A Plain-Dealing Villain

by Craig Schaefer

  Instead of answering her directly, Halima rolled her eyes and looked my way. “Fashion designer,” she said, as if that explained everything.

  She was more than that. I couldn’t miss the shiver that rippled down my spine as I sat close to her—not from nerves, from cold. The air around Freddie was cooler than the rest of the room by at least ten degrees. It felt like I was standing next to an open freezer.

  “House of Vinter, dahling,” she told me, punctuating it with a diva-esque twirl of her hand so over-the-top it had to be deliberate. “And what do you do, Mr. Las Vegas?”

  I looked over at Halima. She shrugged.

  “I’m a thief,” I said.

  Freddie blinked. “Ooh, and I thought tonight was going to be boring.”

  A couple strolled by behind my chair. For a moment, they got between us and the closest light, casting Freddie in a patch of shadow. As the light peeled away, so did the facade. A desiccated corpse reclined on the divan, with skin turned blue and chapped by arctic windburn. The corpse grinned at me from a lipless mouth, showing sharp yellowed teeth. Her nose and most of one cheek had rotted away, the ragged wounds black with frostbite, and iron talons three inches long curled around the stem of her martini glass.

  Then the light flooded back and the moment was gone. Freddie must have caught the look on my face. She smiled and gave me a wink.

  “So is this a post-robbery celebration?” she asked. “Because if so, I’m getting us a bottle of something expensive.”

  “Not a celebration,” Halima said. She would have said more, but she glanced to one side and hushed up. I recognized the man strolling our way from his photograph, dressed in a tailored tweed suit and bow tie. Even with bags under his eyes and wrinkles on his dusky skin, there was something regal about Damien Ecko. He wasn’t old so much as antique, a refined style from another time.

  “I thought I heard a voice I recognized,” he said, looking my way. “You must be the illustrious Mr. Greyson. And I cannot express how shocked I am to find you in the company of my dear friend Halima.”

  Halima glared at him. “Before you say one more word, I had nothing to do with this man’s crime. I’m merely trying to keep this situation from getting any worse.”

  “Yes, you’re helpful that way. So good-intentioned.” His gaze slid from her headscarf to her glass of club soda. “Still pretending to be a Muslim?”

  “Hey, Damien,” Freddie said, “still pretending to be a man?”

  “Dances-with-Knives, a pleasure as always.” He lowered his voice. “I could ask you a similar question, wendigo.”

  “I was commenting on your lack of genitals.” Freddie leaned closer to me, cupped one hand to the side of her mouth and stage-whispered, “Nothing down there. Smooth like a Ken doll.”

  Ecko swung his attention back my way.

  “I just had the most illuminating discussion with your friend,” he said. “Of course, it was mostly one-sided, but he contributed his share of agonized whimpers. The rigor mortis should be setting in soon. I have to imagine it would be like…intense cramps in every muscle in your body, all at the same time. Unendurable. Most people would choose death over pain like that. Pity he doesn’t have that option.”

  I was on my feet before I thought about it. My hand balled into a fist, but Halima grabbed my wrist and clamped down hard.

  “Not in here,” Halima said, her voice low and urgent. “No fighting in here. I told you, it’s forbidden.”

  Ecko grinned. All around us, the shadows seemed to weave. Tighten. Grow thicker and darker as they crawled across the Victorian wallpaper.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “Take a swing. Test your luck.”

  “Daniel,” Halima said, squeezing my wrist harder. “No fighting. Management doesn’t give second chances.”

  “God,” Freddie groaned, rolling her eyes at Ecko. “You are so fucking boring. And you are dismissed. Go. Leave. Away from my table.”

  Ecko narrowed his eyes at her. “I may go wherever I—”

  “This is the Cool Kids’ Table. I am the Queen of the Cool Kids, and I hereby use my magic chalice of office to banish you into the hinterlands of boredom.” Freddie waved her martini glass at him. “Go suck somewhere else.”

  “Insufferable woman.” He wrinkled his nose at her. I couldn’t help but crack a smile. Halima eased up on my wrist as my hand unclenched. Ecko turned and started to walk away.

  “Just one thing,” I said.

  He stopped and looked back at me, lifting a curious eyebrow.

  “The name’s not Greyson. It’s Faust. Daniel Faust.”

  “And,” Ecko said, “should that mean anything to me?”

  “It will, real soon. You just guaranteed that.”

  He shook his head. “You are a very small fish in a brand-new pond. I suggest you swim with more caution. And in better company.”

  Halima and I waited until Ecko was long gone before we sank back into our chairs. Freddie let out an excited little squeak and drummed her high heels against the divan.

  “Oooh, you pissed off Old Dusty. Points for style, points for brashness, now give me all the scandalous details.”

  I walked her through it. When I was done, Freddie sighed and looked over at Halima.

  “He’s trying to get him killed.”

  “That was my thought,” Halima said.

  “The Judas Coin thing?” I asked. “What is it, anyway, and why is it so dangerous?”

  “Because you can’t steal it,” Halima told me. “It’s impossible. Come on. We’ll show you.”

  Freddie led the way up a side hallway that ended in a pair of double doors. A discreet brass placard on one door read “Gaming Parlor.”

  The room beyond was almost the size of the main lounge and laid out better than some casinos back home. Empty, except for us and the shadows. Crescent-shaped tables with green felt tops circled the room, ready for action. The lights, simple squares set into the vaulted ceiling, were dimmed down to give the room a dusky ambiance.

  As we walked farther into the parlor, our footsteps echoing in the silence, I looked to one wall and counted. There were three of us.

  Six shadows stood on the wall.

  As I watched, one of the shadows turned and elongated, its arms becoming spears. Two more appendages sprouted from where its stomach would be. It scurried up the wall and climbed onto the ceiling, disappearing into a patch of darkness.

  “Management,” Halima said softly, “is not to be trifled with.”

  I spotted the prize right away, once I could tear my eyes from the shadows. It stood at the heart of the room, a wooden pedestal topped with a box of polished glass. Inside the box, resting on a black silk pillow, sat a single silver coin.

  I walked closer to take a better look. The coin was small, about the size of my thumbnail, and age and wear had stolen its gleam away. The face depicted some kind of vulture-headed creature, encircled by an inscription in ancient Greek.

  “Tell me something,” I said, “has anybody ever stolen anything from this place and lived to talk about it?”

  Halima crossed her arms. “Allegedly, a bartender was once short on cab fare home. He borrowed five dollars from the till, intending to pay it back the next day. He was found in his apartment, torn into so many pieces the police had to scoop his remains up with a shovel.”

  “Zero-tolerance policy,” Freddie added.

  19.

  The three of us stood around the glass case, eyeing the tiny treasure within.

  “So what’s the deal with the coin?” I asked. “They just keep it on display here?”

  “It’s this year’s grand prize,” Halima said. “Daniel, what do you know about the courts of hell?”

  “More than the average joe.”

  “Management rents the place out for special occasions,” Freddie said. “Weddings, parties, black masses, all that jazz. Once a year, Royce throws a big tournament. The buy-in is steep, but the winner walks away with a nice chunk of change, plus whatever t
hat year’s grand prize is. It’s always something weird and rare, no idea where he gets the stuff.”

  I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like the answer, given Halima’s lead-in, but I had to ask. “And this Royce is…?”

  “He works for Prince Malphas,” Halima said. “His hound, if you’re familiar with the term.”

  Yeah. I was familiar with it. The princes of hell were too old, too powerful to operate on Earth. They couldn’t even set foot here without kicking off the apocalypse ahead of schedule. So every prince had a hound: the one demon in their court who was smart enough, tough enough, and mean enough to take care of their court’s business and scare all the other hellspawn into submission.

  Caitlin was Prince Sitri’s hound, and on a good day, she could give the Terminator a run for his money. Now Damien Ecko wanted me to rip off her less-friendly counterpart.

  No way, I thought. Even if I could pull it off, even if I could get out of Flowers territory and back to Vegas in one piece, I’d bring a political shitstorm down on Caitlin’s head. It’s impossible.

  Then I thought about Coop, locked in a cell in the darkness, trapped inside his own rotting corpse.

  There’s no such thing as impossible if you’ve got the right motivation. And I had it in spades.

  Freddie rested her fingernails on the display case, lightly stroking the glass. “Supposedly it’s legit. The Judas Coin. A Tyrian shekel, formerly owned by a Mr. J. Iscariot, one of thirty, gotta collect ’em all. Creepy, huh?”

  “This tournament,” I said. “Is it open to anybody?”

  Freddie nodded. “Sure. There are thirty-six seats, first come, first served. Just pay the buy-in and you’re on the list. Five thousand dollars, cash. You playing this year, Lady H?”

  Halima cringed. “Dances, I’m a museum conservator. How much money do you think I make?”

  “Indiana Jones never had cash problems. C’mon, couldn’t the Field front you some money? It’d be worth it, just so you could say the line.”

  “What line?” Halima asked.

  Freddie leaned against the case, sinking down until her big, bright eyes were level with the coin. “It belongs in a museum,” she stage-whispered.

  “So what’s the game?” I asked.

  “It changes every year,” Freddie said. “This time around? Texas Hold’em. You any good at poker, Mr. Vegas?”

  “I’ve been known to play, now and then.”

  “Better bring your A-game. Royce goes hunting for the best of the best to fill his tables. He wants to put on a good show for his boss. Me, I just play for fun and to provide color commentary.”

  “And you have to play clean,” Halima added. “No magic, no tricks, just pure cards. Royce personally provides security for the event, and if anyone’s caught cheating…management steps in.”

  I glanced up, watching an eight-legged shadow the size of a car squirm across the ceiling.

  It was a shot. A long shot, sure, but a shot. If I won the coin fair and square, I could hand it over to Ecko with no problems. I’d just have to take down the thirty-five other players in my way first. No pressure. Then there was the five-grand buy-in, which I didn’t have.

  “One problem at a time,” I said. “I’ve got to track down that dagger while the trail’s still hot. You said there might be a local here who deals in stolen antiquities?”

  “Two that come to mind,” Halima said. “Let’s go back to the lounge. I’ll point them out.”

  I didn’t object. The longer we loitered in the gaming room, the bigger the shadows got. And the hungrier they felt.

  * * *

  Back in the conversation nook and armed with a fresh martini, Freddie surveyed the room.

  “Okay, nine o’clock. Look but don’t be obvious. See the one in the Dolce and Gabbana tunic dress and the Saint Laurent heels? About forty pounds soaking wet? That’s Amy Xun.”

  I’d already noticed her when I came in, the Chinese woman with the briefcase full of oddities. Her customers in the hoodies were long gone, leaving her alone to sip a glass of red wine and tap at her phone with rapid-fire pecks.

  “Amy’s the local go-to for all things esoteric and creepy-crawly,” Freddie said. “She’s hooked up from here to Dubai, and if she can’t get it, you don’t need it. Not just occult gizmos either. When it comes to sourcing some primo party favors, she’s my girl. She’ll wring your wallet dry, though, and she’ll expect you to haggle over everything.”

  Halima leaned closer to me, lowering her voice. “Amy has…a bit of a fetish, I suppose you might call it, when it comes to her work. She lives for the art of the deal. It truly is an art, in her reckoning, and she’s relentless in her pursuit of perfection.”

  “Now over by the bar, check the weasel on the end.” Freddie waved her glass in his general direction. “Your eyes do not deceive you: he is wearing a black sports coat and a black pair of slacks he bought separately. They’re not even close to the same shade, and he thinks he looks good.”

  I squinted, but in the dim light I couldn’t tell the difference. I deferred to her superior fashion sense.

  “Also, that thing on his head is not a dead badger, as you might reasonably surmise, but a toupee, which I believe he purchased in a thrift store. This sad, sad example of manhood in decline is Trevor Manderley, owner of the Hermetic Inquiry. It’s a niche store in Wicker Park that mostly caters to the new-age and neo-pagan crowds, but Trevor does a brisk backroom business in contraband with a harder edge.”

  “Even odds,” I said. “Which one’s more likely to give a straight answer?”

  “Neither, but one won’t go out of her way to screw you.” Freddie stood up and waved, raising her voice. “Amy! Amy, Amy, Amy. Come here. Meet my new friend.”

  Amy made her way over to us, still absorbed by her phone. When she glanced up, I felt like she was weighing me on a butcher’s scale. Her eyes flicked toward my shoes, my fingernails, my haircut, taking everything in and assigning a dollar value. She set her wine glass down and gave me a measured handshake, firm and dry.

  “Amy Xun,” she said, “acquisitions and sales.”

  “Daniel Faust,” I replied, “mostly acquisitions.”

  “You’re not a local. Here for the tournament? I’ll tell you the same thing I told Ms. Vinter. If you win the grand prize, please come see me at once. I’ll give you a better price for it than anyone in Chicago, guaranteed.”

  “Lot of people want that coin. Doesn’t seem like such a great prize, though.”

  “I don’t speculate as to the motives of others,” Amy said, “but I want it sheerly for the symbolism. The Judas Coin is an icon to build a business around.”

  “What symbolism? Betrayal?” I asked.

  She gave a polite little chuckle. “I’m a merchant, Mr. Faust. If you believe the story, Judas made the greatest sale in history.”

  “I’m looking for a Judas myself,” I told her. “Man going by the name of Stanwyck. Didn’t happen to visit you, did he?”

  “All client relations are confidential,” she said, pursing her lips.

  “Let me rephrase. Maybe you just bought a knife from somebody, doesn’t matter who. Aztec dagger, with an obsidian blade. If you happen to have that knife, I’ll be happy to take it off your hands, no questions asked.”

  “A buy?” she blinked. “This week? Tournament week? Absolutely not. I need to be as liquid as possible if I’m going to get my hands on that coin. You should ask Mr. Manderley.”

  “Just count your fingers after you shake his hand,” Freddie added.

  No worries there. Trevor wasn’t offering any handshakes, with his fingers glued to his whiskey glass. I slid onto the stool beside him and waved over the bartender.

  “One of those,” I said, gesturing to Trevor’s glass, “for both of us.”

  “Unexpected generosity,” Trevor grunted, barely looking my way. “But nothing’s free.”

  “Not in this life. I’m new in town. I hear you’re a man who can get things. Exotic thin
gs.”

  He glanced over his shoulder toward the conversation nook where Amy had taken my chair.

  “Xun couldn’t help you out, huh? Not surprised. This week she’s only got eyes for that damn coin.”

  “Not you, though?”

  He sipped his whiskey. “It’s a piece of junk, doesn’t even do anything. Besides, I don’t play cards. I don’t believe in gambling. That’s why, when people in this town need a sure thing, they come to me. Sure, ol’ Trevor is everybody’s last stop, but at the end of the day? Their cash, my pocket. Turning disbelievers into satisfied customers is what I do. What’s your poison?”

  “I’m looking for a knife,” I said and watched the pads of his fingers turn white as they tightened around his glass.

  He talked to the bottles behind the bar, not looking my way. “Yeah? What kind of knife?”

  “Aztec. Sacrificial dagger. Obsidian blade. It belongs to me, and I’d like it back.”

  “Small world,” Trevor said. He tossed back another mouthful of whiskey. Drinking faster, now. “Small world indeed. A man tried to sell me an item just like that. Didn’t say who it belonged to, though.”

  “And you didn’t ask. Which I understand. Business is business, and normally that’s not your problem.”

  He slowly turned his head to look my way.

  “Are you saying it’s my problem now?”

  “Maybe,” I told him. “Fortunately for you, I’m one of those problems that goes away easy. This isn’t a shakedown. I don’t want to step on your toes, and if you’ve got the dagger I’ll buy it at a fair price. I just want the blade and the man who sold it to you.”

  “I’m not in the habit of selling out the people I do business with. I’m sure you can understand. Get a reputation for telling tales about your customers, and soon you don’t have any customers.”

  “Look,” I said, “I’m trying to help you out here. Save you some needless pain and suffering. I hope you’ll let me.”