by Kezzy Sparks
We agree to rendezvous at a place that’s most convenient to me, a trattoria in the Southgate Plaza. I then hang up. For some reason, after this short conversation, I feel dirty and need a bath. Indeed I can’t proceed with anything further until I am cleaner.
After a quick shower, I feel much better and can now begin on the locate. I head back to the yard.
The spin points in an unusual direction: north east of Seneca. It’s certainly not Alden and I wonder what’s going on. There are lots of small communities to the north and east of us, though, so it could be any of those.
For the next drop, which I do in Orchard Park, I get a more northish line. This one then crosses the first near Medina.
“Medina, really?” I say to myself.
Maybe the witch went there for a sleepover. It’s hard to tell.
Aware, though, of the risks of delaying, I jump right away into the Vic. My adrenaline starts to pump; a big battle might lie ahead. Traffic on Sunday is awesome, and in less than thirty minutes I am on South Gravel Rd, which somewhere along it was where the two lines crossed.
Just as I'm getting close to the point, I see a black Mercedes Benz leave a driveway and zoom toward me. It’s hard to observe the driver because the car zips by me so fast. What they are rushing for, I don’t know, but in the wake of the Benz my body buzzes. Was that the Lady in Red, and does she use a vehicle the same color as was driven by my attacker that first night? Maybe she does, and now I also remember seeing a similar Merc back that day at the mall in Alden. It sure could be her, but then maybe not. Perhaps the Lady in Red is still seated in that small, wood-sided house.
I stop and park near the home. There is a red Mercury in the driveway, so perhaps someone could be in.
Anticipation rising, I get out and walk toward the door, which isn’t closed all the way. A smell of bad magic wafts as I reach, and soon I am enveloped by it. The reek’s urine-like nature gives me a warning of the danger I am wading into. Not all magic smells, but some evil kinds do, especially after it has been active.
Is anybody home, I wonder as I listen for sounds. I grab the door handle, but don’t drag it ajar yet since the existing gap already allows me to peer. Strangely there is a man lying on the floor—totally bloodied, and he doesn’t seem to breathe.
The bad magic smell is more intense inside. Has there been a big fight in here—because when two magic systems clash, the odors can be so overpowering.
Added to the reeks, too, my nose is assaulted by a distinct aromatic buzz typical of animal familiars. Such companions, though, don’t usually produce a smelly buzz unless they have been in a fight, but in here I detect something sinister: like felines and coyotes or wild dogs.
It’s crazy! There was a big battle in here. My thinking had been that the suspect came here for a sleepover, but boy, was I wrong. The Lady in Red came for total war.
I walk deeper in to check the hapless man, who by all signs is a warlock anyway. He isn’t dead, but is in such bad shape he might later pass away. Magic, in case one wasn’t aware, has the power to kill. I try to wake the man up, but he can’t. His breathing is shallow and labored.
To his credit, though, this warlock must have known things would get bad for him and was prepared for battle. There is a magic sword cluttered on the floor, and then there are those familiars that fought on his side.
Unfortunately for me, the Lady in Red whom I came for is gone. I think what to do. Should I rush back to the road and follow the Mercedes? That seems attractive at first, but then I imagine how much time has elapsed and know I won’t be able to catch up. I will have to chase after her again another time.
Jeez, now I am stuck. I am right in the middle of black magic territory and should be leaving this dump fast, but then I wonder if it would be good to abandon this wizard who is dying on the floor. He is not my responsibility of course, and technically I could walk away, but hey, we are all humans. I certainly must do what I can, even though I realize at the outset that I can’t call 911. This was a supernatural war, something we won’t let the conventional authorities know of if we can avoid it.
“Gosh, what should I do?” I ask myself in a whisper. “Resort to guild assistance?”
It doesn’t take me long to realize that this is the best option, although this time I won’t turn to Zed but rather Anastasiana, a healer certified by the bureau to treat those made ill or injured by magic.
“Bring along some help,” I say. “You will need to carry him.”
I maintain a vigil meanwhile. My hope is Ana will turn up soon.
As I wait, I think to grab the opportunity to learn anything new about black magic. I venture into the warlock’s kitchen and living room in search. Nothing there, however, is unusual enough to pique my interest, but I imagine there might be something big elsewhere. A warlock of this high stature certainly must have an assortment of magic possessions that could fascinate anyone.
Disappointed with a lack of discovery downstairs, I am tempted to go upstairs and ferret in his bedrooms. Those areas, however, are far too private and searching in them would be against bureau rules. This battered warlock has never been reported as having committed an evil crime, so there is no justification to hunt down his possessions in that aggressive way.
Anastasiana arrives after about half an hour, with two male aids as company.
“What a nasty job you got here, buddy?” she says as she gazes at the butchered wizard.
“He isn’t even the witch I was looking for,” I say, but that’s something she won’t understand because I never spoke to her about the Lady in Red.
“Thanks for calling us, we will take care of the rest,” says Ana.
And sure she will.
“When he gets better, I will want to interview him,” I say.
“I’ll update you on his condition, always.”
My imagination is that it’s good those who attacked him didn’t kill him. He is a crucial piece in the jigsaw puzzle that will finally take me to the Lady, and he will tell me if she is the one who drives around in a black Mercedes Benz.
Now I have to go. The upshot is I failed to apprehend Casey’s attacker, but this trip in some small ways has been worth it.
***
Later in the afternoon I drive for my rendezvous with Butch. To tell the truth I am not too comfortable seeing him, but then the appointment has been made. And like we arranged, we are to meet in a small trattoria in the Southgate Plaza.
When I get to the café, Butch is already seated. The first thing I notice about him is that his hair that was well styled yesterday is now uncombed and disheveled.
He looks up at me, and his eyes gleam with a suggestion he is carrying a heavy subject.
“Good afternoon, huntress.” He rubs at his temples in the most uneasy way.
I don’t even want to shake hands with him, and only give him a small nod.
“Want some food?”
“No, not from you.” I declare.
The trattoria makes some good fare, but I refuse to feel hungry in protest at Butch’s deeds. Aromas of pasta, tomato sauce, basil, and arugula waft and the people seated in here chew and savor, never at any time aware they have been insulted with the presence of the baddie responsible for the Clyde attacks.
“Anyway tell me what you want.” I frown at Butch impatiently.
He ignores me for a moment and orders for himself a macaroni and cheese—apparently evil wizards eat the same things as we normal people do.
Soon, though, he opens his mouth to speak. “Mel, you must know I wasn’t born like this, but greed got the better of me.”
“Go fast. I haven’t the time.”
“No, let me start right from the beginning,” he says. “You know, long ago, I was young and hungry for success, but things weren’t going fast enough. I left this city and drove to Florida in search of fortunes, but even there, matters didn’t work out for me as planned. I then sought to accelerate things by employing the help of a powerful Latino magician
.”
“Faster,” I mutter.
“The warlock, corresponding to what I’d asked, said he would give me something to work with,” says Butch. “But I had to promise to serve Jove, his god who lives in the Depths.”
He doesn’t have to explain that to me: it’s like selling your soul to the devil.
“That warlock blessed me with an egg that I was to look after till it hatched,” he continues. “And the instruction was that I was to properly look after the hatchling, and which if I did, would make me rich and powerful. Never, never break it or you die, the warlock insisted.”
Butch goes on, “I thanked the magician, paid the demanded fee, and went home. Things were now looking up, and had I wanted, I could have stayed and made it in Florida, but then it so happened that at the time I had already scrounged enough cash for a flight back to Buffalo.”
He pauses and then resumes. “I ended up having to cancel that ticket anyway, because the egg, which of course was magic, looked so delicate and I couldn’t pack it in my flying cases. I drove through four states to get back.”
“And then what?” I ask, now a bit interested because it always helps to learn how evil operates.
“That gator is what got hatched.” He sighs. “Honestly, it scared me to see it at first, but I learned to feed it and make it grow. In time, I could communicate with it, and as it grew bigger, so did I get richer and wiser and magically more powerful.
“Things, really, should have remained alright,” he continues, “but recently the familiar became too big, and its demands harder to fulfill. Imagine I had to buy live turkeys and chickens to feed it. It no longer ate pre slaughtered meats but wanted kill live animals by itself.
“And then later it wanted blood and milk from livestock. I swear, one day it was going to swallow one of my own children. You actually saved me by what you did.”
It would be an understatement to say I am horrified. I just glare at him.
Butch doesn’t stop. “By the last few weeks, I hardly had any control over it. We were not communicating anymore. When I heard of the Clyde attacks, I knew it was him, but had no way of stopping it. And, of course, I could not own up. It’s not even allowed in the statutes.”
“You have learned your lessons.” I round up. “Now we wait for the court.” I have already checked the dockets and tell him of the day.
Truly, I feel sick to my stomach and might puke if I remain with him.
“Goodbye now.” I stand to go to another restaurant and have a refreshing lunch by myself.
Forty-one
Hours later, in another part of town, a man who is probably the world’s only bridegroom without a penis walks out of an elevator door. It’s the lobby level and out there is the world he must face.
His team of groomsmen crowd him, but as soon as they start to cross the floor, they arrange themselves into almost single file. Some are ahead of him, others behind. Only Jeff walks right beside him. Despite all this, he feels like he is alone in this world.
Everyone is dressed in tuxedos, but his stands out. It’s navy blue, but the groomsmen’s are a lighter shade. The shirts are a uniform white, though his is made of a far richer, supple material. Everyone has a bowtie, and they are black, just as are the shoes.
They glide past the busy front desk and reach the exits. A greeter in Adam’s Mark uniform waves bye to them as the hotel’s ornate glass doors swing open. Jeff, Tim, and the whole team, wave back instantly, but Casey delays. There are just too many things on his mind, and he forgets sometimes.
Outside, on the portico, a sleek white limousine awaits, purring only just lightly to indicate it’s ready to go. Behind it is an even longer, shiny black one with a gleaming chrome trim. The white is a stretched Lincoln, while the black is a spankin’ Hummer. Balloons are strapped onto the limos and are waving at him as are a thousand strands of ribbon.
Casey searches beyond all the glitter. “Where the heck is Melanie?”
That investigator drives a modest dark gray Crown Victoria, one far less spectacular than these gleaming mechanical creations, but she is the only person who could bring good news. And relief. Will the Vic just pop up suddenly, Mel running out to say things have changed—she has had a break? By hell, he sure hopes so, but had he been a psychic he would know how impossible that would be for Mel to do. Because, last week, just across from this hotel, an adult film actress drove out of a parking lot with his dick in a storage case, never to come back.
The journey to nowhere is about to begin. They have rehearsed everything, but there is a part that will have to come as a surprise.
Megan stands with her maids, looking absolutely stunning for the last leg. Her gown is lacy and white, the bodice tight on her bust, molding it to the best shape. Her tiara has a thousand studs. Lips red, mascara on, the white veil flowing smoothly down her back. He would love to kiss her, and indeed he will do that, but that’s only the easy part.
He woke up this morning in the middle of a dream, actually screaming with pleasure. He had her beneath the sheets, and she was the sexiest thing he had ever seen, a nymph. Her eyes shone like crystals, and her body was hotter than a furnace. He remembers the sweet feeling of coming inside her, but when he woke up, there was no wetness there. All of it just a vanishing fantasy.
“Okay it’s time, guys.” Trisha, the wedding planner, signals.
The groom and bridal teams merge, like the plan is. Most of the guys and girls walk toward the longer black limo, the Hummer. Megan and her maid of honor head into the Lincoln. Jeff nudges him, and they, too, follow into the Linc’s open doors. Before they have properly sat, he kisses Megan. It’s not supposed to be deep because the real practiced thing is coming at the proper time.
“Megan, you look positively stunning,” Jeff says.
“My love, you are gorgeous let me kiss you again,” Casey says, not to be outdone.
They snuggle side by side, so close to being hubby and wifey.
From here, the limos drive to Blasdell, where there is the Woodlawn Beach and State Park. The traffic is great like it always is Sunday afternoons, and you can get to where you want easy.
And what’s even better, the weather is just as predicted, everything good enough for an occasion like this. Earlier on it had been cloudy, but now there are some good patches of blue up there. And what’s more, the temperature is so mild no one is going to have runny noses, body shivers, or develop goose bumps on their skin during the outdoor photography session.
“Sweetie, how’d you feel?” Megan asks.
“Phenomenally great,” he says and sighs.
He curls a tired emotionless hand around her, fighting to present himself as very much enjoying the moment, but it just won’t come through. It’s not that he doesn’t love her. On the contrary he’d like to make her the happiest woman, but the fact he can’t, kills him.
The limos coast on the pavement, bumping lightly, causing them to lean into each other tighter. The world outside is partly shut out by the dark tint on the windows, but the crystal LED lights shine into Megan’s eyes. And oh my God, the tiara and studs and sequins. What he can only do is kiss her, and he does so again—on the cheek—but she can see something isn’t going right.
“What’s wrong?” The slightest hint of a frown mars her chiseled features. “You haven't been yourself the whole week.”
“Don’t worry about me,” he says.
Honestly, he is getting upset with The Breaker for fooling him into holding out this long. Were it not for her, he would have long cancelled.
At Woodlawn Beach he has to drag his feet out of the festooned limo. The photographer flashes and flashes his unit, creating an indelible record of something that’s not going to be there. At one point Casey almost shields his face, but that’s not right.
Everything else, however, is getting more favorable, and right now the sun has come out. As it beams, Megan’s face glows like he has never seen. Her makeup is perfect. Her hair is done the best he has ever seen.
“We’ll make the perfectest couple,” she says and gazes into his eyes.
“The craziest,” he answers nonchalantly.
Time goes by fast. Everyone is enjoying themselves. The grasses and bushes sing with the wind a special song. The deep blue waters of Lake Erie provide a mini glimpse of the Atlantic Ocean they are heading to, if all goes well. Things are already set, and it’s tomorrow that they are scheduled to drive to New York, with however a one night stopover in Syracuse. Then after burning through two romantic days in the Big Apple, they fly out of Newark’s Liberty Airport straight to Miami. They might add a Disney detour, too, but that’s not decided yet.
Soon it’s back to the limos. From here, they head straight to the chic La Galleria Convention Center and Banquet Hall. Ordinary people love weddings, and they wave as the limos pass. Before he knows it, they are parked on the center’s glamorous colonnade. The cameras still flash as they come out. Some use cellphones. A video recorder rolls with its light glaring. There is no Mel to be seen anywhere!
Inside, everything is prepared the right way, and the tables are laid out neat. There are wine and champagne bottles. Crystal glasses. Water jars. Slices of lemon. Even fine sparkling fruit cocktails for those who don’t take alcohol.
The bridesmaids and groomsmen are already in their positions; the band is playing the entrance tune. It’s him and Jeff going down. People cheer.
Just before they reach the podium, they stand to the side, the right, the groom side. The music rises up one tempo, and it’s now Megan and her father coming down. There is even more cheering, and he can see a tear or two fall. Father and daughter stand at the end of the aisle, Megan looking even more stunning in the hall’s subtle but twinkling lights.
Father duly nods when the minister asks who is giving this woman’s hand in marriage.
It’s coming. The father abandons Megan to go sit in his place, and Casey must take over.
