The Wizards of Central Park West_Ultimate Urban Fantasy

by Arjay Lewis

  The man raised his head, in the midst of a terrible transformation. Still clothed in the red and black garments, the face was now red, with black marks on it and short horns stabbing out of his forehead.

  Yamasuto paused for a moment, certain it must be a mask, but the creature opened his mouth.

  And it continued to open.

  It was impossibly huge, opening up half the monster’s head. And Yamasuto could see that the pointed teeth were too enormous to fit a human mouth. An evil tongue the size of a grown snake rose from the mouth.

  There was no doubt who this was.

  Yamasuto gave a grunt of fear and turned to flee as fast as he could run. His right hand grabbed the statue through the fabric of his suit, and he could still feel the horrid heat of it, and imagined if he pulled it out, it would not be the green of jade, but fiery red like heated iron.

  Yamasuto heard footsteps follow him and increased his pace, afraid that the awful demon-thing was right behind him. He ran down the path and toward an archway, passing the small sign that read “Greywacke Arch.” He passed under it, and straight toward the lights surrounding the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

  The sound of running feet stopped.

  This so shocked him, that he pulled up short. He carefully stuck his head out of the tunnel and looked around.

  His foe was gone.

  He saw no one. He lifted the pistol and scanned the path behind him, but there was no one nearby.

  Yamasuto knew he was close to Fifth Avenue. He turned, and with the Museum on his left, walked toward the busy rush of traffic. He never realized how desolate this part of the park was late at night.

  He was breathing hard, but he straightened his hair with his hand and pulled his jacket tight, keeping the gun in his hand but out of sight. Up ahead on his left was an empty playground, with a statue of three bears, which children often climbed.

  He would get to the buyer, make his transaction and then take a cab to the safety of his diplomatic residence. He turned to peer over his shoulder. Assured he wasn’t being followed, he returned his gaze ahead.

  A figure, cloaked and hooded stood before him.

  “Cheating me, Mr. Yamasuto?” a familiar voice grated from the inky blackness of the hood. “I offered you more money, yet you sell the sygil to Mr. Cuccolo. I am sorely disappointed.”

  Yamasuto stepped back. “You!” he said, recognizing the voice from the phone. He raised the pistol and said, “I’ll kill you!”

  “I doubt it,” the voice in the hood said.

  The red and black demon stepped into view from behind the hooded figure.

  Yamasuto yelled in surprise. The horrible face frightened him as it drew closer, the unblinking yellow eyes focused on him.

  “I see you know my friend, Amatsu Mikaboshi, the ‘star of the heaven,’” the cloaked person said.

  “I think not,” Yamasuto replied, as he tried to regain his courage. He lifted the gun and fired point-blank at the silk-clad demon.

  There was a soft THUP as the pistol recoiled reassuringly in his hand.

  The creature stood unaffected. His demonic face broke into the huge, oversized grin.

  “Missed me,” it spoke in perfect Japanese, and took the sword in one of its red, claw-like hands. There was a quick "swish" in the air.

  The front half of Yamasuto’s gun fell to the ground, a pristine line separated the two pieces as if severed by a laser.

  Yamasuto’s jaw fell open as he tried to find his breath. That’s not possible, he thought.

  Yamasuto’s fingers felt cold, and he looked down to find his thumb also missing. The cut was so quick and sharp he hadn’t even perceived it.

  The remains of the gun fell from his maimed hand, and Yamasuto went down on his knees and bundled his hand in his suit jacket. He pulled the statue from his pocket with his uninjured right hand. It was still burning hot, so he dropped it to the grass next to the two parts of the pistol.

  “Take it!” Yamasuto whimpered.

  It lay there and glowed with a glaring, red light.

  “Ah, how nice,” the demon said, but stepped away from it. Instead, the cloaked figure reached down and picked it up, then gave a bow of respect.

  “Thank you for the next piece of our puzzle,” the hooded creature croaked. “You have been most kind.”

  Yamasuto felt he might go into shock. This couldn’t be happening—such things were not possible. He bowed to the figure, thought of his grandmother and the scary stories she’d told. Why didn’t he pay closer attention?

  The cloaked figure began to walk away. However, the thing in the kimono stared at Yamasuto. It held up the sword, which wore a small, crimson spot of blood from Yamasuto’s thumb.

  The impossible tongue came out of the maw and licked the end of the sword, savoring the flavor.

  “I should tell you that it really makes no difference,” the cloaked being said as he strode away. “He is going to kill you anyway.”

  The demon in red and black leapt toward Yamasuto. There was another "swish,” and Yamasuto felt hot blood on his cheek.

  He looked to the ground to see his own ear lying there. Horror filled his heart, and he raised his head to meet the awful yellow eyes of the monster.

  The demon smiled again.

  “Now it starts to be fun,” it said, and raised the blade.

  Yamasuto began to scream.

  Twenty-Five

  Eddie got out of bed in a great mood. His world felt centered again. He could clearly recall making love to Cerise the night before, wild and passionate, like their honeymoon.

  Not bad after fifteen years and two kids.

  But Eddie was vaguely aware of an odd dream of a ghost in his living room, a strange fortunetelling lady, and a stick that changed into a credit card.

  He turned off the clock radio alarm, though it wouldn’t go off for another half-hour. He gazed at his wife’s supine form.

  God, how he loved her.

  He would wake her with kisses, right after he started coffee.

  He walked downstairs and smelled the most wonderful odor coming from his kitchen. His mother must have gotten up early and decided to cook. Was it Saturday or Sunday? No, only Friday; this was unusual.

  He walked into the kitchen to find a griddle on the stove as coffee brewed, bacon sizzled, sausages browned, and flapjacks baked.

  “Wow!” Eddie said, a silly grin on his face.

  “Glad you like it.” Marlowe came into the kitchen from the laundry room. He wore a simple white shirt and pants, with a black apron covering his clothes.

  Eddie fell backward into a kitchen chair.

  “Whoa!” Marlowe said. “Easy, Eddie.”

  “You! You’re real.”

  “Was there some doubt?” Marlowe asked, surprised.

  Eddie shook his head. “I woke up convinced you were just a crazy dream.”

  “Then I guess you don’t want breakfast,” Marlowe replied with a twinkle in his eye.

  “Okay, you’re a dream that cooks.” Eddie went to the counter and poured a cup of coffee. “We don’t eat like this on weekdays.”

  “Least I could do, Eddie,” Marlowe said, his face growing serious. “After waking you up in the night.”

  Eddie frowned. “That’s right. The ghost in my living room. That was real, too?”

  “Quite.” Marlowe went back to cooking. “I was trying to raise the spirit of Greywacke.”

  “Isn’t that the name of the guy from the coven? He visited me at the precinct.”

  “I speak of his mentor, Greywacke the First. He trained the man you met. For me, he was an old friend.”

  “What did you want him for?”

  “He was a great prophet. I thought if I could touch his mind, he might send me a vision. Then, I could get some insight into what will happen.”

  “Any luck?”

  “When a wizard moves beyond this plane, it is rare that his essence can be reached by those still here.”

  “So that means
no?”

  “Correct. However, I did locate another spirit who proved very useful. Do you recall any of what I told you last night?”

  “You said a wizard was helping Abraxas…is that right? I don’t remember much after that.”

  “You were exhausted, Eddie, and there was no point in going any further. I used a sleep spell and put you back to bed. That’s why your memory feels a little hazy; it’s a side effect.”

  “But is it true?”

  Marlowe didn’t meet Eddie’s eyes, but his brow was troubled. “I must do more research. As it is written, ‘good news can wait and bad news won’t go away.’”

  “Is that a quote from one of your great wizard philosophers?”

  Marlowe looked up at the ceiling. “No, I believe it was Fiddler on the Roof. Best thing you could do is take a shower and get dressed.”

  “But what about…” Eddie’s voice faded as he realized Marlowe had the kitchen well under control.

  Eddie added half-n-half to a cup of coffee and took it upstairs. He started the shower and got under the hard spray, which helped his muscles unwind and put his brain on alert.

  He stepped out and wiped his body with a towel. The last thing he did was rub the mirror to remove the layer of mist so he could shave.

  Watching him was Drusilicus.

  “Lieutenant!” the man in the mirror said. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  Eddie let out a little shriek and clutched the towel to his exposed lower half.

  “What are you…” Eddie bellowed, then with a quick look to his bedroom door lowered his voice to a harsh whisper, “…doing here?”

  Drusilicus smiled in an attempt to be friendly, but it came across as a smirk. “I wanted to know your decision. Really, lieutenant, if you are going to walk the path of the wise, you have to get used to our way of communicating.”

  “Sh!” Eddie demanded. “Keep your voice down, my wife is in the next room.”

  Drusilicus nodded and went on in a quieter tone. “Haven’t told the little woman? My word, lieutenant, one of the most important events of your life, and you haven’t shared it with her. Tsk…tsk…”

  “I can handle my wife.” Eddie was a bit cross. “Now as for you—”

  “Eddie?” came Cerise’s semi-coherent voice from the next room. “Who are you talking to?”

  “Aw Jeez!” Eddie gasped. Then he raised his voice. “No one, baby. I’m just singing.”

  Eddie broke into an off-key rendition of the first thing he could think of. Unfortunately, it was the seventies hit “Boogie Fever”.

  “I’ve got the boogie fever!” Eddie bellowed off-key. “I want to boogie down.”

  “Well, stop singing and clear out,” Cerise said at the door, “I’ve got to pee.”

  “Right away.” Eddie turned to the mirror and sang in a near whisper, “Get out of my mirror! I’ll call you later.”

  Drusilicus glared at Eddie as if he were a lunatic. “If that’s the quality of your singing, I’m happy to leave. Contact me. I need to know. Things are—”

  “I’ll call you ba-aa-aa-ack,” Eddie sang, and cut him off while still using the “Boogie Fever” melody. “Now will you get lost?”

  With a disgusted shake of his head, the mirror glazed over, momentarily transformed into pure silver, then once again reflected Eddie and his bathroom.

  Eddie opened the door to Cerise’s befuddled stare. “Eddie, have you lost your mind?”

  “I’m a morning person. I like to sing!”

  “Fifteen years and this is the first time.”

  Thinking fast, Eddie kissed her. “Well after last night—”

  “Let me go, didn’t you get enough? I really have to pee. Come on, get out!” Cerise shoved him out the door.

  Eddie leaned against the closed door and exhaled heavily with relief. He paused, afraid there might be a shriek from his wife because someone else showed up in the mirror. But all was quiet.

  “Man,” he said aloud as he started to dress. “Marketing phone calls at dinner and spam on the computer are bad enough. Now, I got people peeking in my damn bathroom.”

  He dressed in underwear, shirt and pants, then used the combination to retrieve his weapon, which he checked carefully before he put it in its holster. After donning a jacket, he shoved cell phone, wallet, and keys into pockets.

  He made his way down to the kitchen to find the breakfast table set with dishes, silverware, and napkins. Eddie’s mother already sat, and served herself from a huge plate of pancakes.

  “Momma,” Eddie spoke, pained at the realization of how little he’d seen her over the last few days. “Should you be up?”

  She gazed up at her son, her glasses making her eyes look huge on her small body. “I can still get around, Edward. And I’m having me some breakfast. I could smell it from my room.”

  She popped a piece of the cooked batter into her mouth as if as punctuation. “And these flapjacks are good—almost as good as mine!”

  Marlowe, brought bacon from the stove and smiled appreciatively. “You are too kind, madam,” he said, and put down the platter, took her hand in his oven mitt and kissed it, as if she was a highborn lady at an afternoon tea.

  “Oh, stop, you old flatterer,” Eleanor giggled, and brought one hand to her heart in a charmed gesture. But Eddie saw that she lit up with pleasure.

  Marlowe returned to the stove, as Eddie sat in shock. Marlowe was romancing his mother, for God’s sake.

  “I like your friend,” Eleanor told him. “You bring him back any time you want.” She dipped the flapjack in a small stream of caramel-colored, thick liquid, and put it in her mouth with an “mmmm” of pleasure. “I don’t know where he got this syrup. I never tasted anything like it.”

  Eddie looked at the small brown bottle on the table. It was a glass container, shaped as if it held the name-brand kind of syrup he was used to. But it bore no label. Eddie picked it up and sniffed at it.

  The aroma of maple touched his nose, but there was more. It reminded him of apple orchards, warm nights, and exotic flowers.

  He threw several pancakes on his plate, poured some of the syrup over them, cut off a small piece, and placed it suspiciously on his tongue.

  The feeling it produced—he couldn’t call it merely a taste—it was like a warm shower that traveled up his spine. The syrup was delicious, but more than that, it was a feast for his spirit. He felt lighter, freer, happier.

  “Do you like it, Eddie?” Marlowe carried over a plate with scrambled eggs.

  “It’s unbelievable,” Eddie said with astonishment.

  Marlowe’s eyes shifted to Eddie’s mother. Eddie got the message and quickly added, “But, the pancakes aren’t as good as my momma’s.”

  From the corner of his eye, Eddie could see her puff up with pride.

  “That’s why I needed my special syrup,” Marlowe explained. “It makes up for my lacking as a chef.”

  “This is a fine breakfast, Mister Marlowe,” Eleanor piped up. “You should be right proud of it.”

  “Thank you, dear lady,” Marlowe said. “And please, just call me Marlowe. No ‘mister.’”

  “What smells good?” Douglas, the younger boy, said as he came down the stairs with his brother. The noise of their combined feet heralded their arrival like a herd of elephants.

  “Breakfast? A real breakfast? On a weekday!” William said as they entered the kitchen.

  They both stopped when they saw Marlowe at the stove.

  “Dad,” William announced, “we got some white dude in our kitchen.”

  “We have some white dude in our kitchen,” Eddie corrected. “This is Mister Marlowe, and he’s the one responsible for the food. He’s staying with us for a couple days.”

  “We part of the witness-protection program?” Douglas smiled at the thought. “I’m down wid that.”

  “You are not down with anything, young man,” Cerise said, as she exited the back stairs and confronted them, her African accent pronounced. “
I won’t have that ghetto talk in my house.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Doug and William nodded in unison.

  “Now sit and eat,” Cerise ordered and turned on the charm for Marlowe. “Thank you for the fine meal, Marlowe.”

  “The least I can do to repay your hospitality,” Marlowe replied.

  “Now here is a man who speaks beautifully,” Cerise said. “You boys could learn a thing or two from him.”

  Neither Douglas nor William listened, both lost in the rapture of the remarkable syrup.

  “Take human bites,” Eddie addressed William.

  “Have some eggs, Eddie.” Marlowe served him from a frying pan. “While you still can.”

  “What do you mean—” Eddie started to say.

  The ring of Eddie’s cell phone stopped him mid-sentence. Eddie glanced at his watch. It wasn’t even seven AM.

  “Oh dear.” Marlowe looked at Eddie’s jacket pocket. “You’d better get that.”

  Suspiciously, Eddie pulled out the phone and put it to his ear. “Hello?”

  “Lieutenant Berman? It’s Captain Jacobs.”

  Eddie sat up straighter. “Yes, captain.”

  The younger Bermans were in breakfast rapture and lost in the tunnel-vision of youth, but Cerise, the wife of a cop, and Eleanor, the widow of another, stopped eating and looked at Eddie. There was tension in the air.

  “I’m sorry to call so early,” Jacobs apologized.

  “I was up, sir.”

  Jacobs went on, “I’m afraid we have a situation. There’s been another murder in the park.”

  “Another homeless man, sir?” Eddie asked.

  Marlowe put cooking utensils in the dishwasher and casually removed the apron as all the adults watched Eddie.

  “Not this time. The murder was a similar MO but the victim was a big-shot Japanese diplomat from the UN.”

  Eddie hissed out the breath he didn’t know he’d held. “How?”

  “Sliced to pieces with a sword. I believe it’s connected, lieutenant.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised, sir.”

  “Get to the scene, ASAP,” Jacobs commanded. “Seventy-Ninth Street just west of Fifth Avenue. The playground on the side of the museum.”