Grimm Tales

by John Kenyon

  “I told you, man, it weren’t no cigarette.” Mike grabbed the remains of a potato-chip bag he was using as an ashtray, rolled it up and tucked it into his pants pocket. A gray dust cloud spewed into the air like a mini Mount St. Helens. “I smelled gasoline before everything went to hell.”

  “Big deal. So you got some gas on your shoes. Don’t prove a thing.”

  Chet parked himself in front of the window and lifted a corner of the sheet Mike used as a curtain just enough to scan the street in both directions. Looked clean. A kid on a bike. A mixed-race geezer walking a mixed-breed mutt. A few cars—Chet’s, Mike’s, a black one with tinted windows.

  Mike laughed at him. “Never seen you this jumpy, junior. This thing’s really got you spooked. One of your bitches got herself a boyfriend out for revenge?”

  Chet shook his head. “That’s why I like ’em young. No baggage.” Returning to the futon, he sagged down onto the wet fabric and reached for a pack of cigarettes lying on the floor. He almost had one in his mouth when he caught Mike’s glare. With his hands shaking, he put the cigarette back slowly.

  “He knows, Mike. He fuckin’ knows.”

  “Who knows?”

  “Loup, that’s who. He probably sussed we’re skimming off the top.”

  “No way. We’ve been too careful. All that beer gave you nightmares. Or maybe it’s just your imagination. You always were the creative one, making up stories to get us out of trouble. It’s not Loup, it can’t be.”

  Mike joined Chet on the futon, ignoring the wetness seeping through the seat of his pants, thinking hard. Could Loup have found out? It seemed like the perfect setup. Raise the rates a little on their clients without telling Loup and keep the extra. He’d be none the wiser. The old Chinaman who owned the laundry knew to keep his mouth shut. Maybe that spic woman at the bakery, the one with all those kids? Nah.

  “You ain’t heard of Loup getting new bag men, have you, Chet?”

  Chet grabbed a beer can that was still half full and gulped down the stale malt. “He wouldn’t. Just the other day he said we were the best.”

  “You got it wrong. He said, ‘you boys are good at what you do.’ Could mean a lot of things.”

  Mike’s stomach started growling, so he got up long enough to raid the refrigerator and pulled out a box of week-old pizza, which he threw onto the coffee table. “Breakfast,” he said.

  They both grabbed a slice, Chet picking off a piece of cheese with mold on it. “It’s gotta be that artsy bitch, the blond with the attitude.”

  “The one that called you a fat pig, junior?”

  “That’s the one. We should go have a nice long talk with her.”

  Mike laughed again. “Yeah, talk. Like you talked with her last time, when she didn’t want to pay our new rate? Sure had nice legs, though.”

  “Bitch should be grateful she still got those legs intact, though she ain’t so pretty no more.” Chet had been happy for a chance to try out his new pair of brass knuckles.

  Mike’s laughter faded, and he started sniffing the air. “Chet—you smell something?”

  “Other than your cheap cologne?”

  “I’m serious.”

  Chet sniffed the air, terrier-style, and his eyes bugged out. “That’s what I smelled the other day. Just like I told you. Gasoline.”

  They didn’t wait to see the blue-tongued flames coming out of the back bedroom. The smell from burning wood and insulation was enough to make them barrel out the front door where they could only gape at the blazing inferno from the sidewalk.

  Chet shivered, despite the hot, muggy air of the August morning. “Shouldn’t we call 911 or something?”

  “Idiot.” Mike took keys from his pocket and pressed the button on the remote to open his car doors. “I got stuff in my house I don’t want no cop to see. Better it should burn. Besides, we got worse troubles.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We go see Lyle, that’s what we do.”

  They drove off in such a hurry, they didn’t see the black car with tinted windows across the street pull away from the curb and start following. The red-haired man inside the black car took his time, knowing where they were headed. There was only one place they’d feel safe. In fact, he was counting on it.

  Mike and Chet made it through town in record time, toward the waterfront and into the new development that was part of the mayor’s pet “revitalization” project. Gleaming new shops, most still empty, alongside brand-spanking brick McMansions in various stages of construction.

  They parked in front of Lyle’s place and banged on the front door.

  After a minute of banging, the door finally opened, and a man’s head poked out. “I’ve got a doorbell, morons. And anyway, I told you not to come here. This is a respectable area. And respectable, you ain’t.”

  Mike pushed his way past. “Blood’s thicker than water.”

  As white as Chet’s face was, it looked like all his blood had drained out. “You got any malt, Lyle? Better yet, how ’bout some blow? I could really use a hit right now.”

  Lyle frowned at his two siblings and reached over to wipe a black smudge from Chet’s forehead, rolling the black soot between his fingers. “How big a mess am I going to have to clean up this time?”

  “You got a burglar alarm in this thing?” Mike took in the high ceilings, marble fireplace and new furniture, still wrapped in plastic.

  “State of the art. Motion detectors, cameras, the works.”

  “You’re gonna need it. Loup knows, Lyle.”

  Lyle inherited most of the brains from the genetic tree, but definitely not the looks, his snub-nosed face drooping down into his double jowls as he frowned even deeper. “That’s impossible. We’ve been handing over the same amount each month. We do his dirty work, he keeps his hands clean. He never talks to any of the marks himself.”

  “We just barely escaped from what is now the smoking ruins of my house. And Chet here had his shack burn to the ground yesterday. You said it yourself—no such thing as coinkidinks in this racket.”

  Mike peered out the blinds, aping what Chet had done at Mike’s. Everything looked normal, as far as he could tell. Real peaceful like. Being a Sunday, even the construction workers were nowhere to be seen. Just a few birds and a couple of cars, Mike’s and a black one across the street with tinted windows.

  “No one can get in here without you knowing it?”

  “I told you. New security system. Paid big bucks for it. The guy came the other day and installed it.”

  “You know him personally?”

  “Who? Loup?”

  “The guy who installed all those bells and whistles.”

  “Well, no, but he came highly recommended.”

  Chet joined Mike at the window. “Yeah, by who?”

  When Lyle didn’t answer, Chet and Mike turned toward him. Lyle’s mouth was open, but the only noise he made came out like a gurgle.

  Across the street, the man in the black car glanced in the rearview mirror long enough to rub his hand through his thick red hair. He picked up a little box on the passenger seat and palmed it lovingly. A bracelet on his wrist caught a piece of early-morning sunlight, making him recall when Gina had given it to him after a long weekend they’d spent mostly in bed. With his free hand, he traced the four letters on the bracelet, starting with the W, then moving on to the O, the L and the F. Her nickname for him. Gina was such an artist. Amazing legs, too.

  Back inside Lyle’s house, Mike and Chet waited for Lyle’s answer, oblivious to their observer. Chet asked again. “Who recommended your security guy, Lyle?”

  They had to move closer to hear his whispered words. “Riley did.”

  Mike looked over at Chet, who stared back at him like a guy in the crosshairs of your car headlights right before you hit him. “Riley, as in Loup’s brother, Riley?”

  Lyle’s expression was enough to make Chet streak toward the door.

  The man in the black car pressed the red button on th
e little box in his hand. Within seconds, pieces of brick and marble and singed wood were littering the street, chasing the birds away. The man had seen the front door crack open a split-second before he detonated the bomb, but they weren’t going to find much left of the house or those two-timing pigs. Such a shame. Lovely neighborhood and all. Maybe he and Gina would buy a place here. Apparently, there was going to be a new house going up soon.

  Skyler Hobbs and the Magic Solution

  By Evan Lewis

  The author wishes to thank his good friends Jake and Willy Grimm for penning an earlier version of this tale, called “The Elves and the Shoemaker.”

  Skyler Hobbs peered down his long nose at the little man seated next to me on the sofa.

  “I must advise you, Mr. Schumacher, that my good friend here does not wish me to take your case.”

  Arnie Schumacher, owner-operator of Arnie’s Electronics, turned to goggle at me, his eyes huge and watery through thick spectacles. “But why? I have not even told you my problem.”

  I shrugged. I’d voiced no objection, but Hobbs had ferreted it out just the same. That’s the trouble with befriending a man who thinks he’s the reincarnation of Sherlock Holmes.

  “The doctor,” Hobbs said, nodding at me, “feels you have siphoned customers from his computer repair business by undercutting his prices. Do you deny the charge?”

  Arnie looked bewildered.

  I handed him one of my business cards: Jason Wilder–Computer Doctor.

  “Don’t mind Hobbs,” I said. “It’s his idea of a parlor trick. Probably spotted kilobytes under your fingernails. Still, he’s right. How can you afford to work so cheap?”

  Arnie looked from me to Hobbs and wrung his hands. “Because, gentlemen, I am not really working. The items repair themselves—as if by magic!”

  I stood, ready to usher him out. Dealing with Hobbs was all the insanity I could handle.

  But Hobbs had that gleam in his eye. The one that said, Aha! The game is afoot. He took his pipe and tobacco from their place on the mantel and settled into his armchair. “You have my full attention, sir. Pray continue.”

  The story was quickly told. Arnie had opened shop in the sixties, fixing toasters and blenders, and graduated to TV and stereo equipment. He’d done all right until the past few years, when everything became computerized. Now most of the work was in computer repair. But his eyesight was failing, technology was passing him by, and he’d found himself up to his neck in unrepaired equipment and unpaid bills.

  “Though it shamed me greatly,” he said, “I was about to declare bankruptcy, when the magic started. One morning I came downstairs—my wife and I share a small apartment above the shop—and went down to the basement, where I have my workshop. Everything in the place had been fixed!”

  Hobbs’ eyes shone. “And you attribute this to magic.”

  “My wife, she thinks it must be angels. Me, I just don’t know. But my business was saved. The faster work came in, the faster it repaired itself. I felt guilty taking money for nothing, so I lowered prices, and customers came in droves.”

  “Assuming we believe any of this,” I said, feeling snarky, “why come to Hobbs? Sounds to me like you’ve got it made.”

  “I do,” Arnie said. “I do. But it is not right. A man should work, and receive fair compensation for his labors. I come to you, Mr. Hobbs, to discover the truth of the matter. Will you help?”

  Hobbs made an O of his mouth and blew out a large smoke ring. Pursing his lips, he sent several smoke bullets through the target.

  “Mr. Schumacher, I find this matter to be of the greatest interest. The doctor and I will be only too happy to assist you.”

  Happy. That was me. Too happy for words.

  * * *

  That night, Hobbs and I hid behind stacks of boxes in Schumacher’s basement. Hobbs had insisted we needed bait, so despite my objections we’d hauled a dozen unfixed computers from my own shop and stacked them on the long workbench.

  As we waited in the darkness, I whispered, “All right, Hobbs, you’ve put me off long enough. I want to know what’s going on.”

  “You observed, of course, that this establishment is located next to a Wells Fargo Bank.”

  “Sure,” I lied. All I’d noticed was the MacDonald’s across the street. I could almost smell Big Macs.

  “Is it not possible,” he said, “that our client’s late night visitors are attempting to tunnel into the bank and break into its vault?”

  “Maybe. But if that were so, we’d have seen evidence of digging.”

  “Not if the thieves are exceedingly clever. In any case…”

  As Hobbs paused, I heard slight sounds from the floor above. The click of a key in a lock, and the creak of footsteps.

  “In any case,” he said again, “we shall soon know. I am quite certain our quarry has arrived. Now, Watson, would be the time to produce your trusty revolver.”

  “Wilder,” I whispered. “And you know damn well I don’t own a gun.”

  But I began to wish I did. The creaking had moved to the stairs, and a moment later the basement door opened. Fluorescent ceiling lights blinked on, and we crouched lower behind the boxes.

  “Damn!” said a hushed voice. “The geezer’s got a lot of new shit.”

  “Cool,” came the reply. “We’ll make a haul on this.”

  As the voices moved to the center of the room, I shifted to a crack between the boxes.

  Two teenage boys in ratty T-shirts and low-slung jeans stood at the workbench, examining the repair tags.

  “Dibs on this HP,” one kid said. “All it needs is a network interface.”

  “I’ll start with this laptop,” said the other.

  Both selected tools from the table and set to work. These didn’t look like bank robbers to me.

  I turned to Hobbs and raised an eyebrow. He merely nodded. If this performance surprised him he did a great job of hiding it.

  We watched a while longer, seeing nothing but quick and competent repair work.

  Finally Hobbs stood, pushing the boxes aside, and aimed a bony finger at the two astonished boys.

  “Stop!” he said in a commanding voice. “Dr. Watson here is armed, and if you attempt to flee he will surely shoot you.”

  I shook my head. “Wilder,” I said, “and I’m not shooting anybody. But I would like to know what the hell’s going on.”

  * * *

  Next morning, we sat in a plush private office above the flagship store of the worldwide mega-chain, Schumacher’s Shoes. Facing us across an enormous desk was a beetle-browed man bearing a distinct resemblance to our client. The brass nameplate on his desk read Marvin Schumacher, President and CEO.

  Though Marvin looked younger than Arnie, his hair was thinning, and he’d tried to cover it with the silliest comb-over this side of Donald Trump. His whole office, in fact, seemed modeled after the boardroom on The Apprentice. He fixed us with a Trump-like scowl.

  “So you know,” he said.

  “I know,” Hobbs said, “that you hired those lads to help your brother. And I believe I know why. But before determining a course of action, I wish to hear the tale from your own lips.”

  “You’ve met Arnie,” Marvin said, “so maybe you understand. He’s always been too proud for his own good. Won’t accept charity, even from his own flesh and blood. I called my old high school, got the names of those computer geeks and gave them a key. You know the rest.”

  “You chose well,” Hobbs said. “My friend here has inspected their work, and judged it to be excellent.”

  Marvin nodded. “Arnie had a sweet deal going, until you stepped in. Any chance you’d accept a…retainer, to let the magic continue?”

  Hobbs leaned forward, rubbing his hands together. “The question I must ask, Mr. Schumacher, is this: Precisely how much is your brother’s happiness worth?”

  * * *

  The apartment above Arnie’s Electronics was shabby but clean, a description that also served for A
rnie’s wife. We sat at their kitchen table pretending to drink weak, tepid coffee from cracked mugs.

  “I still can’t believe they were bank robbers,” Arnie said. “I saw you leading those guys away, and they looked like kids. I mean, who but kids would wear their jeans belted down around their knees?”

  “All part of their disguise,” Hobbs said, “and no small factor in their ability to elude the authorities. Those desperados are wanted in seven states, and you have performed a great service in bringing about their capture. And it will please you to know they have already received new suits of clothing—bright orange prison uniforms.”

  Hobbs hefted a large suitcase onto the table and popped it open. Inside were bound stacks of crisp hundred dollar bills.

  “The reward offered by the FBI,” he said, “totaled one million dollars. It is yours, with the compliments of your government.”

  Arnie stared, his mouth working but emitting no sound. His wife began to cry.

  I felt my own eyes welling up, and steadied myself with a swallow of bad coffee.

  Arnie found his voice. “A million dollars. You may call it justice, Mr. Hobbs, but I still call it magic. This time, however, I will not complain. But you and your friend did all the work. You must take half.”

  I choked on my coffee. By the time I could breathe, Hobbs was already shaking his head.

  “Your generosity is overwhelming,” he said, “but we must decline. The by-laws of the Consulting Detectives Union are quite strict in cases of this sort. The most we are allowed to accept is one percent.”

  * * *

  Two weeks later, we got a postcard from Hawaii, first stop on the Schumachers’ round-the-world cruise. Arnie was officially retired, and shedding the skin of his old life.

  Things were going well for me, too. With my share of the ten grand, I’d hired the two computer geeks to work part-time at my shop. Business was booming.

  “Quite satisfactory,” Hobbs said. “Everyone appears to be living happily ever after.”

  “Just like a fairy tale,” I said. “It’s almost enough to make me believe in magic.”