Stories

by Neil Gaiman

  “Mr. Dex,” he said, “we haven’t seen you for a while.”

  “Take a picture, Jim-Jim,” said Dex and flipped a silver dollar in the air. The kid caught it and dropped it into his vest pocket before opening the door for Adeline.

  “How’s tricks, Jim?” she asked as he delivered her to the curb.

  “They just got better,” he said and patted his vest.

  Dex came around the back of the car, took his date by the arm, and together they headed past the huge potted palms and down a brief tunnel toward a large rectangular patio open to the desert sky and bounded by a lush garden of the most magnificent crystal flora, emitting a blizzard of reflection. At the edge of the high-arching portico, Dex and Adeline stood for a moment, scanning the hubbub of revelers and, at the other end of the expanse of tables and chairs and dance floor, the onstage antics of that night’s musical act, Nabob and His Ne’er-do-wells. Above the sea of heads, chrome trombone in one hand, mic in the other, Nabob belted out a jazzed-up version of “Weak Knees and Wet Privates.”

  A fellow in white tux and red fez approached the couple. He was a plump little man with a pencil mustache; a fifty-year-old baby playing dress-up. Dex removed his homburg and reached a hand out. “Mondrian,” he said.

  The maitre d’ bowed slightly and, raising his voice above the din of merriment, said, “Always a pleasure to have you both back.”

  Adeline also shook hands.

  “You’re looking particularly lovely tonight,” he said.

  “Table for two,” said Dex and flashed a crisp twenty under the nose of Mondrian. “Something close to the dance floor.”

  The plump man bowed again and in his ascent snatched the bill from Dex’s hand. “Follow me, my friends,” he said, and then turned and made his way slowly in amid the maze of tables and the milling crowd. As they moved through the packed house, Adeline waved hello to those who called her name, and when someone shouted to Dex, he winked, sighted them with his thumb, and pulled an invisible trigger. Mondrian found them a spot at the very front, just to the left of the stage. He pulled out and held Adeline’s chair, and once she was seated, he bowed.

  “Two gin wrinkles,” said Dex, and in an instant the maitre d’ vanished back into the crowd.

  Adeline retrieved two cigarettes from her purse and lit them on the small candle at the center of the table. Dex leaned over and she put one between his lips. She drew on the other.

  “How does it feel to be back in action?” he asked her.

  She smiled broadly, blew a stream of smoke, and nodded. “It always feels right, the first couple of hours on the loose. I’m not thinking about anything else at this moment,” she said.

  “Good,” he said and removed his hat, setting it on the empty chair next to him.

  The music stopped then and was replaced by the chatter and laughter of the crowd, the clink of glasses and silverware. Nabob jumped down from the band platform, hit the ground, and rolled forward to spring upright next to Dex.

  “Dexter,” he said.

  “Still sweating out the hits,” said Dex and laughed as he shook hands with the bandleader.

  “Bobby, aren’t you gonna give me a kiss?” said Adeline.

  “I’m just savoring the prospect,” he said and swept down to plant one on her lips. The kiss lasted for a while before Dex reached his leg around the table and kicked the performer in the ass. They all laughed as Nabob moved around the table and took a seat.

  Folding his willowy arms in front of him, the bandleader leaned forward and shook his thin head. “You two out for the stars tonight?” he asked.

  “And then some,” said Adeline.

  “So fill me in,” said Dex.

  “Well, same old same old as usual, you know. And Killheler’s been waiting for you to return.”

  A waitress appeared with two gin wrinkles—liquid pink ice and the Garden’s own bathtub blend of gin. The glasses caught the light and revealed tiny bubbles rising from a fat red cherry. Dex slipped the young woman a five. She smiled at him before leaving the table.

  “Fuck Killheffer,” said Dex, lifting his drink to touch glasses with Adeline.

  “He’s been in here almost every night, sitting back in the corner, slapping beads on that abacus of his and jotting numbers in a book,” said Nabob.

  “Killheffer’s solid fruitcake,” said Adeline.

  “A strange fellow,” said Nabob, nodding. “One slow night a while back, and most nights are slow when you fine folks aren’t here, he bought me a drink and explained to me how the world is made of numbers. He said that when the stars fall it means everything is being divided by itself. Then he blew a smoke ring off one of his cigars. ‘Like that,’ he said and pointed at the center.”

  “Did you get it?” asked Adeline.

  Nabob laughed and shook his head. “Jim-Jim makes more sense.”

  “If he shows that shit-eating grin in here tonight, I’ll fluff his cheeks,” said Dex.

  Adeline took a drag of her cigarette and smiled. “Sounds like boy fun. I thought you were here to dance and drink.”

  “I am, baby. I am,” said Dex and finished the rest of his wrinkle, grabbing the cherry stem between his teeth. When he brought the glass away, the fruit hung down in front of his mouth. Adeline leaned over, put one arm around his shoulder and her lips around the cherry. She ate it slowly, chewing with only her lips before it all became a long kiss.

  When they finished, Nabob said, “You’re an artist, Miss Adeline.”

  Dex ordered another round of wrinkles. They talked for a few minutes about the old days, distant memories of bright sun and blue skies.

  “Break’s over,” said Nabob, quickly killing the rest of his drink. “You two be good.”

  “Do ‘Name and Number,’” called Adeline as the bandleader bounded toward the stage. With a running start, he leaped into the air, did a somersault, and landed, kneeling next to his mic stand. He stood slowly, like a vine twining up a trellis.

  Dex and Adeline applauded, as did the rest of the house when it saw the performer back onstage. The willowy singer danced with himself for a moment before grabbing the mic. The Ne’er-do-wells took their places and lifted their instruments.

  “Mondrian, my good man. Turn that gas wheel and lower the lights,” said Nabob, his voice echoing through the garden and out into the desert.

  A moment later the flames of the candles in the center of each table went dimmer by half. “Ooooh,” said Nabob and the crowd applauded.

  “Lower,” he called to the maitre d’.

  Mondrian complied. Whistles and catcalls rose out of the dull amber glow of the Ice Garden. The baritone sax hit a note so low it was like a tumbleweed blowing in off the desert. Then the strings came up, there was a flourish of piccolo and three sliding notes from Nabob’s chrome T-bone. He brought the mouthpiece away, snapped his fingers to the music, and sang:

  “My dear, you tear my heart asunder

  When I look up your name and number

  Right there in that open book

  My flesh begins to cook

  It’s all sweetness mixed with dread

  And then you close your legs around my head

  As I look up your name and number…”

  As Nabob dipped into the second verse, Dex rose and held his hand out to Adeline. He guided her through the darkness to the sea of swaying couples. They clutched each other desperately, legs between legs, lips locked, slowly turning through the dark. Within the deep pool of dancers there were currents of movement that could not be denied. They let themselves be drawn by the inevitable flow as the music played on.

  When the song ended, Adeline said, “I have to hit the powder room.”

  They left the dance floor as the lights came up and walked toward the huge structure that held the casino, the gaming rooms, the pleasure parlors of the Ice Garden. Three stories tall, in the style of a Venetian palace, it was a monster of shadows with moonlight in its eyes. At the portico that led inside, Dex handed h
er a twenty and said, “I’ll see you back at the table.”

  “I know,” she barely managed and kissed him on the cheek.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Same old same old,” she said and sighed.

  He was supposed to laugh but only managed a smile. They turned away from each other. As he skirted the dance floor on the return journey, Dex looked up at Nabob and saw the performer, midsong, flash a glance at him and then nod toward the table. There was Killheffer, sporting a tux and his so-called smile of a hundred teeth, smoking a Wrath Majestic and staring into the sky.

  Arriving at the table, Dex took his seat across from Killheffer, who, still peering upward, said, “Gin wrinkles, I presumed.”

  Dex noticed the fresh round of drinks, and reached for his.

  “The stars are excited tonight,” said Killheffer, lowering his gaze.

  “Too bad I’m not,” said Dex. “What’s it gonna be this time, Professor? Russian roulette? One card drawn from the bottom of a deck cut three ways? The blindfolded knife thrower?”

  “You love to recall my miscalculations,” said Killheffer. “Time breaks down, though, only through repetition.”

  “I’m fed up with your cockeyed bullshit.”

  “Well, don’t be, because I tell you I’ve got it. I’ve done the math. How badly do you want out?”

  “Want out?” said Dex. “I don’t even know how I got in. Tell me again you’re not the devil.”

  “I’m a simple professor of circumstance and fate. An academic with too strong an imagination.”

  “Then why that crazy smile? All your antics? That cigar of yours smells like what I vaguely remember of the ocean.”

  “I’ve always been a gregarious fellow and prized a good cigar. The hundred-tooth thing is a parlor trick of multiplication.”

  “I’m so fucking tired,” Dex said.

  Killheffer reached into his jacket pocket and brought forth a hypodermic needle. He laid it on the table. “That’s the solution,” he said.

  The large hypo’s glass syringe contained a jade green liquid.

  Dex stared at it and shook his head. Tears appeared in the corners of his eyes. “Are you kidding? That’s it? That’s the saddest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “You have to trust me,” said Killheffer, still smiling.

  “If you haven’t noticed, we’re here again. What is it? Poison? Cough syrup? Junk?”

  “My own special mixture of oblivion; a distillation of equations for free will. I call it ‘Laughter in the Dark,’” said the professor, proudly smoothing back his slick black hair.

  Dex couldn’t help but smile. “You’re a malicious crackpot, but okay, let’s get on with it. What’s the deal this time?”

  “Mondrian is, right at this moment, upstairs, on the third floor, in Sizzle Parlor number four, awaiting a female associate of mine who has promised him exotic favors, but unfortunately will never deliver. Instead, you will arrive. I want him dead.” Killheffer hurriedly tamped out his cigar and snapped his fingers to the passing cigarette girl. She stopped next to Dex and opened the case that hung by a strap around her shoulders. There were no cigarettes, just something covered by a handkerchief.

  “You think of everything,” said Dex and reached in to grab the gun. He stood and slipped it into the waist of his pants. “How do I collect?”

  “The cure will be delivered before the night is through,” said the professor. “Hurry, Mondrian can only forgo his beloved tips for so long.”

  “What do you have against him?” Dex asked as he lifted his hat off the chair beside him.

  “He’s a computational loop,” said Killheffer. “A real zero-sum game.”

  At the head of the long, dark hallway on the third floor of the pavilion, Dex was stopped by the night man, an imposing fellow with a bald head and a sawed-off shotgun in his left hand.

  “What’s news, Jeminy?” said Dex.

  “Obviously, you are, Dex. Looking for a room?”

  He nodded.

  “Ten dollars. But for you, for old times’ sake, ten dollars,” said Jeminy and laughed.

  “You’re too good to me,” said Dex, a ten spot appearing in his hand. “The lady’ll be along any minute.”

  “Sizzle Parlor number five,” the big man said, his voice echoing down the long hall. “Grease that griddle, my friend.”

  “Will do,” said Dex and before long slowed his pace and looked over his shoulder to check that Jeminy had again taken his seat facing away, toward the stairwell. He passed door after door, and after every six a weak gas lamp glowed on either wall. As he neared parlor number four, he noticed the door was open a sliver, but it was dark inside. Brandishing the gun, he held it straight up in front of him.

  Opening the door, he slipped inside, and shut it quietly behind him. Moonlight shone in through one tall, arched window, but Dex could only make out shadows. He scanned the room, and slowly the forms of chairs, a coffee table, a vanity, and, off to the side of the room, a bed became evident to him. Sitting up on the edge of that bed was a lumpen silhouette, atop it, the telltale shape of the fez.

  “Is it you, my desert flower?” came the voice of Mondrian.

  Dex swiftly crossed the room. When he was next to the figure, and had surmised where his victim’s left temple might be, he cocked the gun’s hammer with his thumb and wrapped his index finger around the trigger. Before he could squeeze off the shot, though, the slouched bag of shadow that was Mondrian lunged into him with terrific force. Dex, utterly surprised that the meek little fellow would have the gumption to attack, fell backward, tripping on the rug, the gun flying off into the dark. He tried to get to his feet, but the maitre d’ landed on him like nine sandbags, one hand grabbing his throat. No matter how many times Dex managed a punch to Mondrian’s face, the shadow of the fez never toppled away. They rolled over and over and then partially into the moonlight. Dex saw the flash of a blade above him, but his arms were now pinned by his assailant’s knees. Unable to halt the knife’s descent, he held his breath in preparation for pain. Then the lights went on, there was a gunshot, and his attacker fell off him.

  Dex scrabbled to his feet and turned to find Adeline, standing next to the open door, the muzzle of the gun still smoking. From down the hall, he heard Jeminy blow his whistle, an alert to the Ice Garden’s force of leg breakers.

  “Nice shot, baby,” he said. “Kill the lights and close the door.”

  She closed the door behind her, but didn’t flip the switch. “Look,” she said to Dex, pointing with the gun at the floor behind him. He turned and saw the hundred-tooth smile of Killheffer. The fez was secured around the professor’s chin by a rubber band. A bullet had left a gaping third eye in his forehead.

  “The rat fuck,” said Dex. He leaned over, grabbed his hat where it had fallen, and then felt through Killheffer’s jacket pockets. All he came up with was a cigar tube, holding a single Wrath Majestic. He slipped it into his inside jacket pocket.

  “They’re coming,” said Adeline. She hit the lights. There was the sound of running feet and voices in the hallway. “They’re going door-to-door.”

  “We’ll shoot our way out,” said Dex.

  Adeline was next to him. She whispered in his ear, “Don’t be a jackass, we’ll take the fire escape.”

  Dex moved toward the window. Adeline slipped off her heels.

  Somehow Mondrian had known to call the car up, because when Dex and Adeline arrived in front of the Ice Garden, breathless, scuff marks on their clothes, the Belvedere was there, top down and running, Jim-Jim holding Adeline’s door.

  “I like your shoes,” said the boy, pointing to her bare feet.

  “My new fashion, Jim,” said Adeline.

  Dex moved quickly around the car. Mondrian was there to open the door for him. As Dex slid in behind the wheel, he said, “No hard feelings about tonight,” and flashed a tip to cover the intended homicide. Mondrian bowed slightly and snatched the bill.

  “Ever at yo
ur service,” said the maitre d’. “Safe journey.” He shut the car door.

  Dex took a silver dollar out of his pocket, hit the gas, and flipped the coin back over the car. Jim-Jim caught it and before he could stash it in his vest pocket, the Belvedere was no more than two red dots halfway down the avenue of monkey-puzzle trees.

  “My feet are killing me,” said Adeline as they screeched out of the entrance to the Ice Garden and onto the desert highway.

  “You are one hell of a shot,” he said.

  “Lucky,” she said, her voice rising above the wind.

  “I’ll cherish the moment.”

  “All well and good,” said Adeline, “but what’s his game this time?”

  “Laughter in the dark,” said Dex and cut the wheel hard to the right. Adeline slid toward him and he wrapped his arm around her shoulders. The car left the road and raced along an avenue of moonlight, plowing through tumbleweeds, trailing a plume of dust across the desert. Adeline switched on the radio and found Dete Walader, crooning “I Remember You.”

  They lay on a blanket beneath shimmering stars. A light breeze blew over them. Here and there, the dark form of a cactus stood sentry. Ten yards away, the radio in the Belvedere played something with strings. Adeline took a sip from her silver flask and handed it to Dex. He flicked the butt of the Majestic off into the sand, and took a drink.

  “What is this stuff?” he asked, squinting.

  “My own special mixture of oblivion,” she said.

  “That’s Killheffer’s line,” he said. “Did you see him tonight?”

  She nodded and laid her cheek against his chest. “In the ladies’ room; he was in the stall next to the one I chose, waiting for me.”

  “He gets around,” said Dex, “’cause he was at our table when I got back to it.”

  “He whispered from the other stall that he wanted me to kill Mondrian. I said I wouldn’t, but then he said he had the solution and was willing to trade me for the murder. I told him I wanted to see it. The next thing, the door to my stall flew open and he was standing there. I almost screamed. I didn’t know what to do. I was on the toilet, for criminy sake. He had that stupid smile on his face, and he pulled down his zipper.”