Mean Streets

by Jim Butcher

  Mickey grinned. It was really a nice grin. I smiled back.

  Then I stumbled into my room and fell onto the bed and into sleep.

  In the morning, I returned to Mexico City with only a short pause to lay some plans and then say good-bye to Mickey and his aunt. Mickey was grinning again, though this time there may have been more malice in it than the night before.

  It was pretty early, but I managed to call Banda’s office and get an appointment through his secretary. If he skipped out on me, I would hunt him down.

  But he didn’t. He was there when I arrived, even if he seemed a little puzzled about my appearance in his office. With a dog.

  He looked at the strange dog and frowned. “Did you pick up a stray in Oaxaca?”

  “No. Don’t you recognize this dog, Mr. Banda? A former client of yours was sure you would.”

  Iko began to growl like he had at the airport and stalked toward the desk. Banda stood up, looking nervous. “I think you should call off your dog.”

  “He’s really not mine,” I said, closing the door behind me. “If you take a good look at him, I think you might recognize him. He’s Maria-Luz’s dog. And Hector Purecete’s. Who used to be Estancio Rivera. You know: the guy your partner tried to kill by sinking the Dulcia.”

  “I think you should be more careful what you say, Miss Blaine. That’s slander.” He didn’t look at me, just at the dog. The dog his secretary hadn’t noticed. Nor anyone else we passed on the street or at the airport.

  “Truth is a complete defense, I’m told. And the insurance company was never that convinced it was an accident,” I replied. “But you know that. Because you helped cover it up. And still are. Which is how a guy in a two-man office can afford to fly to New York to watch the Yankees all season, every season. Because you steal, and you blackmail, and you pay people off. Like you paid off the guy at customs to break the dog so I’d go home. Didn’t you?”

  He was backing up as Iko kept coming, inexorable as death.

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about. . . .”

  “Oh, yeah, you do. And so do the federal investigators who drop in to chat with you once in a while, and the petty officials, and everyone else you pay off so they won’t pull your license and throw you in jail to rot. There’s a long list of your transgressions if you know where to look. Like I do.”

  “What the hell do you want, Miss Blaine? I’m sure we can settle up and go our ways. You and your dog,” he added, as if he’d like to spit, but didn’t dare. He was sweating and turning pale. “Will you be happy if I admit I paid to have the dog broken? Is that it?”

  “No. I do like hearing you say so, but it’s not enough. What will make me happy is if you were to suddenly remember Miss Arbildo’s amended will. The one where she leaves everything to the families of the sailors who died on the Dulcia.”

  “There’s no such will!”

  “There was.”

  “No, there wasn’t! Just the ones I showed you. Whose word are you taking? Mine or some . . . informant living in the hills?”

  I walked closer to him. Iko had backed him to the wall. “I am taking Maria-Luz’s word for it. And in a few minutes, I’ll take yours, because I think you’ll want to make a clean breast of the whole thing.”

  “You’re crazy! Just as crazy as she was.”

  I gave him a cold look. “Iko, rip his throat out.”

  The little dog let out a banshee howl and leapt for Banda’s chest.

  Banda screamed, and tried to cover his face and neck with his hands, falling over his desk chair as he flailed at the ghost dog.

  The secretary pounded on the door, yelling.

  I stuck my head out. “He fell. He’s OK,” I added, pointing to the thrashing man on the floor. “Or not.” I shrugged.

  The secretary stared at her boss, shrieking and writhing on the floor, and backed away muttering about the police and the doctors. I wasn’t too worried. They wouldn’t find a scratch on him.

  Iko was biting savagely at Banda, who seemed to be feeling every snap of the little dog’s incorporeal jaws. I have to hand it to Mickey and Maria-Luz: they did fine work. Iko was only “alive” to the man whose life he was tied to: Banda.

  “Iko,” I called. “Get off that piece of trash.” I clapped my hands for the ghost dog’s attention. “Iko!”

  Reluctantly, the dog jumped to the ground and stood on stiff legs in front of the lawyer, growling. Banda dragged himself up the wall, panting and shaking. He stared at the apparition with horror.

  “Wha—what . . . is that?”

  “It’s retribution, Mr. Banda. That is Iko. He was on board the Dulcia when it sank. But Hector Purecete saved him. I don’t think there’s ever been a dog in this world—or the next—who hates you the way this one does. And he’s all yours.”

  I elbowed him sharply in the gut and he gasped. I pushed the bundle of hair into his mouth and shoved his jaw shut. Convulsively, he swallowed.

  Then he gagged for a moment, staring at me, until he caught his breath again.

  “Jesus. What was that?”

  “It’s Iko. It’s the little bit of magic that was in the dog you were so scared of. And now it’s yours. For the rest of your life. And maybe a little longer.”

  He ran for his washroom and tried to throw up, but there was nothing to toss. He shook and prayed and babbled for a moment as Iko circled him, hackles raised and teeth bared.

  “Payback’s a bitch, isn’t it?”

  He glared at me as a renewed pounding started on the door. I backed up and leaned against it. “You want to talk to these guys or do you want to get out of this mess?” I asked.

  “I want to get the hell rid of you. And your damned dog!”

  “Your damned dog, now, Banda. But I can tell you how to get rid of him. If you do what I want.”

  “I’ll have you arrested,” he growled, rubbing his throat as he staggered out of the washroom.

  “Oh, come on. You know my lawyer. You think that’s going to fly? And if you think you can arrange an accident for me like Jimenez did for Purecete, consider that you currently have a dead dog waiting for a word from me to start biting the living hell out of you. It won’t kill you. But I’d bet you’ll wish it would. Whoever is on the other side of this door is going to think you’ve gone insane when they see you rolling on the floor with an invisible dog. Because only you and I can see Iko.”

  If hate were a living thing it would have leapt for my throat from his eyes. “¡Salga!” he shouted at the door. “¡Salga! ¡Estoy bien!”

  The knocking died away.

  “What. Do you want?”

  “Ms. Arbildo’s real will. I want it registered and entered for probate, or whatever you need to do to execute it. Today.”

  “I don’t have it,” he spat. “It’s gone. I burned it!”

  “Then forge it. Like you forged the ones you showed me before. The estate is to be divided among the families of the crew of the Dulcia.”

  “There is no estate to divide! Don’t you get it, estupida gringa? It’s all gone. The estate is bankrupt. The money is gone!”

  “You told me Maria-Luz was loaded. That thirty thousand U.S. was a ‘drop in the bucket.’ And it didn’t disappear until you were the sole controller. So you can un-bankrupt it the same way you broke it in the first place, Banda. And if you don’t, you won’t just have an angry ghost dog on your ass. Because even you and your dead partner and your cheap secretary can’t possibly have blown that much money, and certainly not without leaving a trail wide enough to march the Mexican army down. So, you still have it. Which means it can be returned to its rightful owners.”

  He glowered.

  “Iko,” I said.

  He threw himself into his chair, saying, “No, no! Please.” He snatched his keyboard and began to type.

  I came and stood over his shoulder, watching, while Iko growled nonstop. I looked the finished document over.

  “That’s pretty good, Banda. I see you’ll still be
able to feather your own nest, if less regally than before,” I added, glancing around his very nice office.

  He muttered under his breath.

  “Knock it off. You lost. Man up and live with it.”

  I hung around while he finished up, printed the forms, forged the signatures, and got warily to his feet, eyeing the threatening little hound that dogged him unceasingly. Stifling his fury, he led me on a long damned walk around downtown Mexico City to register the will and rescind the previous one.

  Just outside of the courts building he stopped and turned back to me.

  “Satisfied?”

  “Mostly. But I know you can walk right back in there and pull that paperwork by saying you were coerced. But this is the thing you need to remember, Banda: the dog is forever. And once I’m gone, you’re not off the hook, because there is someone in Oaxaca who knows all about the will, the Dulcia, the dog, and all the rest.”

  “Another of your ghosts?”

  I laughed. “Oh, no. A very real, solid, living person. I know you can find out who it is, but don’t be hasty. Remember I said there was a way to get rid of the dog?”

  “Yes,” he snapped.

  “That person knows how to set you free. But they won’t if you screw over the survivors of the Dulcia’s crew. And they can’t if you decide to kill them. That person—and powerful friends—will be keeping an eye on you. If that person dies, or if that person chooses not to help you, you and Iko get to spend this life together, and the next one and the next one, until there is no one left on the planet who remembers you, or the dog. Until the third death.”

  He howled and threw himself at me. I just stepped back as Iko lunged.

  I walked to the edge of the plaza and flagged a cab, ignoring the crowd that had gathered around the convulsing, screaming man on the ground. “Airport,” I said, turning on my cell phone.

  I waited for an answer to my call and finally someone picked up. “Villaflores . . .”

  “Hey, brat-boy. It’s the GP. It’s done.”

  He laughed. “I’ll be on the next flight. Don’t want Iko to have to chew on that lawyer for too long.”

  “Yeah, poor, faithful Iko.”

  It’s rare for Justice and Vengeance to stand in the same place, but I thought this time, maybe they would. At least for a while. Until the will was executed and Banda’s embezzlements were restored to the proper owners. I hadn’t told Banda the truth, but that wasn’t bothering me too much. Whether he lived with Iko for a day or a lifetime, whether anyone remembered Banda or gave a damn in a year’s time or thirty, there was at least one thing that made me smile: it would be a long time before the third death of the little clay dog.

  NOAH’S ORPHANS

  THOMAS E. SNIEGOSKI

  ONE

  Remy knew it wasn’t real, the product of some strange, dreamlike state, but he didn’t mind in the least. Seeing her this way—it was almost as if she were still with him.

  Almost as if she were still alive.

  She had called to him from inside their Maine summer home, and he’d gone to her, climbing up the stairs to the second floor.

  Standing in the doorway to one of the spare rooms, he watched her.

  Her back was to him as she looked out one of the open windows onto the expanse of backyard, verdant with grass that would need a lawn mower’s attention sooner rather than later. She was wearing a white cotton dress that billowed and moved in the warm summer breeze coming in through the window. And as he silently stared from the doorway, he was reminded of how much he loved her, and how incomplete he would be without her.

  “Remy,” she called out again. He answered, startling her. She laughed that amazing laugh, and turned to face him.

  “There you are,” she said, eyes twinkling brighter than the highest spires of Heaven.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” He stepped into the room.

  “No fear,” she said with a slight shake of her head as she reached out to take his hand.

  Deep down he knew that this was all wrong, that Madeline had passed away three long weeks ago from cancer, but he couldn’t help it, eagerly wrapping himself in the warmth of a lie.

  Her hand was cold and wet and he was about to ask if everything was all right, when he realized how dark it had become in the room.

  Black, like the inside of a cave.

  And from outside he heard the sound of heavy rain.

  A dog barking pulled Remy from his fantasy, and he left his wife, the darkness, and the rain to find himself sitting on the porch of the summer home, now in the grip of winter.

  It was snowing, and the wind had carried the fluffy white stuff up onto the porch. It had even collected on him as he had sat unmoving. Remy brushed the snow from his arms and the top of his head and Marlowe barked again for his attention.

  “Hey,” Remy said. “Sorry about that, must’ve dozed off.”

  “No sleep,” the black Labrador retriever said, reminding him that angels did not sleep.

  Angels of the heavenly host Seraphim were not supposed to have human wives, summer cottages in Maine, or work as private investigators, either. But he did.

  “I know, but I was dreaming,” he said, remembering his wife’s beautiful face and how the sudden darkness had tried to claim it.

  “Rabbits?” the dog asked.

  “No rabbits,” Remy said. Snow had accumulated on the dog’s shiny black coat and Remy started to brush it away. “Madeline.”

  Marlowe lowered his gaze. “Miss,” he grumbled in his canine tongue.

  As a member of God’s heavenly host, Remy was able to understand the myriad languages of every living thing on Earth. But even if he could not, there was no mistaking how the animal was feeling, for Remy felt the very same way.

  “I miss her, too,” he said, reaching down to rub behind one of Marlowe’s velvety-soft ears.

  Since Madeline’s passing, Remy and Marlowe had felt more than a bit lost. Remy had hoped a trip to the house in Maine might have been good for them both, a change of scenery. A needed distraction.

  He took a deep breath and gazed out over the porch rail at the falling snow. “I’m not sure how great this idea was,” he said and sighed.

  It had been spring the last time they’d come, before everything had been thrown on its ear.

  Before the cancer.

  They’d had a wonderful weekend, taking the day off from the office and driving up early Thursday afternoon. He’d felt something special even then, remembering how he’d experienced a weird kind of euphoria as he’d gotten out of the car and hauled their bags from the trunk.

  Madeline had already gone inside, leaving the door to their getaway wide open. And as he had climbed the stairs to the front porch, watching his wife move about, pulling up shades and opening windows to air away the winter staleness, Remy had experienced a moment of perfect contentment.

  This was what he had been waiting over a millennium for.

  It wasn’t as though he hadn’t been happy until then. He’d been on the earth for hundreds of thousands of years, and there had certainly been moments of happiness, but right then and there, at that specific moment, Remy Chandler was fulfilled.

  Since leaving Heaven after the Great War against the Morningstar, he’d been searching for something. He’d always known he would find it on the Almighty’s greatest experiment, among His most complex creations.

  And he did—it had just taken a little while.

  It had all started to fall into place when he’d made the decision to live as a human. Suppressing his angelic nature, Remy had walked among them—learning from them—trying so desperately to be one of them.

  But it had taken a purpose, a job, to finally set him on the right path. Choosing the name Remy Chandler, the angel Remiel now worked as a private investigator, and had at last found what he had been searching for. The job allowed him to see every facet of humanity, the depravity, the cruelty, the kindness, the passion. It allowed him to observe and to learn from
them, and for three hundred dollars a day plus expenses, he helped them.

  He’d been around humans for what seemed like forever, but they still had so much to teach him. And that was never more obvious than when he had first met the woman who would eventually become his wife.

  Madeline.

  She’d shown him what it truly meant to be human. She became the anchor that allowed him to keep the nature of the divine being he truly was at bay. After all he had lost in the Great War, Madeline had become his island. She had become his Heaven.

  Now she was gone, and he feared that the skin of his humanity would begin to slip away, to slough off like that of a reptile, revealing what he had always been beneath.

  “We could have stayed in Boston and been just as miserable,” he said to his companion while rubbing the top of the dog’s blocky head.

  And as if in response, the wind picked up, blowing snow across the porch, showing that the harsh New England season still had plenty of bite left.

  Marlowe turned his nose into the breeze. “Cold,” he said softly, but loud enough for Remy to hear.

  “Is it?” Remy answered, not having allowed himself to feel much of anything since his wife had died.

  The Labrador placed his face in Remy’s lap.

  Marlowe’s pack was now incomplete, and Remy could only imagine how difficult it was for him to understand that Madeline wasn’t coming home. It was like attempting to explain the concept of death to a very young child.

  “Sad,” the dog said, and it just about broke Remy’s heart.

  “I know, I’m sad, too.” He bent forward to whisper softly, lovingly, into the animal’s ear. “What would make you happy?”

  “Madeline come back?” Marlowe lifted his head excitedly. His ears perked up, and his thick tail wagged so hard that Remy thought for sure the dog would topple over.

  “No, Madeline can’t come back.”

  He remembered the strange experience he’d just had, and the feeling of his wife’s hand in his. It was almost as if she had been with him again.

  He kissed the bony top of the dog’s hard head. “I wish she could, but she can’t. Is there anything else that would make you happy?” Remy asked his four-legged friend.