Clip Joint

by Debra Dunbar

  Absalom ran a hand along the side of his face, then removed his glasses to wipe them clean with nervous hands. “Do you know what a Hell pincher is? What it truly is? A man practiced in the arts of alchemy and enchantment. One whose quill dips so deep into the well of magic that they write with the blood of devils.” He shook his head as he replaced his spectacles. “No, I don’t believe I can be of any assistance. Good day, Miss O’Toole.”

  “Bradley Arnoud sent me. He gave me your name specifically.”

  “Ah,” he muttered wistfully. “I should have expected something like this.”

  “He said you might be able to help me.”

  “I don’t know of any Hell pinchers, Miss O’Toole.”

  “But you know of someone who might know of one?” she asked. “Perhaps one of these practitioners you’re friends with?”

  “I wouldn’t be in business long if I started giving out names now, would I?”

  Absalom looked like he was about to toss her out of the store, so Hattie produced the tiny red and black marble from her coat pocket and held it up to the light. “Have you seen anything like this before?”

  The man’s eyes grew wide. “Where did you find that?”

  “A burned-out house…in Absalom, Pennsylvania. That should worry you.”

  He stepped away from the marble, arms straight at his sides. “Absalom, you say?”

  “Before I knew you were a man, I thought you were a place. And I believe this Hell pincher did as well.”

  He turned to face the rear of the shop and after a quick debate with himself, he gestured for Hattie. “Come. Follow me.”

  She wandered past the bric-a-brac inside the store and through a door to a poorly lit storeroom. He flipped a switch and a single electric bulb buzzed to life overhead, spilling just enough light to make the room navigable.

  Absalom stopped at the center of the back wall, hand resting upon a squat safe. The metal box was inscribed in gold filigree and a few symbols that seemed to flicker with light.

  “The object in your hand,” he explained, “is a soul trap.”

  She held the marble up once again. The orb held a newfound menace.

  He patted the top of his safe. “My vault, here, has been inscribed with over thirty warding spells. It is lined in cedar and is bolted to the floor with filaments of copper wire that pass over twelve feet into the bedrock below this building. It is where I keep the items I dare not sell.” He pointed to the marble in Hattie’s fingers. “A thing like that belongs in a safe like this.”

  “How can something so small hold a human soul?”

  “How big is an angel’s wing?” he countered. “The length of the sky or as tiny as a mote of dust? Who is to say? Such mysteries are not for humans such as you and I. And who said that trap holds a human soul?” He crossed his arms with a sigh. “Hell pinchers are dealers in souls, first and foremost. Their magic is fueled by the forces of Hell, and they pivot upon disposition of soul energies.”

  Hattie shook her head, but he gestured for her to listen.

  “Carrying around an object such as that is profoundly dangerous. It may contain a person’s immortal soul and mishandling such an item could jeopardize it. What’s worse, its contents may be something infernal.”

  “A demon?” she asked.

  “Possibly.”

  “What would be the point in carrying a demon around in one’s pocket?” she mused aloud. “Tell me, could a soul trap such as this be tied to some sort of magical sigil?”

  “Tied? How do you mean?”

  She paced in front of him. “I’m suggesting that this soul trap could have been the center of a booby trap.” She thought of the sigils in the Amish farmhouse. “Connected to a series of glyphs like the ones on your safe. Only, such symbols were never meant for protection. They were tripwires.”

  Absalom watched in wonder as she turned and continued pacing. “To what end?”

  “If a Hell pincher were to leave a trail of breadcrumbs that led to one of these demon traps, he could selectively eliminate a certain sort of individual. Just like Arnoud. He nearly died. I…nearly died. I’ve seen this sort of thing before. A rumor is released into the wild. Word spreads. If the fragments are carefully constructed, anyone who pieces them together will be led to a single spot. Then the trap is triggered.”

  The man tapped a finger against his chin. “Remarkable.”

  Nefarious would be a better word.

  Hattie stopped her pacing and looked the man in the eye. “It’s important that I find this Hell pincher, Mr. Absalom.”

  With another sigh, he nodded. “I don’t know if the man I know is the one you seek. He comes every so often to peruse my newest arrivals and I know he knows a thing or two about the arcane arts. It’s not in what he says, but what he doesn’t, that leads me to think his interests might have a dark bent.”

  “Do you know where I might find this man?”

  Absalom considered the question, then lifted a finger. “He asked me to mail a package to him last fall. I should have the address in my desk ledger.” He paused to consider the soul trap in Hattie’s fingers. “I would implore you to leave that here in safe keeping.”

  She pulled the marble into her fist reflexively. Would that make sense? Wasn’t she an amateur in such matters? How likely would it be that she’d accidentally release a demon into the wild—perhaps in the middle of a town such as this one?

  “I’ll…have to think on it.”

  He nodded. “Fine, then. Let’s look into that address, shall we?”

  Absalom led her to the front of the store and pulled an enormous ledger book from beneath the sales counter. As he flipped through the pages, Hattie investigated one of the glass display cases. A smooth gold pocket watch caught her eye. It glinted in the electric light of the lamp beside it.

  “Is everything in your store enchanted?”

  “Most everything.” He looked up from his ledger. “Something you like?”

  “What does this pocket watch do?”

  “It grants you the gift of time, of course. It’s fairly old and doesn’t have much use left to it. I could let you have it for a good price.”

  She thought of the all the money she’d saved over the summer, the money she’d been squirreling away for an emergency.

  Facing a man who might be a Hell pincher could constitute an emergency.

  “So…how much is a ‘good price’?”

  Chapter 20

  Gertha entered Vincent’s room. He got to his feet immediately. She approached, glaring down into his eyes with a predator’s patience. Vincent stared straight forward, betraying no emotion. Only a steel-cold expression on his face.

  The woman reached into her tool belt and produced a new implement. It was the sort he’d never seen in her hand before.

  A blade.

  It was skinny with a slight curve to its tip, rather like a boning knife. She lifted it to his throat.

  Again, no reaction. No flinch. No motion of his eyes. He simply stood still. It was less about obedience and more his confidence that they wouldn’t kill him. He’d complied. He’d done everything they’d said, played the game by their rules and let them mold him into the perfect servant. They’d have no reason to kill him. If Vito wanted him dead, he would have done it before sending him up here.

  And Vito aside, he had value. And Ithaca was not run by the sort of people who would waste a valuable asset on a whim.

  She sheathed the knife, reeled back her arm and sent a fist directly into his solar plexus. It nearly knocked the wind out of Vincent, and had he not prepared himself for anything from this woman he might have ended up on the floor. He released a heavy grunt and sucked through his teeth to catch his breath. Once he had steadied himself, he straightened the few inches he’d bent over, and resumed his dead pan stare at the masonry wall.

  Gertha reached for his face, tracing his cheek bones with her finger. She turned for the door, and for the first time in however long Vincent had been in
this hellish place, Gertha spoke.

  “He is ready.”

  Her voice was deep, almost as deep as Vincent’s, and curled with round Scandinavian vowels.

  The door to his cell widened, and Sebastian entered, his clipboard out and blazing with his pen.

  “Very good, Mister Calendo,” Sebastian chimed with a grin. “Your time here may be drawing to a close.”

  Vincent didn’t respond.

  Sebastian asked, “How does that make you feel?”

  “I don’t feel,” he replied.

  “And why is that?”

  “Because it isn’t required of me.”

  Sebastian squinted. “The pledge.”

  Without missing a single syllable, he recited, “To be an asset of true value. To become a creature of power, not for my own gain, but for the betterment of those who have earned my loyalty. To reflect on my betters in a way that forwards their fortune, their stature, and the light the Lord of Creation chooses to shine upon them.”

  Sebastian made a series of notes, then nodded to Gertha. “I concur. Run on ahead and tell the assessor I’ll be bringing him an asset for evaluation.”

  * * *

  After lunch, Sebastian returned on horseback to escort Vincent to the chalet. Vincent was relegated to traveling on foot, but at least he had footwear. The clear sky of the previous day had thickened with heavy clouds. The satiny sheen along the underside of the weather indicated more snow was on the way. As Vincent followed the draft horse, he kept his thoughts buried deep. The best way to escape this place, he’d decided the night before, was to surrender to it. At least, provide the appearance of surrender.

  But things were different. The shift was subtle, and even Vincent wasn’t sure where it would lead him. He’d always assumed this punishment, this reeducation would in some way make him more valuable to Vito. That he would finally return to Baltimore with his Capo smiling.

  But Vito’s approval would never come. Never. He could go through months at this place, and still the moment something went wrong in Baltimore, he’d be the scapegoat. And the moment Vito managed to gain another pincher, he’d become expendable, one day facing a bullet to the brain. That was his future with the Baltimore Crew.

  Unless there was no Baltimore Crew and no Vito.

  His entire life he’d never entertained such thoughts, but now he finally knew who his real family was. For the betterment of those who have earned my loyalty.

  Earned.

  He needed to get back to Baltimore, to the only people in his life that really mattered. And once there, he needed to find a way to clean that city of the dreck in a way that wouldn’t result in half the East Coast families descending on him in war.

  But first he needed to get out of Ithaca with his mind and soul still intact. His only recourse was to take the part of his mind that was still his and bury it deep. Deeper than even Sebastian could reach. He’d already subjected Vincent to physical and emotional torture. All that was left was to rob him of his soul. And that was something Vincent wasn’t sure even Sebastian was capable of.

  The chalet loomed around the bottom of the last curtain of hillside, spread in a line at the base of the valley. Sebastian dismounted and walked the horse the rest of the way. A young woman in mink skins bustled through the snow to take the reins. With the horse taken to the stables, Sebastian rubbed his hands together with a smile.

  “It’s an exciting day.”

  Vincent didn’t reply or even nod.

  Sebastian sighed. “You may speak. It won’t affect your standing.”

  “I’ll speak when asked a question,” Vincent replied without irritation or inflection.

  “That’s good, because Dominguez will ask you several questions. My advice is to be direct and terse. No prevarication. No elaboration. His job is to gauge your readiness.” Sebastian paused. “You do realize you won’t be returning to Baltimore?”

  Vincent forced his expression to remain calmly neutral even though the man’s statement rocked him. Not returning to Baltimore? Had Vito traded him? Decided to take Luciano’s offer? Why?

  And, of course, “why” was a question he should never ask.

  “I did not know that,” he replied instead.

  “How does that make you feel?”

  “I don’t feel.”

  “Good.” Sebastian laughed. “Seriously, though. Corbi is weak. If you were sent to Masseria in the City, you’d be part of a much stronger family.”

  He couldn’t help himself. “Am I being traded to Masseria?”

  “That was a hypothetical. Don’t ask questions. If you need to know something, you will be told.”

  Sebastian held open a tall leaded-glass double door leading into the chalet and gestured Vincent in. The air was remarkably warm for the high ceilings and the seemingly endless array of windows. Three enormous ashlar stone fireplaces blazed with burning logs, sending radiant heat into the lush interior. The polished wood plank floor was decked with a series Persian rugs. Furniture was scattered in pockets of conversation space from one end of the open space to the other. To the center was a series of four-top tables. Seemingly an eating area.

  A boy of about thirteen trotted up to Sebastian. He wore a tuxedo shirt and a bowtie, and his hair was greased back with immaculate care.

  Sebastian waved a hand at the boy. “The usual, Tom.”

  The boy ran off, and in minutes returned with a porcelain tea cup filled with a fragrant tea. Sebastian gestured with the cup for Vincent to follow, and headed through the room and past a kitchen. Across from the kitchen was a modest door. Sebastian gave it two knocks, then twisted the doorknob.

  “In we go.”

  Inside Vincent spotted Dominguez, the elderly man that had been at the pincher moot. He sat in a chair behind a desk lit by a teller’s lamp. An array of documents was arranged in neat piles, tended to by Dominguez’s leathery fingers.

  He gestured for the two to approach.

  Sebastian cleared his throat and announced, “I wish to present Dormitory Eleven, Asset One. Vincent Calendo, late of the Baltimore Crew.”

  Late. Who had he been traded to? Would he ever see Hattie again? Something inside Vincent shriveled, and he realized that the one thing keeping him sane here had finally been taken from him.

  Dominguez pulled a book from his desk drawer and inked a pen. “Time pincher?”

  Vincent replied, “Yes.”

  “Says here you were raised in Father Albrecht’s school.” Dominguez lifted his eyes to meet Vincent’s. “Tedious son of a bitch, no?”

  Vincent answered, “I have no opinion on the matter.”

  Dominguez nodded in satisfaction. “He is. Self-important bastardo. His school will be a thing of the past soon. Inefficient. As Corbi has discovered, obviously.” The old man scratched Vincent’s name at the top of a ledger sheet, then began to make a column of letters. “I’ll ask you a series of questions. Answer as you see fit. Do you understand?”

  “I do.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Vincent Calendo.”

  Dominguez scratched the word “Vinny” onto the sheet, then waited.

  Vincent’s lip curled in distaste, but only enough for him to feel it.

  After a brief pause, Dominguez scratched it out.

  “Where are your parents?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Would you like to?” Dominguez glanced up at Vincent. “I have their address in this book, you know. Would it please you to hear that they are alive and well?”

  Vincent’s stomach twisted. He was so distracted by the comment that he wasn’t sure if he’d betrayed a reaction on his face.

  “I have no opinion on the matter,” Vincent managed with a quick clearing of his throat.

  Dominguez jotted down a series of numbers that made no sense to Vincent. Could it have been true? Did these bastards truly know whether Vincent’s parents were alive or dead? Surely, they would. They bought him from his parents when he was too young to r
emember them. Or was that how it happened?

  He wasn’t ready to deal with that specific angle. Vincent dug deep and tried to push it out of his mind, but his pulse was up now.

  “You were seen in the company of a certain woman,” the old man began, his voice rising and falling in a sing-song fairytale wind up.

  Hattie. Vincent’s gut clenched. How could they know?

  Dominguez checked a loose paper on the side of his desk. “A certain Fern Gladhill?”

  “Fern?” Vincent blurted in relief.

  Dominguez started at the comment, glancing at him with expectant eyes.

  Vincent quickly thought how he could play his outburst to his advantage. “I never knew her last name,” he lied.

  Dominguez started a sentence a few times, then shook his head and made some notes.

  “You may or may not be happy to hear she is also alive and well.”

  Vincent offered the most imperceptible of shrugs.

  “Tell me, Mister Calendo…your relationship with your handler.” He consulted another paper. “Alonzo Mancuso. The two of you are, as one would expect, close. Such is the way with these sorts of arrangements. If Mister Mancuso were to be found dead in his apartment from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the chest, would you find it easier or harder to move on than if he’d been shot by some random criminal on his way to the theater?”

  “What, if he killed himself as opposed to being murdered you mean?”

  Dominguez nodded.

  “I don’t have an opinion on the matter.” This time, he was speaking honestly. In fact, he couldn’t follow Dominguez’s line of inquiry here. Was he supposed to have a specific opinion? Either instance would be utterly horrific. It would crush Vincent to hear it. But suicide versus homicide? What did it matter? Dead was dead.

  Was it a bad sign that he seemed to genuinely slip into Ithaca’s prescribed mold?

  “One more question for you, Mister Calendo. Bear with me.” Dominguez stood up and walked around to approach Vincent. “Are you morally opposed to taking the life of another person?”

  His honest answer would’ve been that it depends on the person. But that wasn’t what they wanted to hear. So, he took a shot at the approved answer.