by Jeffrey Ford
"їQuй pasa?" she said.
I wanted to tell her about the Barnes girl, but knew, in all fairness to Schell, that I couldn't. Instead I slowly put my arms around her. She didn't push me away but fell softly forward against me, and we kissed. This was no parting kiss to initiate a romance, as the last had been, but an urgent, passionate one. I had no idea what I was doing, but I was doing it with everything I had.
DEMONIC ESSENCE
I wanted to call you, but there was never the chance," said Isabel. As she spoke she stepped backward, pulling me along by the shoulders. She came to rest against the edge of the desk, and then hopped up to sit on top of it.
"We've got to find a way to be together without relying on the phone," I said as she hiked her skirt somewhat and lifted her legs to encircle my waist. We kissed again, this time for at least five minutes, and I felt her tongue enter my mouth. This was all wonderfully new to me. I could feel my temperature, among other things, rise.
"Do you have any days off?" I asked when our lips finally parted.
She reached her hand down between my legs and rubbed me through the gauzy material of my swami trousers. "El domingo, por la maсana, I walk to the church in Oyster Bay. Meet me there after the ten o'clock mass."
"I'll be there," I said and started kissing her again.
She pulled down the waistband of my trousers, releasing my swollen member, and said, "їQuiйn es el encantadуr de serpientes ahora?"
I brought my hand up to her breasts. My mind was reeling. At the same moment that I was frantically engaged, all the time I was thinking, I can't believe this is happening.
Then she pushed me gently back away from her, reached up under her dress, and drew her underpants down to her knees. "Take them," she said, none of her sly humor in her voice, only a genuine urgency. I pulled them down around her ankles and off over her shoes. With them still balled up in my hand, I moved back toward her, my own trousers at midthigh, my erection arching upward as if trying to escape my body. As I stepped up close, she opened her legs and began to lift her skirt, and then I stopped dead, for in my mind rose the image of the cloth covering the lower portion of Charlotte Barnes's body. I saw it clearly, and saw as plain as day the symbol that was emblazoned upon it.
My erection instantly wilted as the memory of the dead girl blossomed to fill my mind. There was no time for Isabel to complain, because just then came the sound of someone entering through the door from the hall to the anteroom. "Sunday," she whispered, leaped off the desk, ran around behind it, and ducked for cover. I lifted my trousers a mere moment before the door to the inner office opened. When I turned around, Schell and Parks were standing there, staring at me. I lifted my hand to straighten my turban and realized I was still holding Isabel's underpants.
"Gentlemen, you've found me," I said in a slightly shaky swami singsong.
"One of my people said she saw you heading toward this side of the house," said Parks. Both he and Schell looked expectant-Parks hopeful, Schell somewhat bemused.
"Find something there?" asked Schell, pointing to the balled-up contents of my hand.
"Most certainly, good sirs. I have discovered the culprit. Mr. Parks, when we were last here and brought forth the spirits, your mother left you a toy bear, but it seems your wife is more mischievous and left you her undergarment. No doubt a curse upon your house." I held up the offending article and let it unfurl. I noticed then for the first time that they were pink.
Parks gave a violent shudder. "The bitch," he said. "Even in death she taunts me."
"Good lord," said Schell, "I can't imagine the damage this item would have eventually done to you had it gone undiscovered."
"Excuse my language, please, Mr. Schell, but I feared her spirit was still out to do me in."
"You'll be all right for the time being, but we'd better schedule another sйance in order to solve this problem once and for all. I believe we can effectively rid you of her demonic essence."
Parks nodded. "Please, I'd pay anything to get rid of her for good."
"To clear the entire house would be somewhat more expensive, but for a valued patron like yourself, we can make the price reasonable," said Schell.
I went to the desk and lifted a pen that stood upright in an elaborate inkstand. Hooking the pink curse upon one end of it, I walked forward and handed the other end to Parks. He took it but grimaced horribly and held the pen with the tips of only two fingers. "Revolting," he said and shuddered.
"Do not wait, but take them immediately to your closest fireplace and burn them. Then collect the ashes, mix them with chopped garlic, and bury them no less that three feet deep in the ground. This you must perform without the help of another," I said.
I saw the merest corner of Schell's dour expression crack, and he had to look away from me for a moment to collect himself. "Don't worry about us, Parks, we can show ourselves out," he said. "Best to see to the task at hand immediately."
The millionaire turned and headed out the door. "I owe you a great debt of gratitude. Call me as soon as you can to set up that appointment."
"Will do, sir," said Schell.
I waved my arm to indicate to Schell that he should exit first. He did. Then I followed. We walked back to the Cord in silence. I wasn't sure if Schell was amused by my antics or upset with me for playing so recklessly. Once we were in the car and had left the estate, I looked over at him. His body was jerking up and down as if he was quietly convulsing. Then I looked up at his face, saw a smile on it, and knew he was laughing. He shook his head.
"Diego," he said, "I might as well just turn the business over to you now."
"Did you see his face when I handed them to him?" I asked.
Schell pulled the car over, parked, and gave himself up to mirth. When he dried his eyes a minute later, he said, "Can you imagine what that poor woman had to deal with?"
"Thanks," I said to him.
"Yes, well, you're welcome, but let's keep our wits about us, shall we? I'd like you to proceed at a somewhat slower rate with this young lady."
"I know," I said.
"It wouldn't pay at your age to have to get married," he said, putting the car back in gear and pulling out onto the road.
The conversation was getting embarrassing, and then it came to me how to quickly change it. "I remembered the symbol from the cloth on the Barnes girl," I said.
Schell took the bait. "What was it?" he asked.
"A large circle, outlined in red. Inside it was a cross, equally dividing the circle, outlined in black. At the center of the cross was another circle all of white, and at the center of that circle a red teardrop."
WHY THE TEARDROP?
The day we went to see The Worm, the city wore a disguise of jangling excitement over its normally grim features of unemployment and destitution. On the previous afternoon, in Chicago, during the seventh inning of the World Series, score tied 4 to 4, Babe Ruth had come up to bat. There had been a season-long, bitter rivalry between the two clubs. Ruth was met by calls of derision from the opposing bullpen. His only reaction was to calmly lift his bat and use it to point out into the distance at something or someone only he could see. The pitch came from Charlie Root, and the Babe blasted a home run that broke the tie and gave the Yankees the momentum to win the game. The city's predominantly downtrodden inhabitants feasted on this feat of confidence, and we overheard people talking about it on the train, in the station, and on the streets. None of us, Antony, Schell, or I, cared much about baseball, but the feeling was infectious, and the entire city seemed to be swaggering.
Around the corner from the main branch of the New York Public Library, across the street and down an alleyway littered with ash cans and junk, was a plain metal door in the side of a brick building. Antony stepped forward, rapped twice, waited a second, rapped again three times, and then took a step back and joined Schell and me. The door squealed open a quarter of the way and a small, old woman with a nearly bald head covered in a hairnet, wearing a pair of thick
-lensed glasses, appeared.
"What do you want?" she said in a nasty tone.
"Which way to Paradise?" asked Antony.
She opened the door wider and beckoned for us to enter. Her look of anger melted into a smile, and she said, "Get in here, Henry Bruhl."
Once we were standing inside a dimly lit foyer and the door had been closed and locked, Antony leaned over and kissed the woman's wrinkled cheek. She then turned to Schell and said, "How are you, Tom?"
"Pleasure to see you again, Grace," he said. He lifted her hand and kissed it.
"Still full of shit, I see," she said.
"At your service," said Schell.
She turned to me and eyed me up and down, focusing on my turban. "Who's this, Genghis Khan?" she asked, holding her hand out to me.
"This here is Ondoo," said Antony. "He's a swami."
"Halloween isn't till the end of the month," she said and grabbed my hand and squeezed it.
"Nice to meet you," I said.
"Is this your boy, Thomas?" she asked Schell.
He nodded.
"God help you," she said to me.
"We're looking for The Worm," said Antony.
"Well, you know, he's always either here or over at the library. You're in luck, 'cause he's back there right now, three sheets to the wind and diddling some Columbia professor's wallet."
"Thanks," said Schell.
"I'll bring you back a round of drinks," she said.
We left the foyer and walked down a dark hallway that ended in a short downward flight of steps. The place had obviously been the basement of an old warehouse; the bricks of the walls were crooked, and some had fused together over time. The stairs led to a large expanse crammed with tables and booths beneath a low ceiling of thick wooden timbers. There were candles on the tables and one electric light behind a makeshift bar made of sawhorses and old doors, covered with tablecloths. It was still early in the afternoon, and besides the bartender, who sat on a chair behind the bar, there were only three or four other customers.
I followed Antony and Schell toward one of the booths in the shadows of a rear corner of the room. As we drew closer, I could see the booth held two men sitting across from each other.
"Emmet," said Schell, "when you're done, we'd like to do some business."
The man he was addressing, whom I supposed was "The Worm," waved and said, "Hey, Tommy, give me another minute here." He had a bushy gray beard and wore a rumpled overcoat, tattered hat, and fingerless gloves, like some kind of hobo.
We waited while he finished talking to the other man, who was as neatly dressed as The Worm was slovenly. The fellow in the suit, tie, and small circular glasses finally stood up, reached into his pocket, and handed over a wad of bills to The Worm. Then he lifted his hat off the table, placed it on his head, and walked away.
"Okay, you guys, the shop is open," said the hobo.
Antony and I took the bench across the table from Schell and his odd acquaintance. I was introduced to the man and learned his name was Emmet Brogan. Schell gave him a brief run-down on my story, to which he nodded and said, "A swami, nice touch."
"How's New York these days?" asked Schell.
"Well," said Brogan, "they kicked Walker out at the start of last month. He's off in Europe spending all the money he bilked from the citizens of the fair metropolis. La Guardia's in. The usual ball of crap keeps spinning. Same old, same old."
"Has business been good?" asked Antony.
"Business is always good," said Brogan. "Information's more valuable than gold."
Grace appeared, carrying a tray, and set four drinks on the table. Schell handed her a bill, which she crumpled and stashed in her apron. "Drink up, boys," she said before retreating back into the shadows.
I took a sip from my glass, expecting it to be beer. Whatever it was lit a fire in my mouth and throat, and I coughed.
"Business is good, but the coffin varnish never gets any better," said Brogan, downing a sizable gulp.
"What is this?" I asked Antony.
"Bathtub gin," he said, taking a sip.
An image of the old lady, Grace, sitting in a tub of the stuff, came into my mind, and I couldn't shake it.
"Grain alcohol with a mixture of special ingredients, so to speak," said Brogan. "Drink enough of this shit and it'll make you go blind. I'm surprised I can still see."
"Two questions for you today," said Schell, turning to The Worm.
"I'll give you one for free," said Brogan. "I'm in a good mood 'cause the Yanks won."
"What's a dybbuk?" asked Schell.
"A dybbuk?" said Brogan. "Hold on a second." He sat as if thinking, staring into the distance. "Hey, Henry, you got a cigarette?" he said.
Antony took two from his pack, put both between his lips, and lit them. He handed one across the table. The Worm nodded his thanks, took a long drag, and went back to thinking.
While we waited, Schell tapped my arm to draw my attention. "Emmet's mind is like a camera. Whatever he reads, he can eventually remember like it's sitting right in front of him," he said.
"A dybbuk," said Brogan, obviously smiling with pride at Schell's description of his powers. "It's Jewish. Hebrew occult."
"Is it a ghost?" asked Antony.
"Not exactly," said Brogan. "I remember now. It's a kind of demon. When the spirit of a dead person, wicked, of course, enters and controls the body of a living person, you get a dybbuk. In the folklore, when this happens, the spirit's out to harm the living in some way."
"Jewish you said?" said Schell.
"Yeah, definitely," said Brogan.
Schell nodded. "Okay, here's the second question," he said. He looked at me. "Diego, do you have the drawing?"
I reached into my vest pocket and took out a square of paper. Unfolding it, I laid it on the table and smoothed down the creases. On it was the symbol I had rendered from my memory of the cloth draped over Charlotte Barnes. I pushed it across the table toward The Worm.
"Oh, I know this," he said. He tapped the paper with his index finger, and with his free hand lifted the glass to his mouth. "Yeah." He nodded to himself.
"I thought it might be religious," said Schell, "because of the crosses."
"You could say that," said Brogan. "This is from the Klan."
"What clan?" asked Antony.
"There's only one Klan," said Brogan. "The Ku Klux Klan."
"The Klan?" said Schell. "This came from out on the island."
"No shit," said The Worm. "The Klan was all over the island a few years back."
"I had no idea," said Schell.
"June 1923, over twenty-five-thousand people gathered in a huge field to hear the message of the Klan," said Brogan. "Guess where? We're not talking Alabama, we're not talking South Carolina or Mississippi."
Schell and Antony shook their heads.
"East Islip, Long Island," he said and slapped the tabletop. "Sure, I did a whole workup on this stuff for a guy from the federal government a few years ago. One out of every seven or eight people on the island belonged. White hoods, burning crosses, the works."
"In my traveling show days down south, we heard about colored men being lynched by them," said Antony.
"This was a new type of Klan. They were still race haters, but they sold themselves to the populace on the platform of law and order. Imagine. There weren't enough colored people out there on the island for them to get that worked up about, so they kind of transferred their energy into hating the Catholics, the Jews, the immigrants. They were down on what they considered the dissolution of the white race by all of the foreigners coming into this country. And they were heavy supporters of Prohibition." Brogan lifted his glass, as if making a toast, and took a drink.
"What part of the island were they located in?" asked Schell.
"All over the damn place. They formed these little bands to guard the shoreline against bootleggers and would prevent them from landing. Shoot-outs, lot of violence there. White supremacy is what they'v
e always been about, and that's basically what they're still about. Eventually, their own political infighting undercut their power. By the end of the twenties a lot of it disbanded, but I'm sure it's still there. There were times during their heyday, we're talking less than ten years ago, when they'd be allowed in churches and schools to give speeches, hoods and all. Lot of pastors were big supporters. Some shameful shit."
"That's a scary group," said Antony.
"Scary, yeah," said Brogan, "but mostly just a bunch of ignoramuses. There's guys a lot scarier than them out there."
"Who's that?" I asked.
"Guys with the same philosophy, but with real power, brains, and money. I hate to say it, my friend, but you'd be mincemeat with these bastards whether you were a swami or…where are you from, Guatemala? Mexico? Anyway, you'd be finished."
"Why the teardrop?" I asked.
"That's no teardrop, chum. That's a drop of blood. It's all in the blood. Their big fear is the mixing of the white race with, quote, unquote, inferior blood."
MURDER AT A PARTY
Schell paid The Worm, who thanked him kindly and used some of the money to order another round of drinks. I passed, my first still unfinished. For a few minutes, Schell and Brogan exchanged facts about butterflies, and then the conversation moved on to acquaintances and old times, and Antony jumped in. Before we left, Schell inquired as to a name, someone he could contact on Long Island who might have been or still was seriously involved with the Klan.
Emmet went through his usual thinking phase where you could envision him flipping through the stored pages in his mind. "Of the klaverns that haven't broken up, they've all pretty much gone underground. I remember reading about a guy who was a big deal with this mess. Stephen Andrews. He's an old guy, might be dead by now. He was out in Freeport. Check out this title he had-he was a Grand Exalted Cyclops. I suppose in the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king. He might still be around. If he is, and he'll talk to you, you might be able to get some more out of him."