Hellboy: Odd Jobs

by Christopher Golden

  Brown's Cel-Ray, settle in on a bench. Sunlight is actually dappling through the leaves, casting hot spots on the paved path and moving pedestrians. There's enough of a breeze that I can hear the branches moving gently in the park behind me.

  I'm enjoying the day.

  Then I hear this snapping, the sound of a leaf breaking.

  I turn, and there's this rat.

  Now, a New York City rat is not to be mistaken for any other member of the rattus norvegicus, and if you've seen one you know what I'm talking about. I personally know what I'm talking about, because in my line of work, I've seen a mother-lode of rats. Trust me on this. I know rats.

  This rat, he's a big black one, almost two feet long, and easily fifteen pounds, a little monster. Beady black eyes looking at me, and it's not quite intelligence I'm seeing, but almost impatience. Like he's waiting for me to finish eating so he can have the crumbs.

  I stare at the rat, the rat stares at me, and then I hear more of that leaf snapping, and sure enough, here comes another one. This rat, he's a little smaller than the other, and he settles in beside the first one, giving me the same look.

  And then comes another, and then another, and suddenly I've got fifteen-odd rats all looking at me, and it's like they're all saying, "C'mon, get on with it."

  It's hard to eat when you've got fifteen rats staring at you, I tell you that much.

  Fine, I figure, and I chuck what's left of the dog over my shoulder, get up, continue heading across the park.

  I'm halfway to the bookstore when I realize, hey, my right side is feeling a little light.

  And that's when I notice the pistol is gone.

  I am not, as you might imagine, pleased with this discovery. It's not something that's ever happened to me before. I've jumped out of airplanes and crashed

  literally

  through the roofs of buildings, and that pistol

  has remained in my holster. It does not just disappear. It is not an item that I forget.

  I spin and head back into the park, looking at the ground, trying to figure when I last actually saw the damn thing seated in its leather. I know I had it when I bought the dog, because I keep my wallet in the pouch on my belt just left to where the holster hangs, and it was there when I paid.

  I retrace and retrace and double-check and do it all again, and I don't find the pistol. I am getting pissed off.

  I head back to the bench, giving it another look over, and that's when I notice the teeth marks on the wood.

  Like one of the rats was gnawing at the slats against which I had rested my back.

  I know I had that pistol when I sat down, I know that.

  And I'm now pretty damn sure I didn't have it when I got up again.

  The conclusion, therefore, is that the rats took my pistol.

  This is not as unlikely as it might at first seem, by the way. Like I said, I know rats.

  Or at least I thought I did.

  So it takes me a week of looking, and now here I am in Alphabet City, at this address that a homeless guy gave me. I've been talking to a lot of homeless guys and gals this week, because they live in close proximity to the rats, and the rats, they don't like to talk to me.

  The homeless folks, they've told me some interesting things. Told me about how Chas and Denny and a couple others, they used to be on the street, but they've disappeared. And before they disappeared, they were seen in the company of a lot of rats. Like hundreds, maybe.

  This address I'm now at, it's a mess. The front door to the building is just gone, plain and simple, and the mailboxes in the foyer, all of them are broken. The postal carrier didn't even try to sort the letters, just dumped them on the floor. Looks like somebody took a piss on them, too.

  Inside, it's dank and pretty dark, even though it's bright daylight outside. I head for the stairs and after the second step begin to think maybe they won't hold my weight, the way they're creaking and the way I'm hearing wood snapping from inside the wall. But I keep heading up, and I make it to the fourth floor without trouble.

  The hallway is even messier than the foyer. I'm looking at all sorts of crap on the ground, now, including broken needles and empty bottles and fast-food wrappers and what's left of an inflatable raft.

  "Weird," I say to myself.

  I knock on 4W. I knock with my left hand, because if I knock with my right, I'm pretty sure I'll just send the door to pieces.

  There is a pause, and then I hear this voice saying, "Hellboy, come on in."

  "Really weird," I say to myself, and open the door.

  The apartment is a serious contrast to the rest of the building. It's not neat in fact, it's so cluttered I have to

  turn sideways to make it through the entry hall. But it's almost clean, not filthy. And the smell is better, too, less human waste and more human life.

  But when I say cluttered, I'm absolutely sincere, here. I mean, the place is wall to wall stuff, the kind of clutter where you need to step outside just to have enough room to change your mind, know what I'm saying?

  I stop for a second in the hallway, just trying to take it all in, trying to find a word for this onslaught of material. I'm looking at books, a lot of books, easily thousands of books, on shelves, on the floor, open, closed, torn, sealed in plastic, you name it. Hardcovers, paperbacks, trade originals, even funny books, you know, comics. But it's not even just books, no. I see shoes

  fancy running shoes and cheap tennis and some

  boots, mostly mismatched, one with its sole just missing. Toys, action figures and building blocks, and shiny plastic orbs and yo-yos and maybe an infinite supply of pogs. Trading cards, baseball and hockey, and even some other cards with pictures of dragons and stuff on them. Stuffed animals, one a dolphin, something like six bears, two badgers, four snakes

  one's a cobra, the other three I'm not so sure about

  a pony, a tiger,

  and something that looks like maybe Walt Disney designed it while he was channeling Azathoth. On the walls there are posters and paintings, something that looks like a Cezanne hanging next to a glossy shot of some luscious Playboy Playmate.

  The word I find for all of this I say aloud.

  "Junk," I say.

  "Hey, I don't knock your shit," the voice says. It's got a Bronx edge to it. "Through here, end of the hall."

  I edge towards the voice, passing an open bedroom. Lying on the bed, wearing silk pajamas, is a man in his fifties, balding, white hair. Pale, but not in a sickly way. A fedora is perched on the lamp on the bed-stand beside him.

  "Ignore him," the voice says. "Denny had a late night."

  "That's Denny?"

  "Sure. Cleans up good, don't he?"

  "Sure," I say, and keep on edging, past the kitchen now cluttered like the hall, but again, mostly clean

  and I come out into what must be like the living room.

  This room, it's as cluttered as everything else, but now there's furniture to make it worse. Four televisions are stacked atop one another in a corner, and a full media center fills a wall, videotapes, laser discs, DVDs, CDs, LPs pouring off it. The thing is so over-loaded that the shelves are actually sagging from the weight put on them. Somewhere under the pile opposite the televisions, I'm pretty certain there's a couch.

  In the center of this room, there's this beautiful desk, huge thing, maybe mahogany. Papers are piled high, and there's a multi-line telephone blinking away on one side. A computer is whispering to itself, too. The whole thing rests on a pile of maybe five or six Oriental rugs, the real high quality ones, I'm thinking.

  And behind the desk there's this rat.

  This giant frickin' rat.

  Who, when he sees me, stands up, pushing back his chair, and offers me a paw.

  "Hellboy, right?" the rat says. "I'm Mick."

  "Huh," I say.

  He's about six feet tall standing on his hind legs, black fur, splotchy, missing it in a couple places. His belly is that pink-white you get on ... well, the underside of mo
st rats. His fur is thick and coarse, but clean and maybe even combed, which must be a hell of a job. His tail is hairless and straight to the end, where it curls back on itself, like spelling the letter Q. His eyes are black and I can't tell if there's a pupil in there or not.

  Mick the Rat coughs discreetly, glancing at his extended paw. He's extended the left, requiring me to extend my left in return.

  I take his paw and he shakes firmly, like we're drinking buds, and I see that he has somehow acquired an opposable thumb. He lets go of my hand and gestures, says, "Take a seat."

  I look around and realize that the mound of magazines behind me most of them of the titty variety

  conceal a chair.

  "Just knock it on the floor, no problem," Mick the Rat tells me.

  The magazines thump to the ground and I take a seat. We look at each other for a while, and then his eyes wander down to my right hand.

  "That it?" he asks. "That's the hand?"

  "My hand," I confirm.

  "Can I see it?"

  "Sure." I extend my hand, laying it on the desk with a thud.

  Mick the Rat produces a set of half-glasses and perches them on the end of his substantial and narrow nose, then leans in. I feel his whiskers brush my knuckles. He looks up over the rims at me for confirmation, and I nod, so he touches my hand. He's got a light touch, and the way he does it, his whole manner, makes me think of some bizarre cross between a bookie and a jeweler.

  He takes most of a minute before leaning back in his chair, removing the glasses. His mouth does this thing that really shows off his teeth, and I figure it must be a smile.

  "That's one of a kind," Mick the Rat tells me. "That's a hell of a collectible you've got there."

  "Yup."

  He gestures with one paw towards the kitchen. "You want a beer or something?"

  "No, thanks."

  Mick the Rat nods. "On to business, then. Right."

  "You're a pack rat," I say.

  The thing with his teeth gets more pronounced and he starts shaking his head. "Man, do I hate that name.

  Pack rat. I'm not a pack rat, you think that's what this is? I'm an object-retrieval facilitator, that's how I see it."

  "You have a pistol of mine," I say. "The one Commander Freedom gave to me. I want it back."

  "Sure, sure, I got it, and yeah, it's all yours, no problems." He pats the desk, indicating one of the drawers on his side. "Safe, no problems, like I said. I won't even ask for a finder's fee for returning it."

  The teeth thing again, which now I am certain is a smile, and which, since I do not find this amusing, I do not return.

  After a second, Mick the Rat stops with the teeth thing.

  "Hellboy," he says, leaning forward. "Look, can we talk, here, you and me?"

  "Sure," I say.

  "You know what I do here, right, you've figured that out?"

  I nod.

  "I mean, I'm not a bad guy. Denny back there, he was on the streets until three months ago, nobody would give him the time of day. Me, I take him in, clean him up, give him a job. I'm not a bad guy here, you understand that?"

  "What kind of job did you give Denny?"

  Mick laughs, which is this remarkably high-pitched sound compared to his voice, which so far has been pretty low, not unlike my own. "Well, take a look at me, will ya? I mean, you think you get stares on the street, what do you think I get? I walk down Broadway, I've got cops coming outta my ass. And the Rat Catchers."

  "He's your people person?"

  Mick the Rat gestures, indicating that I've hit the nail on the head. "That's right, yeah. He's not the only one, of course. I've got people everywhere, these days, this is a big enterprise now. Chas you were asking about

  Chas, I know

  he's in London right now, doing some shopping for me. You know Chas? Guy's fluent in three languages, just the kind of help I need."

  "And for his help, he gets ... ?"

  "Food, lodging, an expense account." Mick gestures grandly. "Just cause I live with my stock, don't mean I make my employees do the same. I treat them good. They even got dental."

  "Dental's good," I agree.

  "So, look, Hellboy, you wondering what this is all about, right? Why you, right?"

  "Right."

  "Thing is, this. My business, my ... collecting, okay, we'll call it that? ... I get all sorts of stuff that I think you and your employers might be interested in. All sorts of stuff that Bureau you work for might be happy getting their hands on."

  "Like?"

  Mick the Rat points a paw at me and springs from his chair. He's a quick mother, and I'm starting to get up way too late to do anything

  before I realize he's not going for me, he's headed for that pile by the couch.

  He bends down to dig through it, his tail waving around, books and papers flying through the air.

  "Here somewhere ... saw it this morning ... not that ... nope ... nope ... aw, come on, where the hell? ... Ah, ah-hah!"

  He springs back to the desk, triumphantly clutching a volume that, charitably, I'd call moldy. He slaps it on the desk in front of me hard enough to make the piles of paper tremble and a puff of dust spill from the pages.

  "There!" he says in triumph.

  "Nice book," I say.

  His big eyes get bigger. "You kidding me? This isn't nice, this thing is pure rotten evil! You know what this is?

  This is an original copy of Unaussprechlichen Kulten by Von Junzt! In the original German, printed 1850-something, I don't remember. But what I do know, Hellboy, my friend, is that there were only six copies of this baby published, and five of them have been destroyed. That's what I know."

  He looks at me proudly.

  I nod and look at the book. It's bound in rotting leather, but I expect it's the real deal. I've heard of it, before, too, the famous tome Nameless Cults. One of the seminal texts on modern Old Ones.

  Dr. Manning would crap a brick if I brought this baby back.

  Mick the Rat misreads the look on my face, which happens to me a lot, but I suppose also happens to him, what with the teeth thing. He goes on quickly, "I've got more where this came from, too, I've got books and books. I've got a De Vermis Mysteriis from 1542 at my place in Cologne, I've tracked down all twelve volumes of The Revelations of Glaaki, and if I don't got it, I can get it."

  Mick leans forward, lowering his voice and winking at me. "I've even got a lead on The Seven Books of Hsan."

  "Geez," I say.

  He settles back in his chair. "What? You're not impressed?"

  I shake my head. "All I wanted was my pistol."

  Mick the Rat opens the drawer he whacked earlier and sets my gun on the desktop. I start to reach for it but he keeps his paw on the gun, looking at me intently.

  "We got a deal?" he asks.

  "What?"

  "You know, you and me, we got a deal?"

  "I just want

  "

  "Your pistol back, I know. But I went through all this trouble to get you here, to give you my pitch, and you're not even interested? You don't want to play ball here?"

  "You ... "

  Mick the Rat nods. "Yes, yes, I had my posse, you know, my rats, they grabbed your pistol, brought it here. I knew you'd come to get it."

  I look at him and blink.

  "Geez," I say again. "You coulda just sent me a note."

  "What, from a giant rat? What would I have said? 'Dear Hellboy, please come visit me in Alphabet City. I have a large collection of occult items and am interested in striking a business arrangement with the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense. By the way, I am a giant, over-developed, talking rat. You think that woulda done it?"

  "Yeah."

  Mick the Rat raises both eyebrows in disbelief.

  "Trust me," I say. "We've gotten stranger letters. What do you get out of this?"

  "Me?"

  "Yeah."

  "In exchange for being the primary supplier of your occult and paranormal reference
needs," Mick the Rat says, "I want part of the government package."

  "The what?"

  "The package, Hellboy. The benefits package. Insurance is killing me, here, and I got no way to protect my employees' futures. I want the full government package, disability, pension, the whole shebang."

  I blink at him a couple times. "Insurance?"

  "That's right."

  "For your employees?"

  "Exactly."

  "Are you for real?"

  "I'm a giant talking rat, Hellboy. Of course I'm for real."

  I reach over and he moves his paw, so I pick up the pistol. It's been unloaded, but other than that looks fine.

  Not a scratch on it that I didn't put there myself.

  I put the gun in my holster.

  "Throw in that copy of Unaussprechlichen Kulten and you've got a deal," I say.

  Fifteen minutes later I manage to leave

  Mick the Rat wants to show me everything, and it takes some

  doing to explain that I've got somewhere, anywhere, to be

  gun in my holster and book under my arm. I

  head on out of Alphabet City and for the train, and as I'm passing a park, a bunch of kids point and stare and giggle at me. I wave and they wave and eventually I get to the subway stop, catch a ride to Grand Central.

  I'm waiting for my train back to Connecticut, when the same damn rat the huge one from that day in

  Central Park

  climbs up on the platform beside me.

  "Hey, buddy," I say to the rat.

  And I swear to God, the rat winks.

  Only in New York.

  Folie A Deux

  Nancy Holder

  1967, Yokosuka Naval Base, Yokosuka, Japan. It was monsoon season. In Japan, the rain was like a steady stream of water escaping from an overhead boiler pipe. Vietnam, it was said, was raining blood, there was so much killing. The blood on the jungle floor made you slip and slide, and if you fell face down, you drowned in it. Rice was coming up pink, because the paddies were saturated with blood. As Hellboy strode through the hospital grounds, men in blue pajamas, blue-and-white-striped summer bathrobes, and rubber thongs of various colors turned to stare at him. He was used to it: His skin was crimson and cracked, as if someone had peeled the outer layers away, the new skin cross-hatched with blood vessels. He had no feet; but while some of the men who stared at him, slack jawed, were double amputees, Hellboy's legs ended in hooves. From beneath his trench coat, his tail alternately curled and bobbed against the tarmac. Hellboy was a double amputee in his own right