Tomorrow Wendell (White Dragon Black)

by R. M. Ridley

  The dog hopped over the seat back and, a moment later, Frank’s voice issued from there.

  “I sincerely hope one of those is for me.”

  “Yeah,” Jonathan said, passing back the cardboard cup. “Plus, if you open up the bag beside you, you’ll find a Styrofoam container—thought you’d appreciate some food.”

  “I knew I smelled dumplings. These from Lucky Monkey?”

  “Where else?” Jonathan responded. “Before you dig in, you got anything to report?”

  “I’m sorry to say there isn’t, Alvey.” He sighed. “I’ve done my best. Slinking about, looking for anyone else slinking about or hiding, but I can’t find anyone. If there is someone following your client, well, they’re doing a damn good job of being discreet about it.”

  It was Jonathan’s turn to sigh. He thanked Frank all the same.

  Jonathan continued to drive aimlessly in a loose circle with Wendell’s place at its center. It gave Frank some time out of the dog shape to enjoy the food—cold as it might be—and the coffee, which he knew was still warm.

  Jonathan didn’t think ten minutes had passed before Frank thanked him and let him know he could be dropped anywhere.

  Jonathan pulled over to the curb at the next alleyway.

  The sun still stubbornly hid behind the horizon and the old suburb he’d been circling looked more like a military bomb-testing site than a residential neighborhood. Given the conditions, Jonathan wasn’t too worried about someone seeing Frank getting out.

  “Look, stay at it until Wendell leaves to come to my office; he’s to be there at ten this morning. If he leaves too much earlier than that, follow him, but if it’s late enough he’s just going to meet me, call it a day. Go home with my thanks and get yourself some rest. Sound good?”

  “Will do,” Frank said as he got out and then walked towards the alley.

  Jonathan put his vehicle in gear again and headed for Wendell’s place of work. He wanted to have a chat with Orville’s friend, Gerald, and maybe, if he still had time, he would check into Orville himself afterwards.

  Jonathan found the office building where Wendell worked and was delighted to find it offered free parking. He drove across the lot, only too aware of just how many cars were already there at twenty to eight in the morning.

  The sun had finally decided to poke its head up, spreading a wane glow like a lamp fish trying to draw a meal to itself in the depths of the ocean.

  Getting out of his car, Jonathan found the wind, as though mocking the rising sun, seemed to be blowing right out of the artic and only picking up speed as it crossed Lake Ontario. He was glad to get into the vestibule of the office building.

  He checked the list of companies that held offices in the place and, finding Kubera & Chiatany, Inc., caught an elevator to the fifth floor.

  Luckily for him, the only other two people in the elevator got out together on the fourth floor. In the moments between the door closing on the fourth floor and opening on the fifth, Jonathan slipped his nine-millimeter from his shoulder holster and into his trench coat pocket.

  The doors opened, revealing a carpeted foyer and a long curved reception desk.

  Jonathan stepped briskly from the elevator and crossed the short distance to the counter confidently.

  He noted the set of doors on either side of the foyer from the corner of his eyes and gave a quick but cold smile to the older, still attractive, receptionist.

  “Have a meeting with Gerald,” he informed the woman, as though it wasn’t his idea to be there at that hour of the day. Taking a guess, but an educated one, Jonathan jabbed his thumb towards the doors to the left of the elevator.

  The woman nodded and Jonathan walked confidently away. He pulled open the wood door, and stepped out of the warm glow of dark polished wood into the fluorescent world of a grey-carpeted hive.

  Only the most senior members of the firm would be gifted the privilege of being ensconced behind the door to the right.

  The automatic direction for at least seventy percent of the human race is to turn right when given a choice.

  Regarding the accepted direction as the correct way, all the big wigs and all the places clients would see, would be behind those doors to the right.

  Counting on that logic, Jonathan’s choice of pointing left when he referred to a lesser employee on the command chain became almost a sure thing.

  Before him spread a vast warren, comprised of fabric half-walls. Each placed to keep every individual sequestered behind their mass produced desk.

  Yet, at the same time, every worker remained exposed for scrutiny by one and all.

  From Wendell’s own standing in the company, and the way he spoke of Gerald Cooper, Jonathan assumed Cooper would command an office of his own, no matter how diminutive.

  Jonathan headed to the outside wall and began to stride purposefully past the office doors. The fact that it only took two to three steps to get from one door to the other told Jonathan just how small the offices sequestered behind the doors were.

  He walked with his head facing forward, as though he knew exactly where to go. However, his eyes darted from one door to the next.

  He had traveled two-thirds along the visible wall, before he caught the name ‘Cooper’ spelled on the door in small stickers that were supposed to look like engraved brass.

  He grabbed for the handle, but before he could turn it, a nasally voice intruded on his plans.

  “Excuse me? Can I help you?”

  Jonathan turned. Behind him sat a man in his mid-twenties. He had the misfortune to have lips drawn so tightly over his teeth it looked like they’d been ironed on.

  The guy rose swiftly from behind a pressboard desk wedged into a grey, half-wall cubicle across from Gerald Cooper’s office.

  This motion gave Jonathan the chance to also note that the man had the distinct disadvantage of apparently having sat down hard on a long stick that he had yet been able to remove.

  “I’m here to see Gerald,” Jonathan stated. He didn’t have to fake the annoyance in his voice at being interfered with.

  “Mister Cooper doesn’t have any meetings scheduled for this morning.” The man glanced pointedly at an appointment book on his desk. It indeed appeared empty until the afternoon.

  “Yes, well, this is of more of a . . . personal nature.”

  “Mm-hmm.” The young man tapped his finger on the top of the cubicle.

  “Look, kid. I’m going to knock on this door and if Gerald doesn’t want to talk, I’ll go. But I bet you he invites me in.”

  Without waiting for the guardian of Gerald Cooper’s lair to approve, Jonathan rapped on the door.

  He opened it just a crack and saw a man in his mid-thirties who managed to be handsome enough, in a slick, 80s Wall Street sort of way.

  Gerald Cooper dressed to impress. Jonathan thought it wasn’t just his boss’ eyes Mr. Cooper aimed to catch.

  “Gerald, I’d like a moment of your time.” He said through the cracked open door.

  He looked up at Jonathan and frowned, his eyebrows crawling towards each other.

  “Do I know you?”

  “Come over here and let me whisper a reminder.”

  “What?”

  “Invite me in.”

  Behind Jonathan, Gerald’s assistant tried to inform Gerald that he had tried to stop Jonathan.

  “Invite me in or come here so I can share the reason you don’t want this conversation aired about the office.”

  Gerald was clearly confused. Just as clearly, the man had a few skeletons in his closet.

  Jonathan couldn’t help wonder if one of them led back to his client.

  “Sit down, Brown,” Gerald told his assistant, as he got up.

  Cooper took the couple steps necessary to close the distance from desk to door.

  Out of the corner of his eyes, Jonathan noted the young man taking his seat. In the next moment, Gerald Cooper stood at the door. He got close enough that their conversation through the par
tially-open door could remain private, but no closer.

  “Who are . . . ? What do you want?” Gerald hissed.

  Jonathan calmly whispered, “There is an exceedingly powerful firearm in my pocket aimed at your testicles. So, invite me in, like a friend, or lose two of yours.”

  Gerald’s eyes went wide and he glanced down.

  Jonathan pressed the muzzle of his gun tight against the fabric of the trench coat pocket.

  With a gulp, Gerald Cooper swung open the door and exclaimed in a strained voice, “Oh, why didn’t you say so? Come in.”

  Jonathan stepped into the office quickly. He kept the door closed as much as he could to block Gerald from trying to communicate anything to his assistant, Mr. Brown.

  He spoke loud enough so the sound of his voice would carry to the young man listening at the door. However, he spoke softly enough that the words themselves would not be discernable.

  “All right, Gerald. Sit down. Now I have some questions about you and your friend, Orville.”

  “What? Listen, I had nothing to do with the funds! I don’t—I don’t even know if it was Orville!”

  “Shut up,” Jonathan said, settling into a chair between the desk and the door. He’d already become bored with Cooper.

  Gerald nodded and stared without blinking at Jonathan.

  As hard as he tried to keep eye contact, Gerald couldn’t help but glance down at the pocket containing the gun.

  “A few simple questions. Then I’ll go.”

  He motioned for Cooper to sit and the man finally did.

  “If you raise any sort of alarm, you can count on seeing me again—something you really don’t want to happen, Gerald. But if you just let this moment pass, you and I will never meet again and no one will ever know how close you are right now to wetting yourself. Got it?”

  Gerald nodded as red blotches stained his white cheeks.

  “All right. First, are you and Orville still good friends?”

  “Um, we’re not really that good of friends?” Cooper hesitantly shared with Jonathan.

  “Pardon?”

  “We—we’re more like acquaintances. Uh, we hang out around the office, but I never see him outside of work. We don’t, like, go for drinks after work or anything.”

  “Really?” Jonathan inquired in an emotionless tone. It was a skill he’d perfected for certain spells which also, all too often, came in handy for his work.

  “I swear,” Gerald nearly whimpered.

  “Okay, let’s say I believe you.”

  Gerald let out a sigh of relief and he hazarded a weak smile.

  “If you’re only office friends, then you’ve had no contact since he’s been suspended?”

  “No. No, none. Not a word.”

  “Okay. Now, tell me, Gerald, anything strange been happening to you over the last few days?”

  “I—uh—I don’t understand.”

  “In the last few days,” Jonathan spoke as though to a child whose finger was up his nose wiggling like a worm in a puddle. “Has there been anything unusual occurring? Threats made against you? Weird horoscopes, or fortune cookies? Maybe unexplainable happenings?”

  Gerald looked like he wanted to weep.

  He clearly had no idea what Jonathan wanted him to say or was even talking about.

  The questions had only served to make Gerald more convinced than ever the man currently sitting across the desk from him was a crazy, gun-toting, lunatic.

  More than a few people in the city wouldn’t have argued with his assessment.

  Jonathan resisted sighing and shaking his head.

  “One more thing, Gerald. I’m going to want to have a little chat with Orville—just him and me—so if you would be good enough to tell me where he lives . . .”

  “I don’t know! Like I said, I never—”

  “Never hang out after hours, yes.” Jonathan had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “But, I’m sure you could find the information, right?” Jonathan said, looking pointedly at the computer taking up more than half of the desk between them.

  “Yes. Yes! Of course, I could. How silly of me. Sorry.”

  “The address, Gerald,” Jonathan said, taking the gun from his pocket and resting it on his leg.

  Gerald gave a little whimper and rapidly set about clacking the keys on his keyboard.

  It only took a moment, and then Gerald began to recite the information he’d called up on the screen.

  Jonathan groaned in his head. He’d dealt with corpses quicker on the uptake. At least he could cross Cooper off his list of suspects with a great deal of certainty.

  “Write . . . it . . . down.”

  Cooper nodded frantically and hastened to do as Jonathan had instructed.

  Jonathan took the piece of paper, looked at it, and put it in his pocket. He then slid the gun back into his coat pocket.

  “All right, Mr. Cooper. Thank you for your time,” Jonathan said, standing.

  “Really?” Gerald asked, unable to believe Jonathan honestly planned on just going.

  “Have a good day, but remember what I said about meeting again. If you breathe a word of this to anyone, the next time you see me I will be far less polite.”

  “Right, right. No, I—not a word,”

  Gerald shook his head and then actually mimed zipping his lips closed.

  He had begun to perspire since Jonathan had sat down, and now his slick, coifed hair had started to sag over his brow.

  Jonathan beamed a smile at Gerald before he pulled open the door.

  Leaving it open behind him, Jonathan scowled at the assistant. The young man had just managed to avoid being bowled over by Jonathan. He now scrambled to regain his seat.

  Jonathan leaned over young Brown. Holding his hand up in front of the kid’s face, said the word ‘Ogya.’ A small black flame flickered over Jonathan’s ring finger.

  The young man scuttled backwards in his chair. He would have toppled over if there had been the space. Instead, the top of his chair canted over and hit the partition behind him while the bottom caught on the edge of the desk.

  Jonathan stopped the magic, straightened up, and casually walked back to the elevator.

  As he walked away, Jonathan tried to act as though that little summoning, that spark of magic, hadn’t awakened a monkey on his back the size of a Volvo.

  If Orville was behind everything happening to Wendell because of a grudge, he clearly didn’t hold the same grudge against his office pal, Gerald Cooper.

  Jonathan rode the elevator down and used the time to replace his weapon in its holster.

  Relieved to see no cluster of security guards, or cops, waiting for him in the lobby, Jonathan quickly exited the building. It had been unlikely Gerald would have called security; the man would be feeling far too lucky to have simply lived through the experience.

  Riding the emotional storm he’d just gone through, Cooper wouldn’t be thinking about security yet, just his own snaky hide.

  It had been the assistant, Brown, who had been the real risk.

  Jonathan assumed Cooper was currently either holding the crotch of his pants up against the hand drier in the men’s room or working hard to block the whole incident from his memory—a thing the human mind seemed ideally suited to do for itself.

  He started the Lincoln and pulled out of the parking lot with the tiniest of squeals.

  He had plenty of time before he had to get back to his office to meet Wendell. This meant he had plenty of time to visit one Orville Kingston.

  Although Jonathan wasn’t exactly sure how to approach the meeting, he wasn’t willing, nor did he possess the luxury of time, to let such nuances dissuade him.

  If Kingston was the one behind Wendell’s problems, Jonathan was going to be messing with a practitioner on a magnitude he’d never even read about, except in fantasy novels for the truly disenchanted.

  Jonathan found Orville’s residence without any difficulty and pulled to the curb a few houses down. He scoped out th
e place in his mirrors.

  It was a little square brick thing, one of the many houses built post World War II.

  A cement walk ran from the sidewalk straight up the property to the front porch. Running along both sides of the walk, neatly kept boxwoods grew, and beyond them, grass that was a little long but still quite green and healthy.

  A red Porche 911 sat in the narrow driveway. Jonathan made a face looking at it. He hated that model. He had felt somehow betrayed when that version had come out with its rounded bubble-butt.

  Nothing much about the place said ‘sorcerer supreme’ to Jonathan.

  However, he retained a measure of caution. In New Hades, in November, no one had grass so green and healthy, especially on such a small lot surrounded by concrete.

  “On the other hand, if he’s something straight out of myth, maybe the size of the place is an enchantment,” Jonathan conceded to himself. He noted the lackluster paint and the way the exhaust pipe hung low. “And the state of the car.” Jonathan remained on edge, but any real fear he had held regarding Orville began to fade.

  It was like a well-told ghost story that stands the hairs up on your neck. One that makes you jump at the slightest sound during the telling, but after the conversation has gone in a new direction, you see how silly the story was.

  His own mind had gone to that same state. But much like after that ghost story, even knowing it foolish by the end of the evening, you can’t help yourself from turning on the hall light on your way to bed. Everything before him said the man in the house wasn’t a practitioner of mythic proportion, and yet Jonathan couldn’t help being twitchy.

  He got out of the car and closed the door a little more gently and quietly than he might normally have.

  After crossing the street, Jonathan walked up the straight path and climbed the four steps to the small porch. The front entrance had an aluminum screen in front of a wooden door with three narrow inset windows. With great care, he examined the screen door. A hex sign or knot spell could easily be weaved into a screen. Such a soft metal, aluminum could be carved into easily without any special tools. A flathead screwdriver would do the job just fine.

  He couldn’t see anything. However, that didn’t prove much.