Wes took the folder ungraciously and snapped it open to look at its contents. It took him a while to organize the material so he could understand it. “I can’t believe this. I’m not doing it.”
“OK, then your choice is to hand in your resignation and explore the employment opportunities at Frankie’s Fried Fish on the corner. You won’t have to work hard at disguising your reading problem there.”
Wes threw down the folder. “Who told you about that? Nobody knows, and I am able to read just as well as the next guy. It takes me a little longer, is all.”
“I know. I timed you. So, being that I have a boss to answer to and that boss wants me to take you to meet Junie ‘Baby Fat’ Meadows of the Meadows Witch family, I strongly suggest you pick up the folder and get to work.” Alastair grabbed his trench coat and an umbrella from a stand. “Come on,” he called from the door. “It’s time to earn your paycheck.”
“Yeah, sure.” Wes started for the door. Alastair stared pointedly at the duct tape abandoned on the chair. Wes rolled his eyes as he grabbed it.
* * *
They were seated in Alastair’s black SUV, the older man driving as he described the informant.
“She’s a great gal. I’ve known her for years. She’s a thirty-two-year veteran operations manager for the Red Hook Port in Brooklyn. Quite a character, makes a delicious stew. Do you like stew?”
“No,” Wes said sullenly. “You allege that she’s a witch.”
“I don’t allege anything. She’s a witch.”
“So is she a Davina or a Willa?” A gentle rain pattered against the windshield. The lights looked unfocused and softer.
“She’s Davina, through and through.” Alastair put on his wipers. They streaked across the window, smearing the view so that everything looked as muddled as Wes’s mind.
Wes glanced at Alastair, asking sarcastically, “So can I look her in the eye? She won’t suck out my soul?”
“Indeed,” Alastair replied, but he said nothing else. The silence thickened until Wes squirmed uncomfortably. “All right, so what did”—Wes checked the information in the folder—“Baby Fat do to earn this visit from the Witches Protection Program?”
CHAPTER TWO
Red Hook, Brooklyn
The cavernous building was covered corner to corner with corrugated shipping containers. They were stacked on top of one another, high enough that some grazed the ceiling. They were brand-new and painted with a logo known to most women throughout the world. Pendragon Cosmetics was a lower-end cosmetic found in most drugstores. Heavily advertised on both radio and television, the products promised youth and beauty at a price that made them veritable household items.
A squat woman wearing a polyester skirt and a vest-like apron covered in shamrocks walked down an alley of containers, a clipboard under her arm and a pen designed to look like a tree branch in her gnarled hand. She had unkempt, mousy hair, with a tortoiseshell barrette holding it back from her bulbous eyes. Spider veins created a road map on her flabby face, and most would call her ugly. Junie “Baby Fat” Meadows didn’t mind. She had a magic mirror at home, so it didn’t matter. Walking confidently toward a milling group, she handed out sheaves of papers to each one of them. Some had questions that she answered patiently, while others stopped to talk office chitchat. The loudspeaker squawked, interrupting conversations.
“Junie. My office, now!”
“Dominic,” Junie muttered, exchanging glances with her colleague.
“He sounds pissed,” the other woman offered.
Junie shrugged indifferently. “He’s a pain in my ass.”
Junie walked slowly toward the metal steps leading to the boss’s office on the mezzanine. She rushed for no one, man or beast. She rested her hand on the railing and looked up the sixteen steps to the office with a sigh, wondering what the hell he wanted from her. He knew she hated climbing those steps. Looking longingly at a push broom in the corner, she dismissed using magic. Too many workers here today. Made them crazy when she did a little something to make her life easier. Upset the dockworkers, they didn’t understand magic—superstitious morons. She’d been told to keep her powers to herself, anyway. Pendragon was firm about that. While Dominic knew she was a witch, it didn’t mean it was public knowledge. Wearily, she climbed the steps, not even her misshapen orthopedic shoes easing her way. “This better be good, Dominic,” she muttered as she entered the office. “Whatsamatter, Dominic? The Panama shipments just came in.” She slammed the door behind her so hard that the glass windows rattled.
“Why were you going through the Pendragon Cosmetics order?” Dominic demanded. He was forty-four, with a potbelly and dyed black hair with a matching mustache under his very long, cucumber-shaped nose. His gray had come in, so it looked like both his scalp and ‘stache had a thin ring of white outlining their shape.
Junie looked at him insolently, hand on hip. “Because that’s my job.”
Dominic held up a handful of timecards, waving them around, his face mottled. A little too choleric before ten in the morning, Junie observed.
“You called in extra office staff for the export order without asking? That’s gotta be cancelled.”
“Are you kidding me? It’s four hundred million units. I can’t process that order by myself.”
“Well, you better. That’s what we pay you for.” He threw the cards at her so they fluttered around the office, wafting to the floor like helicopter seeds falling from maple trees. Junie narrowed her eyes at him, her face darkening. “Send ‘em home. Did you share this information with anyone?”
“I was in the process of giving it out.” She kicked a timecard that landed on her foot. “Why?”
“Go get the manifests back, and I hope for your sake that none of this information gets out.” Dominic pounded the desk.
“Why?” Junie repeated, her voice steely.
“Because they don’t want it shared with anyone. And it better not have left the building. If it did, there’s gonna be some serious consequences.”
“You threatening me?” Junie touched the reassuring surface of her pen. It hummed to life, faintly glowing, warming the palm of her hand. She slid it under the chrome clip of the clipboard.
Dominic walked around the desk, bending down to angrily pick up the timecards. He shoved them onto her clipboard, his face close to hers. His fingertips came in contact with her vibrating wand. He brushed together his hands dismissively. “Yeah,” he said nastily, his beady eyes holding hers. “I ain’t afraid of you or one of your stupid spells, Baby Fat, and neither is Pendragon. You can wind up your magic pen all you want. You got nuthin’ against them. You hear me? Nuthin’.” His ferret nose quivered with anger as he gave her a final push toward the door. He stopped, abruptly adding, “Yeah, and by the way, they called earlier and said you better have the galley’s victuals and water stocked by Friday.”
“I’ve got a week to get that done!” Junie retorted.
“No, you don’t. They want it now, so you got forty-eight hours, you hear me?” He finished with a menacing glare.
“Forty-eight hours?” Junie sputtered, then held up her hand in defeat. “Whoever heard of such a thing. Food’s gonna spoil.”
“Not your business. Don’t make me come and check on you.”
Junie nodded, her gaze never leaving his. She walked down the steps, pausing to look up at him watching her intently like an angry vulture. Looking down at her wand, she watched it pulse weakly, knowing her brand of magic was nothing against a giant like Pendragon. Suddenly, Junie was afraid—very afraid. Shivering involuntarily, she went to send her staff home.
CHAPTER THREE
Junie lit a cigarette as soon as she took off her coat. Kicking off her shoes, she put on matted white slippers that made a whooshing sound as she paced her tiny apartment. She lived under the tracks, never noticing the train that shook the walls when it
raced past her home. It was the four-story, rent-controlled walk-up with hallways that smelled of cabbage and dirty sneakers. There was so much paint on the walls that it made the rooms feel smaller than they were. Luna snaked her black, feline body through her mistress’s legs, meowing loudly. Junie threw herself on the couch and idly caressed the cat, enjoying the deep purring response. She rested there, letting Luna’s calming purrs relax her. Luna smiled up at her, her green eyes warm. Junie felt her tenison ease. She rose and walked over to the blotchy mirror that dominated her living room. Despite its faded glitter, it was an elegant accessory, all Rococo in design, with two putti angels attached to the top of the frame. She searched the misty depth, her eyes giving up to rest on her wrinkled face.
“Mirror, mirror on the wall.” She rolled the words on her tongue.
A deep voice chuckled. “Droll, Baby Fat. Very droll.”
“Works in the story.” Junie shrugged, her face breaking into a sly smile. She considered her reflection. She needed a change. “I don’t like my hair.”
The faded brown locks rearranged themselves into a smart blond chignon. The face in the mirror morphed, the nose delicately flaring as sparkling eyes narrowed. Baby Fat’s manicured nails touched her now-porcelain skin. “That’s better.”
“Agreed,” the mirror answered.
“So, can you tell me where this is all going?” she asked the mirror.
“You mean at work, Baby? I only do hair, skin, and nails. You know that.”
“Yeah, I know that.” Junie shrugged. “That’s not going to do me a whole lot of good. Time to make some stew.”
Junie winked, then went into her kitchen, pulling out a huge, dented aluminum pot. Pleasant domestic sounds of water running and clattering utensils filled the kitchen. Soon, the whole house smelled of a home-cooked meal. Luna jumped onto the counter, her yowls filling the room. Junie pointed her knife as she answered her pet.
“I know. He was an asshole.”
The cat meowed for a long minute. Junie cocked her head. “I called Alastair as soon as I got out of work. You think I waited too long?” The cat growled from deep in its throat. She pulled her pen from her apron, fingering the worn wood of her wand. “I know it’s weak, but at least it’s Davina,” she told the cat.
The cat spat, then leaped off the counter to leave the room in a huff.
“I ain’t afraid, Luna.” She paused, taking a deep drag on her cigarette. “I mean, not much.”
While the mirror in the parlor reflected back a slender, beautiful woman, in the harsh light of the kitchen window, anybody could see Baby Fat’s wrinkled visage. She poured liquid into the big pot, stirring slowly until her craggy face could be seen on the surface of the bubbling stew. Rooting through assorted jars and vials, she added ingredients in the simmering stock, watching images form to replace hers. A young blond man with a close-cropped military cut and a dark-haired girl. It was a witch girl—Junie knew her. Alastair’s chubby build raced over the eddies and whirlpools that simmered back at her. Luna meowed loudly. “I know,” Junie replied. “I was thinking I needed that too.” She reached high over her head and dumped an entire box of white powder into the pot, watching it circle until it disappeared into the boiling mess. The room turned phosphorus shades of green. Her face was illuminated by the noxious contents of the pot. A fuzzy image of a head materialized. “Turn around, turn around…” Junie urged. The head rotated, its features vague. Junie gasped, blinking twice, a knock on the door breaking the spell.
They rapped again. Junie cursed. She wasn’t sure, she just wasn’t sure of the face. She’d have to recreate the brew to get a better look.
Wes wrinkled his nose at the odors filling the cramped hallway. There was no air to breathe. A short, frumpy woman smoking a cigarette cracked the door to peek outside.
“Alastair.” Her voice was deep with a strong Brooklyn accent. “Who’s that?” she asked as she opened the door. She poked her head out to scan the corridor. “You followed?”
“Baby Fat.” Alastair’s voice was friendly. He left his umbrella at the door. “What am I, a rookie? This is my new partner.” He walked confidently into the living room, stopping at a large, dense-looking mirror dominating the cramped space. He leaned forward, his white teeth showing with a pleasant smile, stroking his gray goatee. “He’s the rookie,” he said, gesturing to Wes.
“I am not,” Wes said.
“He’s greener than a banana just plucked off a banana tree.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Wes asked, slightly off-balance as a black cat twirled itself between his legs. He could feel the vibrations of its purring.
“Faithless jade,” Alastair told the cat, whose bright green eyes glared at him. He turned to the older woman. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”
“I told you, good things come to those who wait.” Junie waved them into a cramped kitchen. There was a table the size of a postage stamp, with an old-fashioned oilcloth attached to it. A pen shaped like a broken twig was thrown carelessly on it. Wes looked closer. Ha, he thought with a laugh, thinking it might have been a wand. A black plastic cat clock that hung on the wall ticked, his eyes and tail swinging in synchronized, opposite directions. The movement caught Wes’s eyes, and he stood frozen, caught in its hypnotic movements. Alastair snapped his fingers in front of Wes, pulling him out of his trancelike state.
He nodded to the older woman, mouthing, “I told you so.”
She approached them both. The overcrowded room made Wes sweat. He backed away, but she moved closer, her eyes half closed. Soon Wes’s back made contact with the sticky wallpaper of her kitchen wall. He looked uncomfortably at the water-stained ceiling.
“You can look at me, honey.” She gave a wheezy laugh. “I ain’t a Willa. He’s cute, Alastair.” And familiar, she thought, knowing he was the first face she saw in her concoction. Crooked fingers touched his cheek, her yellowed nails scratching his five-o’clock shadow. Wes recoiled, pulling his face away. Junie shrugged, sighed, and then walked to the two-burner stove to stir a giant pot with a wooden spoon.
Noxious smells filled the kitchen. Wes looked longingly at the window, knowing there was crisp air on the other side of this nuthouse.
“What’s cooking, Baby Fat?” Alastair asked. He glanced in the pot.
“Nothing good, and I’m not talking about my stew.” She reached up, her hand grasping air, and flicked her empty palm into the bubbling liquid.
“Ah, a little bit of this,” Alastair offered.
“And that.” She looked at him pointedly. “I want an upstate cabin.”
“Of course.”
“One hundred fifty K a year.”
“I can’t, Junie. Way over budget.”
“This is big—bigger and badder than you can imagine.”
Alastair looked at her, then replied, “You won’t be able to go right away.” He thought for a moment. “I’ll have to go higher.”
Junie nodded, a silent message passing between them. “You do that.” She took out a brown bottle, crusty with dried, dripping fluids running down its filthy sides. “What?” She glanced at Wes’s horrified face. “It’s good for flavor. You’re gonna like it.”
Wes gulped, then said, “Alastair said you mentioned something about a face cream when you called earlier.” He had read about it in her file.
The older man smiled with approval. Wes looked over at him and said, “I know how to interrogate a witness.”
“Indeed.” Alastair nodded with a smile.
Wes’s lips tightened with anger. Smug bastard, he thought. He turned all of his attention to Junie.
Junie inhaled a deep drag of her cigarette, then tossed the butt into her pot. “There’s a shipment. It’s being exported to Singapore, Rio de Janeiro, Southampton, Bremen, and Cape Town.”
“Who’s moving?” Wes picked up her pen, trying it on
his pad. Junie walked over and took the twig from his fingers, her eyes narrowing.
“Use your own,” she said through her teeth. Wes shrugged, but Alastair wagged a finger.
“Etiquette, Wes. Never touch another person’s wand.”
“Yeah,” June added. “You never know where it’s been.”
Wes wiped his hand down his pants leg, then produced his own pen from his pocket, clicked it loudly, and prepared to take notes. “So,” he said after taking a deep breath. “Who’s moving?”
“Pendragon,” Junie told him dismissively.
“The cosmetics company. So?”
“Yeah, well, we’ve had their contract for over twenty years.”
“What’s the problem?” Wes asked curtly, looking up at her.
“Four hundred million units of Pendragon Glow face cream? And that’s just export. I hear they have another two hundred million being released here in the States as well.”
Alastair whistled softly. The cat meowed in agreement. It jumped up on the counter, its tail brushing against Wes’s chest. He pushed it away, surprised at its strength.
“What’s the big deal if they release a product here?” Wes asked.
“It’s never done together,” Alastair informed him with a shrug. “Different markets are tested, then sometimes the product is tweaked for the area. Four hundred million units, you said?” Alastair looked concerned.
“Is that a lot?” Wes turned to Junie.
“Biggest I’ve ever seen. They want the order out lickety-split. Usually it can take four months to get through channels for export; this was greenlit in two weeks.” The cat growled. “Relax, Luna, I’ll get to that.” Junie was warming to telling her story.
Wes could swear she cracked a smile on her rubbery face. He looked at the animal and Junie.
“It got even weirder when I arranged for help in processing the order. They kicked everybody off the dock and made me swear nobody saw the manifest.”
Witches Protection Program Page 3