Danse Macabre

by Kory M. Shrum

  A gaggle of girls in feathered masks fell out of a shop in front of him, squealing with laughter. They parted like water around him, reforming on the other side. He knew the Quarter would be full of revelers tonight. New Year’s Eve always drew all sorts to the black hole known as Bourbon Street.

  He supposed Piper had plans to go out. Why shouldn’t she? She was only 23.

  King would spend the evening on Melandra’s couch, watching the ball drop in New York, assuming either of them could stay awake until midnight.

  Women would hang from the balconies, flashing their breasts despite the chilly temperatures. Men would drink their weight in alcohol and puke on the sidewalks or the side of a building.

  A shirtless man with half his body painted blue ran past him chanting the university’s cheer.

  Sometimes King wondered if he’d traded his retirement for a never-ending frat party.

  He loved all the indulgent, frenetic energy of this place, but he could’ve found a nice condo in Florida. Or retired to the Philippines and stretched his dollars far enough to live like a king.

  But he’d wanted to be here in the Quarter. He’d never be able to explain why he loved this place. It was rambunctious, touristy and at times violent. Yet that was part of its charm. It had a personality that matched King’s own.

  You’ve got a past life connection here, Melandra had told him. She’d flipped over a tarot card on her wooden coffee table one night. He’d had his hands deep in the popcorn bowl they shared while watching the latest episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race.

  It makes as much sense as anything else, he’d said, as he’d knocked back another Dr. Pepper.

  Maybe you were buried here, she said. Lots of bodies under these streets. Maybe one of them is yours.

  King had laughed at that. We all know I have trouble letting go, don’t we? Why are you here?

  I’m supposed to be here. Same as you. It doesn’t make sense. One hurricane and it could all go again, but that’s life. If not a hurricane, then something else. And this place…there’s something special about it.

  The truth was King didn’t believe in energies or fate. Palmistry, tarot, past lives, none of it rang true to him. But he respected Melandra and her insights. More importantly, she was free to believe whatever the hell she wanted.

  We all need something to get us through the night, he thought. Because sooner or later, no matter how far inland one goes, the storm will come.

  King stopped outside Melandra’s Fortunes and Fixes. He raised his boots and scraped them against the curb, leaning one hip into the horsehead post embedded in the cobblestone walk.

  The smell of egg rolls wafted from the corner store across the street and King knew that Zeke had pulled a fresh batch from his deep fryers. No doubt he was banking on hungry drunks late into the night.

  King’s stomach rumbled. He might be cutting back on the sugar, and trying not to eat from stores that sold beer, cigarettes, lotto tickets, and food all in the same place, but damned if those egg rolls didn’t smell good. He could practically feel the oil coating his lips.

  King stepped through the door to Mel’s shop and was greeted by a ghostly chime. The candlelit chandelier flickered and a hoarse whisper ricocheted overhead. The volume rose and fell, giving the impression of phantoms swooping down on one’s head.

  This latest attempt at spooky ambiance befitting an occult shop was a damn sight better than the shrieking skeleton Mel had erected last year.

  Every time someone had crossed the threshold, and the man-sized skeleton released its blood-curdling scream, it’d shaved a year off King’s life. He’d take ghosts in the ceiling any day.

  Melandra was behind the counter. She looked up in the middle of a card flip and grunted a hello as he wiped his feet on the industrial mat inside the door for good measure.

  “I’m thinking Mexican for dinner. You interested?” she asked.

  “Zeke’s got egg rolls,” he said, jabbing a finger at the convenience store across the street. “I think it’ll have to be Chinese for me.”

  She scrunched her nose. “Your mistake. You know he doesn’t clean those fryers.”

  King smacked his lips. “More flavor.”

  Voices rumbled low behind the thick purple curtain. This was the dark secluded nook where Melandra gave her readings. But if she was out here, it must be Piper playing fortune teller today.

  “How’s she doing?” he asked, placing his coffee on the glass counter.

  “Not bad,” Melandra said. “She gets $20 tips.”

  King arched an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “She doesn’t have what my grandmamie called the sight,” she says with a shoulder shrug. The bangles on her dark wrist tinkling in response as she turned over another card. “But she has something about her.”

  “Another kind of psychic inclination perhaps?”

  “She’s good at reading people and she’s learned all the cards and the spreads. She knows the lines in the palm and even took up the bit of Chinese face reading I know. If she takes what she learns and combines it with her own instincts, she’ll do all right.”

  King pointed at the battered tarot cards in Mel’s hand. “But you’re not letting her use your deck.”

  “Hell, no,” she said, frowning at him and shifting her weight to the other hip. “These cards are over a hundred years old. She can have them when I’m dead.”

  He took another sip of his coffee, pleased to find it cool enough to finally drink. “Are you sure you want to share her with me? If you need her here—”

  Mel waved a hand. “She wants to work for you. I can’t tell her no and anyway I’ve got a new hire starting Wednesday. She’ll work the counter and Piper will schedule her own readings and appointments and close up for me after she’s done with you. I’ll cover the rest.”

  “Do you ever wonder how she manages to work twelve hours a day and still spend her nights in the bars with the ladies?” King asked. It was genuine curiosity.

  “She’s young, Mr. King. I don’t think they start sleeping until at least 36.”

  “Unless they have kids,” he said. “Then it’s late fifties, I hear.”

  Piper pulled back the curtain, and a young woman with red-colored contact lenses and a shaved patch above her ear stepped out.

  “See you.” The woman thanked her, waved to Mel and King and then stepped out of the shop.

  “She tip you?” Mel asked, shuffling the cards.

  Piper flashed the twenty dollar bill rolled up in one fist. “Sure did.”

  Mel nodded as if this was the right answer.

  “I can tip you another $20 if you run an errand for me,” King said.

  Piper plucked her phone from her pocket and checked the time. “Yeah, I’ve got 45 minutes before my next appointment. What you do you need?”

  “I’ve got some socks and a blanket I want you to run to a homeless guy in the square. He’s got a red hoodie and tattoos on the back of his hands. It’s too cold for him to be out there in bare feet.”

  “Sure,” Piper said. “And I’ll buy him a coffee.”

  “And will you pick up my takeout order from Mr. Chang’s on the way back?” It wasn’t fried egg rolls from the corner market at least. King thought that absolved him of the indulgence at least partially.

  Piper didn’t answer. She’d come up to the counter and leaned against it. She looked at the cards as Mel flipped each one over, forming a cross on the glass top.

  Piper grinned. “Is she coming?”

  Melandra cut her eyes to King. “Looks like it.”

  “Lou?” he asked, surprised.

  “It’s the Eight of Wands,” Piper said, tapping a card on the tabletop. The silver band around her thumb glinted in the light. “Visitors. Movement.”

  “The agency opens in two days,” he reminded them. “Let’s hope visitors are coming.”

  “But it’s not only the Eight of Wands,” Piper insisted, tapping another card. “It’s the Death card. Louie always
shows up with the Death card.”

  “I wonder why.” Melandra arched her eyebrows. “And who is this page of wands? That’s what I want to know. I don’t need no more troublemakers coming around here. And this one looks like a pistol.”

  As King stepped away, mounting the stairs to his apartment above, he couldn’t turn his mind away from Lou. His heart leapt at the idea. Would she come back? Lou had checked on him twice after he returned from the hospital with a cleaned-out gunshot wound and a limp that he still had on bad days.

  He’d offered to give her Lucy’s ashes, even though Lucy specified in her will that they were to go to King. Lou refused them.

  She had promised to come back though, once they’d both healed, and help him get his P.I. business going. He hadn’t had a chance to tell her that the P.I. business would be a front for something else he had in mind. Another, perhaps better, way to help people.

  Now that the opening was upon them, maybe he would finally get his chance to tell her. Or perhaps he was getting ahead of himself. He knew she was grieving for Lucy, just as he was, and there was no rushing grief.

  With his pockets full of the thickest socks he owned, and a blanket tucked under his arm, he descended the stairs and gave Piper forty bucks and the goods.

  “Be back,” she said and left them standing in the shop.

  “Why are you giving me that look, Mel?”

  “I like her,” Mel said, but she sucked in a breath as if preparing to give negative feedback.

  “Piper is a good girl,” he said, leaning against the counter and taking up his coffee again.

  “She is. But I’m talking about the other one.”

  “Lou?”

  “I used to think she was a demon from hell, but I really do like her.”

  “What changed?”

  “Lucy,” Mel said, matter of fact. She watched King’s face carefully, as if waiting to see how he would react to hearing the woman’s name. “Once I realized how Lucy saw her, I understood.”

  How Lucy saw her.

  “But if she’s going to be coming around again, if she’s going to be part of your business, I think we need to take precautions.” Mel scooped all the cards together and began tapping them into a respectable stack again. “Even if she weren’t involved, you attract enough trouble all on your own, Mr. King. And you’re going to start following criminals around, asking questions you shouldn’t, going places you shouldn’t. I don’t need to tell you it’s dangerous.”

  “Mel if you want me to move out—”

  “Shut up. You know I don’t. But I want us to take precautions. I have some ideas.”

  “I’m listening,” King said, taking another sip of his bitter black coffee.

  But when Mel opened her mouth a groaning sigh circled the room. The chandelier flickered overhead. They both turned to see a courier heading their way, his messenger bag hanging off one shoulder and bouncing against his leg.

  “I’ve got a letter for Mr. Robert King,” he said, rubbing his fuzzy glove across his red nose.

  “That’s me,” King said, placing his coffee on the glass countertop.

  The courier produced a sheet for him to sign before handing over a letter. Thick, nice paper with a red stamp in the upper right corner and his name written in slanted black ink on front of the envelope. Hammerstein, Holt, and Locke Attorneys at Law. King slid a thumb under the flap and pried open the envelope. Inside were two sheets of crisp folded paper.

  “And this,” the boy said, producing a padded mailer.

  “Somebody suing you?” Melandra asked. She slipped her deck of cards into her pocket for safekeeping. “Well?”

  King opened the mailer and saw two VHS tapes inside. Then he read the letter.

  “I’m not being sued.”

  His whole body grew heavy.

  “They’re from Lucy.”

  3

  Konstantine’s team exited the armored vehicles and swept the area. Londoners crisscrossed the pavement, hurrying onto their destinations. Many, no doubt, were hungry for their dinners, their feet desperate to rest after a long day of walking and tube travel.

  Five men entered the Victoria and Albert Museum. They looked similar. Their height and build nearly identical. Each with crow and crossbones tattoos on their biceps. Their eyes were green. Their hair a deep rich brown, easily mistaken for black.

  Only one wore a gold ring on his pinkie with the elaborate Martinelli family crest.

  The passersby who saw this group were so struck with their similarity, they were certain the men were either brothers or perhaps maybe cousins. One woman would have wagered they were quintuplets. The crowd of museum visitors parted for them, as they moved in formation, like birds.

  These men, with their tickets prepaid, ignored the small commotion. They continued on course to the second-floor balcony, overlooking the sculpture gallery.

  At the sight of them, Dmitri Petrov stepped from the shadows of the armory room and up to the railing overlooking the gallery. He was a tall man, six feet at least. His shoulders were wide and tapered down to a slim waist. Konstantine thought he had the build of a boxer, but with a perfect aquiline nose. His blue eyes were bright and piercing, his brow still Augustan, if the chin and jaw weak. His hair was thinning but still brown, no doubt dyed, given the wrinkles at the corner of the man’s eyes.

  Konstantine put him at late fifties, early sixties.

  Dmitri surveyed each man in turn and then spotted the one who wore the Martinelli crest. He appreciated the red jewel and twin dragons snaking around a projected M.

  This was the man Dmitri addressed.

  “Thank you for taking time to meet with me,” he said companionably, as if he hadn’t all but demanded this meeting with Konstantine. “But when I learned we were both in London, I could hardly pass up the chance to introduce myself to the famed Konstantine Martinelli. Who else among us could have our face on the news one moment and become a poor Italian farmer the next?”

  Dmitri’s men laughed as expected.

  Konstantine smiled. “I’m sure you could’ve gotten out of that mess.”

  Dmitri shrugged. “I prefer my anonymity. I know you are here to do business with my rival Gerstein. I don’t know why you would refuse my Myanmar shipments in exchange for his subpar Afghani crop. But how do the Americans say? To each his own?”

  Konstantine refused to do business with Dmitri not because of the quality of his product, but because his money was often funneled back into the theft and trade of women and children. And while Konstantine might deal drugs to every corner of the world, he would have no part in slavery.

  “Surely you didn’t ask me here to complain that I wasn’t buying your products? Is business going poorly, Dmitri? Would you like some money?”

  Dmitri’s face twitched. “I don’t care who you trade with, Konstantine. We are both businessmen. We know how this industry works. I wanted to discuss another matter with you.”

  Konstantine leaned against the railing, surveying the alabaster sculpture of David below. A picture of nonchalant indifference.

  Dmitri followed his gaze to the large sculpture of the naked boy. “Yes, it’s beautiful, isn’t it? It’s a mere copy of the masterpiece you have back home, but let’s not get distracted.”

  Dmitri’s accent crawled along Konstantine’s skin as he stood in the marble corridor. A group of tourists mounted the stairs but were pushed the other way by Dmitri’s men. This gallery is closed.

  “Is it true that you have a young woman in your employ?” Dmitri asked, absently picking at the cufflink on his sleeve. “A dangerous creature with a 100% kill rate?”

  “You need workers?” Konstantine arched an eyebrow. “Surely you have plenty of men and women at your disposal. Your gang is one of the largest in the world, as I understand it.”

  Dmitri visibly puffed at this flattery. “It’s true. And I have my best. But even my own ballerina has had one or two get away. Human error, I’m afraid, cannot be accounted for. But I
hear your woman never fails.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Dmitri let his eyebrows rise and fall. “Yes, if I had such a weapon in my arsenal, I would keep the secret quite close to the vest. Unless, of course, the other rumors are true. Then perhaps it isn’t about weapons at all.”

  Konstantine said nothing.

  “Are you really in love with her?”

  He remained silent still.

  “Don’t be stingy, Konstantine. I don’t want to fuck her. I want to employ her. I hear her talent is…unparalleled.”

  “I wouldn’t believe every rumor you hear,” the man wearing the Martinelli crest said. “I suppose you also believe she’s half ghost. That she appears and disappears in the bedrooms of naughty children.”

  “If only I could be so lucky. I’ve been very naughty this year.” Dmitri laughed and so did his men. Their hard sneers turned Konstantine’s stomach.

  “Rumors all have a kernel of truth inside them,” Dmitri said with a condescending smile. “Don’t pretend she doesn’t exist. I’ll admit I’ve been unable to find a scrap of real information on her. I do have one lead. But I suspect my inability to track her is your doing. You’re good at making people disappear, aren’t you?”

  “If such a woman did exist—” He placed a steady hand on the cool bannister. “—do you really think she would work for you? For anyone?”

  “I can be very persuasive.”

  Another round of cold, knowing laughs.

  “Women can be hard to satisfy.”

  Dmitri laughed. “This is true. But everyone has desires. And fears. She’s no different.”

  “Every man that has faced her has died.”

  Dmitri considered this for a long while. His blue eyes swept the sculpture gallery below the way a king might survey his subjects. His hands rested loosely in the pockets of his gray pants.

  “If she is truly a free agent, then I suppose the responsibility is on me to find and woo her. Though I’d hoped you’d make the introduction.” Dmitri turned and smiled at him. “You’re still alive, Konstantine. And my sources are certain that you’ve had more contact with her than anyone. Perhaps if I want to meet her, I should take you hostage. Let’s see if she’ll come claim you as she did when Nico staged his pathetic little coup.”