Tomorrow Wendell (White Dragon Black) (7 page)

Jonathan heard the words ‘sick’ and ‘everyone does it.’

“Everyone uses the same site?”

“Yeah, mostly.”

“So, you just accessed the feed and inserted it.”

“Yeah, I did. What’s your point, Alvey?”

“Where can I find this regular guy of yours . . . that just happened to be sick.”

“Like I’m going to tell you,” she snapped.

“Remember the last time you held out on me, Sylvia? The itching, the swelling of your tongue, the visit by the guys from St. Dymphna Mental Health?”

Jonathan saw the anger rise in Sylvia like a hernia breaching the muscle wall. He watched as humiliation warred with the anger, but in the end, fear conquered all.

It had been over a year prior and Sylvia still had no idea what exactly had happened to her, only that as soon as she had relented and gave Jonathan what he wanted, all of her symptoms had instantly cleared up.

Jonathan didn’t like to use curses, but sometimes the end did justify the means.

Without one further word, Sylvia stabbed the keys on her computer’s keyboard and scrawled a name and address on a Post-it note. She had pressed down so hard in her anger that, when she tore off the top page, the pad underneath had those same letters and numbers deeply engraved on it.

Jonathan left quickly.

He really had pushed her hard that one time, but she had deserved it. That bit of information she held had been the key to stopping a child from being delivered into the hands of a cannibalistic cult.

Sylvia had tried standing on journalistic integrity and confidentiality, to which Jonathan had laughingly reminded her that she edited the comics, horoscope, crosswords and other useless bits of the paper. But she had hoped the information could be her ticket up a few floors.

Smug in her position of power, with dreams of more and the belief that Jonathan could do nothing, she had stood firm. Seeing just how important that sense of control and power was to her, Jonathan took it away until she cracked.

It wasn’t pretty, but often his job called for him to do things that were downright hideous. Jonathan could handle that as long as he kept working on the right side of the line—no matter how thin or blurred it might be.

Back in his car, Jonathan tried to figure out what, exactly, Sylvia had scrawled on the Post-it note. The street name didn’t ring any bells and the individual’s name could have been either Robert or Roland.

Jonathan turned the scrap of paper, trying to make heads or tails of it. He thought briefly about storming back into the office building to make Sylvia decipher the chicken-scratch but realized he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction.

“Maybe it’s supposed to be Ronald—Reginald? Damn it!”

He stuck the square of colored paper to the view window over the RPG dial and reached over to open the glove compartment.

After tossing about the insurance folder, a couple candy bars, a blood and grease-stained rag, and a vial of mercury he had forgotten was even in there, he uncovered the city map.

To his surprise, Jonathan found that the street actually did exist, despite being represented on the map as only a dash stuck between two backstreets. He just had to hope that Sylvia hadn’t been stupid enough to fuck him around and lead him on a wild goose chase.

Jonathan turned the key and started the process of cajoling the Lincoln into life. “When this is over, baby, I’ll take you to Ralph’s and have him give you another tune up—promise.” She rolled over for him and, patting the wheel affectionately, he pulled out from the parking spot.

Jonathan’s stomach growled, and he could only assume it was questioning the rest of his body as to whether or not his throat had been slit.

He tried to subdue the grumbling and moaning of the creature in his gut by sedating it with bourbon. However, the reaction to the first slug suggested that the amount of drink he’d have to pour down his throat to drown the beast would leave him unable to drive to this Rolo guy’s place, let alone be in the right state to properly question him, should that become necessary.

Jonathan admitted to himself that a small part of him hoped this supposedly sick Robert guy did hold out on him. His day just wasn’t going well so far and some ass-kicking always helped to relieve stress.

After driving too far down the side road and missing the turn on the first trip, Jonathan found the place. Set well-back in a complex of dull brick structures, the building was one of half a dozen three story walk-ups whose layouts seemed to be based on non-Euclidean geometry. He knew these sorts of places, including that the doors didn’t open until you were buzzed in.

Circling the building, Jonathan caught a break and found that, despite the frigid weather, the back door was ajar. Someone had placed a small flowerpot full of sand and wilting cigarette butts on the ground and it had become wedged in the doorway. Jonathan added his own butt to the collection before slipping inside.

According to the mailbox, it turned out the guy’s name actually was Reginald and, when Jonathan pounded on the door to his apartment, the voice that called out in response sounded like it was escaping from a mucus dimension.

Jonathan took a step away from the door. He saw the light behind the peephole die, then the voice—closer now, but not sounding any better for it—asked who he was.

“Sylvia sent me over,” Jonathan lied effortlessly. “Wants to make sure you’re not faking it. The paranoid bitch.” He mumbled the last.

The door opened and the guy looked at Jonathan with an expression of disbelief. “What do you think; do I look sick enough for her?”

Jonathan took in the watery, red-rimmed eyes, the wet tissue in his hand and the bit of Vicks vapor rub that could be seen glistening just above the top button of his pajama top. Add those clues to the general pasty run-over-but-revived-after-a-long-bout-in-the-ground look, and Jonathan knew this guy wasn’t faking his misery. That still left him suspicious about the timing of this guy’s illness.

“Yeah, sure—whatever. Look, when did you get sick?”

“Huh?” Reginald grunted while he hung off the door in an effort to keep himself upright.

“When? How, why,
when
. This whole sick thing, when did it start?”

“Two days ago,” Reginald moaned. “I guess.”

He honked into a wad of tissues and then groaned out, “I fought it off best I could, but even vitamin C didn’t keep it at bay. Guess it was fate.”

Jonathan had to wait a moment before asking his next question because Reginald gave into a coughing fit that doubled him over and left his face red and his lips white.

“Do you know where you got it? Any of your friends sick—coworkers?”

“Uh-uh,” he said weakly, flopping his head from one side to the other.

“Well, that sucks for you. Try garlic,” Jonathan added walking away.

“Uh?”

“Garlic, lots and lots of it. You won’t be entertaining guests for a while, anyway.”

Irritated, Jonathan stomped down the stairs and back outside. That had conclusively proved absolutely nothing.

Jonathan got in his car and lit a smoke while he pondered if he had learned anything. It was possible that someone had given poor Reginald the uber-cold which seemed to be effectively kicking his ass, just so he’d be away and the paper would have to rely on the downloadable source.

That theory made the responsible party able to tamper with the on-line site, not to mention knowing the standard operational practice of The Herald in that given situation. A lot of work for a purpose Jonathan had yet to fathom.

Flustered, frustrated, and most importantly, famished, Jonathan decided it was time to meet with his client again. This time it was going to be at The Lucky Monkey so he could finally get his Singapore noodles.

Jonathan stopped by his office and arranged with Wendell to meet him at The Lucky Monkey in twenty minutes. Since the restaurant was right across the street, Jonathan had some time to kill.

When he had arrived, the Magic 8-Ball had still been on the desk, taunting and mocking him—a manifestation of his own inability to get behind the cause of his client’s problem. To quell any lingering doubts he had, Jonathan took the container of paste from his pocket.

He didn’t expect the concoction to react when he smeared it on the over-sized novelty item and, in that way, it didn’t disappoint.

Still, to be certain the stuff actually worked as he thought it should, he decided to test it on something guaranteed to cause a reaction.

He grudgingly admitted to himself it might have been wise to have done this
before
going to the antique store, but testing after would garner the same results—he hoped.

Jonathan placed just a little of the green concoction on a couple of his grimoires, his own desk, and even one of the protection amulets hanging inside his closet.

Pride and disparity mixed in Jonathan’s heart as he witnessed the substance shift through various colors and hues on all three items.

He felt gratified to know his understanding and application of the ingredients and their combination hadn’t failed him, at least. However, it only further annoyed him by proving the utter lack of magical interference on the other items.

For all the effort he expended today, he had gained no understanding of how someone was accomplishing the death predictions.

Jonathan’s thoughts went back to the fortune machine. He tried yet again to work out how that play had been managed but then remembered wondering about the tarot cards displayed. He started to pull a book on interpreting the tarot from his shelf and realized it would be easier, and more reliable, to ask a professional.

Pushing the book back into place on the cluttered shelf, he debated calling Mary Parson right then. She was the best he knew at tarot reading but he knew that a call to Mary might not go as quickly as he’d like and decided to put it off until later.

With a sigh, he headed out, leaving the door unlocked as he always did.

Jonathan had a theory that any lock or sigil against trespassing could be tampered with. If someone really wanted into a place and knew their stuff, it was impossible to keep them out, so why bother?

The only difference at the end of the day came down to whether or not you were looking at a bill for a damaged lock or a smashed in front door.

He darted across the street and even that short trip made him grateful for the warmth of the restaurant. Bao, the owner of The Lucky Monkey, welcomed Jonathan and immediately led him to one of his regular tables.

“You didn’t order yet today. I started to worry.”

“I had one of those days, Bao.”

The older man nodded as though he fully understood the day his patron had just dealt with.

Jonathan liked to sit near the back, away from others, with his back to a wall and a clear view the room. He was even willing to put up with steam condensing on him from the kitchen doors every time they opened in order to achieve the strategic position. It might appear as paranoid behavior to many, but the old axiom fit Jonathan all too well.

Roughly half the tables were occupied and, as he moved among them, he scoped out each face. An occupational habit, but in this instance Jonathan looked on his client’s behalf. He needed to know if any one person kept popping up around either himself or Wendell.

As Jonathan settled at the table, Bao asked, “Usual, yes?”

“Absolutely, and a full kettle of tea as well, please. Oh, and Bao, I’m expecting someone.”

“A lady perhaps?” Bao winked at Jonathan.

“No. It’s a gentleman. A client. I’m sure you’ll recognize him as one of mine as soon as he comes in.”

“I better get the tea, then.”

Jonathan rescanned the faces of the other people in the restaurant and realized the majority were couples—young loves just starting out and those who had persevered into their golden years.

Jonathan wondered what would have happened to him if his feet had found a different path than the one he now stumbled along.

There had been a few times over the years when he might have escaped the life, but after what he’d had to do to his father, those moments had come few and far between.

In the end, Jonathan knew where he belonged. He had been born into it, for better or worse. A wife and children had never been in the cards for him, not knowing the dirty little secrets the world hid.

Bao arrived with the tea and poured Jonathan’s first cup without impinging on his thoughts.

Lost in memories and impossible probabilities, as he sipped the jasmine tea, Jonathan failed to notice Wendell approaching the table. He only looked up when he realized the tall man stood before him.

Silently chastising himself, Jonathan motioned for Wendell to join him and poured his client a cup of tea.

He had been thinking about his life, choices made, and corners turned, instead of his client’s predicament, as he should have been. Now, Wendell watched him, one of his long fingered hands wrapped around the white china cup, completely obscuring it from view. Jonathan wondered what to tell his client. More importantly, how he could say what he had to.

“Look . . . Wendell.”

“You couldn’t find any proof.” The man sighed, and Jonathan pictured Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh.