by Alan Baxter
The death metal track that Isiah had no hope of identifying roared from speakers in every corner, lightning fast guitar, growling, demonic vocals, bass drum like the heart of a frightened mouse. A man of about twenty five or so stood behind the large glass cabinet that doubled as a sales counter, dressed all in black. He looked at Isiah from under long, unkempt hair, nodded slightly when their eyes met. Isiah would have to get a lot closer to actually talk to him.
He walked up to the counter. It was full of vicious looking chrome knives, pipes and bongs of all shapes and sizes, a dozen different rolling papers, fabric patches, studs, lighters. The required possessions of the dedicated metalhead. The guy behind the counter attempted to smile. ‘Help you?’
Isiah nodded. ‘I’m looking for a store that has a life-size Alice Cooper.’ He was impressed at the straight face he managed to maintain.
The shopkeep looked a little confused. ‘You wanna buy a life-size Alice Cooper?’
‘No. I’m just looking for a store that has one. Maybe a display piece.’
‘Oh, I see. Man, I thought you were some kind of freak! Life-size Alice fucking Cooper! Hang on a minute.’ Chuckling to himself, the young man yelled through a heavy black curtain behind him. ‘Barry’ll be out in a second. He might know.’
Isiah nodded. ‘Thanks.’ He amused himself watching the young man roll a cigarette while subtly head banging at a furious rate, dropping the tobacco more than once. After a moment Barry appeared. He looked exactly like the young man, only a good ten years older.
‘What can I do for ya?’
‘I’m looking for a store. I think it’s a record store. It has a life-size Alice Cooper on display.’
Barry thought for a second. ‘I’ve seen that somewhere. You sure it’s a record store?’
‘No.’
‘Oh. Well, I know I’ve seen one somewhere.’ Barry grinned broadly. ‘Good ol’ Alice, eh!’ He scratched absently at his chin.
‘I think the owner’s name is Dave,’ Isiah offered. He was rewarded as realisation dawned on Barry’s thin face.
‘Shit, yeah! Of course. It’s not a record store, it’s Dave’s sex shop. Knew I’d seen it somewhere!’ Embarrassment quickly flashed across Barry’s face as he realised what he’d admitted to. He carried on quickly. ‘Me and Dave used to drink together sometimes. He pops in here sometimes for CDs and shit. His shop’s called The Toolbox. Is that what you mean?’
Isiah smiled. ‘I guess so. Where is it?’
The rain and traffic noise was a strange attack on the senses as Isiah stepped from the gloomy, pounding depths of Black Heart Records & CDs. The music hammering his ears had become background noise once he had decided to ignore it and it had the added advantage of blotting out the sounds of the city. Coupled with the imposed darkness, the sweet smell of the young man’s tobacco, the bizarre décor, it had all seemed quite pleasant in a twisted way. In some respects Isiah envied those men their simple security.
He looked around for somewhere quiet, somewhere to sit for a minute and astrally check out the Toolbox before travelling to it. There was a bar directly across the street. The gents in there would do fine.
Isiah walked through the scratched wooden doors of the pub and was met by the familiar and slightly comforting smell and warmth that bars all over the world seem to share. The odour of beer and cigarette smoke, perfume and cologne. People sat around with glasses of beer and wine, packet snacks, sad faces. Few people that frequented bars before lunchtime were particularly happy. The soft carpet slightly sticky underfoot, Isiah headed for the doorway marked by a sign with a picture of a pointing hand. He pushed open the door marked Gents and was met with the smell of detergent, bleach and piss. He walked straight to one of the cubicles at the back, choosing to ignore the dishevelled young man under the sinks pulling his belt tight around his left arm.
Sitting down on the toilet seat Isiah pushed the bolt into place and leant back, closed his eyes. He let his astral body slip free of the physical, paused briefly to look at himself in the ‘real’ world, like he was sleeping. He checked the junkie under the sink; he was in his own world, concentrating on his task. Satisfied, he flew out through the wall of the pub into the street, then off at fantastic speed to the address of the Toolbox.
He arrived in seconds at a door with a red neon arrow pointing up the thin flight of stairs, Adult Book Exchange. He went up the stairs, jumping easily over a fat, greasy individual coming the other way. He hated to pass through people in this state, he always learned too much about them when that happened. Upstairs the shop was empty apart from a small man behind the counter who was attempting to superglue a man-size manikin together. Isiah smiled and shot back to his body.
As his eyes flicked open he noticed two things immediately. One was the ecstatic groan of the junkie under the sinks as he banged his score. The other was a lot more serious. A massive wave of RealmShift building fantastically fast. He’s trying to catch me weak! There was always a risk in leaving your body unattended. Realising he was just in time to avoid a serious fight, Isiah quickly gathered his will and travelled from the pub. As his body dematerialised he heard and felt a roar of pure rage, Lucifer coming back for another shouting match. Close call. That junkie was heading for a hell of a ride.
He knew he was taking another big risk, but what choice did he have. Arriving on the stairs leading up to the Toolbox no one was around to see him appear out of thin air. Breathing a sigh of relief he walked up into the shop. The man behind the counter looked up, putting the manikin down out of sight. He nodded, slightly nervous. Isiah returned his nod and began wandering around, browsing, thinking about the best way to approach the subject.
The place was a remarkable treasure trove of all things sordid. It was lit with a number of low-grade ruddy bulbs, an attempt at atmosphere. There were magazine racks through the middle of the shop, loaded with glossies, books, videos, DVDs. Around all the walls were glass shelves carrying all forms of sex toys and associated paraphernalia, dildos, vibrators, love eggs, leather straps, whips, masks, a hundred different brands of amyl nitrate and a million other products that Isiah did not want to even consider the purpose of. But he couldn’t help smiling slightly at some of the packaging and pictures.
Gently shaking his head he approached the counter. ‘Dave?’
Dave’s face ran through a remarkable range of expressions in just a couple of seconds, surprise, suspicion, fear, confusion. ‘Yeah. What can I do for you?’ Apparently he had decided to settle on confidence. Bad choice.
Deciding that intimidation would get him the quickest results Isiah leaned forward over the counter, trying to ignore the selection of plastic vaginas staring up at him through the glass top. He towered over the hunched shopkeeper, his black eyes like tunnels threatening to suck the small man into oblivion. ‘I’m looking for Samuel Harrigan.’ His voice was quiet but its effect was instant.
Dave visibly deflated, shoulders slumping. His breath slowly escaped in a lengthy sigh as he looked down at the floor. ‘Oh, fuck.’
Isiah sensed his sheer despair, almost felt sorry for him. ‘Where is he?’
Dave looked up, eyes red and tired. He held out both hands, palms up, in an act of submission. ‘I have no fucking idea man. Please don’t bust up my shop.’
Isiah leaned slightly closer. ‘Your shop can’t tell me anything. If I’m going to bust something up, it’ll be you. Where is Samuel Harrigan?’
Dave began to tremble, eyes brimming. His voice was weak, shaking like his body. ‘Shit man, please don’t hurt me. I wish I’d never met the bastard. I promise you, I don’t know where he is.’
Isiah knew he wasn’t lying so decided to try a different approach. ‘Why don’t you tell me about your relationship to Sam?’
Dave pulled forward a stool, slumped down onto it. He took a deep breath and rubbed his hand over his saggy, stubbly face. Taking a packet of Marlboro from under the counter he shook a cigarette loose, gripped it between yellow teeth, lit it with
a shaking hand. His lighter was a Zippo with a pair of pewter breasts glued to the front.
Dave took a long drag on the Marlboro, drew it deep into his lungs, took another as he blew the first out of distended nostrils. He looked up and said, ‘Sam first came in here a year or two ago. He used to like videos of a more... uncommon nature. I got all kinds of sexual activity on film but Sam liked more, he like a little violence with his porn. I said I could get pretty much anything he needed.’
He paused, trembling. Isiah leaned forward a little more. ‘Go on.’
Dave took another long draw on his cigarette. ‘Well, me and Sam began quite a profitable business relationship. I got in all kinds of nasty shit for him and he paid top dollar for anything I found. He couldn’t get enough, and the nastier the better. I couldn’t watch half of what he liked, man, the fucker is really sick.’
Isiah ground his teeth, breathing deeply. Let him talk.
The ash fell from the end of Dave’s cigarette before it reached the ashtray, his hand was shaking so much. ‘Well, we kinda became mates. I knew he was a real fucking weirdo, I mean weird beyond the norm, you know? Anyway, occasionally we’d go out for a beer after I closed up, or have a game of pool, that sort of thing. Pretty normal shit.
‘That was until about a month ago. He came in one day and said he had a new business venture under way and would I do him a favour. Like I said, he’s worth good money to me, so I says “Sure, what’s up?” He tells me he just needs somewhere to meet people, can he use the back room here. It’s like a store room, but there’s plenty of space, you know?’
Isiah nodded. ‘So what happened?’
Dave ground out the butt of his Marlboro with stubby yellow fingers, the nails chewed back so far they were almost gone. He took another from the pack, lit it with his Zippo, ran his thumb gently over the pewter breasts. He looked up at Isiah, his bloodshot eyes vague. ‘A couple of times he met with this dodgy looking guy out back. They would be in there only an hour or so each time, then leave. That was it. That happened three times, I think, then Sam fucked off. I haven’t seen him since.’
Isiah was trying to imagine a person that Dave would consider dodgy looking. ‘What about the man he met with? Seen him since?’
Dave nodded sadly, grinding the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, ash floating from the cigarette onto his black, greasy hair. Looking up, his eyes redder than ever, he said, ‘Yeah. That’s the problem.’
Now we’re getting somewhere. ‘Explain.’
‘He’s been back a few times asking me where Sam is. Last time he came in I said I still didn’t know where Sam was and he started busting shit up, shouting and yelling, telling me I’d be dogmeat if I didn’t tell him what was up.’ Dave pointed to a number of broken shelves in one corner beside the counter, stock neatly tidied on the floor beneath. He chose not to mention his Alice Cooper.
Isiah nodded. ‘So did he give you any way to contact him should Sam show up?’
Dave reached under the counter again, pulled out a scrap of paper, handed it to Isiah. ‘I don’t give a fuck any more, man. Just try and fight it out amongst yourselves will ya. All I did was let the bastards use my storeroom. I don’t need this shit.’
Isiah looked at the scrap of paper. It had a name, Baker, and a phone number written on it in neat pencil script. He looked at Dave again. ‘What else do you know about this Baker?’
Dave shook head. ‘Absolutely nothing, man. He’s a swarthy bloke, like maybe Italian or Greek. He always wore real sharp suits, shiny shoes. Tall guy, probably as tall as you. He always arrived after Sam got here and left before Sam did. That’s it.’
Isiah nodded again, took a flyer advertising a live sex show from a plastic rack on the counter. ‘All right, Dave. Got a pen?’ Dave handed him a chewed Bic. Isiah wrote down the number of his apartment, handed it to Dave. ‘Now you call me if Sam shows up, not Baker, understand?’
Dave shrugged. ‘Whatever.’
Isiah leant forward again, took a handful of Dave’s shirt, lifted him up a little by it. Dave stretched his head back, his eyes fearful, trying not to look at Isiah. ‘If he comes here and you don’t call me I will know and I will make you sorry.’
‘All right, man. I’ll call if he comes here, I promise.’
Isiah dropped the little man back onto his stool, stuffed Baker’s number into the pocket of his leather jacket and headed toward the door. Looking back from the top of the stairs he saw Dave lighting another cigarette, rubbing his hand through his greasy hair. He was looking forward to the rain.
Isiah loved the rain in many ways, but it always made him melancholy too. It had been raining that day in Glen Coe, so many years ago, centuries ago, when he had first met Megan. He was a young, mortal man, lost and wandering, no family, no faith, no cares. Then he and Megan had fallen in love and he knew happiness for the first time ever. Except her father had hated him for his English birth, had nearly killed him when he discovered their secret place. They had run away together, their love too strong to deny, and for a time their happiness had continued. Until the violence came.
Isiah found himself standing in the rain, staring into nowhere. He had brought himself down thinking about his past. It amazed him how much it still hurt to think about Megan, over five hundred years since. Why did the memories keep surfacing now? It couldn’t be just the rain. He had long ago promised himself that he would never let anything like that happen again. So far he had kept that promise.
Trying to shake off his bad mood, he looked around for somewhere quiet to travel from. It was time to get back to his apartment, think. And ring this Baker, see what light he could cast on the situation. He saw a café just down the street a few doors. That would do. He wondered with a smile as he walked toward the neon fronted sandwich bar how many people he had freaked out by entering their cafés or pubs and never leaving again. He wondered how many people actually noticed. Very few no doubt. It was amazing how little people tend to notice. Especially if they don’t like it or don’t want to believe it. The human mind can be a remarkably versatile device for protecting the psyche. Sometimes not always for the best.
Isiah pushed open the glass door, Open 7 Days, and went inside. A small Asian man behind the counter looked up and smiled like Isiah was his long lost son. ‘How can I help you today, sir?’
Isiah gestured vaguely toward the back of the café. ‘Use your toilet first?’
The man’s smile, impossibly, broadened. ‘Of course, of course.’
Isiah nodded his thanks and headed deeper into the café. This one would notice. Five minutes and he’d worry a little. Ten minutes and he’d be angry about the junkie banging up in his café, but too scared to chase him out. Fifteen minutes and his worry would overtake his anger. He would find an excuse to come into the toilets to check, bucket and mop in hand perhaps. Once inside he would look around, scratch his head, bemused. He would think about all the little things he had done that might have made him miss the strange man’s exit, serving a customer, checking the oven, getting the mop. Shaking his head, he would leave, go back to the counter. An hour later he will have forgotten all about it, maybe mention it to his wife in passing tonight. Impossible, unnatural, remarkable, but not his problem.
Inside the cool, dripping toilet, strong smell of bleach, Isiah quickly looked around. No one about. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and travelled. As the heaviness swept over him again he snapped open his eyes, spun around, scanning the apartment with eyes and mind. Nothing.
Looking with a pained expression at the melted floor where Satan had vented his rage, he wondered how he would explain that one to the landlord. It was a mess, but with some time and concentration he might be able to reconstruct it. He didn’t want to consider how it might be affecting the plumbing.
It had been a long day, and it wasn’t over yet. Isiah sighed and collapsed into a high backed armchair that had become something of a friend to him. It was old and worn, the arms threadbare, the seat sagging and lumpy
, but he had spent many hours relaxing in its dubious comforts and had grown to appreciate what it stood for. A time to breath, reflect.
But not right now. He had to stay on the trail while it was still relatively warm. Sam had been at his apartment not too long ago. The corpse of the young woman had not been there long, probably only last night she had been alive and well. Isiah imagined Samuel chatting her up in a pub or club somewhere, convincing her to come back to his place.
He derailed the train of thought quickly. If he was going to have to work with Sam, guide him to his destiny for the sake of the Balance, then he would have to try to stay emotionally uninvolved.
Stuffing his hand into the pocket of his leather jacket, he groped around for the scrap of paper with Baker’s number on it. Baker. Swarthy bloke, maybe Italian or Greek. Not many Italians or Greeks called Baker. Pretty unimaginative alias really. He wondered if Baker had used the same alias with Sam, or another one. Possibly even his real name, though that seemed unlikely.
With a mental shrug Isiah put down the paper on the arm of the chair and reached for the phone. He dialled the number. After a second or two it began to ring, once, twice. Halfway through the third ring it was picked up but no one spoke. Isiah smiled, waiting. Suddenly it became an audio staring match.
After a few seconds more there was an annoyed intake of breath. ‘Yes.’
Isiah waited a second longer, enjoying the juvenile buzz of it all. Then, ‘Baker?’
‘Who’s this?’
‘You called Baker?’
‘Who the fuck is this?’
‘Someone who wants to talk to Baker.’
There was a grunt, annoyed. This wasn’t Baker. There was a muffled conversation, just a few words, then a scratching sound as the phone was passed from one person to another. A second later, ‘Baker.’
