Red Delicious

by Kathleen Tierney

  “That it is,” said B. “If my hunch is complete in all its twists and turns—and at present I suppose it is—Harpootlian was the one had poor Mr. Lashly killed. Neither she nor Drusneth would be happy about the emergence of a third interested party.”

  “Why would Amity and Berenice go up against heavy hitters? They’re just kids. Sure, they’re Edgar Maidstone’s daughters, but when did being the privileged, trust-fund brats of a local necromancer make anyone believe they could get involved in a tussle between demon whorehouses and come out in one piece?”

  “How often, dear, have you reminded me of the supreme stupidity of the human race?” B waved a hand at the bone shard on the table. “Will you please remove that from view,” he said.

  I wiped it off onto the floor.

  “If I am correct, the sisters—wishing to gain greater noteworthiness and power within their family—see the object as a shortcut to ascendancy.”

  “So,” I said, “here’s my next stupid question. What the fuck is this piece of junk they’re all fighting over?”

  He reached for something on the booth beside him, then pushed it across the table towards me. It was a very old pulp magazine tucked inside a plastic bag, the sort comic nerds use to keep their funny books in pristine condition. Weird Tales, October 1935, twenty-five cents. The cover was a garish scene of human sacrifice . . . or something of the sort. It was as vague as it was garish. But there were menacing figures in red robes gathered about what appeared to be an altar, where a woman in peril lay helpless and, no surprise, completely naked. The cover promised stories by Robert E. Howard, Arthur Conan Doyle, Robert Bloch, and a fourth person I’d never heard of, someone named Mona Q. Mars.

  “What’s the hell’s this?” I asked, turning the magazine over, like maybe the answer to my question was printed on the back.

  “That’s a magazine.”

  “Fuck you. I mean—”

  “You want to know what I believe Drusneth, the Maidstone sisters, and this Harpootlian are chasing, the most efficacious response is to be found within the pages of that fine publication.”

  “An old issue of Weird Tales?”

  “I’m quite sure that’s what I just said.” Mean Mr. B sipped his cocktail and watched me over the rim of the martini glass.

  “You can’t just tell me?”

  “Of course I could. But this way’s more fun. On page thirty-two, you’ll find a story by a woman who wrote under the nom de plume Mona Mars.”

  “Her name’s on the cover.”

  My stomach made a noise like a tiny earthquake.

  “Very observant, Quinn. The story’s called ‘The Maltese Unicorn.’”

  “You’re shitting me.” I might have laughed. Probably not, though. I was hardly in the laughing mood.

  “No. And there’s a twist. That magazine wasn’t produced in our reality, but in an alternate universe that occasionally bumps up against ours. Mona Mars, or I should say, the woman writing as Mona Mars, never existed in this world. Some things have counterparts, others don’t. In 1935 the venerable Weird Tales did. Mona Mars didn’t.”

  I didn’t bother asking how he’d gotten hold of a magazine from a parallel universe. You hear enough of this bizarre crap, you stop bothering to be astounded. In only six months, I’d heard plenty enough and spare change.

  “I hate homework,” I told him.

  “Indulge me. It’s actually not such a bad tale. True, a tad purple and overwrought at times, but not such a bad tale. Also, it involves ladies of the lesbian persuasion, which will undoubtedly appeal to you.”

  I was tired. Most of my body throbbed to one degree or another. And I was starving. I picked up the magazine and left him sitting there. I grabbed a quick bite in an alley off Thayer Street. Then I went home, took a long scalding shower, and read the story. B was right. Much fucking easier to get a handle on the whole mess if you start off by reading the story, instead of being lazy and listening to someone attempt to sum it up. So I’m following his example (which, by the way, almost never happens). Besides, I think it’s a pretty good yarn, all on its own. Now, there will, of course, be those readers who complain that by sticking Ms. Mars’ story in here, I’m yanking them out of the book.

  “A short story in a novel? What! You’ve got your chocolate in my peanut butter! You’ve got your peanut butter in my chocolate! Oh, this person thinks she’s so clever! Also, she’s talking to the reader! What about my sacred fourth wall! And how can a high school dropout understand the concept of ‘the fourth wall’!”

  Yeah, yeah. I know. I’m a bad girl. I eat people. I curse. I smoke, and drink, and have sex with other women (some of whom aren’t human). I get all hairy at least once a month. I even violate readers’ lazy expectations.

  Blow me.

  The rest of you, read on.

  THE MALTESE UNICORN

  by

  Mona Q. Mars

  New York City (May 1935)

  It wasn’t hard to find her. Sure, she had run. After Szabó let her walk like that, I knew Ellen would get wise that something was rotten, and she’d run like a scared rabbit with the dogs hot on its heels. She’d have it in her head to skip town, and she’d probably keep right on skipping until she was out of the country. Odds were pretty good she wouldn’t stop until she was altogether free and clear of this particular plane of existence. There are plenty enough fetid little hidey-holes in the universe, if you don’t mind the heat and the smell and the company you keep. You only have to know how to find them, and the way I saw it, Ellen Andrews was good as Rand and McNally when it came to knowing her way around.

  But first, she’d go back to that apartment of hers, the whole eleventh floor of the Colosseum, with its bleak westward view of the Hudson River and the New Jersey Palisades. I figured there would be those two or three little things she couldn’t leave the city without, even if it meant risking her skin to collect them. Only she hadn’t expected me to get there before her. Word on the street was Harpootlian still had me locked up tight, so Ellen hadn’t expected me to get there at all.

  From the hall came the buzz of the elevator. Then I heard her key in the lock, the front door, and her footsteps as she hurried through the foyer and the dining room. Then she came dashing into that French Rococo nightmare of a library, and stopped cold in her tracks when she saw me sitting at the reading table with al-Jaldaki’s grimoire open in front of me.

  For a second, she didn’t say anything. She just stood there, staring at me. Then she managed a forced sort of laugh and said, “I knew they’d send someone, Nat. I just didn’t think it’d be you.”

  “After that gip you pulled with the dingus, they didn’t really leave me much choice,” I told her, which was the truth, or all the truth I felt like sharing. “You shouldn’t have come back here. It’s the first place anyone would think to check.”

  Ellen sat down in the armchair by the door. She looked beat, like whatever comes after exhausted, and I could tell Szabó’s gunsels had made sure all the fight was gone before they’d turned her loose. They weren’t taking any chances, and we were just going through the motions now, me and her. All our lines had been written.

  “You played me for a sucker,” I said, and picked up the pistol that had been lying beside the grimoire. My hand was shaking, and I tried to steady it by bracing my elbow against the table. “You played me. Then you tried to play Harpootlian and Szabó both. Then you got caught. It was a bonehead move all the way round, Ellen.”

  “So, how’s it gonna be, Natalie? You gonna shoot me for being stupid?”

  “No, I’m going to shoot you because it’s the only way I can square things with Auntie H, and the only thing that’s gonna keep Szabó from going on the warpath. And because you played me.”

  “In my shoes, you’d have done the same thing,” she said. And the way she said it, I could tell she believed what she was saying. It’s the sort of self-righteous bushwa so many grifters hide behind. They might stab their own mothers in the back if they
see an angle in it, but that’s jake, ’cause so would anyone else.

  “Is that really all you have to say for yourself?” I asked, and pulled back the slide on the Colt, chambering the first round. She didn’t even flinch . . . but wait . . . I’m getting ahead of myself. Maybe I ought to begin nearer the beginning.

  As it happens, I didn’t go and name the place Yellow Dragon Books. It came with that moniker, and I just never saw any reason to change it. I’d only have had to pay for a new sign. Late in ’28— right after Arnie “The Brain” Rothstein was shot to death during a poker game at the Park Central Hotel—I accidentally found myself on the sunny side of the proprietress of one of Manhattan’s more infernal brothels. I say accidentally because I hadn’t even heard of Madam Yeksabet Harpootlian when I began trying to dig up a buyer for an antique manuscript, a collection of necromantic erotica purportedly written by John Dee and Edward Kelley sometime in the sixteenth century. Turns out, Harpootlian had been looking to get her mitts on it for decades.

  Now, just how I came into possession of said manuscript, that’s another story entirely, one for some other time and place. One that, with luck, I’ll never get around to putting down on paper. Let’s just say a couple of years earlier, I’d been living in Paris. Truthfully, I’d been doing my best, in a sloppy, irresolute way, to die in Paris. I was holed up in a fleabag Montmartre boardinghouse, busy squandering the last of a dwindling inheritance. I had in mind how maybe I could drown myself in cheap wine, bad poetry, Pernod, and prostitutes before the money ran out. But somewhere along the way, I lost my nerve, failed at my slow suicide, and bought a ticket back to the States. And the manuscript in question was one of the many strange and unsavory things I brought back with me. I’d always had a nose for the macabre, and had dabbled—on and off—in the black arts since college. At Radcliffe, I’d fallen in with a circle of lesbyterians who fancied themselves witches. Mostly, I was in it for the sex . . . but I’m digressing.

  A friend of a friend heard I was busted, down and out and peddling a bunch of old books, schlepping them about Manhattan in search of a buyer. This same friend, he knew one of Harpootlian’s clients. One of her human clients, which was a pretty exclusive set (not that I knew that at the time). This friend of mine, he was the client’s lover, and said client brokered the sale for Harpootlian— for a fat ten percent finder’s fee, of course. I promptly sold the Dee and Kelly manuscript to this supposedly notorious madam who, near as I could tell, no one much had ever heard of. She paid me what I asked, no questions, no haggling, never mind it was a fairly exorbitant sum. And on top of that, Harpootlian was so impressed I’d gotten ahold of the damn thing, she staked me to the bookshop on Bowery, there in the shadow of the Third Avenue El, just a little ways south of Delancey Street. Only one catch: She had first dibs on everything I ferreted out, and sometimes I’d be asked to make deliveries. I should like to note that way back then, during that long-lost November of 1928, I had no idea whatsoever that her sobriquet, “the Demon Madam of the Lower East Side,” was anything more than colorful hyperbole.

  Anyway, jump ahead to a rainy May afternoon, more than six years later, and that’s when I first laid eyes on Ellen Andrews. Well, that’s what she called herself, though later on I’d find out she’d borrowed the name from Claudette Colbert’s character in It Happened One Night. I was just back from an estate sale in Connecticut, and was busy unpacking a large crate, when I heard the bell mounted above the shop door jingle. I looked up, and there she was, carelessly shaking rainwater from her orange umbrella before folding it closed. Droplets sprayed across the welcome mat and the floor and onto the spines of several nearby books.

  “Hey, be careful,” I said, “unless you intend to pay for those.” I jabbed a thumb at the books she’d spattered. She promptly stopped shaking the umbrella and dropped it into the stand beside the door. That umbrella stand has always been one of my favorite things about the Yellow Dragon. It’s made from the taxidermied foot of a hippopotamus, and accommodates at least a dozen umbrellas, although I don’t think I’ve ever seen even half that many people in the shop at one time.

  “Are you Natalie Beaumont?” she asked, looking down at her wet shoes. Her overcoat was dripping, and a small puddle was forming about her feet.

  “Usually.”

  “Usually,” she repeated. “How about right now?”

  “Depends whether or not I owe you money,” I replied, and removed a battered copy of Blavatsky’s Isis Unveiled from the crate. “Also, depends whether you happen to be employed by someone I owe money.”

  “I see,” she said, as if that settled the matter, then proceeded to examine the complete twelve-volume set of The Golden Bough occupying a top shelf not far from the door. “Awful funny sort of neighborhood for a bookstore, if you ask me.”

  “You don’t think bums and winos read?”

  “You ask me, people down here,” she said, “they panhandle a few cents, I don’t imagine they spend it on books.”

  “I don’t recall asking for your opinion,” I told her.

  “No,” she said. “You didn’t. Still, queer sort of a shop to come across in this part of town.”

  “If you must know,” I said, “the rent’s cheap,” then reached for my spectacles, which were dangling from their silver chain about my neck. I set them on the bridge of my nose and watched while she feigned interest in Frazerian anthropology. It would be an understatement to say Ellen Andrews was a pretty girl. She was, in fact, a certified knockout, and I didn’t get too many beautiful women in the Yellow Dragon, even when the weather was good. She wouldn’t have looked out of place in Flo Ziegfeld’s follies; on the Bowery, she stuck out like a sore thumb.

  “Looking for anything in particular?” I asked her, and she shrugged.

  “Just you,” she said.

  “Then I suppose you’re in luck.”

  “I suppose I am,” she said, and turned towards me again. Her eyes glinted red, just for an instant, like the eyes of a Siamese cat. I figured it for a trick of the light. “I’m a friend of Auntie H. I run errands for her, now and then. She needs you to pick up a package and see it gets safely where it’s going.”

  So, there it was. Madam Harpootlian, or Auntie H to those few unfortunates she called her friends. And suddenly it made a lot more sense, this choice bit of calico walking into my place, strolling in off the street like maybe she did all her shopping down on Skid Row. I’d have to finish unpacking the crate later. I stood up and dusted my hands off on the seat of my slacks.

  “Sorry about the confusion,” I said, even if I wasn’t actually sorry, even if I was actually kind of pissed the girl hadn’t told me who she was right up front. “When Aunt H wants something done, she doesn’t usually bother sending her orders around in such an attractive envelope.”

  The girl laughed, then said, “Yeah, Auntie H warned me about you, Miss Beaumont.”

  “Did she, now? How so?”

  “You know, your predilections. How you’re not like other women.”

  “I’d say that depends on which other women we’re discussing, don’t you think?”

  “Most other women,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at the rain pelting the shop windows. It sounded like frying meat out there, the sizzle of the rain against asphalt, and concrete, and the roofs of passing automobiles.

  “And what about you?” I asked her. “Are you like most other women?”

  She looked away from the window, looking back at me, and she smiled what must have been the faintest smile possible. “Are you always this charming?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” I said. “Then again, I never took a poll.”

  “The job, it’s nothing particularly complicated,” she said, changing the subject. “There’s a Chinese apothecary not too far from here.”

  “That doesn’t exactly narrow it down,” I said, and lit a cigarette.

  “Sixty-five Mott Street. The joint’s run by an elderly Cantonese fellow name of Fong.”

&nb
sp; “Yeah, I know Jimmy Fong.”

  “That’s good. Then maybe you won’t get lost. Mr. Fong will be expecting you, and he’ll have the package ready at five thirty this evening. He’s already been paid in full, so all you have to do is be there to receive it, right? And, Miss Beaumont, please try to be on time. Auntie H said you have a problem with punctuality.”

  “You believe everything you hear?”

  “Only if I’m hearing it from Auntie H.”

  “Fair enough,” I told her, then offered her a Pall Mall, but she declined.

  “I need to be getting back,” she said, reaching for the umbrella she’d only just deposited in the stuffed hippopotamus foot.

  “What’s the rush? What’d you come after, anyway, a ball of fire?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I got places to be. You’re not the only stop on my itinerary.”

  “Fine. Wouldn’t want you getting in Dutch with Harpootlian on my account. Don’t suppose you’ve got a name?”

  “I might,” she said.

  “Don’t suppose you’d share?” I asked her, and took a long drag on my cigarette, wondering why in blue blazes Harpootlian had sent this smart-mouthed skirt instead of one of her usual flunkies. Of course, Auntie H always did have a sadistic streak to put de Sade to shame, and likely as not this was her idea of a joke.

  “Ellen,” the girl said. “Ellen Andrews.”

  “So, Ellen Andrews, how is it we’ve never met? I mean, I’ve been making deliveries for your boss lady now going on seven years, and if I’d seen you, I’d remember. You’re not the sort I forget.”

  “You got the moxie, don’t you?”

  “I’m just good with faces is all.”

  She chewed at a thumbnail, as if considering carefully what she should or shouldn’t divulge. Then she said, “I’m from out of town, mostly. Just passing through, and thought I’d lend a hand. That’s why you’ve never seen me before, Miss Beaumont. Now, I’ll let you get back to work. And remember, don’t be late.”