Strange Magic: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (14 page)

“Anything,” he said, and I knew he meant it.

SIXTEEN:

Frank's

I was at a blues joint down in the city—a hole-in-the-wall called Frank’s, featuring a rip-roarin’ house band and a mean set of southern-style ribs. The house band was a bunch of gray-hairs like me—well, I would be a gray hair if I aged properly—and they were belting out a hard bop tune called ‘Sack O’ Woe,’ by Cannonball Adderley. And they were making it sound good. The piano bobbed in the background, while the lead sax player—working a beautiful, brassy, vintage Martin Handcrafted alto—slipped and garbled his notes, in typical Cannonball fashion. All sassy-ass 1950s slurred pitches. Nice.

The music was exactly the pick me up I needed. Some blues men are real tormented types, their music is harsh and tawny. Not Cannonball Adderley. The set before could have been the meanest, dirtiest, down-and-out blues you ever heard—dead dog, tornados, and a rabid lion mauling—but Cannonball’s stuff was always a ray of sunshine. Its energy was so upbeat it was contagious: you could’ve lost your job, your wife, and your home all in the same day, and a tune like Sack O’ Woe would still leave you tapping your foot halfway through. Such was the power of the blues—it said,
so you’ve have a bad day, well that’s life fella. Now pick up your damn feet and get back to walkin’, shit, get back to dancin’.

Considering the past few days I’d had, that was exactly the message I needed to hear. Just needed to pick myself up and get back to dancing.

If that wasn’t enough to put a little bounce in my step, I also had a frosty Pilsner on the table, half a rack of ribs left on my plate, and a full side of cinnamon apples. Nothing in the world is better than a plate of ribs—it’s my single greatest weakness. Well, I guess there’s also, alcohol, gambling, women, and bullets, all weaknesses in their own right … on second thought, maybe ribs aren’t my greatest weakness so much as my greatest guilty pleasure.

I was born in Plentywood, Montana, but I grew up poor on the outskirts of Raleigh, North Carolina. My Dad had been a gambler like me—like his Pa before him—though not a successful one, a big part of the reason we were so poor.

When my Dad wasn’t betting the ponies or playing poker over at the VFW hall, he and Mom—along with the family—ran a little barbeque joint, Pops. My Dad made ribs, the best in the county. We called them Last Meal Ribs, ‘cause if you were about to hang or fry those were the last thing you’d want to taste. The night before, Dad would skin ‘n’ trim those puppies and throw on an overnight dry-rub marinade. Then, come five AM, he’d pull his ass out of bed so those bad-boys could shimmer on low heat for six hours.

Best ribs in the county—maybe the state (I’m a little biased though)—the pork equivalent of an angelic choir singing in your mouth. But ribs were for the customers, folks who had the money to pay. They were a luxury. As a kid, I’d ferry those platter out, breathing in the meaty aroma of pork and sweet barbeque, but never getting a chance to indulge.

Except on my birthday. On my birthday, I got ribs too.

Now, every day could be my birthday if I wanted.

I had a big ol’ mouthful of tangy baby-backs when Greg pulled out the barstool across from me.

“See you’re still alive,” he said.

“Ditto,” I mumbled, mashing the sweetmeat into pulp.

“Wanna’ tell me what happened?”

“In a minute Greg,” I said, before washing down my food with a swig of Pilsner.

“You’re a piece of work Yancy—get me out of bed at eleven thirty, make me drive across town on a Saturday night, then expect me to sit here and wait on you. A real piece of work.”

“Am I inconveniencing you Greg? Let me tell you about inconvenience. Inconvenient is getting a call from an old friend which results in driving halfway across the country. Inconvenient is getting sucker-punched by a supernatural assassin, being pumped full of horse tranquilizers, Saran-wrapped to a table by an insane gang of bikers, and then fighting a friggin’ demon. Oh, and inconvenient is getting shot in the ass. I got shot in the ass, Greg. Bullet. Ass. So I am so sorry if I’m ‘inconveniencing’ you.”

“Apology accepted.” His voice as dry and dusty as the Mojave. “Make sure it doesn’t happen again—this isn’t R and R y’know. We’ve got work to do and I don’t have time for your drama-queen-cry-fest. So,” he made a curt
get moving
gesture with his hand, “fill me in already.” I knew he was joking. I still wanted to give him a thousand paper cuts and throw him into a piranha tank.

But I would be the bigger man—I refused to let his childish taunting get under my skin. With a grunt and a sigh I clued him in to my highly eventful night. The Full House, Morse, the Daitya. I gave him the full skinny and never even pointed out what a colossal jerk he was. A colossal and
petty
jerk.

“Well, while you’ve been lollygagging around, drinking beer and eating ribs,” he said, “I’ve done some real footwork and found out some good stuff from my end.”

Scratch that, I didn’t want to throw him in any ol’ piranha tank, I wanted to throw him into a tank filled with genetically modified super-piranhas carrying tasers and bullwhips. Asshole.

“First off, I got some traction with Yraeta and the Kings. Talked with a little bald guy with glasses—looks like he should be working as a CPA, really dislikes you. No surprise there.”

“
Huh,
” I grunted noncommittally, thinking back to the bureaucratic little man with the Benz. “Yeah, Mr. H & R Block. We’ve meet.”

“So I guessed. Despite Mr. CPA’s extreme dislike for you, we were able to deal. Tight-lipped little fella, didn’t want to give me much. From what I gathered though, Yraeta isn’t behind the Conjurer—doesn’t even make sense, from a business perspective.”

“I don’t understand—business perspective?”

“Course you don’t understand yet, I haven’t told you. I’m gettin’ there if you’d stop bummin’ you gums for a minute or two.”

Genetically modified super-piranhas carrying tasers and bullwhips, galloping on man-eating tigers.

“Mr. CPA says that the Kings have a loose business arrangement with Morse and the Saints—the bikers have muled coke a couple of times, done a little gun-runnin’ too. It’s not a firm contract or anything—nothing on paper—but they’re friendly. Certainly no outright animosity.”

“Okay, so why does that prevent the Kings from targeting the Saints? Gangs do dirty shit all the time—most gangs aren’t exactly beacons of ethical integrity.”

“This is different, this is business. Morse and his crew act as a buffer between the Kings and some goose-stepping, skin-head group—The Aryan Legion, I think they’re called—who won’t deal with Yraeta because he’s color. The Kings could squish the Legion in a month, but it’d take some effort, maybe mean some losses. Easier to let the Saints stay in place.”

“
Huh
.” I glanced away, taking another bite of ribs. I chewed in relative contentment. I wasn’t in immediate danger, there was good music thumping in the background, and I had southern-style ribs. Life wasn’t all bad. Okay, so Yraeta wasn’t our guy—even if we didn’t know who the culprit was, at least we’d eliminated a suspect. Not all bad, though not all good either.

“So we know it’s not Yraeta.” I washed down the meat with another swish of Pilsner. “Other than eliminating a single suspect, did you manage to turn up anything useful—so far you’ve got no good leads. Only dead ends.” It made me feel a little better to drag Greg down a notch or two, even if I was feeling good already.

“Wipe that smug look off your face. I’ve got another lead. The PI called me a few hours ago—”

“Whoa there braggadouche, hold your horses. You mean
my
PI called?” I asked. “‘Cause if it’s
my
PI than it’s not your lead, its mine.”

“Now you’re just being petty, Yancy. We’ve got serious business to be about. Don’t have time for your quibbling.”

That’s it. I was going to swing by
Thurak-Tir
and sell him to the wicked Fae—maybe some particularly malicious Sprite would curse him into a giant toadstool or something.

“Apparently,” he continued without even a smirk, “my detective pal isn’t as clean as I thought. Remember I told you that IA had taken a look at him?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, it turns out that IA suspected he was an informant for, guess who—”

“I already know he gave me up to Morse,” I said.

“Yeah,” he replied, “but not only Morse. He’s also informed for Yraeta and the Kings.”

The dots were a little clearer.

“Okay,” I said, “so Al gives me up as a scape goat to Morse and also drops my name into Yraeta’s lap after you told him I was getting involved?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” He shrugged, “but that’s my guess too. He’s the only one with connection to both Yraeta and me, and he had access to the info. I don’t know what he stands to gain by letting this horror show play out, but I’d say it’s worth payin’ him a little visit.”

“Okay, okay—that’s good. Another lead to run down. I also had some thoughts on the Conjurer. Drum roll please …” I picked the last chunk of meat from the bone, letting him stew in silence.

“Well get on with it already—can’t stop flappin’ your damn lips, until you actually have
something to say, then you clam up like a Puritan on a first date.”

“Fine. You’ve suffered long enough.” I took another deep gulp of Pilsner, finishing my drink, before waving down the waitress and pointing to my empty bottle. Greg could stand to suffer a little more. Arrogant, good-for-nothing, ass-face—stealing my thunder and my leads.

“You done with your tantrum?” he asked.

I didn’t justify his dig with a response. “I’m thinking it’s gotta be someone from a serious Hindu background—Indian subcontinent for sure.”

“That’s a stretch, Yancy—lots of big hitters contract out Rakshasa.”

“Yeah, but a Rakshasa and a Daitya? Both are from the subcontinent, and it strikes me as a little strange that they should both be batting for the same team. Whole thing stinks like a hot porta-john after an all-day chili convention. Plus, Daitya are big time—you’re not gonna hook one of those on the end of your line with any run of the mill conjuration. I’m thinking the ritual has to be old as hell, probably before the Daitya war and the exile. Means the ritual would have to be done in Sanskrit, or maybe Pali or Magadhi. Not a lot of world class mage-folk running around speaking those languages these days.”

A long-legged waitress of maybe twenty-one, deep red hair, obviously dyed, brought me my third Pilsner of the evening.

“Excuse me ma’am,” Greg said, as respectful as a ten-year-old boy to a catholic nun—the guy is chivalrous, if nothing else. “Can you please bring me and my friend here a pitcher of Coors, and two glasses, frosted.” She smiled and nodded, blushing slightly, before wandering off toward the bar. Greg might be old and crusty as the bottom of a battleship, but women love him. Beats the absolute hell out of me. Not that Greg would ever do anything about it; maybe once upon a time and way, way back when. Not now. Cancer had taken his wife ten years ago, and he’d never moved on.

“Maybe,” he continued, “let’s say you’re right. Sai Hari could have done it, but last I heard, he was a senior member with The Guild, hobnobbing with the Arch-Mage even, so he seems like an unlikely candidate.”

“Yeah,” I said, “Maybe, Vihaan Vohra? Doesn’t he have a reputation for freaky juju like this?”

“Yeah, he did Yancy—but
did
is the operative word. Past tense. Guild hunted him down four years ago. Dead. Maybe if you kept up to date with The Guild you’d know that too.”

I looked away. I didn’t want to have this conversation again—I was done with The Guild. Bunch of tightwad, hypocritical, self-righteous, self-serving, bathrobe-wearing geezers. There were a few members I still kept in contact with, but by and large, if their super-secret headquarters were on fire, I wouldn’t take the trouble to call the fire department. Shit-parrots, the whole lot. Okay, mostly the whole lot.

Let’s just say we had a catastrophic falling out and leave it there, buried like all good skeletons ought to be.

“We’re not talking about that.” Now it was his turn to avert his gaze. He knew it was a sore subject, one I wouldn’t appreciate him pushing at—he’s never been good with personal boundaries, so it was tough to be mad at him.

“Alright, alright. Sorry for prying … hey, Arjun Dhaliwal could be our guy. He’s been on the lam from The Guild for years and he’s got the supernatural muscle for it.”

“Yeah,” I said, “and he’s bat-shit crazy, too … I remember him. He’s got deep connections to India—was always jawing about a unified India.
Hindutva
. Bat-shit crazy and fits the bill.”

The waitress showed up with our pitcher: deep amber in the low light, with the perfect amount of head on top. Greg slid her a twenty and told her to keep the change, which earned him a big smile and another blush.

“So what’s our game plan, Yancy?” He picked up my mug and poured, nice and slow, before filling his own glass.

“Well, I say we kill this pitcher—and maybe another one, since you’re paying—I’ll play a set with the house band. Then we’ll catch a few winks at your place and track down detective Al in the A.M. See if we can’t get him to talk.”