by Al K. Line
I said I'd just have one a day, before dinner.
By this time, we'd settled into life together a little, and I made it a point to always be home for dinner if it was humanly possible. Same for breakfast. But dinner was the main event, the main time we had together, and we made another agreement then. I could have one roll-up, but only if I got home in time for dinner. If I skipped one I skipped the other.
She was a smart kid, no doubt.
George came closer to the doors and said, "Well, what happened? I saw the bag. You didn't give it to Nigel?"
"No. Nigel got shot in the head and I got chased and hooked up with some Wild Ones and—"
"Cool, you hung out with Wild Ones? It's so not fair, you get to have all the fun."
I took another drag, staring with disappointment at the half finished smoke. "I'll have you know it wasn't fun. People were trying to kill me, and in case you missed what I said, someone shot Nigel in the head."
"Probably another spook, you can tell he was up to no good."
"Well, in case you've forgotten, I get up to no good, too. He was my broker, and whatever's in the bag has got everyone acting nuts. Now I don't know how to get rid of it."
"You'll think of something, you always do." For one so young, George was an incredible optimist. Maybe it was the difference between the life she used to lead and her life now. I guess whatever I got up to paled in comparison to the horrors she'd endured. It's all about perspective.
"We'll see." I finished my smoke, held the last lungful until it seeped through my pores, then put it out in the ashtray on the small outdoor coffee table. We went back inside and I closed up.
"You want me to cook?" asked George innocently.
"Haha, you're so funny," I said, stomach doing somersaults just thinking about the horrors she'd presented me with over the last two years. One thing my daughter was not, was a chef. She was an accomplished poisoner of unsuspecting or busy and tired fathers, and after a few "meals" I came to the conclusion that however tired or stressed I was there was no way in hell I'd let her cook again.
And besides, I liked it. It also allowed me to gratify my other vice. Okay, vice that was still legal.
"Put one on and I'll make dinner."
"Aw, Dad, do we have to? It's so ancient, so not funny."
"You take that back right this instant!" I said, smiling at the banter we repeated almost every evening as I made my daughter indulge me.
"Whatever," she said, but nonetheless she moved over to the wall-mounted TV I could see from the cooking island and turned it on. With a few presses of buttons she got up the list and, without asking, picked one at random, just the way I liked it.
For the next half hour I chuckled away to Buster Keaton's antics, admired his pork pie hat, and rustled us up something approaching perfection.
George made salad, set the table, and even laughed a few times, Buster having finally worn her down.
In no time at all we were sitting down to a rather impressive repast of leftover risotto balls stuffed with blue cheese, salmon done two ways, green beans, and a salad she'd only slightly mangled.
We chatted over the meal, me filling her in on the day, apologizing for the bunker incident of earlier, and generally getting her up to speed.
George told me about her day, about the practice she'd done in the attic, the hours she'd put in with her teacher who she'd driven to see in the Mini Cooper I'd got her when she passed her test. It was nice. I said nothing about her having gone out, knew I couldn't make her stay at home all the time. But today was no ordinary day and she knew she shouldn't have left but I didn't push it.
I was trying, even if I got it wrong a lot of the time.
A family. Even if it was slightly dysfunctional.
I did my best, yet knew it wasn't enough. But she didn't hate me, which was something, or so I'd been told by other parents.
All too soon the meal was over and the dishes were cleared away. I sneaked another smoke while she made a phone call to arrange her evening with her friends. I tried not to whoop when she said they were coming over, but she knew it was what I wanted, the only way I'd know she was safe, so she'd done it for me. She was a good girl, although I got the feeling she was only too keen to have her buddies over while I was out, as she knew I'd be away for some time.
Guess a conversation about boys was due soon. When did daughters start getting interested in them? When they were about thirty-five, right? And far away from criminal wizards who will flay the flesh off them if they even look at her funny.
We had coffee when she returned and she only told me off a little about the smoke. Who knows how she knew? A bad father radar is my guess. Then it was the end of my time with my daughter.
She went upstairs to get ready, I used the bathroom and had a quick shower, we said our goodbyes, then I was back out the door and off to the city.
My day was just about to begin. Night was approaching, things began to stir, and no way in Buster's name would the day have a pleasing conclusion.
Still, the salmon was nice. The company even better.
A Jog
I thought of numerous people to call, others I'd have to go visit as they wouldn't speak on the phone, but dismissed them all.
The item was a weight around my neck and it was stupid to involve anyone in something I was in the dark about. Plus, it was clearly so valuable I didn't know who I could trust apart from one person and I didn't want her getting into trouble.
Pepper's treachery was still on my mind, making me doubt everything, even my own judgment. If he could do that to me then who could I truly call a friend?
Deciding that this was gonna play out whether I acted or not, knowing how my life usually went, I decided to go for a quick jog instead.
Running around deserted parks just before dark isn't something I did often, and that was the problem. I was over forty and feeling it. Meaning, things that shouldn't be stiff in the morning were, and things that should be... You get the picture. Exercise was something I'd been trying to get into more, partly because I needed it, but mostly because I was vain and it was nice to look good when stripped down. Not that there'd been anyone to witness the results of my efforts for some time, but that's another story. A much more depressing one.
I wasn't too shabby, slim and stringy, but it wouldn't hurt to have a few extra pounds of muscle and to not get winded so badly when I ran away from people or various creatures as part of work, or sometimes play. I'd taken to running, combining sprints up an incline in a park nobody used as it was out of the way. The whole area had been bypassed by the housing developers and left abandoned. The children's play area little but broken concrete and empty frames where swings had once been, a reminder of the direction the city and the country as a whole was taking.
Nobody came outside to breathe the fresh air anymore, and nobody seemed to care that the patchy grass was going to weeds or that the dog owners who sometimes came no longer cleaned up after their animals.
I slipped my arms through the bag and felt the weight adjust down, the item wrapped in at least several layers of very old and stuffy smelling hessian or something else that stank like it had been stripped off a mummy and bits left inside. Heaving it up so it acted like a backpack, I set off at a slow pace from the car after a few stretches.
Having learned from previous self-inflicted aches and pains, I eased into it, finding my breathing a little easier than it was a few weeks ago. Maybe it was the cutting back of tobacco or the fact I did a few sprints several times a week, or maybe it was that I was free, just running. Feeling the wind on my face and the crisp air scouring my lungs.
I did several quick sprints up and down the hill, then slowed to a walk and wandered aimlessly, sauntering from the cool shade of trees to the warmth of the dying day. I saw a bat flit past, smiled at the call of an owl on early sentry duty, heard ducks overhead and watched their sharp arrow heading west.
"That'd be nice," I said to nobody, watching until my neck hurt
and they vanished from my still perfect sight.
Shaking my legs out, enjoying the burn and the feeling of strength, I wondered how nuts I looked to anyone spying. A man wearing a pork pie hat, pockets jangling full of various items, strange leather duffel on his back. Certainly not your average evening jogger.
But I'd given up caring what others thought of me long ago. I knew my own mind, took responsibility for my actions, and knew without a shadow of a doubt that I'd been an idiot for taking the duffel and getting involved with this at all.
Pepper was dead, Nigel was dead. Boris and Mike the goon and that dude on the road, all dead.
There'd be more, no question.
I just hoped one of them wouldn't be me. I might be out of lives, and even if not, it's pretty easy to kill someone again if you've done it once, and then it really would be over. If a keen assailant kept stabbing or shooting me, it wouldn't matter if I had twenty lives, the end result would still be the same.
Arthur "The Hat" Salzman would still be a dead wizard.
A Visitor
"I need to start using weights," I moaned to the pigeon pecking at invisible crumbs by my feet. "Waddya think?" I flexed a bicep but my shirt hid what muscle I had. The pigeon lifted its head and stared at me with rheumy eyes, then hopped away on a malformed leg and continued its spirited pecking—guess it was an optimist and had no time for those on a downer like me.
For the first time since things had taken a turn for the seriously wonky, my thoughts were clear and I could think in a calm manner. It's one thing being chased and given the runaround, blasting and killing those after you, but I'd learned over the years that it's always nice if you have a clue why they are after you.
I leaned back on the old bench, paint peeling and a few of the slats missing, but I didn't even feel the discomfort. My aching body and ragged breathing meant I could have been lying on a camel and I'd still be grateful—I know it looks like fun, trust me, it isn't. Too many humps, and they bite, too.
All I could picture was Nigel's head exploding and then all hell breaking loose. I conjured up the memory of those last few seconds. The way Nigel had acted, the way he seemed to have suddenly come to a decision. It was as if he'd stepped over a line but at the very last moment had decided he wanted to retreat back over onto if not the side of good, then at least not the side of utter evil.
Basically, I had no idea what in Buster's name was going on.
And what had Steve said? That they were paid to protect Nigel, to ensure he collected the item from me and got it delivered. Who, and where, he wasn't so sure, but that was the job.
So, someone had double-crossed Nigel, but had Nigel also cheated his client, or planned to? Surely not? So why the double security? Why not rely on the people he usually had? Why the extra bodies?
Bottom line, it made no sense whatsoever.
"Ugh, what a mess. What am I supposed to do now?" The pigeon wandered off. Looked like I was on my own.
I tensed and reached a hand slowly for my pocket as someone approached. Someone who was being quiet on purpose. A sneak. A thief. A murderer. What was wrong with me? Lost to my own thoughts when everyone was getting their heads blown off or generally getting dead. I could have been shot waiting there like a sitting duck.
Guess it had been a long day already, so I had an excuse. Still, it was stupid.
I released the Velcro, wincing at the noise it made. I should have thought of a better system, maybe a wand holster, but that would just be daft. Or maybe it would be cool? Whatever, too late now.
"My dear boy, no need for that."
I turned in shock at the voice. Maybe I was dreaming, or dead and just hadn't realized. Acting surprisingly calm, I looked into the eyes of the man standing before me and said, "Nigel. You're not dead?"
"Oh, I'm very much dead, dear boy, at least Nigel is. I'm Nathan, his brother. Bit of a shock, I'm sure. May I sit?" I nodded dumbly, my brain taking a while to catch up with proceedings. Yep, definitely in some kind of coma or something. "It's jolly cold out here, even with my scarf," said Nathan, conversationally, like we were two pals just come to feed the local pigeons.
He continued to stand, studying me with a slight frown. I stared right back at him, mind frozen. No thoughts would come, no sudden insights into what was happening or what I should do. Basically acting dumb.
"The wards, if you don't mind?" said Nathan, looking a little perplexed and confused by my actions.
"Oh, sorry, sorry. It's been a long, er, few days."
"I can imagine. The wards?" he hinted again.
"Sorry." I focused best I could and drew them down long enough for him to step inside, then snapped them back into place as fast as I could. I hadn't even realized I'd put them up, but it gave me hope to know that even if I was acting a little—a lot—bewildered there was a part of me still on high alert.
"I apologize for the interruption, but needs must and all that."
"Yeah, right."
"So, here we are," said Nathan.
"Yes, here we are." I turned my focus on him, really looking, and hell did he look like Nigel. There were slight differences, but you'd only know if you really searched for them. I guess the main thing was his facial hair was different. Thick mustache and a clean, weak chin. And the cane and the limp, of course. He rested slim, almost feminine hands on top of the short cane. I may have been in shock but I wasn't too far gone to know it was no normal walking aid. Dude had a serious staff, any wizard could see that. So, definitely not Nigel, even if they looked identical from more than a foot away.
"I can only assume you have had a somewhat stressful day?"
"You could say that."
"I'm taking a big risk being here, and I'm still not convinced I shouldn't just have you killed and wash my hands of this whole sorry mess. You are, Mr. Salzman, a rather slippery fellow."
"Look, buddy, I'm about ready to snap and to be honest I've had it up to here with all this intrigue." I put my hand above my head just to demonstrate how high I was talking about, but Nathan just smiled weakly as if waiting for a child to finish its tantrum.
"I can only imagine."
"Why was Nigel killed? You had something to do with it, right?" I didn't know why, I sure as shit didn't know how a brother could do that to his own, but something told me this Nathan guy had most definitely had his brother eliminated.
"I'm afraid you're correct. Things have got out of hand and taken a turn none of us expected. It's all been a bit of a rush job I'm afraid, and when there's no time for tactics it usually ends up messy. As is the case now."
"As is most abso-fucking-lutely the case. Your brother's head exploded right in front of me."
"A shame. A real shame. Mr. Salzman, will you indulge me? Allow me to explain?"
"Sure, knock yourself out. The bag, right? It's all about the bag."
Nathan glanced at the bag to my right, my hand now wrapped tight around the handle. It was emitting a low glow of anger, almost as if it understood who Nathan was and was less than impressed with whatever he had in mind.
"My brother turned traitor not only on his Queen and country, but on us, Cerberus."
I'd heard the name countless times, who hadn't? A bunch of do-gooders who thought they had the right to decide who could own what. An unsanctioned, pompous, sanctimonious arm of the magical underworld the wizards and magical users and abusers would have nothing to do with. As if it was down to Cerberus there'd be no cool shit lining the shelves in their libraries or any frightening magical items they could show off to their wizard buddies.
"If this is a recruitment drive then I'm not interested. I know all about you bunch of wackos. Go peddle your scaremongering to someone who believes or someone who cares. I just want to get paid and be done with this. I mean, c'mon. You name your 'society' after a three-headed dog that guards the gates of hell so the dead can't leave and think you're onto a winner just because you have a cool name. Doesn't wash with me, buddy, or anyone else. Wizards don't like you guys
, you steal our stuff."
"Why, Mr. Salzman, didn't you know? You've been working for Cerberus ever since you first met Nigel."
Just when I thought my day couldn't possibly hold any more surprises.
Revelations
Cerberus was a name everyone in the community knew about, both the darker and lighter side of the underground. The name was Greek, and translates as the Hound of Hades, so its members, rather imaginatively, called themselves Hounds. My guess is because they thought it scared people. I mean, Hound, pretty cool name, I have to admit. The wizard hierarchy—don't even get me started on those guys—hated them because the Hounds make it their duty to stop wizards getting important artifacts, and the criminals hated Cerberus because it meant they, too, found it harder to get what they wanted. The lucrative trade in magical objects and assorted paraphernalia was compromised, which affected the bottom line.
To discover Nigel was working for them came as a shock since I'd believed he was involved in covert government work of one sort or another and had a successful brokering business going on the side. Meaning, he'd get what you wanted if he thought it possible and you paid enough. If this was true, it meant that all these things I'd been getting for Nigel over the years were now in the hands of the Hounds rather than with the honest criminals or powerful wizards I'd assumed had possession.
"Okay, let's start at the beginning," I said knowing I'd get nowhere unless I put all this into some kind of order. Part of me wanted to leave right now, not hear another word, but I knew these secretive types and they weren't the kind of people to let things lie. "First, you were brothers? Twins?"
"Of course twins. We look alike, do we not?"
"You sure do. Okay, so you both work, worked, whatever, for Cerberus?"
"Yes, it has been our honor and our duty for many years."
"Okay, got it. So, why in Buster's name did Nigel get his head blown off earlier?"
"Because of that," said Nathan, nodding at the bag I had absentmindedly drawn close to my leg, knuckles white with the strength of my grip.
