The Sorcerer's House (21 page)

"She gives you all her love. Kissy, kissy. She says dress nice this time, not like yesterday, and she'll take you to a real uptown spot. That probably means the North Portico. She said to say she'd pay, but I bet she sticks you with the check."

"She wants me to drive this?"

"Yep. You know how to drive a stick shift?"

I shook my head.

"Okay, we'll talk about that, but let's get the old stuff out of the way first. This baby's in great shape. I cleaned it up, checked all the rubber, and put you in a new battery. See that leather top?"

"Yes, of course."

"It was gettin' ready to crack, so I oiled it up good for you. Neatsfoot
oil. Feels like a good fielder's mitt now. I lubed all the struts, folded it back, and put it back up again. No problems. You want to try it?"

I nodded. "I see the seats are leather, too."

"Right. They were in better shape than the top was, so I just sprayed 'em with Mink Oil. That soaks right in and dries fast. If the lady's got on a white dress, she might get a oil stain on her butt, but probably not. Anything else, forget it. You get in there, loosen the clamps, and push it straight back."

I did, and the leather top folded with remarkable ease.

"You want to leave it back? Going to be a nice night."

"Yes." I was looking at the dashboard; I had expected it to be simpler than that of a modern car, but it was more complex.

"Swell. There's a strap here with a buckle. See it? You buckle that around it so the roof won't come forward if you have to make a quick stop."

I did.

"Want to look at the inside? It's not as roomy as it looks, but it's still pretty big. Lots of legroom."

Joe hopped down from the steel step. I left the front seat with more decorum.

Joe threw open a door. "The boss and his lady rode right here, see? His chauffeur drove for him. The jump seats were for servants. Or kids, maybe. See that? For a picnic hamper, and there's another one here. You got a special compartment for golf clubs, too."

"What about the trunk?" I asked. "Did you open it?"

He shook his head. "I didn't have a key. I'd have had to bust it open, which I would never do. I took it down there, though, and put it back up. Clem and me did." Joe fell silent.

"Yes?" I said.

"There might be something in there, but it can't be much. It rattled a little."

"I see."

"Les could pick it for you. A trunk lock? Candy for him."

"No doubt." I paused, thinking. "You drove it over, didn't you, Joe? I don't see another car."

"Sure. I was hopin' you'd drive me back."

"Wouldn't we get a ticket? The license plates will surely have expired."

His teeth flashed beneath his mustache. "No way. Brand new. Let's go around back and look."

We did. The plate was new and shiny: AQ1313.

"See the letters? It means antique. Gets a special low rate from the state, only twenty bucks." He coughed apologetically. "It's on my bill."

It was I, I felt, who owed the apology. "I must tell you something, although I would rather not. I can drive, but I don't have a valid license. Mine has expired."

"No big deal, probably they'd just give you a warning the first time. Tomorrow, maybe, you could take the test. Only don't drive this. Borrow your buddy's."

"Yours?"

Joe looked thoughtful. "One of my loaners. Only I'd have to charge you. You goin' to sell this?"

"Eventually, I suppose."

"Okay, you listen here." Joe had come to a decision. "You had me to work on it, and I did it right. Pulled the head and all that. Lubed the transmission, put in radiator fluid. You name it, I did it. You pay my bill now, no bellyaching or bullshitting. And you let me put my sticker on it, 'Maintenance by AAAA Autos of the World.' You do that, and I'll teach you to drive the stick and let you have a loaner to take the test in. It's a real good deal, and I wouldn't do it if I didn't like your car so much."

I can drive that car now, George. Its floor-mounted shift lever (with a knob I take to be genuine ivory) is no mystery to me. We drove about ten miles altogether, and received at least fifty admiring stares. Are you proud of me? I confess that I am proud of myself.

Yours sincerely,

Bax

PS: The old man returned as I was about to seal this envelope. He states that Madame Orizia vanished only a moment or two after I left. He was
walking ahead of her, and when he looked behind him she was no longer there. Winker seems to have vanished as well, although her gown and shoes are in the bedroom closet. I will recount the reading of the will tomorrow, if I find time.

Dear Shell:

My life is becoming very interesting indeed, and that from every angle: money, sex, and whatever else might be specified. For one thing, I have never been present before while someone held a gun on someone else. That happened last night, and the someone else was my brother George. It could not happen to a nicer guy--I feel certain you know what I mean.

First I ought to say that I have seen my parole officer. He is overloaded, as I have been told they all are, and bought into everything I told him. I wore a get-the-money suit (dove gray with a navy blue pinstripe) and showed him a paycheck, gave him my address for the second time,
and the number of my new cell telephone. The entire interview was over in five minutes.

I have founded my own little firm, you see. I call it A Plus Tutors. Our president is Henry Parkhill. (I know you would like him, Shell. You might recognize him as well.) Baxter Dunn is an employee, and good old Hank signs the checks. There is a FICA deduction and withholding for the IRS--the whole nine yards, as Lou would say.

Now the big news, and this is all straight. A kindly old gentleman called Alexander Skotos has left me a nice piece of real estate. Does that name ring bells with you? Skotos is Greek, so he would be Greek or at least look Greek enough to pass. I have been rummaging through every last memory I can turn up, and I have not found a Skotos or anyone who owed me and might use that name. Ask around, please. I could handle everything here much better if only I knew who Skotos really was.

You have been waiting for the sex, if I know you. The problem is telling you so that you will believe it. As I told you in my last, I have a Japanese girlfriend and an American girlfriend now. The Japanese girl is kitten-cute; I could tuck her under my arm and carry her around all day. Slender, sweet, submissive--and under all of that, very, very smart.

The American is, at a guess, somewhere between thirty and thirty-five, a hundred and fifty pounds, and about five foot nine. Roundhouse curves in all the right places. She is a widow and has been around. (At first I thought she might be sleeping with her boss.) Good face, great smile, brown hair with no dye in it. (I have poked around in her medicine cabinet and so on.) After a couple of drinks, she is as sweet and hot as a woman can be; they seem to loosen her up and make her forget her dead husband.

So which one?

Well, why not both? It has been working thus far.

There are other things I could tell you about, but you would not believe a word of it. It seems to me that I had better stand mute, as the lawyers say. If ever I see your smiling face around here--and I would very much like to, Shell--I may be able to show you things that will open your eyes.

What I just wrote assumes that I will still be alive.

Remember, please, that the big question is "Alexander Skotos." Who was he? Any information at all.

Have you ever heard of a Mary King? There is probably no connection, but she and Alexander Skotos lived here in Medicine Man or close to it, and both are dead. Please let me know, Shell. Pass along anything you pick up, no matter how nebulous.

Yours sincerely,

Bax

Dear Millie:

George is here and jailed. You will probably receive the letter I wrote to him yesterday before you see this one. I advise you to open and read it. You need not show it to him when he gets home--the decision is yours.

At any rate, I am going to assume that you have read it, and say little or nothing about the events I described in great detail there. You will be eager to hear about my poor brother and his legal difficulties.

Very well. You will recall that I was to meet Doris at the lawyer's. Emlyn returned while I was dressing. "I found a human head, Bax. A dead man's head." He gulped audibly. "It's been torn from its body. I thought I ought to warn you. Something or someone killed that man, and we may all be in danger."

I agreed and told him that he should tell his father.

"Oh, I will! As soon as I can find him."

There are very few things that will stop me cold in the act of knotting my tie, but that one did. "You don't know where he is?"

Emlyn shook his head. "We--we don't talk about it."

I returned to my knotting. "Who is 'we'?"

"Ieuan and I. Father said not to. Goldwurm isn't as apt to stir up trouble for us if he thinks Father's still around."

"But he's not? Do you know where he is?"

Sadly, Emlyn shook his head again.

"I see. How long has he been gone?"

"Only a few days this time." He sighed. "It probably means that he'll be gone for a long, long time yet. He does that. He goes away and leaves my brother and me on our own. He says it's good for us."

I hugged him then, Millie, and you would have, too. He is about fourteen, I suppose. Possibly fifteen, and his eyes and trembling lip told me that he might start to sob at any moment.

When he had calmed down somewhat, and we had talked a bit more, I asked about his mother.

"People say our father killed her. He says he didn't, and I know he really loved her." The thought clearly made poor Emlyn miserable. "They had some big fights years and years ago, and they never made up."

"Those things happen." It seemed wise to change the subject. "We found a head here yesterday, Emlyn, but it was a woman's head. You found a man's, from what you say."

"That's right."

"Old Nick--that's my servant--disposed of the head we found in the river. He tied it in a bag weighted with stones and threw the bag in. If you haven't rid yourself of yours yet . . . ?"

"You're right. I'll have to do something with it, and maybe I'll do that." Emlyn was blotting his eyes with a clean handkerchief. "Can I tell you what I think, Bax? Promise you won't laugh?"

I raised my right hand. "I promise. You have my word."

"I think it's a werewolf. Facefoxes are vixens who can turn into women. Remember me telling you about that?"

"Yes," I told him. "I had almost forgotten, but I recall it now. I didn't believe you, and anything one disbelieves is forgotten very readily."

"I was telling you the truth."

"I'm certain you were. Winkle is a facefox."