by Alex P. Berg
“No, Mr. Stuttgart, nothing of that nature,” said Romanov. “I require of you to procure one more item for collection.”
Larry, in that soft voice. “This guy’s a total hoarder. We’ve located all kinds of crap for him.” Then louder again. “And what are you looking for this time, Mr. Romanov?”
“A tome of extreme rarity, Mr. Stuttgart. One by name of Librum de Virtute.”
Larry steepled his fingers. “Ooh. Latin. Books in Latin are always more tempting and mysterious than those written in other languages, with the possible exception of those written in Celtic tongues. I stay away from those. Or at least I have since the time I read a tome in Welsh, accidentally coughed, and nearly summoned a Cyhyraeth.”
Romanov put words to my own thoughts. “A what?”
“A death spirit, of sorts. Nasty creatures, nothing but bones and tattered robes with a howl that would make the bravest mastiff hide under a bush and piss itself. Whoops. Hold on a moment, Ivan. I’ve got another call coming. Can you hold?”
A light on the receiver had started to blink red. Larry gestured at the button underneath it. “Well. Go on.”
Not a secretary position, my ass, I thought. Romanov protested, but I cut him off in mid-squawk with a punch of the button.
“Larry Stuttgart, Nyte Patrol, speaking,” said Larry. “How can I help you?”
The guy who answered sounded like a used car salesman. “Hey, Larry. It’s, ah… Barry Mealer.”
Larry’s jaw tightened. “Barry. You’ve got a lot of nerve calling…”
“Listen, Larry. I’m really sorry about last time. For the tenth time, I swear to God I didn’t know about the leper colony inside that cave. And I’m going to get you your money, I promise. I’m working on it right now. Had almost all of it saved before my car broke down and needed repairs.”
With a buildup like that, I figured Larry would give me the quiet-voiced CliffsNotes version, but he just ground his teeth instead. “What do you want, Barry?”
“I’ve got a tip for you. Something hot off the presses. And I’m not trying to trade it for what I owe you, hear? Think of it as a down payment to cover whatever interest has built up on my tab from the last job.”
“Spit it out, Barry.”
Barry’s voice relaxed ever so slightly. “Alright, so listen to this. Ever heard of a biker gang by the name of Los Desalmados?”
Barry mangled the Spanish. I got the impression his bilingual skills extended about as far as the end of the Taco Cabana menu.
“Never heard of them,” said Larry. “Should I have?”
“Maybe,” said Barry. “They’re some bad mothers. Word is they’re responsible for half the heroin that makes it over the border.”
“What do you think I am, Barry, DEA? What’s the bit that makes me care?”
“I’m getting to it. What I heard is they hired a bruja, a really nasty one, and now they’re expanding their illicit drug trade into fae drugs.”
Barry mutilated the Spanish word for witch, too. It didn’t seem to bother Larry. “I don’t see how this hot tip helps me in any way, Barry. Look I’ve got an actual client on the phone, so—”
“Hey, wait, man. What about your friend, Connors? The cop? You could trade it to him. You can never have too many get out of jail free cards, right?”
A buzzer sounded, not from the phone. Larry pointed to a scorched speaker box on the wall in as good a shape as the one outside. “Can you get that? But switch me over to Romanov first. Bye, Barry.”
“Larry, listen—”
I punched the call waiting button and moved to the intercom. Dawn and Tank were still glued to the TV. No wonder Larry needed hired help.
I depressed the button, hoping the thing hadn’t broken after the last use. “Who is it?”
A soft, tentative voice spoke. “Ah, yes. I’m looking for the Nyte Patrol?”
I glanced at Larry. He waved at me idly, listening to Romanov prattle on about the ancient Latin tome.
I shook my head as I walked to the back of the house, struggling to understand how I’d already started taking orders from a guy who was friends with a talking head in a jar. Maybe upon opening the door I’d finally find the camera crew headed by a preppy co-ed who’d toss confetti in my face and tell me I’d been punk’d. It would really make my day.
I had no such luck. I threw open the door to find a young guy standing there. His weight rested on his right leg while his left foot tapped nervously at the concrete. He held his arms in front of him, hands grabbing the elbows of the opposite arm.
“Can I help you?” I said.
He looked at me and blinked a few times. “Yeah, uh… Are you Dawn?”
The guy was cute, if you could overlook his too-hairy arms and beard scruff. He was tall, with great hair and some obvious muscle tone underneath his Skeletor T-shirt. The shirt I didn’t mind, but his thick-rimmed, taped-together glasses might’ve been too nerdy even for me.
“No. I’m Lexie. I’m not with the Nyte Patrol. At least, not yet. I answered an online ad. To be honest, I just got here, and I don’t really know what I’m doing.”
The cute guy’s brow furrowed, but he nodded anyway. “Oh. Okay. Is Larry around?”
“He’s on the phone. You want to come in and talk to him?”
The fingers gripping the guy’s forearm twitched. “No. It’s fine. I don’t want to disturb him if he’s busy.”
“It’s no big deal. He’s just gabbing with some Russian dude about pilfering an old book.”
The guy stepped off the stoop. “No, really. I… don’t want to interfere. With you here, and… you know. It’s fine. I’ll come back some other time.”
The young man was having a hard time making eye contact. “Suit yourself. Want me to leave a message?”
He’d retreated to the discarded lawn furniture. “Uh… sure. Tell them Anthony stopped by. Well, you can call me Tony. Not that they’d know me by that name. Or the other. I don’t know any of the Nyte Patrol, to be honest. I’m just… looking for some help.” He stuck up a hand in goodbye and darted for the driveway.
I closed the door. After mulling it over for a second, I decided my conversation with Tony had been the least weird one I’d engaged in since arriving.
I returned to the living room to find Larry jabbing the phone receiver with a pointy stick. The dial tone sounded as Bill gave him pointers. “A little to the left. A little more. That’s it.”
I stormed up and pressed the end call button. “Seriously? Are you kidding me? Stop it with the exploding electronics shtick.”
“Easy for you to say,” said Larry. “You’re not the one who’s picked bits of plastic out of his teeth after hanging up on a customer.”
I glanced at Dawn and Tank, who still hadn’t moved. “Why didn’t you get one of them to help?”
Larry gave me the fisheye. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this business, it’s to never think you’re out of the woods until you see the bad guy dissolve into a pile of denatured proteins before your very eyes. But if there are two things I’ve learned, it’s that and not to interrupt Tank in the middle of a Project Runway marathon. Besides, I can’t turn the TV off.”
“At least not in a way that it could be turned back on.” Bill laughed, the sound like a dying donkey. His jaw looked like it might fall off. If I wasn’t so damn confused, I might’ve remembered I still should’ve been horrified.
“So,” said Larry. “You in or out?”
“In or out of what?” I said.
“The team, girl. I took Romanov’s offer. As soon as I can pry Tank away from the tube, we’re headed out in search of the mysterious, powerful book he refused to tell me much about.”
“Refused to tell you? And you didn’t ask… Never mind.” I was having a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that Larry seemed to be missing several key character traits that would be required for someone who was in charge of whatever the Nyte Patrol was, but it didn’t seem like the right time to
challenge him on it.
“Well?” Larry looked at me eagerly. Bill looked at me with what I could only describe as lust or hunger—maybe both. Dawn and Tank didn’t even turn my direction.
I took a deep breath. “Look, Larry. You seem… interesting enough, I guess. But I don’t know about all this. I mean, Bill alone is still freaking me out.”
Larry looked at the head. “Stop dressing her down with your eyes, you lecher. I’m sorry about him, Lexie. He means well.”
Bill grunted. “I don’t, actually…”
“It’s not his personality that bothers me,” I said.
“What then? Is it something about the job? I’ve been totally honest with you about me, the team, the requirements.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Although even if I granted him his honesty, I got the feeling there was something he wasn’t telling me.
I should’ve left then and there, but I didn’t. I’m not sure why. It might’ve been morbid curiosity. That or desperation.
“Why don’t you give it a try?” said Larry. “Just for the night. I’ll pay you a hundred dollars, cash up front.”
I snorted. My dad didn’t raise a mark. “Make it two-fifty and you’ve got a deal.”
Larry slapped his desk. “You drive a hard bargain. Dawn? Tank? Turn that off. We’ve got ourselves a driver.”
5
It took us five minutes to pry Tank away from the TV, by which I mean it took that long for the Project Runway episode to finish, during which we sat and listened to Bill complain about how he never got to come along with everyone else. Larry claimed he was too much of a hassle to drag around and too big of a distraction to random bystanders, which Bill forcefully disputed. All in all, it was a very believable performance for someone whose body was secretly hidden in a wall, though the more I looked at him the more it seemed he really was a free-floating head in a jar. Whoever was doing the special effects and makeup for his performance deserved an Oscar.
When the credits rolled, Tank stood and turned the knob to the TV off. It was the first time I got a good look at him, and if anything, I’d underestimated him. He was huge. Defensive end sized. Dawn said she and Tank needed to grab supplies, so Larry waved me toward the door, saying we’d wait in the car.
Larry hopped through the passenger side door as I settled into the driver’s seat. I stared at him as I fingered the three large bills in my pocket, hoping we wouldn't come across any of my softball teammates on the night’s ride-along. I didn’t need rumors of me transporting hobos in my Suburban added to the already explosive gossip I’d created at the last practice.
God, what the hell was wrong with me? Part of me had known it was coming, so why had I lashed out? And why had I run away afterwards?
Larry wised up to my dead stare. “What?”
I blinked away thoughts of softball. “Nothing. How is it neither you, Dawn, nor Tank have a car? How do you run a business without anyone knowing how to drive?”
“Oh, Dawn and I know how to,” said Larry. “Tank doesn’t, but he’s a special case. Obviously, I can’t drive because of my proclivities with machinery, and Dawn refuses to because she grew up in Manila and has permanent PTSD regarding traffic.”
“I thought it was only electronics that blew up when you touched them.”
“Mechanical systems don’t fare much better. It makes life a bitch, trust me.”
“So how did you get around until now? Don’t tell me you’ve been riding magic carpets around town.”
Larry snorted. “Please. We had another driver, but there was an extenuating circumstance during our last mission that required me to take the wheel. Given that we don’t offer commercial drivers insurance, he ended up leaving in a huff.”
“So you’re saying I should never let you drive my truck.”
“You’d be better off having Tank take the wheel, and that’s saying something.”
One of the back doors opened. Tank hopped in and tossed a duffel bag into the back of the ’burban. The whole thing shook as the bag landed with a clatter.
“What the hell’s in that?” I asked.
Tank replied without an ounce of emotion on his face. “Weapons.”
“Weapons. Of course,” I said. “Because we’ll need them to track down a book.”
“Don’t dismiss the value of arms,” said Larry. “You brought a can of mace with you, after all.”
My brow furrowed. “How’d you know about that?”
He talked right over me. “Personally, I never leave home without this baby.” He reached into his duster and pulled out a pistol—but not a modern one. Rather a wooden-handled flintlock wrapped in brass that, as Indiana Jones would say, belonged in a museum.
“What are you going to do with that, Captain Jack?” I said. “Club somebody over the head if they besmirch your good name?”
“Laugh all you want,” said Larry, “but this is the only gun that’s never failed me in combat. Or at least it doesn’t fail me any more than it fails anyone else. Now if only I could get the reload time below seventeen seconds…”
The other back door opened and Dawn climbed in. She tossed a couple large knives onto the bench seats and placed a pair of sheathed blades next to them as she sat. “Alright. Let’s go.”
I glanced in the rear view mirror. “Is that a katana?”
“It is,” said Dawn. “But you won’t get any credit for recognizing it unless you also know what the smaller one is.”
“A wakizashi. Come on. I read manga. Seriously though, is everyone here packing? And didn’t Larry say you’d practiced Philippine martial arts?”
“Kali is a martial style that teaches the use of all weapons,” said Dawn. “Japanese blades happen to be better made than those of the Philippines. Are you saying you’re not armed?”
“I mean… I have my mace.”
“We’re going to have to do something about that if you decide to stick around,” said Larry. “No time to worry about it now, though. Let’s roll.”
I turned the key and the engine roared to life. “Might be useful for me to know where we’re going.”
“Not far. Head over to Guadalupe to cruise the Drag. I’ll keep my eyes peeled for an informant who hangs out there. He’s something of an expert on hard to find items. He might be able to point us in the general direction of Romanov’s book.”
“The only people who hang out on the Drag are bums.”
“The politically correct term is panhandler, but they can be great informants,” said Larry. “Now hit the gas, Tentative Tammy.”
I grumbled under my breath as I executed a flawless five point turn and headed back toward campus. Technically, the Drag only extends from the north edge of the University of Texas to the southern edge, barely more than half a mile, but I gave Larry the benefit of the doubt, took Rio Grande up to West 29th, and started there. I took my time, not that traffic gave me much of a choice, while Larry leaned halfway out the window scanning the sidewalks. We’d passed the Dobie Mall and were headed toward Martin Luther King Boulevard when Larry pointed.
“There he is. In the Taco Bell parking lot. Pull in.”
I hated parking my Suburban anywhere near campus, wishing my parents had passed me down a nice mid-90’s Honda Civic or Toyota Corolla instead, but beggars can’t be choosers. Speaking of beggars, Larry instructed me to pull into a spot directly in front of a guy who was about three and a half feet tall, wearing a battered green jacket that looked as if it had been stolen from one of those drop boxes for homeless veterans. Hell, maybe he was a homeless veteran. Did the US Army accept little people?
I killed the engine as Larry hopped out the side door. “Darragh! How’ve you been, my friend?”
I followed Larry out of the truck, but Dawn and Tank didn’t bother. “Darragh?”
“It’s Irish,” said Larry. “Means ‘oak,’ I think. How are you doing pal? Buddy?”
Darragh sat there, a beard that could’ve hidden a raccoon’s nest stretching down his
chest and an empty bottle of Boone’s Farm in his hand. He smelled like a fraternity after an all-night beer pong tournament. He was also snoring.
Larry prodded him with a foot. “Darragh!”
The little guy woke with a start, screaming obscenities and lashing out with his bottle. It took him a second before his eyes focused on my new employer. “Harry?”
“Larry, but close enough. How’ve you been? Still beating the ladies off with a shillelagh?”
Darragh shaded his eyes despite the fact that the sun had long since fallen behind the rooftops. His voice slurred as he spoke, his Irish accent thick. “Whaddya want?”
“Straight to business, huh?” said Larry. “I can respect that. We’re looking for something. A book. An old one, by the name of the Librum de Virtute. It’s Latin.”
“I know dat,” snarled Darragh. “Don’t petron… patron… patronize me.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean it that way. Ever heard of it?”
“’Course I haven’t.” Darragh peered at his bottle, upturning it to make sure it was empty. “But I know who might’ve.”
“I’m listening.”
“Nice try. What do you tink I am, a gabhdán? Ya know mah price.”
“Two fifths of Jameson’s. I remember.”
“And a bottle of Bushmills ten year single malt, ya gombeen. No exceptions.”
“Jesus, Darragh. What do you think I am, made of money?”
I wasn’t exactly the world’s foremost expert on informants, but I’d coached enough fellow teammates to get a general feel for how to convince people to come around to my way of thinking. It seemed to me Larry was going about it all wrong. His conversation with Darragh had barely started, and he’d already given up the power position. “Larry, can I talk to you for a second?”
“What is it?”
He came over to me and I dropped my voice. “Look, far be it from me to tell you how to do your job—whatever it may be—but seems to me plying this sixty-five pound homeless leprechaun with enough alcohol to kill a Russian arm wrestler isn’t exactly the best way to get credible information out of him.”
