Tomorrow Wendell (White Dragon Black)

by R. M. Ridley

  On the back of the door, among other paraphernalia, hung his shoulder holster. The gun currently lay in his desk drawer, but he almost never left the office without it, so he took a moment to strap the thing on before collecting together the ingredients he needed.

  After he’d gathered everything required, Jonathan carried the tray to his desk and, shoving a few papers out of the way, set it down. He got to work using a mortar and pestle to crush herbs, minerals, and other organic materials.

  Occasionally, as he added an ingredient, he would chant in languages—most of them obscure and quite dead—to activate certain properties inherent in the substance or call on the innate power of the herbs.

  His brow began to bead as he fought against the urge to summon up his own energies. Jonathan fought his addiction and concentrated on the making the paste.

  He knew the mixture was a success when it suddenly congealed into a waxy substance. It also turned the color of green one expects from the blood of overgrown frogs or bloated lawyers.

  Jonathan went to search the front office desk for a suitable container. He knew that one of the secretaries no longer in his employ had to have left something he could use.

  Sure enough, at the back of a bottom drawer, he found a small circular container of lip balm with only half the yellow waxy substance left inside. The label said something about bees, but Jonathan didn’t care what it had been, just that its former product would be a great cover for his potion.

  Jonathan took the lip balm into his miniscule, and admittedly grungy, washroom behind the secretary desk. He turned the hot water tap on, placed the container in the sink, and walked back to his office.

  He took the tray of ingredients back to the closet and put each jar, box, and herb back in its place. The closet looked a disaster, but Jonathan knew where everything was, give or take the odd item.

  The walls shuddered and the industrial clanking of old steel pipes choking on their own load filled the air.

  Jonathan took in another portion of the bourbon and finally wandered back to the washroom. He put his finger under the stream of water and, taking it back out, returned to his office to get a smoke.

  He leaned on the washroom doorframe, smoking, until a particularly loud and disturbing rattle came from the wall behind the sink. For a full five seconds following the clattering, nothing came out of the spigot. Then, water sputtered and spurted forth.

  Steam began to curl around the tap and Jonathan stuck the rubber stopper over the drain hole and allowed the sink to fill.

  He tossed the cigarette butt into the toilet, where it died with a hiss, and grabbed a pen off the front desk. He used the end of the pen to hold the lip balm container under the hot water slowly filling the sink.

  The room began to fill with the cloying, sweet scent of honey. Jonathan hoped the container would clean out quickly, but in the end, he had to use the tip of the pen to dig lingering blobs of wax out of the bottom.

  Then, to be certain there was no remaining residue, he carefully washed out the container with soap and rinsed it under fresh running water.

  Jonathan brought the now clean container to the mortar and pestle and scooped two fingers worth of the substance into it.

  It in no way resembled anything that anyone would want to put on their lips, but Jonathan didn’t expect the owner of the store to ask to borrow his lip balm anyway.

  He didn’t plan on engaging the owner at all, really, until after he had already used the paste. According to Wendell’s account of the owner, he wouldn’t be spending much time observing Jonathan either.

  It was a gothic day—bleak, windy, and overcast. Autumn’s grasp on the season seemed tenuous compared to the icy grip of her sister and, though the return from Daylight Saving remained a couple of days away, the sun seemed to have already given up illuminating this part of the world.

  Jonathan had one flask in his breast pocket for keeping him warm and one in his coat pocket for keeping away daemons, ghouls, and certain other undesirables.

  He got into his old Lincoln and, shutting the door against the insistent wind, slid the key into the ignition.

  The car, which had reached the age where people referred to it as ‘classic’ instead of a ‘piece of crap,’ gave a shudder and coughed but then fell silent.

  Jonathan patted the dash. He assured the Lincoln that he understood its reluctance and turned the key once more.

  After four minutes and a few choice words aimed towards his means of transportation, Jonathan was heading across town to the fortunetelling machine that had started this whole debacle.

  He found the antique dealer’s shop without any issue or hassle and with even a parking space across the street from it.

  After waiting for a delivery truck to rumble past, Jonathan strode across the slush-covered street, his hands stuffed in his pockets to ward off the cold.

  He didn’t immediately enter the store but stayed on the sidewalk looking in at the items displayed in the front window.

  There was a wooden box with real silverware in it, a lava lamp, an assortment of china dolls, and an imitation Tiffany lamp. Other items were displayed in the window as well, but Jonathan didn’t see any signs of a practitioner’s trade there.

  Sometimes shops like this, the antique and curio, were run by either users of magic or just those in the know. These people sold mundane items alongside items and trappings for the esoteric. Often the arcane items displayed were small, discreet things that only a practitioner would know as being other than knickknacks.

  Nothing in this display, however, said the owner knew that life comprised more than brushing one’s teeth and collecting stamps. It actually would have surprised Jonathan to discover otherwise, as he considered it a professional necessity to know who trafficked in the esoteric.

  Jonathan put his hand on the handle and pulled the door open, hesitating at the threshold to see if his wards, a ring of protective symbols and names tattooed just below his neck, reacted.

  The game Jonathan played was a dangerous one. His best friend since high school, Ralph, had once compared his profession to being the target for attack-dog training without the benefit of padding or even a way to call off the dogs. Jonathan had never forgotten that comment.

  When nothing burned, rippled, or flared under the collar of his shirt, Jonathan entered the store a little disappointed. He didn’t go straight to the fortuneteller’s machine but slowly meandered about, browsing as one did in a place like this and keeping his eyes open for anything irregular.

  The man behind the display case looked his way briefly, but when Jonathan nodded, he simply returned his attention to the folded up newspaper on the countertop.

  Wendell hadn’t been lying; the owner seemed to care little for anything but completing a crossword. The store itself was clean yet cluttered, and the place was filled unabashedly with both the valuable and the craptastic.

  Nothing leapt out at him. There were no items of a mystical nature—no simian’s appendages, no hands belonging to the life-impaired, no altars, amulets, grimoires, or goblin ears. There was also no White Dragon Black symbol.

  Satisfied that the place was nothing more than what it seemed, Jonathan made his way to the fortuneteller machine. The contraption stood six feet tall and was in good condition. It had clearly been used, but just as noticeable was its maintenance. Jonathan wondered if the antique dealer himself had done any restoration on it.

  A strange chirping sound disturbed the silence such stores seem to command, and then a muttering buzzed at the edge of his hearing as the shopkeeper spoke into his cell.

  Discreetly opening his cigarette case, and wishing these were still the days when you could smoke wherever you wanted, Jonathan caught the owner’s reflection to see if the man in turn watched him.

  If the owner did have any interest in the fact that Jonathan was examining that particular piece of stock, he deserved an Oscar for hiding it.

  He had resumed working the crossword despite the phone
balanced between cheek and shoulder. Jonathan put away his case and focused on the fortune machine itself.

  The words ‘Gypsy Tarot’ adorned the sides and front of the machine, and the character in the booth was much as Wendell had described. The mannequin resembled an older woman, a black headscarf over her grey hair and a bright, multi-colored shawl draped over her shoulders. Her shirt, which would be best described as a peasant blouse, was the color of fresh blood on a surgeon’s smock.

  Before her, on a shelf covered in purple velvet, were six cards in a pattern Jonathan thought of as the circle of life.

  He glanced at the cards themselves.

  Nothing about the spread was sinister. It was comprised of the Two of Swords, the Hanged Man, the Queen of Wands, the Fool, the Knight, and the Six of Cups. He didn’t spend a lot of time working out if there was a hidden message in the cards but considered it wise to scribble them down in his notepad anyway. Jonathan had an associate he’d have to call later to see if she had any thoughts on the displayed cards.

  He thought it best to follow the script Wendell had relayed to him as best he could. He first checked the price tag as Wendell had, in case something about it had set off the chain of events, and blanched at the five-digit number written there. Jonathan suspected he wasn’t charging his client enough if he thought that price was reasonable.

  He turned away from the machine, cleared his throat, and spoke just loud enough to be heard in the silent shop.

  “Excuse me, but does this work?”

  He got no response from the staff, probably because his ear was covered by a square of plastic.

  “It’s like cell phones emit a frequency that turns you into an ass,” he continued. “Wonder if there’s an app for that?” Jonathan lifted his hand and tried again. “Hello?”

  The man behind the counter looked up with a furrowed brow. When he spotted Jonathan, he blinked rapidly and tilted his head. Regaining his composure, having located the source of the voice that had disturbed him, the owner now looked at Jonathan with feigned interest.

  “This fortuneteller machine—does it actually work?”

  “Hum? Oh, yes, it does. Takes nickels.” And with that, the man once again returned the phone to his ear and his attention to the crossword.

  Jonathan watched the older gentleman until utterly convinced the man couldn’t care if he used the machine or set his own eyelashes on fire.

  He took one of the nickels he’d brought just for the purpose of feeding the machine’s cold guts and, he was quite sure, the antique dealer’s pocket. The nickel fell with a clack into the slot and the mannequin came to shuddering life.

  One hand came to rest on the ‘pack’ of cards on the left, and the animatronic head turned gradually back and forth three times—‘viewing’ the displayed cards. Then the gypsy mannequin’s other hand slipped under the table in front of her and, sure enough, out popped the prediction card into the holder.

  Jonathan slipped the card free of the slot and turned it so he could read what was printed on the back. It was banal. ‘Happiness is found from within.’

  “Not even a real prediction,” he mumbled.

  Jonathan slipped the lip balm container from his pants pocket and unscrewed the top. He unobtrusively dipped one finger into the mixture and only then realized how much it smelled like gremlin piss.

  Since he hadn’t used any part of a gremlin in the concoction, especially not its waste material, Jonathan found the coincidence disconcerting. Wrinkling his nose, he hoped that the storeowner wasn’t overly keen in the olfactory department.

  Jonathan quickly smeared the stuff on the machine. He touched the card slot delivery area, rubbed some on the side of the wooden base, and even spread a touch of the paste on the glass which encased the ‘old gypsy woman.’

  Jonathan then had to pretend a continued interest in the machine while he waited for his mixture to react. He reread the attached price card as though seriously contemplating the ridiculous idea of purchasing the thing.

  His concoction failed to change color. It stubbornly remained the same raunchy green as it had been when he first administered it. There was about as much magic in this fortunetelling contraption as there was in a box of Lucky Charms cereal.

  Jonathan was bewildered. He couldn’t figure how Wendell was getting his responses from these items showing absolutely no sign of magical interference.

  Jonathan shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck. He swore under his breath and pushed around the concoction on the glass.

  He liked a good riddle as much as the next fool who hung out his shingle as a P.I., less actually, but this was different. There was nothing. Not one conceivable way, which Jonathan knew of, for Wendell to be getting such predictions.

  No method Jonathan had ever even heard of could cause the effects happening to his client.

  He knew a complicated way to curse an individual so they thought that they saw death everywhere, but Jonathan had seen the proof of the prediction, so it couldn’t be that.

  There were drawn-out rituals which could make any objects the individual touched react a certain way, but then the individuals themselves usually behaved in a certain manner.

  They gave off subtle clues that, to the initiated, showed the person had been affected. Plus, most of those types of castings would still leave residual energy on the items touched, residue which Jonathan wasn’t finding.

  An enchantment could be cast on individual items, but detection spells were the x-rays of energy use, and so far he’d seen nothing. The incantation would have to be cast before Wendell might touch any given object. But those type of energy fields were notorious for not lasting very long, making timing everything.

  So, how was it happening?

  Jonathan could see the fortuneteller machine being rigged, but only barely. If whomever doing this knew Wendell’s habits well enough, then they could have been able to predict his entering the store. But knowing about the dentist appointment as well? It would still be hit or miss.

  To put one single card on the top of the pile and hope that no one else fed it a nickel before Wendell had a chance to, and that Wendell himself didn’t take a second card . . . it was ludicrous.

  They could have put in many of the same card, but that would require returning to swap them out before a third party, like himself, came to examine it. Still, Jonathan had to admit it was within a plausible realm.

  What if I had brought Wendell with me? Jonathan thought, and he could have kicked himself. He believed he knew what the outcome would have been of that exercise anyway. But it would have concisely ruled out direct, physical, human interference.

  The horoscope, Jonathan knew, could have been pulled off without much effort.

  The addition of a single line to one horoscope would seem harmless to the one writing it, and any lingering reservations could be soothed with a private cash deposit.

  He knew just the person to talk to about that and planned on seeing her soon. She wouldn’t be happy to see him, but then, so few ever were.

  However, both switching the cards and bribing newspaper clerks failed to give him an explanation for the Magic 8-Ball which was the real flea-biting between his haunches.

  Wendell did say he had dug it out of the back of his closet, but then the one doing this to him must have known of its existence.

  The architect of this scheme, to go to the bother of entering Wendell’s place, finding the ball, and then enchanting it, all for the outside chance that Wendell would remember he owned it? Not likely.

  Jonathan knew people like that existed from the unfortunate experience of meeting them, but it seemed farfetched.

  What mattered to Jonathan most, as he stood staring blankly at his own weathered face reflected in the glass of the fortuneteller machine, was the all too familiar feeling he had in his gut. Being punched in the kidneys after downing a quart of vinegar would probably produce the same effect.

  That feeling made him believe the problems he had al
ready encountered in deciphering the method and motive behind Wendell’s situation were far more cryptic then he’d first thought.

  Jonathan wondered if it was possible he faced something that he hadn’t encountered before. The thought intrigued him, but he couldn’t deny a certain unease. He hadn’t felt its like in years.

  To make sure that the paste he had coated on parts of the exorbitantly priced toy didn’t so much as flicker other colors when he activated it, Jonathan dug into his pocket for another nickel and thumbed it into the slot.

  He heard the slug of metal fall with a hollow rattle and studied the machine. He didn’t watch the animatronics this time, but tried to keep his eyes on all three spots that were smeared with his concoction.

  The mannequin moved.

  A card was delivered.

  And there was no difference.

  Paranormally, nothing had occurred.

  Jonathan decided it was time to speak with the man behind the counter. He grabbed the last prediction card and headed to the counter.

  “Excuse me,” Jonathan said, glad to see the dark cell phone sitting on the countertop. He waited for the owner to lift his head before continuing. “I was wondering if you could tell me anything about that gypsy fortune machine?”

  “Tell you anything?”

  “Yeah. Its history, owners, that sort of thing.”

  “Oh.” The man looked at him as though that sound might sum up the entirety of his obligation to the conversation.

  After a few moments, during which Jonathan failed to react, the man said, “Uh, well . . . I got it at an auction upstate.”

  Jonathan stared down at the paper on the counter and the hash marks scribbled on the crossword. Having his crossword studied seemed to be the key to the owner’s locked mouth because suddenly the jaw swung open and the info tumbled out.

  “The previous owner was the son of the guy who first owned it. It used to be set up at the old fairgrounds back in the forties and fifties. That’s it—all I know.”

  “Huh,” Jonathan said looking back at the machine where the ‘gypsy’ sat waiting for another nickel.