Tomorrow Wendell (White Dragon Black)

by R. M. Ridley

  Every time Jonathan had entered the shop, day or night, there he sat in the same wooden chair, his trilby cocked jauntily to the side, and cane held in gnarled knuckled fingers smelling of rum.

  One day, by sheer happenstance, a client had left him with a few cigars after settling his bill. Jonathan had shoved them in his coat and headed out to Tinashe’s store to restock the items he’d used to help said client.

  Not being a cigar smoker himself, Jonathan had no real use for the things. When he had entered the shop, he had offered one to the old man without much thought to the gesture.

  The act had a rippling effect, like a fly landing in blood, and Jonathan couldn’t believe how restrained Tinashe had been towards him during that visit.

  From that day forward, Jonathan had made sure he always had a decent Cuban to give the elderly gentleman by the front door. It meant dealing with the mafia who smuggled them in, but to Jonathan, it seemed worth it.

  The old man, wreathed in fumes of rum, took the cigar from Jonathan without comment, as usual. However, Jonathan did notice the old timer seemed to have taken an interest in Wendell.

  He expected the cigar to disappear into the man’s clothing, as had happened every other time. However, the elderly man snipped the end off the cigar with a cutter which seemed to appear from nowhere.

  A moment later, the heavy, rich aroma of the tobacco filled the store already laden with spice and other less discernable odors. All the while, the gentleman had kept his age-emaciated face on Wendell.

  Smelling the cigar smoke, the tourist glanced about the tiny store.

  When she saw the source sitting by the door, she started. Jonathan assumed she had not noticed the old man until the smoke had brought him to her attention.

  Once she got over the shock of his presence, her expression turned to one of disdain and disgust.

  She opened her mouth to say something, then looked at the burly man beside her. Realizing how out of her element she now found herself, she shut her mouth once more.

  The tourist seemed bolstered momentarily as she spotted Jonathan and Wendell. The realization that she was not the only Caucasian in the place seemed to restore some righteous anger.

  She gave him a strong look then glanced at the old man. Clearly, she thought he should say something about the cigar smoke. In response to this, Jonathan took his cigarette case from his pocket. He blatantly removed one and extended it to Wendell, who declined.

  The tourist lifted her chin, pursed her lips, and made her way out the store. Jonathan hardly noticed.

  Jonathan had registered another reaction. The large man had shifted uncomfortably when the silver case had been extended in his direction.

  Anyone who stiffens and shifts away from silver intrigued Jonathan far more than any tourist’s rod-assed response. His instinct said to investigate the issue further, but he reminded himself that this was far from the time or place.

  If he bothered one of Tinashe’s clients, he’d have plenty of issues to deal with. Not one of which would be beneficial to his client or himself.

  Jonathan quickly put the case back in his pocket and lit his cigarette.

  The other two people in the shop stood at the counter, speaking with Tinashe. One, a woman Jonathan guessed was a century old, spoke Creole with an accent thick as flies on a bloated body. Jonathan could only pick out one word in ten.

  The accompanying woman looked to be hardly out of her teens, and spoke with a local accent.

  It seemed the elder of the pair wanted Tinashe to bless the younger one’s marriage. But due to the accent, Jonathan couldn’t be sure. He didn’t bother trying to eavesdrop on them. It would be a surefire way to get Tinashe pissed at him—cigar or no cigar.

  Wendell seemed to enjoy simply looking about the store. Unlike the tourist, he wasn’t looking at the things on the shelves and the items for proper Vodun rituals, as if he were snooping through a garage sale for the purpose of feeling superior to the person holding it. He observed the items for what they showed him, and told him, about the culture. Jonathan could read it in his face. He’d worn the same expression when Jonathan had come upon him talking with Mary Parson about what she did.

  Wendell’s exposure to the esoteric had not been by his choosing. It had come through unpleasant means, but the man seemed to be learning all he could, just the same. He now soaked up all he could of the new reality revealed to him.

  When this ordeal of his had passed, Jonathan thought it would be best to keep tabs on his client. He might just need a guide through this brave new world.

  Jonathan knew that the creature, which had reacted to the silver, now kept a watchful eye on him. He could feel its gaze like a tick on a calloused hand. He did his best to ignore it and simply wait for his chance to speak with Tinashe. She hadn’t missed his arrival, he could be certain, but she had showed no sign of awareness to his presence.

  Jonathan realized, due to his recent activities, he had depleted his stock of a few key items. He figured while he waited he might as well gather them for purchase.

  “I probably don’t need to tell you this, but don’t touch anything,” he said, stepping up close to Wendell.

  The tall man nodded and tucked his hands into his pockets. Jonathan resisted the urge to tuck in his client’s elbows. He walked away to gather the sundry items he was low on or just felt it might be wise to possess for the upcoming days.

  Eventually, the girl led the ancient woman, who seemed pleased with the outcome of the visit, out of the shop. Jonathan turned to where the burly man stood and gestured for him to go ahead.

  He received a glare for his efforts, but as Jonathan continued to browse, the man did approach Tinashe.

  Their conversation happened in low murmurs. Jonathan began to hum in a conscious effort to stop himself from straining to hear the words exchanged. It wasn’t until he reached the chorus, did he realized the tune he’d used to distract himself was ‘That Old Black Magic.’

  He quickly stopped humming and glanced towards the counter. Tinashe, looking over the shoulder of the man she was close enough to kiss, gave him a quick, dirty look with her stunning, dark eyes.

  Not a moment later, the man exited the store.

  Tanishe regarded Jonathan with crossed arms.

  “What do you want, Bossale?” Tinashe spat, her thick accent making the words exotic.

  “Can’t a guy just do a bit of shopping anymore?” he said, placing the things he wanted on the counter.

  “Some can. You, I know better. Why are you really here, Monsieur Alvey?”

  Jonathan turned and motioned Wendell forward. “This man,” he answered solemnly. “He needs protection, and though we may not see eye-to-eye, Tinashe, you’re the best at what you do.”

  “Flattery from the man, now,” she said, directing her words to the old doorkeeper. “Can you believe this?”

  “Tinashe, I’m serious. This man’s life is being threatened and I need your help.”

  “I like the sound of that, Bossale. Tell me again how you need me.”

  “Tinashe, will you help Wendell here or not?”

  Tinashe gave Jonathan a hard, piercing look. He could feel her energy testing him and tried not to react. Finally, she raised an eyebrow at him before turning to look at Wendell.

  “Come here, Wendell. Let me see what there is to be seen.”

  Wendell stepped right up to the counter.

  Tinashe reached out gently and took his long-fingered hand in her small ones. She looked into Wendell’s eyes and slowly shook her head.

  “This man cannot be protected from what comes for him,” she said, gently releasing Wendell’s hand. Tinashe looked to Jonathan. “There is no gris-gris strong enough. Nothing can dissuade the Baron once he comes for you. Even you should know that, Bossale.”

  “There has to be something you can do, Tinashe. Something to keep him safe—to hide him?”

  “There is not left to do. I see the spell you laid on this man, but the Loa, they are
not fools.”

  “Tinashe, please!”

  “When Baron Samdei comes, no good comes of fighting. The Baron is right behind this one, Alvey. No—I cannot help.”

  Jonathan almost left there and then. Reason asserted itself. He still needed the items he’d picked up to purchase. Now that Tinashe had been unwilling to aid them, perhaps even more.

  When they exited the store, a black dog sat outside watching Wendell. Jonathan growled at it in earnest. The dog paid him no heed.

  “Get out of here you mangy mutt! Go!”

  The dog reluctantly got up. It only trotted away a few feet before it sat down on its haunches again.

  “I’m getting pretty fucking sick of you damn psycopomps,” Jonathan declared to the canine.

  If it cared how he felt, the dog declined to show it.

  Back in the car, Jonathan apologized to Wendell.

  “Perhaps she is right. I assume this Baron person is like the grim reaper?”

  “She’s not right,” Jonathan countered and then, less briskly said, “but you are kind of right. Baron Samdei is a personification of death, yes.”

  Jonathan cursed as he tried to coax the Lincoln into life. When she finally fired up, he took a breath to try and calm himself down. When that didn’t quite do it, he took the flask from his back pocket.

  He double-checked that he had the silver flask and not the copper one, which held holy water, before unscrewing the lid.

  He didn’t need the complications that could arise from gulping holy water, not today.

  Jonathan took a few swallows of the bourbon to take the edge off his frustration.

  What he really wanted was to vent his frustration, to unleash a powerful burst of energy to shatter all the windows in the block. He wouldn’t, though. Not only would that be asking for trouble in this neighborhood, he knew the urge lay mostly in his addiction goading him.

  As Jonathan pulled out from the parking space, Wendell asked a second question. “That word she used, Bos-”

  “Bossale.”

  “Yeah, what does it mean?”

  “It’s a derogatory term. It means the uninitiated.”

  “Why does she call you that?”

  “It is a word they use for people who dabble in the vodun, but are not actually part of the religion, or not chosen by the Lao.” Jonathan saw the confusion on Wendell’s face and added, “The Lao are more than a guiding spirit or totem animal, but not quite like any other religion’s deities.”

  Jonathan lit a smoke.

  “Suffice it to say, she calls me that, with all its possible negative intonations, and with pleasure.”

  The traffic they drove back through was light but seemed to be dominated by little old men in hats and barely pubescent male teens.

  Jonathan had a theory that any little old man behind the wheel wearing a hat would be a sporadic, erratic, and spastic driver. He had yet to find exception to this belief.

  The teens were reckless, fleckless drivers who would undoubtedly grow into little old men who wore hats.

  Jonathan kept waiting for Wendell to ask what seemed the inevitable question. By the time he pulled into his usual spot in front of his office building, Wendell still hadn’t spoken, save for the few questions he’d had after leaving Tinashe’s shop.

  Jonathan was just as glad he hadn’t asked. He simply didn’t know the answer.

  He could spend the rest of the day trying to track down the few other ‘almost’ leads they had come up with the night before. Jonathan didn’t think he’d get far, though, especially not in the time he had.

  In truth, he didn’t think the leads would point him anywhere productive anyhow. What he really didn’t need was another debacle like with Orville Kingston.

  Jonathan put the Lincoln into park but kept the engine running.

  “I have nothing else, Wendell. I want you back here for ten tonight. In the meantime, if there’s anything you want to do, or someone you want to contact, do it. When you come back, bring something to read or a book of crosswords, whatever will help you pass the time. You are staying under lock and key until midnight tomorrow.”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  “What I want is to catch the bastard behind this, but until then I’m going to keep you safe and secure until tomorrow has rolled into the day after.”

  “I’ll be here at ten, then,” Wendell said solemnly and got out of the car.

  Jonathan watched his client walk down to his own parked car.

  When Wendell had driven away, Jonathan put the Lincoln back into drive and went to get the bourbon he knew they would both be needing.

  Twenty minutes later, Jonathan left the three bottles of bourbon and the case of beer in his car and walked to his apartment.

  The menacing red message light on his machine winked at him obstinately when he entered the apartment. Tempted to treat it the same way he treated most other messages he ever got, Jonathan decided it might be best to actually listen to it.

  He pressed play and Frank’s voice emanated from the tinny speaker. At first, Jonathan got excited, but like a drowning man going under for the third time, his hope silently died.

  The message only informed Jonathan that Frank had gotten home and nothing had changed. He apologized for not being able to be more help and said Jonathan should ring if he needed anything.

  Resetting the machine, Jonathan told himself he had better make sure to thank Frank properly when he got a chance. He knew a case of beer would be a good start at that.

  He went to his bed and, without taking off his holsters or coat, sank back onto it.

  Jonathan opened the drawer of his nightstand table without sitting up. He found the small bottle of sleeping pills by touch. Shaking them out onto the cap, he found one had already been cut in half—the recommended dosage.

  He swallowed the drug dry, then tossed the container back into the drawer. He closed his eyes in the hope of catching the sleep he would desperately need over the next few hours.

  Jonathan awoke, sweating from a dream of being torn apart by ravens. No matter how hard he had struggled, their beaks just kept jabbing and tearing his flesh.

  “Shit. Now I remember why I don’t take those bloody pills,” he complained to the empty apartment.

  With a groan, he sat up and swung his feet to the floor. He’d slept enough to get him through the upcoming ordeal. Although it had ended with a dream delivered by an ancient Greek’s guilt complex, he felt prepared.

  He took a deep breath, stood up, and stretched as best he could without taxing his abused abdomen. Feeling something akin to human, he shook off the last lingering tendrils of the dream and stalked into the kitchen. He hoped he was wrong about having already drunk his last beer.

  One quick glance in the fridge was all he needed to know that he wasn’t getting his breakfast out of it. He had gone to sleep knowing that when he woke up he would no longer be a private investigator but private security.

  Jonathan stifled the echo of Mary Parson’s voice that rose unbidden from the graveyard of his memory.

  He wandered over to the window to look with dismay at the snow. It resembled nothing more than tiny balls of soft white Styrofoam littered over the street. The sky hung low and heavy, the moon only a vague dark spot among the clouds.

  “Charming.”

  He turned away and went over to his phone. No new message awaited him, so he made a call without having to debate anything.

  He placed an order with Bao for three Singapore noodles, three dumplings, and two beef with black bean. When Bao commented on the amount of food—a lot even for Jonathan—he explained how he planned to lock himself and his client into his office until the day of his predicted death had past.

  Bao responded by telling Jonathan he would stay open late the following night, so they could both get fresh food and hot tea. Jonathan thanked Bao but told him not to go to any trouble.

  “Not trouble, Mr. Alvey, courtesy and friendship.”

 
“Okay, Bao, thanks.”

  “Good luck, Mr. Alvey.”

  Jonathan hung up, feeling confused by Bao’s words. He liked Bao and his nephew, Quan. They had always treated him well. Bao saying that Jonathan was his friend had caught him off guard, however.

  Jonathan didn’t consider himself a man with family or many friends. There was family, just not for him anymore.

  ‘Friends’ was Ralph Madden. Everyone else was just people.

  He wondered if his inability to see friendship meant he just used everyone. Jonathan pushed the thought away. He didn’t have the leisure to think about it.

  He had a client counting on him to keep him alive. That was all he should be thinking about. Yet Bao’s declaration refused to leave his mind completely as Jonathan began walking to his office.

  Falling snow accentuated the dark sky. The light of the halogen streetlamps was off-putting and gave the street a surreal quality that Jonathan didn’t appreciate.

  Winter was showing its intentions for the season, usurping autumn’s show, and sliding its face onto the marquee. It wasn’t here for good yet, just declaring its readiness to blanket the city and pound it relentlessly.

  He shrugged the snow off his coat and climbed the stairs to his office. The elevator hadn’t killed anyone that he knew of—yet. But some days, Jonathan found he needed the almost Zen-like state that could be achieved by taking one step after the other. Plus, the rattling cage hadn’t killed anyone—yet.

  He reached the third floor and walked to his office. Instead of creeping in this time, he drew his gun as he kicked open his door.

  No one waited for him. Neither was anyone in his personal office.

  Jonathan holstered his nine-millimeter and began to check the defenses he had fortified before leaving earlier.

  Nothing seemed to have been disturbed. The salt still remained in place. He’d have to seal the front door once Wendell came in, but he could see no signs of tampering.

  He hadn’t even sat down when he heard the rap on the side of his doorframe, and Quan called out his name as he entered.