Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 11/01/10

by EQM

  “Sorry to bother you.”

  He got his bearings, sitting up. His cell started to slide off his lap but I caught it.

  “How you feeling?”

  “I’ve fared better.”

  “Too bad you’re not a superhero. You wouldn’t have to go through this.”

  “Didn’t help Captain Marvel.”

  “The guy that said ‘Shazam’?”

  He shook his head. “The other one. Mar-Vell, Captain of the Kree. Jim Starlin gave him cancer and killed him off in ’eighty-two.”

  “Raw deal. Who’d’ve thought a superhero’s greatest archenemy would be the writer?”

  He grinned. “Indeed.”

  “You’ll beat it.”

  He tilted his head to the slowly dripping IV bag. “Though my weapon be of liquid chemical and not forged broadsteel, the enemy shall nonetheless be vanquished. Or like my mom always says, ‘One foot in front of the other.’”

  “I hear you.”

  “I’m thinking of having a T-shirt made that says ‘Chemo Boy.’”

  “What’s the logo on your chest, a big IV bag?”

  He barked with joy, strong and loud, “Absolutely.” Chuckling.

  “Where’s your mom?”

  “I’ll text her when I’m done and she’ll pick me up. I don’t like her hanging around here.”

  Wanting to fight the good fight on his own. Karen’s usefulness came into play at home, where she could cook him meals when he felt like eating and force him to eat when he didn’t, put some weight on those weary bones of his.

  “Hope you don’t mind, I talked to your friend Calico last night.”

  “About what?”

  “Not much. How long were you two an item?”

  Donny glanced across the room where Tabie leaned in the doorway, watching. She grinned sadly and turned into the hall.

  “Not long. I wasn’t musically inclined ... had no place in the whole War Kittens thing. Not that I wanted to, anyway.”

  “And their war against conventional rock and roll?”

  He sputtered. “They’re at war with everything. Well, Rex and Manx are, anyway. At war with politics, religion, life. Haters.”

  “But not Calico?”

  “She never used to be. I don’t know.... Once I was diagnosed ... I guess it was too much for her.”

  “It’s a tough thing for some people to deal with. Don’t be too hard on her for it.”

  “Never. But that doesn’t mean I have to like that jerk she’s seeing.”

  “You think he’d have any reason to hurt Gamera?”

  “Does he seem like the kind of guy who would need a reason?”

  “Thanks for the ride,” Donny said, weak as he kept pressure on the taped gauze on the back of his hand.

  “Don’t mention it,” I answered.

  In their backyard, Karen fed Gamera a leaf of redhead lettuce.

  “Hey, buddy,” said Donny, and the tortoise lifted his head at the sound of his best friend’s voice. Donny knelt to scratch him on the chin.

  After a moment, Donny stood and nearly lost his balance, his legs wobbly. Karen helped him up, kissed his cheek. “I’ll check on you later, hon. See if you want a soft-boiled egg or something.”

  “’kay.” Donny shuffled into the house.

  Karen stared after him. “You a mother?” she asked.

  I shook a no.

  “It’s tough seeing him sick like this. When he was a little boy he’d scrape a knee and I’d kiss it better, give him some ice cream after a sore throat. But I can’t just kiss this better.”

  “Frustrating, I know. May I?”

  I held my hand out for the leaf of lettuce drooping in her grasp. She’d momentarily forgotten Gamera. The tortoise stretched his leathery neck out trying to snatch the greens, but Karen had the lettuce just out of his reach.

  “Oh. Sure.” She handed the lettuce over.

  I knelt before Gamera and he glanced at me with his cold tortoise eyes before fixating on the lettuce in my hand. I held it out for him. The oxygen tube in his nostril didn’t seem to be impeding him as he bit down on the lettuce, tearing off a tatter and chewing slowly, jaw grinding side to side. He stuck his neck out in a grand gesture when he swallowed—galulp—and took a step toward me, wanting more.

  Karen watched Donny’s upstairs window. “You believe in reincarnation?”

  She required no answer, just needing to talk: “I think I do. But before we come back, we’re shown the life we’re about to be born into. And we’re given the choice whether to come back or not. Even if the life we’re shown is full of pain and suffering, the only way for us to learn is to come back and live it. You probably think that’s hippie-dippie nonsense.”

  She chuckled, self-deprecating, and continued:

  “Anyway, with each life we lead, we learn more and our souls get stronger. Donny’s got a strong soul. He’ll get through this bump in the road.”

  I scratched the big tortoise under the chin as Donny had done. “What about Gamera? He have a strong soul?”

  “All animals do,” she said. “We’re the ones who still have a lot to learn.”

  I nodded my assent, and during the pause that followed, changed the subject: “What do you know about the War Kittens?”

  “Marise ... I mean Calico, she and Donny went to high school together. The two guys went to Gresham, I think. There was another one, too ...” She pondered, trying to recall a name.

  “Donny’s not part of the Kittens so Calico drops him for the drummer? Doesn’t make her look so loyal.”

  “There was more to it than that. By then Donny had been diagnosed. Calico was standing in my kitchen when I told her. She lost it. Her legs gave out under her. We held each other on the floor for a good ten minutes.”

  “Maybe the drummer was her out, so she wouldn’t have to deal with Donny being sick.”

  Karen shrugged. “I hoped she’d be bigger than that. I think she still has a flame for Donny, but I’d never tell him that, get his hopes up.”

  “Any lingering jealousies that you know of?”

  “Boys don’t usually open up to their mothers about their love lives.”

  “I meant from the drummer, Rex.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  Karen opened Gamera’s chicken-wire cage, picking his front end up and setting him down pointed in the right direction. She nudged his backside until he crept into the enclosure, trailing his oxygen tube, one hind leg weak and nearly useless from his wounds. But he kept trudging.

  “That’s it, boy,” she said. “One foot in front of the other.”

  Off Moreland on one of the side streets, not far from Mount Tabor Park, The Rue Morgue crouched between the back of an auto-parts store and a closed carpet warehouse; a giant black stone cat, its gaping-fanged maw curtained off with ebony canvas, being tended by a doorman at a red velvet rope of all things. Rumor was the deed to the club belonged to a Northwest author with heavy coin he’d made selling the movie rights to his horror novels.

  Above the big dark feline’s pointed ears, curled inside its tail, glowing marquee letters dripped blood-maroon: WORRY DOLLS! ZUNI FETISH! WAR KITTENS! Hard to believe these unknowns would attract a line as long as the one snaking down the sidewalk. More likely, the manager was using one of the oldest tricks in the book: Keep a line out front even though it’s empty inside, tricking people into thinking something’s going on in there, causing them to gather like curious crows.

  The kids in line ranged in age from about fourteen to college kids from Reed and Warner Pacific; the younger ones dressed too old and the older ones too young. If you ask me, a fourteen-year-old girl with chili red lipstick, halter, and torn fishnets isn’t appropriate, and I’m no prude. Glo-green bands decorated many a spindly wrist, indicating the wearer was of age to drink alcohol. Presumably.

  I stepped up to the doorman, a thinnish white guy affecting Poe with dark unkempt hair, narrow moustache, high velvet collar, and ascot cravat. He looked l
ike he might be strong enough to stop that aforementioned fourteen-year-old if she got rowdy ... and had one hand tied behind her back.

  I smiled, flipping my back-length raven locks. “Any way into this place without standing in line?” With my black greatcoat I figured I was a shoo-in for the club’s dress code.

  He grinned, all kinds of nasty thoughts going on behind dark, bag-laden eyes.

  “And don’t get cute,” I warned.

  His grin faded.

  “I’m the War Kittens’ press agent. They just hired me.”

  “Got any credentials?”

  “You kidding me?”

  He held out a wand. I opened my coat, let him swipe me. I’d left my silver-plated friend in the Jeep. He whipped out one of those day-glo alcohol bands to snap around my wrist.

  “You sure I’m old enough for one of those? Judging by half this crowd, you might not be too accurate at guessing ages.”

  He snarled, “You can’t get booze without it.”

  I snatched it from him and made my way inside.

  The interior was cleaner than I’d expected, given its gothic inspiration. Darkly clean, without nihilism and grim attitude; posh goth. The centerpiece of the dance floor was a fountain formed of a pile of skulls, thick red “blood” dripping from eye sockets and open snaggle-toothed jaws.

  Clearly the club manager hadn’t been playing any tricks on the line outside; the place was packed. Being crowded by this many teens made my skin prickle, sort of like tiptoeing through a field of black wasps. Only I prefer wasps.

  I hugged the corner of the bar, barely enough room for both lungs to take a full breath. I got the attention of one of two bartenders, this one wearing Dracula’s cape, which didn’t really go with his orange curls.

  “What’ll ya have?” he asked without really caring about my answer.

  “I only drink ... wine ...” I intoned in my best Lugosi.

  He stared blankly, not getting it.

  “Screw it,” I said. “Gimme a Hamm’s.”

  “Let’s see your wristband,” he said without a smile.

  “You kidding me?”

  He popped a Hamm’s and passed it across.

  The band onstage finished their set, if that’s what you call it, a minor pause in the general cacophony of the place. Five black guys playing rock and roll of some sort was a nice change, though their Watusi-style war paint and grass loincloths didn’t seem overly PC to me. This must be Zuni Fetish, saying their goodbyes to the crowd and hauling their gear off to make room for the War Kittens.

  I scanned the crowd, ears throbbing from the previous racket. On the floor, some kids made out while others danced to music pumping from house speakers.

  A shaggy club bouncer, looking like the orangutan from Poe’s tale stuffed into a black sport coat, pulled aside the backstage curtains and shouted. After a moment, Rex and Calico emerged, both dressed much as I’d seen them before, Calico in a short skirt and Rex in his ridiculous stocking cap, dark curls trying to escape from under it.

  The bouncer said something to them, to which both shook their heads, Rex doing so with great vehemence. The bouncer nodded and turned away. Calico wore a look of sad concern. Rex put a comforting arm around her.

  Weaving across the dance floor, elbowing any number of goth goofballs out of my way, I intercepted the couple just before they disappeared backstage.

  “You again,” sneered Rex.

  “Me again. Just a couple more questions, if you don’t mind.”

  “Okay,” Calico readily agreed before Rex could cut me off.

  I directed my questions at Calico. “I’m trying to get the timeline right. First, you and Donny are an item. At the same time, Rex has his eye on you.”

  Rex protested, “Hey, it wasn’t like that.”

  I continued, “Then someone attacks Gamera.”

  “Not that friggin’ turtle again!”

  “It’s a tortoise. Then Donny is diagnosed with cancer. You can’t handle it and break it off with him.”

  Calico hung her head, ashamed.

  “Then you start shacking up with Rex. Do I have the timeline right?”

  Calico nodded.

  Rex sputtered, “You saying I attacked the turtle because I was jealous of Donny or something? Like I thought that would get me Calico? That’s the stupidest plan I ever heard!”

  I pondered a moment. “You’re right. It is a stupid plan, even for a guy who wears a stocking cap in seventy-degree weather.”

  After a long second or two he realized he’d been insulted and his mouth dropped open, face scrunching like a kid trying to understand the D on his report card.

  I stepped out the side exit into an alley and the door clanked shut behind me, locking me out. I looked up and down, hearing only the squeak of a rat in the dark and the whoosh of traffic at the alley mouth.

  I sidestepped a stream of soapy water running down the pavement, not wanting to decorate my boots with some homeless guy’s secondhand vino.

  Coming out of the alley, I swung a glance at the club entrance. The ersatz Poe was still keeping the line at bay. The orangutan bouncer was in heated discussion with a youngish girl, her hair cut in a bob, wearing a wife-beater and cargo pants. I watched the argument for a full minute before I realized I’d seen this girl before: the volunteer at the infusion clinic over at Providence Portland, Tabie.

  I thought things over for a moment. A couple of jigsaw pieces fell into place, completing a picture that didn’t match the one I had on the cover of my mental puzzle box.

  Tabie waved her arms at the bouncer, fingers sending him an uncouth semaphore before she stormed off.

  I found her halfway down the block, leaning against a streetlight inhaling a cigarette. In the lamp’s phosphorous glow, the streaked highlights in her hair jumped out like a Siberian tiger’s stripes.

  “Tabie?”

  She looked up, glowered.

  “We met before,” I reminded her, “At Providence.”

  Her eyebrows scrunched. “Oh. Right.”

  She sucked her cig, her mind heavy with other things.

  “So let me ask you ... Tabie. You sometimes spell it ‘Tabby,’ with a ‘Y’?”

  She shrugged. “What of it?” Not the peppy girl I’d met at the hospital.

  “Like a tabby cat, the streaks in your hair. You were one of the War Kittens, weren’t you? At least, until what Manx called a ‘clash of personalities.’”

  “Why am I talking to you?”

  I ignored her surliness. “Forget talk. Just listen. I’m filling in a sequence of events.”

  “What sequence? What events?”

  I counted them off: “Donny and Calico are an item. Meanwhile, in the band, you were the one with a thing for Calico, not Rex, like I thought. But Calico wasn’t feeling it. This causes friction in the band and they kick you out. In a fit of rage and jealousy, you blame Donny and lash out by hurting Gamera.”

  She clenched her jaw, looked away.

  “Then Donny is diagnosed. Bad timing all around, I suppose. You feel bad about what you’ve done and volunteer at Providence as your way of making amends, at least in your own mind. On top of all that, Calico ends up with Rex. You still can’t have her.”

  She flicked her cigarette to the sidewalk. Orange sparks exploded.

  “But why hurt Gamera? He’s just a poor defenseless animal.”

  She lowered her head. Her shoulders jerked up and down as she began to sob.

  “I don’t know. . . . I wanted to hurt Donny. . . . It’s because of him . . . and Calico . . . the band doesn’t want me around. . . .”

  “No, hon. It’s because of you the band doesn’t want you around.”

  Tears fell from her face, sparkling in the passing headlights before splatting to the dark sidewalk.

  Her words coughed between hitching sobs, “I . . . I’m sorry but . . . it’s just a . . . just a turtle. . . .”

  “He’s a tortoise.”

  A few weeks later, I scarfe
d down a bowl of Cheerios for breakfast, running behind schedule. I was planning on giving Donny a ride home after his treatment and saying hi to Karen and Gamera. Rinsing my bowl in the sink, I caught sight of Thumper scampering by the open door and down the hall. The rabbit only moves that fast when he’s spooked, and one thing spooks him more than any other.

  I found it on the floor near the stereo, hiding behind a cabinet leg; a big juicy brown one, ugly as sin. I nudged it with the toe of my boot and it unfurled its many legs, creeping out across the rug where I could nail it with a good stomp, raising my booted foot to do the deed.

  Then I paused, the thought flicking through my mind that what if Karen’s theory about reincarnation was right? What if I come back as a creepy-crawly?

  Hauling across the shag, the spider tried to reach a crack in the wall, the dark spot under the easy chair, any hiding place to let it live another day.

  From a pile of junk mail I grabbed that old War Kittens flyer. I set the edge of it on the rug in front of the spider, leaving him no choice but to crawl up onto it.

  Holding the flyer as far from my body as possible, I held it out an open window to dump the spider out. He didn’t want to go, too stupid to know I was saving his life. I shook the flyer and the thing dropped off, dangling from a glowing filament. I yelped, feeling somehow attached to the spider; it to its web, the web to the flyer, the flyer to my fingers.

  I swung the spider to the wall of the houseboat where it clung above the cold, lapping Willamette.

  Before closing the window I watched. The spider appeared to accept its new surroundings, turning and stepping spindly legs in some direction only it had reason to, in slow arachnid symmetry, one foot in front of the other, in front of the other, in front of the other . . .

  Like any other survivor.

  Copyright © 2010 Brian Muir

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  Fiction

  THE CHANGELINGS: A VERY GRIM FAIRYTALE (BUT FOR OUR TIMES)

  By Carol Biederman

  Carol Biederman is the author of a number of published short stories and of a volume of related tales entitled The Oldest Inhabitant (Trafford, 2006), in which the narrator, the first person buried in a California Gold Rush cemetery, uses his unique position to tell stories of the hardships of some of those buried after him. The kind of originality of concept displayed in Ms. Biederman’s book is also evident in her debut story for us. When she isn’t writing, she does Ghost Tours for tourists in the little Gold Rush town she calls home.