Strange Magic: A Yancy Lazarus Novel

by James Hunter

  Contents

  ONE: The Big Easy

  TWO: Gun Fight

  THREE: Answers

  FOUR: Going West

  FIVE: The Ranger

  SIX: Stitches

  SEVEN: The Full House

  EIGHT: The Big Show

  NINE: Run

  TEN: Lucky Break

  ELEVEN: The Bush

  TWELVE: Game Plan

  THIRTEEN: Fight Night

  FOURTEEN: Daitya

  FIFTEEN: Cry for Help

  SIXTEEN: Frank's

  SEVENTEEN: Detective Al

  EIGHTEEN: Shoot Out in Burbank

  NINETEEN: Brainstorm

  TWENTY: The Hub

  TWENTY-ONE: The Lonely Mountain

  TWENTY-TWO: Harold the Mange

  TWENTY-THREE: Down the Rabbit Hole

  TWENTY-FOUR: Into The Pit

  TWENTY-FIVE: Debrief

  TWENTY-SIX: Let’s Boogie

  TWENTY-SEVEN: Bat Outta Hell

  TWENTY-EIGHT: Gored

  TWENTY-NINE: Gunageddon

  THIRTY: Beat Down

  THIRTY-ONE: End Game

  THIRTY-TWO: R & R

  Books, Mailing List, and Reviews

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Special Thanks

  Copyright

  ONE:

  The Big Easy

  The piano keys bobbed and danced under the pressure of my fingers. Music—low, slow, and soulful—drifted through the club, merging and twirling with wandering clouds of blue-gray smoke. So many places have no-smoking laws these days, it seems like there’s nowhere in the country where a guy can take a drag from a cigarette in peace. Everyone is so worried about their health, they make damn sure you stay healthy by proxy.

  Not Nick’s Smoke House, though. Nick’s—like some rare, near extinct animal—is the kind of bar where you can die unmolested by laws or ordinances. You can burn yourself up with cancer, drown yourself into liver failure, or binge on a plate of ribs until a heart attack takes you cold, and no one will say boo. And you can die to music here: the beautiful, lonely, brassy beats, of the like only ever found in New Orleans.

  The house band was on a break, so I sat thumping out an old Ray Charles tune in the interim while I watched the man standing off stage in a pool of inky shadow.

  I’d never met the guy before, but I instinctively knew he was looking for me, or rather The Fixer—a shitty alias I’ve been trying to ditch for years. It was in the way he stood: chest forward, back straight, arms crossed, chin outthrust. He was a man used to intimidating others, used to being obeyed. In short, he was a thug. A thug sporting an expensive suit, a three-thousand dollar watch, and a pair of loafers that probably cost more than most people paid on rent. At the end of the day though, he was still just a thug—somebody else’s trained pit-bull.

  I don’t know why, but thugs are always looking for The Fixer. Either they got something that needs fixing or they’re looking to fix me. I didn’t know whether this guy wanted option A or option B, but I figured he’d get around to it in his own sweet time. So, instead of tipping my hand prematurely, I continued to pound out melodies on the black and whites. My Ray Charles faded out and I started up a gritty, ambling, version of Meade “Lux” Lewis’ famous “Honky Tonk Train Blues.”

  My left hand hammered out the thudding, rhythmic, rock-steady pulse of a driving train, pushing its bulk across the rolling open space of some forgotten Midwest wilderness; the bass notes offered a mimicry of the ebb and flow of pumping gears. My right hand flitted across the keys, touching down here and there, sending up a rusty whistle blowing in the night. The dusty clatter of track switches being thrown. The braying of hounds, while bullyboys searched for stowaways. If there was ever a song to make a man dance his way onto the box car of a rolling train it was this funky ol’ honkytonk rhythm.

  I let the beat roll on, hoping the thug would hop and jive his way right out of Nick’s Smoke House and out of my life, no harm, no foul. Though a whole helluva lot a people think of me as The Fixer, really I’m just an old rambler trying to get by and enjoy the time I have on this spinning little mud ball. All I wanted was for this overdressed clown to walk away and leave me be.

  The man in the black suit just glared at me like I’d offered him an insult, and I knew then things would not end well between us. Still, I mostly ignored him. I should’ve been worried, but I wasn’t.

  I’ve been around for a good long while and I don’t scare easy.

  After what felt like an age, the hulking suit stepped up to the stage and into a pool of soft amber light, illuminating his features for the first time. He was enormous, six and a half feet of pro-wrestling muscle, with a pushed-in nose, and military cropped blond hair. His face was a mosaic of scars, though the thick tissue on his knuckles put them all to shame. One meaty paw lifted back a coat lapel, revealing the glint of chromed metal: a Colt 1911.

  A Colt 1911 is a big gun, not the kind of thing a person normally chooses as a concealed carry. The things are too large to conceal easily and they can be awkward to draw on the fly, so he probably wasn’t here to assassinate me. A pro-assassin would never have used something as ostentatious and conspicuous as this McGoon’s 1911. A hitter would’ve chosen a sleek, nondescript .22. The kind of gun that’s easy to hide, would go off unnoticed, get the job done without much mess, and could be disposed of in a dumpster somewhere. This guy’s choice of weapon told me he was intimidating muscle, but likely better with his fists than with his piece.

  “Yancy Lazarus?” he asked with a low voice like grating cement, “you the guy who fixes things?”

  Yep, a thug.

  I could’ve denied it, but the guy had found me fair and square, so it was safe to assume he already knew the answer. I nodded my head a fraction of an inch. That was all. I went right on playing as though I hadn’t noticed his veiled threat or didn’t care. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not suicidal and I’m not a pompous jackass—at least that’s not how I see myself—but I knew I could take this guy. I had an edge, although Macho Man Hulk in the other corner didn’t know it.

  I can do magic and not the cheap kind of stuff you see in Vegas—with flowers, or floating cards, or disappearing stagehands. People, like me, who can touch the Vis can do real magic. Although magic isn’t the right word: magic is a Rube word, for those not in the know, which is precisely why we who practice call it the Vis in the first place. Vis, is an old Latin word meaning force or energy, nothing fancy about it.

  There are energies out there, underlying matter, existence, and in fact, all Creation. As it happens, I can manipulate that energy. Period. End of story.

  It’s a hard line to swallow, I know, but there it is. Big part of me wishes it wasn’t true. Would probably make things easier for me in the long run.

  One truism I’ve discovered in my sixty-five-years of life, however, is this: you can’t always get what you want. Mick Jagger taught me that when I was still a young buck and it’s as true today as it was when he first uttered those sage words. I never wanted to get mixed up with the supernatural or end up consorting with people like McGoon, standing off stage. But, let me say it again, you can’t always get what you want, and furthermore, shit happens—I think we can safely give Forest Gump the credit for that one. Sometimes gun-wielding, pro-wrestling, goons are going to pop up in your life and complicate things.

  The blond-headed giant flashed me the kind of grin that makes you want to cross the street. “It’s time to leave,” he said. “Time for you to get up, nice and slow, and walk out of here with me.”

  “And if I decide I’d rather stay?” I asked, as though such a thing was actually an opti
on.

  He shrugged meaty shoulders as large as a half side of beef. “Bad things are going to happen.” He glanced left and right at the people filling the bar. “Doesn’t have to be that way though, Mr. Lazarus. I’m not here to hurt you, I’m just here to escort you.”

  I looked around at the crowded bar, surveying the rough splattering of men and women who would be injured, maybe killed, if I let something go down in here. That wasn’t something I wanted. I’m not a perfect human—I drink, smoke, and gamble in amounts a few might consider excessive. I may not be the most positive role model for your kids, but I don’t like folks getting hurt either.

  Usually, if I see some supernatural shenanigans going down, I’ll put the kibosh on that shit. That’s why people call me The Fixer. Stupid nickname—all because my stupid bleeding heart doesn’t know when to say no.

  “It’s time to leave,” he repeated, this time in the tone of voice that told me he was getting impatient, perhaps close to violence. But hey, let’s face it, guys like this are almost always close to violence. It’s like they carry a pocket flask of pent up anger and rage, taking little nips to keep ‘em ready and steady.

  I let out a colossal sigh—definitely going to be one of those days—and got up from the piano, careful to move slowly, deliberately, with my hands highly visible. Thugs, like this guy, can be a little paranoid and trigger happy, which makes sense considering the risky line of work they’re in. Even though I can be hell on wheels when it comes to smashing, shooting, or otherwise blowing things up, I am still human. If Macho Man Hulk decided to put one in the back of my head from pointblank range I would die like anyone else.

  So, I played along.

  Once we got clear of bystanders I’d be at a greater advantage—able to move, find cover, toss a little lead and energy around without so many worries.

  We weaved through the couples on the dance floor, dodged a few tables—obscured by drifting clouds of smoke—and then bee-lined for the back exit, which let out to the alley. I cannot tell you the number of fights that start and end in back alleys. Tip: if you find yourself in a bar and about to walk into a dark alley with a guy who would like to do you violence, don’t. Just don’t do it. Not ever. Not even if there’s a woman to impress or friends to show off for.

  Let your pride take one on the chin, instead of actually taking one of the chin. Usually, your pride will heal faster than a smashed jaw. Trust me, drinking a cheeseburger through a straw is an experience to avoid if at all possible.

  Nick, the bartender and proprietor, shot me a look that said, should I call the cops or get the shotgun? Nick and I weren’t close exactly but we were more than passing acquaintances and he was a good guy who would give me a hand if I needed it. I wasn’t about to involve him in this trouble. Even if he didn’t get hurt, he might find himself with a powerful enemy who could make things bad for him in the future.

  It wouldn’t be fair to do that to anyone, especially not a good guy like Nick. So instead, I gave a slight shake of my head and stepped out into an alley with rent-a-goon trailing on my heels.

  Here’s another tip: sometimes, bad choices are the only ones available.

  The alley was not nearly as slummy as you might think. Usually in movies or books, alleyways are shadowy foreboding places: the den of seedy things like gangs, pimps, or mysterious and otherwise undefined beings of an even more unsavory nature. Maybe vampires, werewolves, or worse … In movies, the air is always resounding with the crack of gunshots or the ferocious hollering of domestic violence. Oh, and there’s always some heavily muscled thug with shifty eyes, leaning a little too casually against the wall, smoking a cigarette, and you just know he is up to no good.

  The reality is that most alleys aren’t like that at all, this one included. Yes, this alley was dark, and the slightly sour stink of old garbage hung on the air, but it wasn’t bursting with scores of winos roasting hot dogs over an open bonfire. It was just an alley, not super disheveled or dirty, though one I wasn’t too keen to be in. That’s life though, and hopefully if this was the night my ticket got punched—well, at least my body would get pitched into a relatively clean dumpster.

  You have to celebrate the small things.

  The bar door clicked shut. McGoon, the thug, had exited behind me so I was unable to see him pull the Colt. That in no way impeded me from hearing the soft rasp of the gun leaving its holster or the metallic click of the safety disengaging.

  Well, there went the small margin of hope that things would turn out okay tonight. Not a terribly shocking fact, as things go.

  A black Benz with heavy tints loitered at the end of the alley, its engine purring softly as the car idled. I was sure the car was waiting for me. That meant I had at least a few moments to think before the shooting began. Another piece of advice, compliments of your friendly, though slightly shady, rambler: do not get into mysterious cars parked suspiciously at the end of dark alleys. This is especially true if there is a man pointing a gun at you. Once you get into a car, you are more or less at the mercy of your assailant. Cars are private places where bad things can happen unobserved, and it is extraordinarily hard to dodge a bullet at pointblank range in a small, confined space.

  It’s always better to duke it out in the open—even if your odds aren’t great—than to throw yourself on the mercy of a bad villain in a pimped out Benz. You might die in a firefight in the open, but hey, you might also come out on top. If, however, you get into a car with some smug, gun-toting, behemoth and he decides your time is up … well, your effective survivability rate drops to a big fat zero. This goes double for us mage types.

  I tend to rely heavily on a hard-hitting offense and in the constricted space of a car interior I can’t throw around much power without the risk of blowing myself up too. Once the Vis is conjured into the physical realm of existence, the laws of physics begin to apply. A fire construct, summoned from the Vis, will act like regular fire. Namely, it will burn the cow-farting-crap out of me just as well as the bad guys.

  The car door opened ominously. Yes ominously—if there are dark alleys and guns involved, then things become ominous—and the big man behind me prodded me onward with his gun.

  “Let’s go for a ride,” he grunted with the linguistic grace of a large boulder.

  “Not gonna happen,” I protested loudly enough for whoever was in the car to hear. “This is the way a lot of bad movies start—if you guys want to talk, we’re gonna do it out here in the open. Or even better yet, we could go back into the bar and have a conversation over a pitcher of beer like normal people. No guns or threats.” A soft chuckle drifted from the car, followed by a dumpy, thin, balding man from the backseat.

  The guy reminded me more of an overworked accountant at H & R Block than some sort of Mafioso-type lieutenant. Wispy hair jutted up from the sides of his pate, a slight double chin rested against his throat, circular wire-rimmed glasses adorned his otherwise unremarkable face. If I were judging on appearances alone, I would surmise that his college counselor may have steered him into a very poorly matched career field.

  But hey, who am I to judge? I look about forty—even though I’m actually in my mid-sixties—keep my hair short, and stand at 5’ 10”. Slightly built and in good shape, but not impressively so. I usually sport a pair of blue jeans, a T-shirt, some old boots, and my black leather coat. Pretty, unremarkable. You definitely wouldn’t think scary mage or fix-it man by the looks of me.

  “I’ve heard you have quite the sense of humor, Mr. Lazarus,” the man said. “Sadly, my employer does not—its company policy that none of us underlings engage in witty or humorous banter.” Hilarious, except that his perfectly deadpan delivery made me think he might not be kidding.

  “This needn’t take long,” he said. “I suspect you already know why my associate and I are here.”

  “Enlighten me,” I replied. As a rule of thumb, it’s always good to pump enemies for info; assumptions can lead to all kinds of silly mistakes, particularly if thugs and
automatic weapons are involved. That old adage, ‘shoot first and ask questions later’ can get real messy, real fast. A little patience, by contrast, sure goes a long way and can save a whole lot of pain—for example, the pain of getting shot in the face.

  “We know you received a call earlier today, Mr. Lazarus. My associate and I are here to persuade you to stay out of that bit of business—to turn down the contract, and walk away. My employer has even authorized me to compensate you handsomely for your compliance. The price of your contract plus ten-thousand, no other strings attached.”

  “Gosh, that’s a sweet offer.” I rubbed my chin thoughtfully, even though I had no clue what in the hell he was talking about. I had received a call from an old friend out in California, but I hadn’t taken on any kind of contract. My buddy told me there was some bad shit coming down the pipe—I had reluctantly agreed to go out and take a looksee. That was it. “Do you guys validate parking too? ‘Cause that might be a deal breaker.”

  Silence filled the air, uncomfortable and telling.

  “And if I say no?” I asked

  “My associate,” Mr. H & R said, nodding toward Thugzilla behind me, “will shoot you in the head and dump your body in the swamp where you will be eaten by alligators. It is highly unlikely you will ever be found given both the high rate of disappearances here in New Orleans and the transient nature of your lifestyle.”

  Huh. Damn good plan as such things go. Quick, efficient, brutal, and highly practical. Apparently, Mr. H & R was the Sith Lord of Mafioso bureaucrats. Lots of people do go missing down in the Big Easy. New Orleans is a huge city with the problems that go along with any big city, only worse. Take the problems of most major-metropolitan centers and then introduce those problems to crack, and you have New Orleans. The violent crime rate here is twice the national average and the murder rate is nearly ten times higher. Absolutely no better place in America to make a man go missing.

  “You’re a man of considerable talents,” H & R continued, “with many connected friends. We would much rather prefer you take us up on our offer, but if your convictions compel you to say no … business is business.” He shrugged.