Mr Blank (Fill in the Blank)

by Justin Robinson

  There was a long pause, and I regretted about half of what I said until Mina cut me wide open. “No. It’s people like you that enable terrorists and mass murderers.”

  I couldn’t remember Barbara Stanwyck being that annoying.

  As awkward silences went, it was a doozy. There wasn’t a whole lot to say after that. I just kept driving and looking straight ahead. Mina did the same.

  On the stereo: “Feelin’ Satisfied.”

  Calling Medieval Castle tacky would be missing the point. Of course, calling it classy would really be missing the point. Medieval Castle existed in that strange penumbra that emerged when kitsch had rebounded in on itself so many times that even hipsters couldn’t quite muster the ironic detachment to appreciate it. Granted, if they knew what the so-called “Feast and Tournament” hid, they might come to it as pilgrims.

  But that would be missing the point, too.

  It was a castle, or at the very least, the conception of one in the mid-’80s, filtered through a limited budget, and with no desire to actually repel any invaders. One catapult would bring the whole place down, but it was the truly rare Orange County family that actually possessed siege weaponry.

  The parking lot was mostly empty, except for some of the spots right next to the side entrance, where the employees went in. A casual observer might not see the pattern. A car person would immediately note the preponderance of American muscle, though not just the classic models from the ’60s and ’70s. Me, I always laughed a little bit when I saw the names on the backs: Charger, Mustang, Bronco.

  “So who are these people?”

  I quickly played through the conversation from the simple, hypothetical response, “I’m not supposed to say.” It ended with blackmail. So I told her the truth: “The Knights Templar.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, I’m a squire.”

  I opened the door with my key. This was backstage, but they would be waiting for me in the main hall. I knew Richard. He liked the pomp and the circumstance, and was probably knee-deep in his usual bullshit.

  “Wait, these guys are Satanists,” she said.

  “No, you’re thinking of Paul Tallutto. Remember, the primordial dwarf?”

  “Okay, so what are they, really?”

  “Dangerous. They’ve been around for a long time, they have nearly unlimited funds, and they’re experts in the kind of weapons that stopped being used because they were too brutal. If you want to yell at someone, wait until we’re gone and you can yell at me again.”

  Mina thinking that the Templars were Satanists was due to a rumor started by the Catholic Church way back in 1312. Basically, the pope accused the Templars of worshiping Mammon instead of God, which managed to be both entirely true and entirely hypocritical. Imagine if the Catholic Church started attacking daycare centers for unsafe jungle gyms and you can get a handle on how ridiculous this accusation was. The Templars were more or less exterminated, but a couple managed to escape. They had been kicking around ever since, trying to recapture their glory days—mostly by finding excuses to wale on each other with medieval weaponry.

  It was quiet backstage. I could smell makeup and steel, but I ignored that and followed the hall toward the central pit, bordered on either side with coarse curtains. Up ahead: a doorway that led out into gold. Gold sand underfoot and gold light from the floods up top. Within twenty steps, there was a clanking sound. The gold was eclipsed.

  Son of a bitch.

  His name was Eric Caldwell, and I had once called him “shitbird.” Number three on my “times someone tried to kill me” list. He was a big guy, and even bigger when he was wrapped in steel. He had replaced his show tabard, the one with the Day-Glo colors, with a simpler one emblazoned with what looked like a Nazi iron cross, only in red—the Templar insignia. He had one of those stubble beards complete with slightly longer hair around where he should have a goatee, and dark hair like he was on the cover of a romance novel. More importantly, he was armed with three feet of steel.

  “Gross. And guest?”

  “Sir Richard asked to see me, and he said to bring her.”

  Eric turned his head to talk to someone inside. “Squire Max and guest to see you, Sire.”

  Richard’s voice boomed out somewhere overhead. “Let them in!” Other than that ridiculous accent, he had a pretty good voice. He ordered hot wings with the authority of a man commanding a full spread of photon torpedoes.

  Letting Mina in meant he was curious. It was always possible he knew about her already, if he knew about Raul Diaz and the swinging rock of death. It didn’t feel like a trap, but “It didn’t feel like a trap” could always be put on my tombstone. For extra fun, I could let Mina choose the name to go above it.

  I gestured to her and walked toward the light. Eric loomed in close on me. I could smell his breath. Mostly rosemary—leftovers from the kitchen. I think he was trying to intimidate me, which, considering I still had a scar from our previous encounter, should have been a little easier.

  “Chew some gum, Eric. For me,” I said.

  Then I was out in the light and before Sir Richard and there wasn’t anything Eric could do within protocol.

  Richard was, in many ways, the personification of this place. He looked like he had stepped right out of Boorman’s Excalibur: same neat beard, same circa-1981 haircut, same good looks. He even had a little bit of an accent. He’d lived in LA for at least twenty years, but that damn accent was his bread and butter. I was pretty sure he was faking most of it these days, since he didn’t sound like any actual British person I’d ever heard. He sat in a fake throne about fifteen feet above the floor—he was the “king” of Medieval Castle, after all. He was dressed like Eric, in plate armor with a similar tabard over it. Two knights flanked him, and two more stood in the shadows on my level.

  “Thank you for coming, Squire Max. Would you be good enough to introduce your guest?”

  He knew something. That’s the only reason the son of a bitch would let her in. Let’s lie to him and see what happens: “Sir Richard, this is Rosemary. Rosemary Lewis. My… um… friend.”

  “So I see. Welcome to Medieval Castle, Rosemary.”

  Mina gave me a look. “Uh… thanks. We’re a little late for the show, I guess?”

  “I’m afraid so. Come see us again another night and I would be pleased to allow you in free of charge.”

  “Sure.” Mina’s deadpan nearly made me lose it.

  “Max, if you could come with me…” Richard gestured, and I took the meaning.

  Between her clenched teeth, Mina hissed, “You’re leaving me here?”

  “You’re as safe as I am,” I said.

  Her glare supplied the sarcastic comment.

  I went backstage and climbed some stairs, joining Richard in the box. He had a look in his eye like a kid who’d just learned that the internet had a porn section. “That’s quite a friend you brought us.”

  “I didn’t really bring her to you, exactly.”

  The accent really slipped when he blurted: “I’m invoking the right of droit du seigneur.”

  Some people knew that as prima noctis, a possibly fictional tradition where the local noble was allowed to deflower the women on his land on their wedding night. I didn’t bother to point out the obvious: Mina and I weren’t getting married, and the probability of her still being a virgin was roughly equal to the chance of my developing the power to control the world’s pelicans by thought alone.

  Instead: “Yeah, have fun. That’s between you and her.”

  He rubbed his hands together. “You’re flirting with knighthood, Max.”

  “What a pleasant surprise.”

  “I have an errand for you. Something of the utmost importance. Are you familiar with the Chain of the Heretic Martyr?”

  Of course I was. I wasn’t born in a cave. “Somewhat.”

  “It was stolen, not long ago, from our French brethren. It was spotted in Los Angeles last week before it vanished again. Find it.�
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  “Okay. Can I ask you a question first?”

  Richard nodded. I raised my voice just loud enough so that the knights below could hear me. “Do we have any sleeper agents? Hypnotized assassins?”

  The look on Richard’s face said he had no idea what I was saying. He spoke, low, “No, nothing like that. The operation here is… small.”

  I heard the scrape of plate armor. “I’ll find the Chain for you, Sire,” I said.

  Then I jumped down fifteen feet to the dirt floor. It hurt like hell, but I was hoping it looked at least a little cool. I don’t think the wincing helped, though.

  “Before you leave,” he said, and trailed off because he was scampering toward the stairs. It was ridiculous to see a guy in full armor do that, and really, I’m not even sure how he managed it. He appeared in the hall behind Eric, and even Caldwell had to react to the way Sir Richard was mincing.

  “Squire Max, if you would,” and he made a shooing gesture toward Eric and me. “Miss Lewis, if I may be so bold…”

  Eric was shifting his weight from foot to foot as I went to stand next to him. I gave him a once-over. “Gotta take a leak?”

  “Huh? No, no, it’s fine.”

  He didn’t follow it up with an insult. He didn’t loom. He didn’t brandish. It was disconcerting.

  I watched Mina’s face go from curious to horrified to angry as Sir Richard whispered to her. Her shoulder tensed. I knew that move. Now I scampered to her side and moved in close, wrapping an arm around that hourglass waist. Mina had good heft to her, and I couldn’t help but think how nice she’d feel if her dress weren’t between us. The problem was, I had to head off the imminent head-off.

  I said, “Well, I’m sure she’ll think it over.”

  “She’ll do a bit more than that,” Richard said, and that made me want to slap him a little bit.

  “Right, well, not tonight, though. She’s got an early start tomorrow, and I have to drop her off so I can get on that errand, right?”

  Richard looked at me, more than a little shocked. “Right, yes, of course. Well done.”

  I kept Mina very close as I dragged her from the center of the arena. “Come on, Rosemary. Let’s get you home.”

  She was swearing under her breath. “Who the fuck does he think he is?”

  “Jacques de Molay maybe. I’m not sure.”

  “He told me he has the right to…”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Did he think it would work?”

  “Probably has in the past. You know how women like dicks. Poor choice of words. Uh, how women like…” I tried to conjure up a noun with the frantic waving of my hand.

  “Assholes?”

  “I was going to say jerks, but let’s use your word.”

  She said, “Women that do secretly think they aren’t worth it.”

  We were out in the parking lot. The night was cooling off.

  “So what did he want from you, anyway?”

  “The Chain of the Heretic Martyr’s gone missing.”

  Her eyes got big. “Holy crap.”

  “You know what that is?”

  “Of course! If there’s an artifact that both V.E.N.U.S. and the Anas would love to get their hands on, it’s the Chain. I mean, this is the chain that bound St. Joan of Arc. You want to talk about a feminist icon? There you go.”

  “I think I already found it once.”

  She frowned, then, realization dawning, murmured, “The chain attached to the rock?”

  I thought of the soot covering Diaz’s palm. “Could be. Templars lose an artifact, then a Templar assassin shows up with something matching the description? Sir Richard didn’t know what was going on, but it could have been anyone in there. An inside job.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “That’s the part that bugs me. These kinds of things never actually make sense. If something has a neat little bow, you can bet pesos to pantaloons it’s bullshit.”

  “You’re a real pessimist, you know that?”

  “I’ve heard it said.”

  “If the Chain’s been stolen, it could be the fault of V.E.N.U.S. or the Anas,” she said.

  I nodded. “I never knew you guys wanted it so badly… and there’s the… fuck me.”

  “What?” she said.

  “Symbolism. Why was Kennedy killed at the triple underpass? Because it’s an occult symbol. The trident. It’s all about the sacrificial killing of the divine king, see. The point is, if someone was actually trying to turn you into a martyr, they couldn’t pick a better weapon than the chain that helped martyr an icon associated with femininity. Plus, you know, your last name is French.”

  She looked terrified. “You think my name has something to do with it?”

  “No, that’s probably just a coincidence.”

  She glared, trying to figure out if I was fucking with her, or, more accurately, when I was fucking with her.

  “Where to next?”

  “Not sure yet. We’re going to wait here for another…” I did the calculations in my head. “Eight or so minutes.”

  “What was the point of all that?”

  “Would you please let my plan finish up before you criticize?”

  Eight or so minutes later, I saw Eric Caldwell rushing from the side entrance. He was out of his armor, dressed in street clothes. Now, I’m not the kind of guy that uses the word “gay” as a pejorative. When I say something is gay, I mean that it has something to do with two guys having sex. I used the word gay to describe Greco-Roman wrestling, Top Gun, and Eric’s outfit. It was nothing I could really put my finger on, but the clothes were way too tight, his hair just a little too perfectly tousled.

  I said, “We’re following Eric to his boss.”

  -NINE-

  It was officially the next day. My ass was getting a bit sore from all the driving, and maybe a little in a symbolic sense. I was following Eric’s Charger through the streets. Over the years, I’ve learned a few rules that go with good shadowing. One, keep a couple car lengths between you and the target. This buffer zone changes based on local traffic conditions. Two, stop following the guy if he’s leading you off the beaten path just after he’s had a phone conversation. And three, it helps to know where the guy is going before you leave.

  The last is called instinct by most people who have it. As someone who didn’t have that sense innately but grew into it, I have to say that’s not the case. It’s more about knowing the situation around the person and using that to make educated guesses. It’s a good way to lose someone, but when it works, the tail is impossible to detect. A good trait, especially when the tailee is a master of the cruciform broadsword.

  I paralleled him for a few blocks because I knew where he was heading in the vaguest sense. When the city tightened up, so did I, catching him again on Hollywood Boulevard. We weren’t too far from Diaz’s place.

  I passed Eric as he was heading into a bar, looking plainly uncomfortable in his skin.

  Mina said, “He’s gay?”

  I took in the crowd. Yeah, it was a gay bar. Either that or these were a bunch of straight guys who were into working out and personal hygiene and just really, really enjoyed each other’s company. I said, “I guess so.”

  “Weird.”

  “What, you saw the way he was dressed.”

  Matter-of-fact: “Doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Sure it does.”

  “Clothes don’t make the man. It’s more about how those clothes hang than anything else. He had this look about him like he was cross-dressing. Not that he was, but that he felt like he was. Like he was putting on a costume. Like you look.”

  I wasn’t sure how to take that one. It didn’t feel like a shot. The Templars had given us a common enemy, so we were able to comfortably ignore the blow-up we’d had earlier. I was still trying to think of an appropriate response to it. Maybe in a week or so, I’d call her up and say, “Hey, remember when you made me feel really bad about my life choices, well,” and then
I’d slay her with a bon mot they’d be discussing throughout the underground for generations. This was assuming I’d have her phone number. It’d be less effective if I had to call her agent.

  In the meantime, I kept driving, found a parking lot, and paid nearly half a month’s rent.

  I said, “Let’s go.”

  “You’re not going in like that.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “First off, there’s the Big Boy hair.”

  I touched the top of the swirl. It was still pretty immaculate. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “I thought Big Boy hair pretty well covered it.”

  “You’re a Democrat, aren’t you?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything? Here, let me…” She touched my hair. It crinkled. “What’s in here, lacquer?”

  “I have to, you know, make sure it sticks.”

  “That’s a lot of commitment to look like this.”

  “You realize that you’re going to give me a complex.”

  “Is there any water in here?” she asked.

  I pointed to the sagging Mickey-D’s cup in the cup holder. “The ice in there is probably melted.”

  She opened it up and dipped her fingers first into the cup, then into my hair. I could feel her breath on my face. I could have leaned in, but I didn’t. I just stayed a foot away, concentrating on her slightly open mouth, on her blue eyes, on her smooth cheeks.

  “You look a little less terrible now.”

  I didn’t want to look away. I don’t think anyone could really blame me for that. It wasn’t until she pointed at the rearview mirror that I turned to have a look. It was a sort of a grown-out George-Clooney-in-the-first-season-of-ER.

  “And the clothes? Should I…?”

  “What are you wearing under that?”

  “Undershirt.”

  “What kind? Jeez. You’re not into fashion much are you?”

  “What part of ‘double agent’ are you not getting? I spend my life trying not to get noticed, and fashion is about trying to get noticed. It’s a frickin’ undershirt. I don’t know.”