Mr Blank (Fill in the Blank)
Page 26
“That’s why his gun was at his place. He kept the weapon he got last.”
I nodded.
“That’s confusing.”
I said, “It all comes down to goat’s blood.”
She grimaced. “Explain.”
“That goat’s blood at the Satanist soiree. I delivered that. It’s the first thing I thought of when Shaw gave me this.” I removed the letter from my coat and slid it across to her.
She opened it, and made the same face I was pretty sure I made. “This is the same handwriting as on Diaz’s secret admirer letter.”
“Brian’s handwriting. The Clone Wolf that grew Diaz in the first place. Remember him? He wasn’t Diaz’s secret admirer—he was yours. Brian’s in love with you—granted, creepy stalker love, but it’s probably the closest thing he’s ever felt. That’s why he had that dress that was perfectly your size on hand already and wrapped up like a present. That letter in Diaz’s place was for you, and the letter in Daphne’s office in his handwriting? You were the delivery he was talking about. Daphne was trading you to a Clone Wolf. On Thursday, I delivered a piece of information to Brian from V.E.N.U.S., and that information must have been that you would be at Union Station on Friday. Brian didn’t have the courage to talk to you, so he sent the closest thing he had to a friend to deliver you that love letter.”
“That’s kind of sweet.”
“Love to a Clone Wolf means he wants to combine your genes with his and make one super-person.”
“Ew. Okay.”
“So Brian gave the letter to Diaz…”
Mina finished for me: “Only he was already activated to kill on information you provided and given a weapon you planted. Instead of coming to deliver a letter, he was there to kill whoever came to that locker.”
“Yeah. I’m Mr. Blank. This whole thing was just the fallout of doing what I do and not thinking about what it means. I’m the person I’ve been tracking. Remember when I told you about how conspiracies are like an octopus? When the gang of five—Vassily, Oana, Neil, Victor, and Ingrid Brady—captured me, each one had no idea what the other was doing. That showed me that octopi can’t see in the dark. Metaphorical ones, anyway. I think regular ones can see just fine.”
“You nearly got both of us killed because you never bothered to open a goddamn envelope.”
I nodded. My chances with Mina, out the window. Good to burn the one bridge I had with a person who seemed able to trust me. “Yep.”
She looked at the table. I tried to read her face and couldn’t. It was stormy there. There was a good chance I was about to get kicked in the face again, and this time in a restaurant in front of a bunch of teenagers that looked like they had just gotten out of the prom.
“You’re paying for this.”
I nodded. “Yeah, I understand.”
“No. You’re paying for this.” She pointed at the piecrust and her empty milkshake. “And you’re going to find a way to make this up to me.”
-TWENTY-THREE-
Every conspiracy needs a guy like me.
They’ve all got scut work that needs doing, hauling crap from place A to place B. I’ve never flown a black helicopter, I haven’t seen a mutilated cow in what seems like months, and I still haven’t killed anyone, including myself, but that wasn’t for lack of trying. I haven’t hidden any weapons, impersonated any government agents, or called anyone that I didn’t know in even longer. Without me, I’m not sure how—or even if—the shadow governments are moving, but frankly, it’s not my problem anymore.
Yeah, every conspiracy needs a guy like me. That means there are close to a hundred job openings in Los Angeles these days. All that’s required is a limber brain and a willingness to avoid asking the really obvious questions.
Long story short: I’m retired.
I’m not a Rosicrucian, a Freemason, a Templar, or a Hospitaler. My links to double-black agencies in the government are still there, but neither side is talking. I don’t know if the various organized crime outfits want me dead or don’t care. I don’t talk to the Vatican, the Servants of Shub-Internet, the Discordians, or the Assassins. The Knights of the Sacred Chao, the Brothers of the Magic Bullets, and the Illuminated Seers of Bavaria can fuck off. I don’t even think about Symbionia, Thule, Shangri-La, and the Hollow Earth, but I did go to Napa Valley on vacation. I still know who killed everybody, but the difference is, I don’t think about it unless I get drunk or Mina asks. The Little Green Men leave me alone, the Atlanteans are too busy talking to fish, and Oswald’s clones are in retirement homes. There’s still no such thing as vampires, but I do see the occasional chupacabra.
Completely retired. My mysterious red-eyed friend asked me to make a choice, and I did. Pretty simple decision after you realize you’d accidentally arranged your own death. For the time being, I thought I should stick to the lighted areas of the world.
The night after the observatory, I slept in a motel. Mina acted weird when I dropped her off at her car, but I couldn’t think why. I promised to call her, which I ended up doing two days later.
I went back to my apartment the next day. Turned out my neighbors had called the cops. Everyone thought I was dead. I did what I do best: I lied. I got what I needed out of there. The strange thing was when I went to the kitchen sink. The axolotls were waiting in there for me, and rather hungry. They had lost their gills and their skin had taken on a mottled look. They had metamorphosed. They weren’t supposed to do that. I put them in a salad bowl and was only bitten once.
I tied up the few remaining loose ends. There were no bodies at the observatory, but there were reports of a disembodied voice calling for help. That stopped around eight in the morning. As far as I knew, Burt Shaw was never heard from again. I let Richard know that Eric’s killer was no longer a problem and he wanted to knight me, but I wasn’t confident that I could get through the ceremony without giggling.
I tracked Ingrid Brady down and sent her a large pizza and a pair of shoes. I don’t think she found that funny at all.
Hasim Khoury lived, but decided LA was too dangerous. Last I heard, he’d moved to Afghanistan. I think he’s a member of the government now.
Oana Constantinescu started a team of full-figured gymnasts. That’s probably going about as well as you’d think.
I kept the Chain and the Stone. They were safer with me than anywhere else. They live in a mini-fridge under my desk. The inside glows pretty brightly even though the light bulb is burned out.
I got a new identity and left the city with my salamanders. I didn’t go too far, just a little way up the coast where no one knew me.
I was a little worried about what making things up to Mina meant, exactly. We were past the third act, so any betrayal wasn’t going to be timely, unless she was setting herself up for a longer con. I owed it to both of us to stick around to find out. She’d be disappointed if her opportunity never materialized, and I couldn’t do that to her.
As it turned out, making it up to her meant dinners in expensive restaurants and seeing movies that starred Julia Roberts and Kate Hudson. This happened several times before it dawned on me that we were dating. It came as a bit of a shock to me, but what the hell. She treated me well, even if she kept asking me what my real name was.
I think she meant the name I was born with.
Instead, I showed her the ID I was using.
“Robert Blank?”
“First thing I thought of.”
She smiled at me. “It fits.”
-ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS-
Thanks to the masters of noir for creating such a fun world to play in. And thanks to the theorists, the prophets, the wingnuts, and the deep throats for populating it.
Thank you to my editors, Kate and Anna-Linden. Without you two, I'm not even sure this thing would have been written in English. A second thank you to Kate for wanting to publish me, and for generally being the kind of awesome that's reserved for crimefighters and unicorns.
Lastly, a thank you to my readers. Af
ter all, you're the ones I write for.
-ABOUT THE AUTHOR-
Much like film noir, Justin Robinson was born and raised in Los Angeles. He splits his time between editing comic books, writing prose and wondering what that disgusting smell is. Degrees in Anthropology and History prepared him for unemployment, but an obsession with horror fiction and a laundry list of phobias provided a more attractive option.
Follow the Author:
http://satelliteshow.wordpress.com
Twitter: @justinsrobinson
Table of Contents
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-TWENTY-
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-TWENTY-THREE-
-ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS-
-ABOUT THE AUTHOR-