Mid-Arc

by David Gosnell

  She makes me happy; working the merchandise and the customers. I knew she was a quality hire.

  So I begin my browsing of the wares, and I’m not impressed: in a word – generic. I see very little that differentiates my store versus the other tourist crap stores. The build-your-own voodoo doll station isn’t there. The mysticism bookrack is tiny and relegated to a hidden rear nook of the store. And the inventory is old with a capital O.

  I stand there amidst the aisles of stuff and realize that this is what happens when you leave something alone for ten plus years. I gave the managers autonomy over my store, and over time, this is what it turned into. I do a three-sixty to take it all in; I wanted a project; looks like I have one.

  Chanika walks over to me looking concerned.

  “You look lost, baby. Sure there’s nothing I can do for you?”

  “No, ma’am, but I am curious… Why is the shop called the Hidden Eye?”

  “Hun, it’s cause we’re the Quarter’s best-kept secret, all hidden away like this.”

  “Cool. Thank you.”

  It was a good answer, the wrong answer, but a good one all the same.

  Chanika heads to the back, and I spy the girl attending the register across the store, texting away. Just to test the waters, I approach her and pick up a small alligator head, then stuff it into my inside blazer pocket, all the time smiling at her. No response from little Ms. Textsalot.

  So I continue to approach her, taking in the register area. She at least looks the part, multiple ear piercings, a nose piercing, an eyebrow piercing punctuated with dark Goth-like make-up. I stand there in front of the register. Given her concentration on her phone, I figure it must be a game – who could text like that?

  And I stand there. After what seems like minutes.

  She acknowledges me with, “What?” not even looking up from her phone.

  “Uh, do you have any books on...?”

  Again, not even looking up from her phone, she points to the back corner and says, “back there.”

  I stand there for a moment, kind of dumbfounded. Then she looks up from her phone at me with a less than pleasant glare

  “Want to take a picture? It’ll last longer.”

  I bite my tongue and say, “Sorry.”

  I make my way back to the books, picking up a voodoo doll, a shot glass, and other smaller items along the way. Those find their way into the pockets of my blazer. I browse the book rack and pick up a copy of Voodoo in New Orleans.

  I head back to the counter.

  I lay the book on the counter. After a long moment, she puts down the phone, takes the book and rings it up – never looking at me once. When she does look at me, it’s with a sneer.

  “Eight ninety-five.”

  We make eye contact. I pause, seething.

  “What?”

  I put on a false smile and make for my wallet taking the opportunity to look away. All the time I am wondering what the hell is wrong with this generation of kids? They think they are owed a job. And any job they get is beneath them. I shoveled barns when I had to – dug trenches for sewers in the damned winter cold. And I was happy to get a hot meal and two dollars a day for it. Something, anything, to bring home. Let them live through a depression – not some downturn, but a real one.

  I hand her a ten spot, and she fishes out the change, gives it to me, and then immediately goes back to her phone. I am shocked at the rudeness. So I pipe up.

  “Why is this shop called the Hidden Eye?”

  “How should I know, I just work here.”

  She gives me an icy stare intended to get me to leave.

  I raise her stare with, “I would like to speak to your manager, rude girl.”

  “I am the manager, get out of my store.”

  I have to laugh, this is rich.

  “Will I have to call the police?” she says, holding her precious smartphone.

  “Chanika!” I call out at the top of my voice. “Ms. Jones!”

  Little Ms. Textsalot blanches a bit. Chanika comes out and makes a serious beeline to the register.

  Before she gets there, Textsalot goes on the offense – “This jackass won’t stop hitting on me. He keeps looking down my shirt, and you wouldn’t believe what he asked me to do.”

  Chanika is apparently a bit of a mother bear. She buys right into it. Chanika’s sunshine and light turns to darkness and thunder quick.

  “You are gonna leave this place right now, or you’ll be thankful for the police,” Chanika says.

  Recognizing nothing I could say would stem the tide, I pull out the store folder from my padfolio and hand it to her.

  “What the hell is this?”

  I say nothing, just shrug and let her peruse the file.

  “How did you get this?”

  “I’m Arthur MacInerny, and I own this profitless venture.”

  I say nothing more just to let it sink in.

  “Fuck,” Textsalot says.

  “You sure look a lot younger than I would have thought,” Chanika says.

  I guess I do, after all, I haven’t aged since I was nineteen, almost twenty.

  Textsalot must have felt the tide turn. She goes back on the offensive,

  “Then I’m suing for sexual harassment!”

  “Really?” I give her the same cold stare I give Sil when she gets pushy. That backs Textsalot up a bit. “Hey Chanika, check this out…”

  I beckon her to the counter, where I unload my pockets, smiling and make a small production of each item that I set on the counter.

  Resuming my cold demeanor, I take a bead on Textsalot.

  “So you’re rude and incompetent in watching my store. If you really think your little harassment claim bothers me, bring it. There are cameras in the store documenting everything, and my countersuit for malicious litigation will destroy what little life you have. In fact, with Chanika as a witness, I believe there may be grounds for an attempt to defraud. Who’s your lawyer?”

  The last was a bit of bullshit, but Textsalot doesn’t know that. She stammers a bit, and I refuse to let up my icy stare. For a moment, I think she is going to run out the store crying.

  “So I guess I’m fired.”

  “It’s not like you cared about this job anyway.”

  I turn to Chanika before she can respond.

  “Make sure she’s paid every penny she’s due for work through this minute.” I turn back to Textsalot, “Hit the bricks, kid.”

  “Who’s calling who a kid, junior?”

  Sometimes I forget how young I look. Wish I felt that way.

  As she makes her way to the door, I stop her with, “How about some free advice?”

  She turns to me with a ‘what!’ in her eyes. I let her hold that pose for a second or two, then lay my sage advice on her.

  “Try to give a shit about what you do – whatever that may be.”

  She tells me I am number one with her middle finger and leaves, slamming the door behind her.

  Good riddance.

  Chanika looks a little shell-shocked at this point.

  “It’s going to be fine Chanika. I’m really looking forward to working with you and listen, I’ll even stay and work her shift. Hey, we’re going to have some fun and make some changes to the place.”

  “Changes?”

  “It’ll be good, we should wait to talk about it with Robert too.”

  We make a little small talk, and I think I feel her coming to more of a sense of ease.

  And that’s good because I’ll need her to show me how to work the register.

  Chapter 7

  Two weeks just fly by. The days have been great. The nights are still lonely even though I’m never alone. Having the project of turning around the “Hidden Eye” is a great distraction. Working with my managers Robert and Chanika has been energizing. Once we got them past the orthodoxy of “that’s how it’s done in the Quarter” and onto the task of re-imagining the store so we might make some money, they really sparkled in t
heir knowledge of how to get things done in this city.

  I proposed a total re-vamp focusing more on a blend of local trade and tourism. I would invest money into some remodeling, and we’d embark on a hybrid concept incorporating a tea bar with desserts provided from local bakeries. We’d ramp up the occult aspect of the store and see if we could move some of the “haunted tours” to using our shop as a base for their sales.

  Labor costs go way down. I have Sil, Pffif, and Shey working shifts. They all appear to enjoy it for their own reasons. Shey enjoys meeting people. Pffif enjoys catching shoplifters. And Sil - God knows what she enjoys, but sales are always strongest by far during her shift.

  Today is an important day. Today we meet with the city about our changes. After hearing how things are done here in the Big Easy, I thought it best to meet these people before engaging architects and contractors. Sort of pre-greasing the gears so to speak; or more likely their palms.

  Robert has experience with these folks. I’m going to follow his lead. I’ll play the role of the young man following the older man’s sage advice. That is until bullshit needs to be called.

  We’re meeting at the shop to discuss the plans for expansion. So, of course, I must load the deck by having both Sil and Shey there. I prep both of them that they must co-exist for the greater good. I emphasize it. Sil asks me if she’ll have to play with any of the city guys.

  I tell her honestly, “No.” She seems very disappointed. Shey seems very disgusted. I very much wish this was over and we can just move on.

  We get there, and the girls take their positions: Shey at the register and Sil at the floor. Chanika, Robert, and I are going over the pitch. The crux of the pitch is simple: new and local with enough sizzle for the tourist trade.

  The city guys finally arrive, and Sil greets them. She walks them through the store, guiding them back to the garage where we are set up along with the catering and the presentation boards we've made up.

  City guy, Charlie, obviously enjoys Sil’s attention. Obviously, Sil knows this too. City guy Carl, I think, is gay. That generally poses little problem for Sil, or so she claims; lust is lust after all. However, it does mean that she is not paying the same attention to him.

  I think it’s the law of low-lying fruit: easiest always gets picked first.

  I ask Sil to leave us and introduce myself to some raised eyebrows. Probably, because I look about nineteen years old. I go through my ownership credentials on the block and then touch on Robert and Chanika’s long-standing retail experience in the quarter.

  Robert takes over, and first thing points out the catering. After everybody serves themselves, he starts into the pitch. Chanika steps in to talk about the local tie-ins - bringing in the bakers and other retail. Robert takes it from there and begins to talk about what we need for build out, permits, etc.

  This is happening. The city guys are engaged, I can tell. Then my phone rings – it's Jerry. I’ll have to call him back. I won’t be long. I click the call to voicemail. A few moments later, my phone lets me know he left a message.

  I know he’ll understand I couldn’t get right to him.

  Robert works through the questions of permits and inspections masterfully; setting the stage for what I hope is an easy renovation. Charlie and Carl seem sold.

  Then it goes downhill.

  Charlie takes me aside and lets me know, “I’d sure like to get to know that brunette hot-thing better.”

  “I’m not a matchmaker for my employees.”

  Robert, picking up on the conversation interjects himself.

  “Hey, she just works here, but we may be able to arrange something. Maybe we can have her act as coordinator with your office.”

  Dang it, all but the wink-wink, nudge-nudge, say no more.

  “Well, it don’t look like I’ll be needing a matchmaker, son,” Charlie says.

  I just smile and say, “Be careful, she’s a man-eater.”

  He laughs. I laugh too. But I really want to throw up. He doesn’t know what he’s asking for.

  Hands are shaken. Promises made. Goodbyes said. And I don’t believe any of it. But that’s business in the Big Easy. I just need to be flexible and not stress over it.

  Robert, Chanika, and I post-mortem the meeting. They both feel it went great.

  “You, know it would be good if you’d suggest to Sil that she take some time with Charlie,” Robert says.

  “Talk to her about it yourself.”

  That seems to placate him. I know she won’t do a thing unless I allow her to. That buys some time, but the implications still weigh on me.

  We all concur that it’s all good and I’m free to call the architects and begin on the plans. So, on to phase two – and the spending of real money.

  Then I remember that Jerry called. I pull up voicemail and listen to his message, but it’s not him. Instead, it’s some person with a decidedly Italian accent.

  “Necromancer, you who consorts with devils, know that we have your blood kin. And know that we will spill that blood and end your family line unless you submit immediately to judgment. The abomination of your acts must be atoned for. Come to the home of your first born, alone. Prepare to be judged and punished for your sins.”

  I do the only logical thing I can think to do and call back. The same Italian voice answers the phone: “Necromancer, your time is waning."

  “What is this about?” I ask.

  I hear my son Jerry in the background spit out “Bastards!”

  The Italian voice comes back on the line. “You will be here before the sunrise of the next day or the first line of your blood dies, followed by the next – call the police, and they will find your kin dead. Your actions in New Mexico were not unnoticed by the Church.”

  I start to reply but hear the click of the line hanging up. I try to call back, but it goes immediately to voicemail. The bastard turned off Jerry’s phone.

  New Mexico could only mean the fiasco at Hondo’s. But how was that tracked to me? My head is reeling. The Church? I’ve got to book a flight. It sounds like they’re going to kill me.

  But better me than Jerry and Marge.

  Chapter 8

  I rush upstairs to see what flights can get me to Charlotte, fastest.

  Shey and Sil are hot on my heels. All my summonlings converge on me. They know something is wrong as they are very sensitive to me. Being in the state of total panic and shock I am in, it must ring out like a school bell.

  Shey is first to pipe up, “What happened?”

  “Someone’s taken Jerry hostage. They know about the Hondo thing.”

  I play the voicemail. Hjuul growls. Sil gasps.

  “I need to book a flight and get there immediately."

  “Who’s the damn church,” Pffif asks.

  ”No way to know, sir.”

  I sit down in front of the computer and prepare to search for airfare. A stark white hand with pointed black nails sets atop my hand, stopping me. It’s Arix, all glamour dropped, looking very serious.

  “My wielder, did it occur to you that they could have someone waiting for you at the airport? You will be without us, vulnerable. Even with proper wardings, multiple gunshots might prove fatal.”

  I spin that scenario through my mind amidst all the other swirling thoughts. It makes sense. These are obviously ruthless people with no concerns about harming the innocent. So I make plans to fly into Asheville versus Charlotte/Douglas airport. I arrange a rental van. It adds three hours’ drive time, but arriving in advance of sunrise would not be an issue at all.

  We work out a very simple plan; arrive at the airport, get a van. Summon everyone and get to Jerry’s. Shey will go Tinkerbelle size and provide reconnaissance before approaching Jerry’s block. Inside the block, Pffif will scout up close, as he’s the innately sneaky one of the group. Pffif will report back, and we improvise from there.

  I remind my merry band of summonlings that this is a rescue mission – not an assault.

  “We’l
l be getting ‘em out safe, Master Arthur – ye can count on it,” Pffif says.

  Arix, of course, has to add his two cents.

  “The Clurichaun is correct, we will ensure no harm comes to your family, and if needed, we will bring woe to our enemies. Now, dismiss us and call us when you are ready. Time is passing.”

  I dismiss them one by one, making promises of a quick return. I bolt downstairs and tell Robert the bad news that a family emergency has come up and we’ll be without staff. He protests. It’s not up for discussion. He can close the store if he wants until I return.

  I’m sure he thinks I’m crazy. I don’t care.

  I go to the car, then to the airport and finally off to the gate for Asheville. If only they allowed firearms in your carry-ons, I would feel much more secure. I have worries that someone is waiting for me here. Nothing happens – thank goodness.

  While waiting for departure, I dial up Jerry’s cell number to let the captors know I am coming. No answer – “This phone is not in service at this time.” I try again – same. I feel my blood pressure exploding. I call Jerry’s landline. I get voicemail and leave a nondescript message

  “I will be there, please confirm you got this message.”

  The flight up is hell. I am nothing but nerves. I am nervous for Jerry and Marge. I am also kicking myself for putting them in this situation. Why did they disconnect Jerry’s cell? I pray for Jerry’s and Marge’s well being. I pray for strength. I pray that Dory and God will look over us all.

  Too many thoughts, too much time to do nothing…

  Getting off the plane at 11:05 p.m. is a relief, I can take some action. I make straight for the after-hours rental pick up. An eternity later at 11:30, I have the keys and the van. At this point, I am ahead of sunrise by at least five hours. I pull out of the lot and head in the direction of Charlotte.

  After a while, I pull off at what appears to be a rural exit and move over to the shoulder - no eyes, no cameras. Getting out, I open the rear doors to the panel van and begin to summon my troops one by one, ushering them inside. Each asks me for news; I tell each there is no news.

  Arix wolf-sizes Hjuul after asking, “why can’t the beast wait in the white?”