Collected Stories

by Lewis Shiner

  I said, “Now what?”

  The woman with the gun said, “Good question.”

  The woman in the sweater taped Javier’s mouth shut again and went back in the kitchen. Lane went over to Javier and wiped up the mess on the floor. Then she got up and opened the front door.

  The woman with the gun said, “Are you crazy?”

  Lane looked at me, crooked her finger toward the door. “Get out of here.”

  The woman with the gun said, “Lane—”

  “Let him go,” Lane said. “Maybe he learned something.”

  I stood up. It didn’t look like the woman with the gun was going to stop me. I took one careful step toward the door, and looked back. The woman with the coat hanger was holding it over the burner. A bright yellow flame was coming off it and the metal was turning red hot. I took another step and then I was walking, fast, and then I was outside and the door slammed shut behind me. I ran for the stairs and I was just to the corner of the building when I heard Javier, right through the tape, let out one long, muffled scream.

  I just wanted to finish it. I stopped at the Diamond Shamrock on Airport and called Dennis’s house. The rain was still falling, slower now, and I turned up the collar of my jacket while I listened to the phone ring. His wife answered and told me he was at the office. I remembered he’d told me that.

  I parked next to his Mercedes in the lot. I had to knock on the glass door of his office for him to come unlock it. He was working at the copier and there was a big stack of what looked like tax forms on the table next to it.

  “What’s up?” he said. He fed another form into the machine.

  “Lane Rochelle’s dropping the case,” I said.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? I mean, that’s why you’d hire a big, stupid guy like me in the first place, right?”

  “Maybe you’re not so dumb as you look.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “I think this calls for a bonus. I expect my client could afford a couple hundred on top of your hourlies.”

  I expected it was worth a lot more than that to Dennis, not to have to put Javier on the stand, not to have him talk about his cocaine customers. But all I said was, “Why don’t I get that bank bag for you?”

  “Sure. It’s in the desk there.”

  I went into Dennis’s office and got the bank bag out of the side drawer. I guess I was just looking for something. I didn’t know what it was going to be until I found it. I looked back into the waiting room and Dennis still had his back to me, feeding papers into the machine. I eased open the top drawer and there it was, a fat plastic bag full of cocaine. I figured it must have been about a quarter of a pound. I flattened it out and put it down the front of my pants and tucked my shirt back in around it.

  I took the bank bag in to Dennis and he counted out three brand new hundred dollar bills. “Not bad for a day’s work, eh?” he said. I couldn’t do anything but nod. “You did good,” he said. “There’s plenty more where this came from. Just let me know, okay?”

  I even shook his hand.

  I went downstairs and jimmied the lock on the gas tank of his Mercedes. Then I took off the gas cap and poured the entire baggie of cocaine inside. When I closed it all back up I could hardly tell the difference. Then I threw the baggie in the dumpster. I don’t really know what cocaine does to an engine, but I figure there’s at least a lot of sugar in whatever it’s cut with. Any way you look at it, it’s just bound to be expensive.

  I was still kind of pumped up when I got in the Pinto, but it wasn’t like I thought it would be. I didn’t feel any better. In fact I felt worse, I felt like hell. Lane said maybe I learned something, but if I did then maybe I learned the wrong thing. I got turned around and headed north on the I-35 access road, and I must not have been paying attention, because when I went to get on the freeway there was suddenly this car behind me that I never saw, his tires screaming on the wet road. I kept waiting for the thump as he hit me and it didn’t happen, there was just his horn as he whipped around, leaning over in his seat to shake his fist at me. And there was nothing I could do except sit there and hold onto the wheel. Because there are all these millions of gestures for being pissed off and not one to say I’m sorry.

  Lizard Men of Los Angeles

  The beautiful black-haired woman suddenly turned, raised the gleaming revolver, and fired six resounding shots. Five .38 caliber slugs ripped into the wooden packing crate that Johnny Cairo had crawled into only moments before. The sixth bullet exploded a vase of red carnations that stood next to the crate.

  Something slumped against the inside of the wooden box. A thread of bright crimson oozed between the pine boards and slowly trickled downwards.

  The woman lowered the pistol, shock and horror spreading across her elegant features. The empty revolver clattered to her feet and she took one tentative step, then another, toward the crate.

  “Stop!” cried a man’s voice from the back of the theater. “Don’t touch that box!”

  The audience turned, gasped, and broke into applause as they saw that the speaker was none other than Johnny Cairo himself, changed from his dark suit and cape to evening clothes and sporting a bright, blood-red cummerbund.

  Backstage, the entire vaudeville troupe mingled with journalists and well-wishers, though in this Depression year of 1934 the crowds were smaller than they’d ever been. When the rest had departed, one lone man remained behind. He was heavy set, with elaborate side-whiskers and thinning hair. He carried a cashmere topcoat and scarf that had attracted some notice from those exiting past him.

  He approached the magician and spoke in a deep and resonant voice. “I’m sorry, but I missed the evening’s...entertainment. You are Johnny Cairo? The man the press refers to as ‘Mr. Impossible?’”

  Cairo nodded, and gestured to the black-haired woman beside him. “This is Myra Lockhart, my associate.” She had covered her revealing stage costume with a black velvet dressing gown. From a distance she had appeared to be in her twenties, but fine lines around her eyes and mouth made her true age much harder to determine. Those eyes, set in a complexion as white as cream, flashed a keen intelligence.

  “Miss Lockhart,” the man said with a short bow.

  “Mrs.,” she replied coolly.

  “Errr, yes.” He paused, then inquired, “Mr. Cairo, are you entirely well?”

  Cairo had closed his eyes. He too seemed much older than he had from the stage. Beneath his heavy pancake makeup he was perspiring and his complexion had taken on a yellowish hue. “It’s nothing,” he said. “A legacy of my travels—dengue fever, a persistent amoebae, a trace of jaundice. How may I assist you, sir?”

  “My name is Emil Rosenberg. I understand that you, under certain circumstances, have been known to undertake confidential investigations.”

  Mrs. Lockhart interrupted. “Certain very specific circumstances.”

  “I seek knowledge, Mr. Rosenberg,” Cairo elaborated. “My investigations are always directed toward the great Mystery.”

  Rosenberg shook his head. “I fear you’ve lost me, sir.”

  “Some believe life to be full of mysteries. My studies in the East—and elsewhere—have convinced me there is but One, a single web of relationships that binds everything in the universe together. It’s the principle by which magic works.”

  “I am not a magician, sir. And my concern is with what seems to be a single mystery, the disappearance of my daughter, Vera. The police are stymied and I’m afraid something drastic may have befallen her.”

  “I’m sympathetic, of course, Mr. Rosenberg,” Cairo offered, “but surely this is a matter for a conventional private investigator, not someone of my particular talents.”

  “There are...other factors involved. Factors that I believe you might...Good Lord!” The color drained from Rosenberg’s face as he pointed a shaking finger toward the hallway outside the dressing room. “There’s one of them now!”

  Cairo
spun around to look. A sinister figure, heavily muffled in a wide-brimmed hat, raincoat, and baggy trousers, had just turned from the doorway and scuttled toward the stage door exit.

  Cairo leaped to his feet, his previous semblance of weariness gone. He bolted down the corridor in feverish pursuit of the mysterious onlooker. The heavily muffled man—if man it was—slammed open the bright red stage door and banged down the metal steps outside. As Cairo emerged into the warm darkness of the Los Angeles night he saw the figure moving rapidly down the sidewalk, its body strangely contorted. It was bent at the waist, its short arms jerking convulsively, as if fighting the impulse to drop to all fours.

  Only a dozen yards separated Cairo from the creature as it turned the corner onto a side street. When Cairo rounded the same corner seconds later, it had disappeared.

  Mrs. Lockhart found Cairo there, staring at a scarf, hat, coat, and pants lying in the gutter. A damp, fetid smell rose from the clothing. “Methane,” Cairo said. “Swamp gas.”

  “I suppose,” Mrs. Lockhart said, “this means we’ll be taking the case.”

  “Have you ever,” Rosenberg asked, “heard the name Aleister Crowley?”

  They sat the parlor of Rosenberg’s house in the community of Silver Lake, located to the north and west of Los Angeles proper. Rosenberg was fortifying himself with brandy while Cairo drank strong tea. Mrs. Lockhart, who had changed into a low-cut black evening dress, had declined refreshment.

  “The Great Beast?” Cairo asked, startled. “He’s involved in this?”

  “I’m afraid he may have corrupted my daughter. And I believe the creatures that have been following me—you saw one of them tonight—may be his minions. So you do know of him?”

  “We have had...encounters,” Mrs. Lockhart said. “He’s here in Los Angeles?”

  “He’s staying in Pasadena, in the home of a businessman rumored to have Satanic allegiances. From there Crowley is able to make acquaintances in the film industry. Or rather, to speak frankly, to prey upon members of that profession. Spending their money on drugs and liquor, using their homes for unspeakable acts—I hope my candor doesn’t offend you, sir.”

  “No,” Cairo said. “I rely on it. And this man Crowley is worse than you imagine. How did your daughter come in contact with him?”

  “She’s a film actress. She uses a stage name, Veronica Fleming. Perhaps you’ve heard of her?” The last was said with unmistakable pride. He offered Cairo a framed color photograph from the mantle that showed a beautiful woman with luminous eyes and lustrous dark red hair falling past her shoulders.

  “She was a child actress,” Cairo said. “Now playing ingénue roles.”

  Rosenberg nodded. “She first met Crowley through her producer. I believe it’s been less than a month. She began to attend parties at the mansion where Crowley’s staying. Then, three days ago, she disappeared. I fear that even if she hasn’t been physically harmed, her reputation may have been so damaged by her association with this...Great Beast, as you call him, that her ingénue days may be finished.”

  “You were right to come to us,” Cairo said. “Crowley is reputed to be past his prime, but he is still one of the most dangerous men alive. As he becomes more debauched and decadent, in fact, it becomes ever more dangerous to trifle with him.” He got to his feet and adjusted the cuffs of his jacket. “If you have an address for him, in fact, we’ll be on our way.”

  “My chauffeur will drive you,” Rosenberg said. “Make whatever use of him you require.” He looked at his pocket watch. “However, it’s nearly midnight. Surely...”

  “Crowley will be awake,” Cairo assured him. “Hesitation at this point could be fatal.”

  “Besides,” Mrs. Lockhart added, “our vaudeville troupe has an engagement in San Diego in less than 24 hours.”

  The house had been designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, its long, shingled walls blending almost invisibly with the heavily landscaped grounds, its roof beams extending beyond the structure like a draftsman’s energetic pencil lines. Every light in the mansion burned brightly and the driveway was filled with cars.

  “Such physical beauty,” Cairo remarked, “so full of corruption.”

  “I trust you’re not waxing metaphorical,” Mrs. Lockhart said. “You know how I feel about that.”

  They walked up the curving driveway together and Cairo tried the massive teak door. It was securely locked and bolted. Cairo paused momentarily to pick the locks, then led them through a long entry hall into a scene of utter debauchery.

  Perhaps two dozen men, women, and children sprawled in various postures throughout the large, oak-paneled room. None of them was Victoria Fleming. Few were fully dressed; some were bound with scarves or leather. They were grouped, for the most part, in twos and threes, with most of the possible combinations of gender represented. A blazing fire kept the room uncomfortably warm. On low tables throughout lay syringes, liquor bottles, and untidy heaps of white powders.

  A low divan in the center of the room held a tall, sturdily-built man in his fifties, his head shaved, his thick jowls sagging with mindless pleasure. He was completely naked.

  “Crowley!” Cairo shouted.

  The bald man’s eyes slowly opened and focused upon Cairo. “You!” he cried. His stare exuded malevolence. “How dare you confront me here?”

  Mrs. Lockhart turned to Cairo. “If everything is under control here, I’ll just have a look at the rest of the house.”

  Without looking away from Crowley, Cairo nodded. “Excellent suggestion.”

  “What are you doing here, Cairo?” Crowley bellowed, slowly rising to a sitting position, but making no attempt to cover himself. “You and that bloodless imitation of a woman? What do you want from me?”

  “Information, merely,” Cairo said. “I’m looking for a woman named Veronica Fleming. She might also call herself Vera Rosenberg. We have reason to believe you might know her.”

  “Or have knowledge of her?” Crowley smiled. “In the so-called Biblical sense, perhaps? Do not waste my time, Cairo. There are so many women. Sometimes they are masked or blindfolded, and I never even see their faces, let alone learn their names. They are all one to me. Merely vessels for the transmission of magickal power.”

  “It’s not your childish blasphemy that I object to,” Cairo observed evenly. “Nor your physical depravity, nor even your wretched verse. It is your lack of compassion. It renders you less than human, and beneath contempt.”

  Crowley colored at the mention of his poetry, but quickly regained control. “You are so sanctimonious, Cairo.” He waved one massive, long-fingered hand dismissively. “Yet you and I are two sides of the same coin. I debauch young women to feed my self-esteem, you rescue them to the same end. You focus your will through your ‘craft’ and your petty conjurings, I focus mine through ritual and tantric practice, but both of us know that will is the key. ‘Do what thou wilt—’”

  “‘—shall be the whole of the Law,’” Cairo intoned. “So you have told us, again and again.”

  “You weary me, Cairo. Begone.”

  Mrs. Lockhart had not yet returned. Cairo glanced at his watch. “I dispute your comparisons,” he said. “We are separate coins, and yours is made of base metal, counterfeit.”

  Crowley, in a show of indifference, put a pinch of white powder on the web of his left thumb and inhaled it briskly. From one of the darkened corners of the room came a sharp cry, though whether of pain or pleasure was not immediately obvious.

  “And whatever else may be true of me,” Cairo persisted, “I can at least console myself that I am not the author of poetry so wretched that it is universally reviled in my lifetime and will be forgotten promptly thereafter.”

  This, at last, reduced Crowley to rage. “Hasan!” he screamed in a high-pitched voice. A young Arab in an embroidered galabeya and turban appeared, carrying a scimitar.

  Crowley pointed to Cairo. “Kill him!”

  Cairo, with an expression of distaste, let his gaze wander around
the room. He took three strides to the fireplace where he hefted the brass poker. “Mmmm,” he said with some dissatisfaction, and extended the implement from a practiced fencer’s stance.

  Suddenly wary, Hasan, who had raised his scimitar and seemed to be on the point of charging, glanced nervously at Crowley. “Kill him!” Crowley shrieked again, and the young Arab inched forward, twirling the blade with a circular motion of his wrist. Cairo gave way before it, passing behind a sofa from which two scantily-clad women regarded him with mild interest.

  Hasan lunged and swung the curved blade in a murderous arc. Cairo somehow stepped out of its path, letting it carry on unimpeded into a priceless white Chinese vase, which shattered into a hundred fragments. Glancing behind him, Cairo’s eyes fell upon a heavily-laden coffee table, and he reached back with his left foot to kick it aside. Powders, liquids, and candles flew across the room in a graceful arc and a teenage boy, who’d been reaching for one of the bowls, let out a sigh of regret.

  Another furious scimitar slash failed to connect, reducing Hasan to blind fury. He became a windmill of flashing steel and yet Cairo remained untouched as the young Arab hurtled past him, colliding with a love seat and sending himself and its occupants sprawling across the deep red Oriental carpet of the adjacent dining room.

  Stumbling to his feet, Hasan hurled a massive chair at Cairo, who ducked it easily. “Damn you,” Crowley shouted at the boy. “Can you not finish him?”

  Hasan moved in with the sword again, backing Cairo toward a corner. The boy’s confidence was gone and he fought with the desperate intensity of the hopeless. His blade clashed with Cairo’s poker once, twice, a third time, and then Cairo said, “Ah. There you are.”

  With a fluid motion he sent the scimitar spinning out of Hasan’s grip, leaving the boy with a purpling bruise across the back of his hand.