Black Cat Thrillogy #1

by Reginald Bretnor

  Muttering something politely unintelligible, Timuroff showed her to a chair.

  “And Briscoe says you’re so hospitable—you always offer him a drink. I hope you’ll offer me one, too. I’m parched.”

  She leaned forward and touched his cheek with a shapely finger.

  “I simply love your scar,” she murmured. “It’s so masculine. It gets awfully lonely,” she said wistfully, “being married to a successful lawyer. Do you have any tequila?”

  “I do indeed,” replied Timuroff, he hoped not too maliciously, “and I also have the recipe for a really splendid drink—unless you’re driving.”

  She shook her head. “In San Francisco? Never! I always take a cab.”

  “Good,” he said. “Then I’ll make you one. A jigger of brandy, a jigger of tequila, a highball glass, and you fill it with chilled champagne.” He compounded it and gave it to her with a bow.

  She smiled up at him, a hungry smile rather than a thirsty one. “It sounds absolutely nourishing”

  “Oh, it is.” He mixed himself a cautious brandy and soda and sat down again.

  She drank, and he took a symbolic sip. She rolled her eyes, and somehow he was reminded of an accomplished belly-dancer. “Why, it’s delicious!” she exclaimed. “So smooth—like champagne with a lovely electric charge in it. Do you suppose I could have another when I’ve finished?”

  “It packs quite a punch,” he said dubiously.

  “Oh, please. You see—Tim dear, I came here on a very painful errand.”

  “You mean you aren’t shopping for a special present for Briscoe?”

  “No—” she held her glass out for a refill “—it’s for my little brother. He’s a—well, you might say he’s a bill collector. And, Tim, it’s such a dangerous way to make a living.”

  Suddenly a great light dawned. Timuroff found himself comparing her features with the remembered countenance of Cesare Spirella. She was striking, if not exactly beautiful. Mr. Spirella was neither. But there was no doubt about the resemblance.

  Any qualms he might have harbored regarding the wisdom of getting Mrs. Hanuman drunk dissolved immediately, and he refilled her glass. “Who does he collect bills for?” he asked.

  “I don’t know exactly. It’s—well, some of them even call it the family, can you imagine that? Anyway, his job’s terribly dangerous—” she put a hand to her eyes “—so I—I’d like him to be as well armed as possible, to—to defend himself.”

  “I don’t sell modern weapons, Mrs. Hanuman.”

  “Oh, he’s got access to plenty of those. What I want is sneakies—you know, belt-buckle knives and boot daggers and things.”

  “Mine are all antiques,” he told her. “You’d save a lot by buying new ones, replicas.”

  “No, no! In Sicily, tradition is everything—” She downed the second drink and indicated that she could absorb a third. “Let me tell you our story,” she declared. “Our papa was killed by horrible men. Our mama had gone far away. I, six years old, was adopted by good people from this great city, distant relatives. But because they could take only one, my poor brother was put into an orphanage. The kind fathers wanted him to study for the priesthood, but he said never—his blood was too hot. He would live to avenge Papa. All this I heard when we were reunited, seven years ago. He already had this good job, for the family, and still he hunted the evil men who killed Papa. He deserves the best, Tim! So perhaps you have a poison dagger, maybe one that belonged to Lucrezia Borgia?”

  Timuroff, amazed at her ability to hold her liquor, handed her a third. “I’m afraid I have no weapons with such an illustrious provenance,” he told her. “And any poison would have to be applied by you. The police get very nasty about such matters.”

  “Bah!” she exclaimed. “The police—always meddling.”

  Timuroff decided the time had come to show her his stock in trade. To his amazement, she rose and followed him quite steadily, handling each blade lovingly, speculating on the damage it might do to Papa’s murderers or people who didn’t want their bills collected.

  She wound up purchasing three—a wicked gambler’s push-dagger from New Orleans, an ornate Seventeenth Century Italian blade, and a small Indian scissors-katar, designed to make mincemeat of the innards of anyone unlucky enough to have it poked into him.

  While Timuroff wrapped them, she sipped her drink, looked at him longingly, and spoke sentimentally of her little brother. “Can you imagine?” she said. “Poor Cesare, with all those people threatening him, he still has to offend Mr. Wotan!”

  “Who?” said Timuroff.

  Belatedly, she clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, I shouldn’t have—it’s something secret! Well, anyhow—” she fortified herself with another swallow “—Mr. Wotan is head of the little church Briscoe and I belong to. Tim, you of all people should join us. It’s so exclusive. I myself will recommend you to Mr. Wotan.”

  “I’m really not much of a joiner,” Timuroff replied.

  “Neither is my poor little brother,” she said unhappily. “That’s probably why he insulted Mr. Wotan.” She actually shuddered. “He should never have brought Mr. Wotan’s wrath down on him. Those other people just have guns, but he can hurl thunderbolts.”

  She fished a small paperbound volume from her purse and presented it to Timuroff WE ARE GODS! proclaimed the cover, YOU TOO CAN BE THE GOD OF YOUR CHOICE! The price was $25.00.

  “Did your Mr. Wotan write this?”

  “Of course. His full name is the Lord God Jehovah Wotan, but we just call him Mr. Wotan—except during serious rituals, naturally. But what it says is true. It’s why Briscoe’s been so successful since he discovered he is Hanuman, that wonderful Hindu god who can outsmart anyone.”

  “And you, of course, are a goddess.”

  “Oh, yes—and such an interesting one.” She blushed as she said it. “Mr. Wotan and Briscoe both forbade me to tell who—but, Tim dear, if you’d like to know—”

  “Wouldn’t that incur Divine Wrath?”

  “There is that,” she said regretfully.

  “Tell me—” Timuroff bridged the gap “—are you all required to change your names?”

  “Oh, no. Mr. Wotan prefers some of us who do to move to other cities, to avoid vulgar gossip. Remember, Tim, our Pantheon is very small, very select.”

  “There’s a supervisor named Willis Ganymede. Would he be one of you?”

  “Oh, yes—he’s a dear, dear friend. He was in that orphanage with Cesare, though then he wasn’t even Willis, and he left long before Cesare did. He has certain tendencies, you understand? The fathers did not approve.” She looked down at her now empty glass. “Tim, dear, do you suppose—?”

  At that point, mercifully, Olivia returned early, package-laden. “Did I interrupt anything?” she asked.

  “Yes, dear,” replied Mrs. Hanuman in a tone which would have served to envenom a Borgia dagger, “you did.” She did not quite say yes, but her voice was thickening and Olivia came instantly to the rescue.

  “Tim,” she said, “I’m not trying to rush anything, but didn’t you have a three-thirty appointment with the CHP captain who collects Civil War?”

  “I’d clean forgotten,” Timuroff exclaimed. “I was having such an interesting chat with Lydia here.”

  Mrs. Hanuman favored him with a lush smile, glared at Olivia, and said, “Tim, will you be a shwee—a sweetheart and tell your girl to summon me a cab?”

  “I hate to have you go,” he lied. “Do say hello to Briscoe for me.” He winked at Olivia, already at the phone.

  Having made the call, she tactfully busied herself at a filing cabinet while he took Mrs. Hanuman by the elbow and escorted her to the elevator. He rode down with her, saw her safely into a cab, and cleverly evaded a goodbye kiss.

  Back at the shop, Olivia looked at him disapprovingly. “Tim,” she said, “what were y
ou doing with Medusa?”

  “Selling her pretty toys for her baby brother.” He smiled. “And she’s not Medusa. She’s a goddess. She told me so herself.”

  “Come again?”

  He proceeded to tell her all he knew about the Lord God Jehovah Wotan’s exclusive little church, and she shook her head unbelievingly.

  “So being Mrs. Monkey-God makes her a goddess, too?”

  “Oh, no—she’s a goddess in her own right. But she wouldn’t tell me who.”

  “How on earth can successful, prosperous, presumably intelligent people fall for such nonsense?”

  “Because high IQs don’t necessarily imply good sense, and playing god is pretty heady stuff. Remember that Rajneesh up in Oregon with all the Rolls-Royces? Anyhow, Lydia really did appreciate the weapons I sold her. She thinks they’ll help keep her baby brother from becoming the dearest defunct.”

  “Hey, do you actually mean that ugly character in the photo is her brother? Just wait till Pete hears this! He’ll be quoting Shakespeare for half an hour.”

  “Well, we still don’t know who’s out to get Cesare, but she did give me one possible opening. She invited me to become a god—” he pointed at the paperback “—and promised to speak to Mr. Wotan for me. I might be more tempted if I were twenty years younger. Some of those gods had a rip-roaring time.”

  “Look,” said Olivia, “can all this be serious?”

  Timuroff chuckled. “Serious enough, so Pete’ll be happy to pick up our dinner check just to hear my full report and listen to my sage advice.”

  “I can see,” said Olivia, “that if you do become the god of your choice—I tremble to think of it—you won’t be a benign, kindly, generous god…”

  * * * *

  Pete arrived just after closing time, accepted the drink they offered him, and listened to Timuroff s account.

  “See how it pays not to be a cop?” he said to Olivia. “How would the world treat me if I got a goddess drunk, especially one married to a monkey-smart lawyer? To say nothing of that awful potion he got her drunk on.”

  “She liked it,” protested Timuroff, “and she held it admirably, aside from getting a little thick of speech and being bitchy to Olivia.”

  “Well,” Pete said, “your hunch about all those gods certainly panned out. But now what? It’s funny nobody in the Department’s looked into this L. G. J. Wotan’s activities.”

  “You don’t suppose someone in your top echelons became the god of his choice without telling anyone, do you?” Timuroff smiled. “Remember, Mr. Wotan doesn’t require them to change their names.”

  Pete shuddered. “That little possibility boggles the mind. I wonder who gave Minky the notion that his pal Cheesy was in danger. Did Mrs. Goddess Hanuman tip him off? Hell, I don’t know where to start.”

  “I do,” declared Olivia. “Over dinner tonight, which my boss thinks you, dear husband, should pay for, we can decide which obscure and unpleasant god he wants to be—probably one interested in weapons-making. If he was a woman, he could be Inari, the Fox Goddess, who helped the great smith Munechika forge the famous blade known as the Little Fox.”

  Timuroff smiled. “At present I have no real intention of aspiring to godhood. However, if I do decide to beard Mr. Wotan in his den, perhaps we ought to leave the choice to him. Such an act of proper reverence would please dear Lydia tremendously.”

  “You mean you may go see this character and let him think you’re joining up?” Pete warmed to the idea.

  “I’ll admit I’m curious. They probably throw positively Olympian parties. Let’s try the phonebook.”

  Olivia produced it and flipped pages. “No dice,” she said.

  “How about Information?”

  She dialed.

  “Wotan, L. G. Jehovah?” echoed the operator. “That number is unlisted by request of the subscriber.”

  “The line to Heaven or Valhalla or whatever is top secret,” Olivia told them, hanging up. “We’ll have to rely on Mrs. Bitchy.”

  “Well,” Timuroff said, “I still have a lot of champagne, brandy, and tequila. I’ll give you another afternoon off. By the way, do you think this office needs a daybed?”

  “I’m going to call Liselotte right away and lower the boom on her faithless lover,” vowed Olivia.

  “And lose your job?” said Pete.

  * * * *

  During dinner Tim answered Pete’s many questions, and finally decided to accept Mrs. Hanuman’s offer to introduce him to Wotan. “Of course,” he told them, “I’ll wait until she’s had time to recover from today’s libations.”

  “And to forgive you for providing them,” said Olivia.

  However, just after ten the next morning, when Mrs. Hanuman surprised them with a phonecall, her voice carried no hint of hangover. She spoke almost pleasantly to Olivia when she asked for Tim, and her gifts, she told him, had really touched her little brother’s heart. He was disappointed because there was no poison dagger, but his delight at the scissor-katar more than compensated for it. When Timuroff informed her he was considering joining Mr. Wotan’s charmed circle, she insisted they celebrate by having lunch together—she’d put it on Briscoe’s account at Alexis’ Tangier.

  With some difficulty, Timuroff begged off—he said he was waiting for two overseas calls, but that he’d call Mr. Wotan as soon as she gave the word. And what was Mr. Wotan’s phone number? And how was one to address him?

  She warned him solemnly not to let anyone else know any of this and to wait until he heard from her. Plain Mr. Wotan, she said, would do over the phone, but once in the Presence, he would expect to be called All-Father. “And soon we can have lunch together?” she said coyly. “Or perhaps supper? Dear Briscoe’s going to L.A. on Tuesday and he won’t be back until very late Wednesday.”

  As Timuroff hung up, Olivia looked at him inquiringly and he repeated the conversation back to her.

  “You ought to be ashamed, Tim,” she said. “Leading that poor innocent little goddess on like that. You know perfectly well you’ve no intention of having lunch with her, let alone an all-night supper in Briscoe’s absence.”

  “Don’t be too sure,” he told her. “We gods have different standards from common clay.”

  * * * *

  Half an hour later, Mrs. Hanuman called to tell him she’d spoken to Mr. Wotan. “His Valkyries,” she said, “told me if it had been anyone but me he wouldn’t have taken the time to answer. But when I told him about you and how eager you were and about all your weapons, he said he’d spare you a few minutes if you’ll be there promptly at four this afternoon. Will you?”

  “Absolutely,” he promised her.

  He passed the word to Olivia. “This may make me a bit late,” he told her, “so when Pete calls for you, ask him to wait.”

  At precisely five minutes to four, he drew up before an ostentatious older house across from Golden Gate Park, rang the bell, and was not really surprised when the door was opened by two statuesque blondes garbed in byrnies, wearing winged helmets, and looking as though they had just arrived from Central Casting.

  They escorted him through a sumptuous hallway into what must in earlier times have been an oversized dining room but was now a surprisingly functional office. It still had a long table with chairs ranged along it, but it also contained three large steel filing cabinets and two desks of the same material, on one of which reposed an ultra-modern computer. There was also a vast fireplace.

  But the one object suggesting an other-than-everyday atmosphere was a barbaric throne at one end of the room. Two snarling boars’ heads looked down disapprovingly over its occupant, who, Timuroff realized, could be none other than the Lord God Jehovah Wotan. He was a mighty figure of a man, with a great, grizzled beard, a black patch over one eye, and an ominous frown. He, too, wore helm and byrnie, but his helm, instead of wings, bore fearsome horns,
and he wore leather breeks. On his lap lay a battleaxe at which Timuroff stared unbelievingly, recognizing it as Scandinavian, probably Eleventh or Twelfth Century, of superb workmanship, and in astoundingly fine condition.

  “All-Father, this is Alastair Alexandrovitch Timuroff,” announced one of the Valkyries with a hint of an accent more Cockney than Norse, “the supplicant.”

  “Bring him a chair!” boomed Mr. Wotan, raising a huge silver-mounted horn and drinking from it. “And fetch more mead!”

  The chair was brought and Alastair was seated. One of the Valkyries replenished Wotan’s horn from a silver pitcher.

  “That’s a very handsome battleaxe, All-Father,” said Timuroff respectfully.

  Mr. Wotan hefted it disapprovingly. “It’s okay, I guess,” he answered, “but it’s too damn small. For me, that is. Say, you deal in this sort of stuff, don’t you?”

  “I do.” Timuroff nodded. “And I have one in stock right now that’s almost twice as big—and very handsome. It’s not as old, though.”

  “That doesn’t matter. Would you take this one in trade?”

  “Of course,” said Timuroff.

  “Giving me some boot?”

  “How about three hundred?” suggested Timuroff.

  “Make it five and we’ve got a deal.”

  Alastair agreed.

  “Mr. Thoth!” Wotan bellowed.

  From a side door appeared a strange being, a man in an ordinary business suit but wearing a bird’s head, through which his small black eyes peered glitteringly. The bird’s head had a long, seemingly very sharp beak.

  “This,” said the All-Father, “is the god Thoth, my accountant. In ancient Egypt, he was the god of the arts and sciences, of scribes and mathematics.”

  “I shall ask you a few questions,” said Thoth, pecking the air with his ibis beak. “Answer truthfully. Remember—you can hide nothing from us.”

  “Right,” said the All-Father, wiping mead from his whiskers with a huge and hairy hand. “Our eyes are everywhere. The mass media, the Police Department, even the IRS.”