individuality somehow, but he thought the red one with “Pussywagon” painted on the sides in yellow script was both tawdry and over-optimistic.
There was a golf cart parked in the driveway of #114, but it was as plain and unadorned as the day it had come out of the box. Morris parked their borrowed vehicle behind it and checked his watch: 2:59. Good. Morris had written to David Kabov that he and a female companion would call on Mister Kabov at 3:00 o’clock, and he had been told that Kabov insisted on punctuality.
The hour had struck – silently, of course – by the time he and Libby reached the pastel-blue front door, so Morris rang the bell. While waiting for a response from within, he looked around, noting that a security camera was mounted ten feet above the door, aimed at the exact place where he and Libby were standing. Morris looked at the little house next door, then at the one across the street. Neither had a similar camera in place. Apparently David Kabov wanted to know for certain who was standing on his front step.
After half a minute or so, there was a loud click, and the door swung open a few inches under its own weight. Morris waited for someone inside to open it the rest of the way, but when nobody did, he pushed the door slowly open himself and stepped inside, Libby close behind him. She’d told Morris that she had a couple of defensive spells prepared, in case their reception should be hostile.
A short hallway behind the door led into a larger room that was so gloomy Morris couldn’t tell whether anybody was in there or not.
“Mister Kabov? I’m Quincey Morris. I sent you a letter a few days back.”
A voice came from the dimness within. “Close the door.” It was strong and sure, not the quivery voice of an old man.
Libby complied, and the voice said, “Please come in. Be so good as to move slowly, and to keep your hands in plain sight.” The voice had an accent that Morris couldn’t place, although Kabov’s last name suggested Eastern Europe. The man named Kaspar had referred to him as the Lion of Judah, and that meant Israel. The two were not incompatible – many of Europe’s surviving Jews had settled in Israel after the war.
Morris’s eyes were adjusting now, and he could see that ahead of them was a living room, with the lights out and curtains drawn. He thought he could make out a man-sized figure seated in a chair.
As Morris reached the entrance to the living room, the man said, “To your right you will find a fairly comfortable sofa. I would be obliged if you were to sit down, side
by side, Mister Morris to my left.”
They did as instructed. Morris’s eyes were almost fully used to the gloom now: the man was seated in what appeared to be a wheelchair, facing his guests from about twelve feet away over a low coffee table. There was some kind of blanket across his legs, and both his hands were tucked underneath it. There was a vague shape detectable under the blanket that Morris was fairly sure was not a kitten.
“I am David Kabov,” the man said. Some amusement entered his voice as he went on: “But then you knew that already.”
“I’m Quincey Morris, as I said at the door. And let me introduce my colleague, Libby Chastain.”
Libby nodded toward the man and said politely, “Mister Kabov.”
“Good afternoon, Miss Chastain. Welcome to my home.”
Kabov looked at Libby for a few moments, then turned back to Morris. “You look like your photos, Mister Morris,” he said. “There are quite a few of them in the Internet, as you may know. It would seem that you got into some trouble at the Republican Party’s convention last year, and were arrested for it.”
“All a misunderstanding,” Morris said. “It took a while to clear it up, but all the charges have been dropped.”
“A misunderstanding,” Kabov said. “Yes, I’m sure that’s all it was.” If any sarcasm was intended, he kept it out of his voice. “Several of the articles I read described you as some sort of ‘occult investigator’ – or, less respectfully, a ‘ghostbuster.’ Is that what you do, Mister Morris – investigate matters involving the occult?”
“All the possible answers I could give to that question boil down to the same thing,” Morris said. “Yes – that’s what I do.”
Kabov nodded, and looked at Libby. “And Miss Chastain. As I understand it, you have a long association with Mister Morris, although you did not join him last year in durance vile. Several stories I read online described you as a ‘witch’ – normally a most disrespectful way to refer to a lady, but I gather in your case the term was meant literally. Are you, Miss Chastain? A witch?”
“Yes, Mister Kabov, I am. More precisely, I am a practitioner of white witchcraft, which means –”
“I know what it means,” he said, “but thank you for your willingness to explain. So, then.” Kabov shifted a little in his wheelchair, but his hands remained underneath the blanket. “What do an occult investigator and a witch want with me?”
“A man in New York told me that you might know how to get in touch with the Knights Templar,” Morris said.
“A man? What man?”
“He was introduced to me as Kaspar, with a ‘K.’ I never learned his last name, or even if Kaspar was his real first name. But that’s what he answered to.”
“Large fellow, is he? Built like one of your football players? Scar just below his left ear?”
“No,” Morris said. “The fella I met was pretty small, barely five foot tall, although he did have a big head – too big for his body, really. And I don’t remember any scar.”
Kabov nodded slowly. “And where in New York did you meet this Kaspar?”
“In a bar called Strangefellows. We were introduced by a friend of mine, a private detective named Barry Love.”
Kabov regarded them in silence for ten or fifteen seconds. Then he said, “Mister Morris, a few feet from you there is a floor lamp. Would you be so good as to switch it on? I could pull the curtains, of course, but I prefer not to be visible to the outside world.”
Morris felt for the switch, found it, and clicked on the lamp. The hundred-watt CFL bulb threw a bright light that had them all squinting for a few seconds until their eyes adjusted, although Morris would have bet that Kabov’s eyes were already narrowed against the glare before the lamp was turned on.
Morris saw that their host appeared to be, as advertised, in his mid-seventies. His hair was iron-gray, although he still had most of it. David Kabov’s eyes were a cold, pale blue that looked at the world without the aid of glasses, although it was possible that he wore contacts. He wore jeans, New Balance running shoes, and a loose-fitting Hawaiian-print shirt.
The muscles visible in his forearms, combined with the breadth of his shoulders and those pitiless eyes, suggested to Morris that at one time it would have been a particularly bad idea to get on this man’s wrong side. Maybe it still was.
Kabov’s big, knuckly hands were in sight now, and he pulled the blanket aside to reveal one of the smaller models of the Uzi submachine gun, once the favored weapon of the Israeli Defense Forces. Morris peered at the weapon, and it looked to him like the safety was off, and the selector switch was set to “Full Auto.”
“Please excuse the armament,” Kabov said. “There are still some people abroad in the world who regard my continued existence as a mistake requiring urgent correction – or would, if they knew I was still alive. It is possible that one or more of them will come through that door, someday.”
“Or try to,” Morris muttered, still looking at the gun.
Kabov grinned at him. “Or try to,” he repeated. “That is why I keep my little friend handy, but I think perhaps I should put him away now. May I offer you both some ice tea? I just brewed a pitcher this morning, and it came out rather well, if I say so myself.”
They both accepted his offer; Libby asked for a little lemon in hers.
“I will be just a few minutes,” Kabov said – then, in one fluid motion, he stood up from the wheelchair. He walked to what Morris assumed was the kitchen, carrying the Uzi, his steps neither unsteady nor hesitant.
Twenty
KABOV RETURNED CARRYING a tray laden with three tall plastic tumblers, which he placed on the coffee table. Morris noticed a slight bulge at the man’s right hip, underneath the garish shirt, which seemed a size or two larger than it should be. Kabov might have left his automatic weapon in the kitchen, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was unarmed.
Handing one of the tumblers to Libby, he said, “This one has a little lemon juice, as requested, Miss Chastain.” He gave another tumbler to Morris and took the third for himself. Then he stepped back to the wheelchair and sat down.
With a slight smile, Kabov said, “I apologize for my little deception. But everyone around here believes me to be confined to this chair, as the result of an old, unspecified injury. I find it useful to be thought of as a semi-invalid.”
Libby sipped some ice tea and said, “Wonderful.” She took another swallow then said, “We had heard that you were... cautious.”
Kabov grinned for a second, revealing a good set of teeth that did not appear to have come from a factory.
“I would wager that whoever spoke to you about me,” he said, “did not use a word like ‘cautious,’ but something closer to ‘paranoid,’ yes?”
Libby gave him a tiny smile. “Perhaps.”
“I do not find it offensive,” Kabov told her. “I would refer you to that great American philosopher, Mister Woody Allen, who said: ‘Being paranoid doesn’t necessarily mean they’re not out to get you.’”
“Who do you believe is out to get you?” Morris said. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Broadly speaking, there are two groups from which potential assassins might be drawn,” Kabov said. “One is my old enemies in what these days is called radical Islam. I gather the term ‘Arab terrorists’ is considered politically incorrect these days.”
“You mean al-Qaeda?” Libby asked. “Those guys?”
“That name would figure on what is probably a long list, yes. Although my battles against those people go back before Osama bin Laden – or rather, the late Osama bin Laden, God rot him – ever dreamed of financing a terror network.”
He shifted in his chair. “My name is not David Kabov,” he said, “although that is close enough to the one I was born with. For a number of years, I held a series of responsible positions in the HaMossad leModi’in uleTafkidim Meyuhadim, although you probably know it simply as the Mossad.”
“Israeli intelligence,” Morris said.
“Quite,” Kabov said.
“So, you’re a native Israeli?” Libby said.
“There are very few of my generation who can call themselves ‘native Israelis,’ Miss Chastain. Most of us came to the newly-born state of Israel from other places. My parents were Russian Jews, who emigrated to Poland before I was born, on the mistaken assumption that it would be a safer place for people of our faith to live. Their lack of foresight ultimately cost them their lives, as well as those of my brother and two sisters – and very nearly my own.”
Now that he knew what to look for, Morris was not surprised to see the small, faded tattoo on the inside of Kabov’s left forearm. It was almost certainly a serial number – the kind put on men, women, and children as they were processed by the Nazi guards into places like Dachau and Auschwitz.
“But, yes,” Kabov went on, “I lived most of my life in Israel, and for many years I fought her enemies – from Black September to black magicians.”
Morris had a tendency to slouch when sitting, but Kabov’s last phrase made his spine straighten, seemingly of its own volition. “Black magicians, you say?”
Kabov nodded. “Yes, Mr. Morris. Some of Israel’s enemies will use any weapon in an attempt to destroy her. On several occasions, they have resorted to the black arts.” He glanced toward Libby. “As I’m sure Miss Chastain knows, the only effective defense against magic is magic itself.”
“Are you saying that you’re a magic practitioner?” Morris asked.
“No, Mister Morris. I lack the talent. But I often worked closely with practitioners – the Mossad has several on staff. And, as I’m sure you know, there are sometimes spells that a layman such as myself can manage, given the proper training and equipment.”
Midnight At The Oasis Page 9