by Anton Strout
I stood there awkwardly, the hiss of the espresso machine filling the silence like a low-flying plane. I wasn’t sure what to say to correct the situation, but it was Mrs. Teasley who jumped in with a different awkward matter altogether.
“Not having any of your usual troubles with this one?” she asked me sweetly.
I cocked my head at her.
“Well, Simon,” she said. I could see the matter-of-factness in her eyes. She dabbed her fingers in the wet pile on her table. “The coffee grounds never lie. They’ve told me that your trysting has never met with much success.” She looked unexpectedly tired just then. “I suspect it’s the same story for all of us with such talents.”
She fell silent and scritched at her cat.
I gave what she said a moment to sink in: Was I having my usual trouble with Jane? Maybe Mrs. Teasley was on to something with her question. Perhaps it was time to cut her some slack. She was proving far more observant and asking the right kinds of questions. Ihadn’t picked up a single vibe from Jane or anything I had touched of hers.
I didn’t know why she was exempt from my powers. Maybe I was actually learning to control them. If so, I had Connor to thank for that.
As if just the mere thought of Connor was enough to summon him, he appeared from between the curtains that separated the coffeehouse from the movie theater. He stiffened at the sight of Jane sitting with Mrs. Teasley, but I shot him a look that saidDon’t start. I felt a moment of triumph as he softened, even if ever so slightly, and then he focused on me once again.
“How’s your head today?” he asked. By the time we had left Eccentric Circles, we were both experiencing trouble walking.
“You don’t need to shout!” I said as I grabbed my head and pretended to reel. Any hints of tension seemed to dissipate as he laughed.
“Sorry,” he said in a mock whisper. “You want to go over what I’ve discovered out back or you want me to hit it with you right here?”
I self-consciously put a hand on Jane’s shoulder and squeezed it. “Right here is fine. If it’s got anything to do with her former employer, I think she needs to be in on it. They’re practically hunting her anyway.”
“Fine,” he said, but his tension from yesterday came back immediately. I knew he wasn’t happy to have Jane involved, but I think he also knew I wasn’t going to back down this time.
“Lay it on us,” I said, and sat down next to Jane.
Connor threw himself on the sofa sitting kitty-corner to us. “You know, having the delivery address for that wooden fish certainly came in handy when I talked to some of the recently living this morning.”
“Was it Irene? Did you talk to her?” I asked, tensing at the thought. At the mention of Irene’s name, Connor looked briefly at Jane and sighed before turning back to me.
“I have cases on my plate other than your little…client,” he said. “Anyway, no, I didn’t have contact with Irene. I’ve been communing with a few other spirits crossing over the past few days and I was able to glean a little other side info from it all.”
He reached in his coat and brought out his Palm Pilot.
“Fancy,” I said. “We in a new budget cycle or did you get a raise?”
“I wish,” he said, looking up. “It’s a loaner.”
He stylused down the screen until he found what he was looking for. “Here we go! We’ve been noticing a lot more restless souls than usual processing through the Department lately, and most of them are familiar with the address on the manifest. Thing is, kid, they’re all experiencing the same type of memory loss and displacement. They’re either like that ghost in the alley or like Irene.”
Connor scrolled farther along. I would have bet money he was feeling all Six Degrees of Lieutenant Columbo right now.
“So what’s the address for?” I asked
“Hold your damn horses, kid.” He slowed his pace, scrolled back a few screens, and stopped. “Ah, here it is! I had to piece it together from what several of the spirits said, but they thought it belonged to a group called the Salvador Breton Foundation although none of them could remember anything clearer than that. That name mean anything to either of you?”
Jane shook her head. Mrs. Teasley did so as well, even though she wasn’t really a part of our conversation.
“Don’t ask me,” she chimed in. “Heavens, it’s rare that I ever deal in specifics anyway, isn’t it, boys?”
“You, Simon?” Connor asked, ignoring her.
“The only foundations I’m familiar with are antique houses and artists’ trusts, but this group does sound vaguely familiar.”
Connor grabbed my by the shoulder and sat me down. “Close your eyes, kid. We’re gonna figure this out my way.”
“Is this gonna hurt?” I asked, only half joking.
“Only if you make me slap you,” he said, and covered my eyes with his right hand cupped over them. “I want you to relax. Now listen to the words again. The Salvador Breton Foundation. I want you to visualize them, twirling and spinning, trying to fit into place like jigsaw pieces…”
I felt silly letting myself be guided through a creative visualization, but if it somehow tied into Irene’s death and our pursuit of her killers, I would give it my best shot.
“Think about the details so far, kid. The oracle on the subway, Cyrus Mandalay’s shop, the Ghostsniffing operation…”
“Nothing,” I said, moving to push Connor’s hand away from my eyes, but he held it there still.
“Now think larger, kid, like the wheels of the cosmos are just churning away, things clicking into place for reasons that are becoming increasingly clear.”
“This isn’t going to work,” I said. “I’ve tried to fit myself into this puzzle. Why me? Why am I in the midst of it all?”
“You don’t need to know why,” Connor said, “just accept that you are.”
I gave in to Connor’s demand, stopped questioning, and gave over to simply thinking free form. I never used to take into account such concepts as “the grand scheme of things.” Working in my current environment and having this power, however, it had become more and more obvious that the grander scheme was something I needed to figure into both my own life and my work.
A grand scheme meant some sort of planner and that brought to mind the larger question of theology. Was I experiencing, through my power, a direct relation to God or several gods for that matter? Did the divine even factor into it? Was I predestined to be a lowly thief and con artist all those years to put me on the road toward fighting for Good? My criminal past didn’t seem to jibe with living the life of the righteous and good.
My mind was going off on tangents piecing details together, but I needed to get back to basics in my head, and my thoughts drifted to Irene. I contemplated all the points where our lives intersected, the commonality between us, and like a divine spark, it hit me.
“I have it!” I said. The three of them turned to me expectantly. “Well, at least I think I know the significance of the name ‘Salvador Breton’ anyway.”
“Please,” said Connor as he poised his stylus over his Palm. “Enlighten us.”
“This may not have to do with anything,” I said, “but if any of the finer points of this case are connected, I think that foundation has something to do with the Surrealist movement.”
Blank stares from all around. Finally, Connor said, “Go on.”
“You know I have a somewhat shady background in art history so bear with me for a moment if I get all lecturey. When you have my ability, you take an interest in the art world. But Surrealism wasn’t just an art movement; it was a serious way of life for people. To that point, there was a huge blowup, in the thirties I believe, between two of the leading fathers of the movement, Salvador Dalн and Andrй Breton.”
“I’ve heard of Dalн,” Jane said. “He did all those creepy stilt-legged animals and melting watches, right? I think I’ve seen them at MOMA, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard of this Andrй Breton character.”
“Not surprising,” I said, feeling quite juiced now that I was in my element. “Outside of the Surrealists, few people knew him, but he’s a poet who was regarded as the ‘pope,’ as it were, of the movement. Eventually he kicked Dalн out of the elite inner circle of Surrealists because he was considered too far right-wing, and if you can believe it, even too extreme for them.”
“That issaying something,” Connor said.
“I know,” I said, nodding. “There was a huge falling-out in their circle, and it upset Dalн greatly. His pissy response to it all was, ‘The only difference between me and the Surrealists is that I am a Surrealist.’ The whole movement started as a very literary thing, but eventually their philosophy snowballed until it became more like a religion.”
“I’m not sure how all this fits into what’s going on here,” Connor said. “It sounds like the foundation may take its name from them, but to what end?”
“I’ll tell you,” I said, excited by my sudden epiphany. “As an artistic movement, the Surrealists are big on the symbology of the fish. In the twentieth century, it’s a reoccurring motive in their artwork. It we extend that artistic use of it in form and theme into the lifestyle and not just the art, the fish takes on a totemistic nature. Meaning-”
“There’s a power in that wooden fish,” Connor finished. “Good work, kid. Of all fish that Cyrus hunted out, this was the one that eluded him, probably the only one he really wanted. Why else would he let all the others go up in smoke?”
I stood up. “I’m not sure, but maybe the F.O.G.ies will have some insight now that we have an idea about the fish. They must have been around when the whole Surrealist movement was going on. I’ll ask the Inspectre.”
I looked to Jane. “You going to be okay?”
Jane smiled. “As fine as an ex-cultist hiding from a contract killer can be.”
“Play nice with the other kids,” I said, “and have Connor get you an iced mochaccino. They’re to die for.”
I ran back toward the movie theater section, leaving Connor and Jane to themselves. I’d find a way for those two to bond or die trying. I continued farther back to the offices and through the desks and cubicles before hitting the stairs leading up to the Inspectre’s office. Once again, I walked in on Argyle Quimbley just as he was settling down behind his desk with a cup of tea. He looked up when he saw me coming through his door and his face fell. He set his cup down.
“Easy, son,” he said. “Nothing too loud. The spirit-or should I say spirits-of Eccentric Circles still pervades me…”
Trying to contain my excitement, I quietly described what Jane, Connor, and I had been discussing. When I was done, the Inspectre remained silent.
“I thought maybe the Fraternal Order of Goodness might have some insight?”
“Ah, yes,” the Inspectre finally said. He seemed to be struggling with what to say. “I will certainly pass that information along to the other F.O.G.ies, but I’m afraid I can’t comment on it myself.”
I looked at him, puzzled. “Sir…?”
“Until I’m actually in council with the other members of the Fraternal Order, I’m afraid I can’t discuss our take on the situation just yet.”
“But you’re part of the D.E.A.!” I said, confused.
“The Order works outside the confines of the D.E.A.,” he said. Why was the Inspectre stonewalling me?
“What’s the blasted difference anyway?” I said out of frustration.
“Ah, well, thatis something I can tell you,” the Inspectre said, warming. “Being part of the Department of Extraordinary Affairs is ajob -a worthwhile and important job, but a job nonetheless. The Fraternal Order, however, is a way of life, reaching far beyond the confines of what this office can do. Unfortunately that means we keep our own counsel. I’m sorry.”
The Inspectre seemed sincere and a little sad, but right now I wasn’t having it. People I had come to care about were at stake.
“Fine,” I said, heading for the door. “I’ll be sure to send a funeral wreath to your next meeting if Jane gets killed in the meantime.”
“Simon,” the Inspectre said, trying to stop me, but I kept walking. There was work to do, people to protect.
35
Apparently, what I said had more of an effect on the Inspectre than I thought. Minutes after I returned to Connor and Jane, rumors of the Inspectre calling the Fraternal Order into secret session were flying. An hour later, those rumors were confirmed when the office erupted in a flurry of activity. After using my information as a springboard, the F.O.G.ies finally agreed to merge their information with the rest of the Department, and since I had pegged the Salvador Breton Foundation as the group we were looking for, piecing together a plan became remarkably easy.
We overheard from the Enchancellors that F.O.G. had even called Director Wesker into their secret session to find out what he had gathered in his covert ops at the Sectarian Defense League. Luckily, his cover had proven to still be safe. Wesker had learned of an upcoming gala cosponsored by the Sectarian Defense League and the Salvador Breton Foundation. The one thing that both the D.E.A. and F.O.G. agreed on was that something big was up, and with Wesker’s help, invitations were secured.
None of us were quite sure what to expect, but the decision was made to crash the gala-the smaller the team, the more unnoticed we would be. The Inspectre hand selected me, Connor, and several members of Shadower team for the mission. Since Jane wasn’t part of the D.E.A., she hadn’t been invited to our little party crash.
Apparently, the location always changed for these events, but this time the bad guys had done things up in style by obtaining the Metropolitan Museum of Art as their venue. Never slaves to convention, the Surrealists had chosen to host the event as a “Come As Your Favorite Dead Celebrity” affair, and while we waited on line to enter, I immediately noticed several people sporting the curly-cue mustache of Salvador Dalн himself in their not-so-creative costumes.
For my own costume, I had gone with one of my childhood idols. There had been two potential costumes, both from shows I had watched as repeats. First, there was the man who made theWilliam Tell Overture popular among generations of kids, the Lone Ranger. The second was a folk hero from the old Mickey Mouse Club serials, none other than Zorro. Figuring they wouldn’t let me in with holsters and guns, I opted for Zorro. He had always struck me as more interesting anyway, less of a Goody Two-shoes than Tonto’s kemosabe. The fact that I didn’t really know how to use the plastic sword hanging from my belt didn’t make it seem any less cool to me.
Most importantly, I had opted for the traditional black gloves of the Zorro outfit. Museums were full of potential danger where my powers were concerned, and although I was exhibiting some newfound control over my powers, touching any of these artifacts was likely to overload my powers and cripple my mind in a heartbeat. The energy off these ancient pieces-psychic imprints from people who handled the installations, the actual artists and crafters of the items, millions of tourists-I didn’t even want to think what could potentially happen to me.
The man at the door checked my invitation and inspected my plastic sword before handing it back to me and waving us into the museum. There was something about being in a museum at night that was eerily intimidating. The absence of thousands of tourists had settled like a blanket over the Met, the quiet echoes of footfalls drove home its enormity. It reminded me of wandering the halls of my high school while waiting after hours on parent-teacher night. It almost held the same sense of doom, too.
We found the bulk of the crowd gathered near the Temple of Dendur in the Egyptian part of the Sackler Wing. The members of Shadower did what they did best and immediately disappeared into the sea of people. Mood was everything to the Surrealists, it seemed. The room was lit with a haunting blue haze that hung over the temple like a faux Egyptian night sky would have. I thought for sure the event would have been set up where the work of the actual Surrealists was kept, in the Modern Art section of the museum, but the Egyptian win
g trumped it in oddness and seemed as surreal a venue for tonight’s soirйe as any.
“Well, we certainly ain’t in Casablanca, kid,” Connor said, loving every moment of playing dress up as Humphrey Bogart. The clothes were pretty close to what Connor normally wore, and his impression, as usual, was painful to listen to.
The rest of our team had also come with the entertainment motif in mind. The Inspectre had taken the daring route and come as Isadora Duncan, the deceased dancer who had passed away tragically when one of her trademark scarves got caught in the wheels of her car, snapping her neck. He was dressed in a long white gown with fake blood caked down the front, a womanly wig (made even more ridiculous given his bushy mustache), and a long tattered scarf with a hubcap hanging from the end of it. Even I was impressed at the lengths he had gone to.
We split up and each of us set off in our own direction. For a “Dead Celeb” party, there was a suspicious lack of Elvis Presleys in the crowd, a fact that I blurted out to the nearest passerby. She was a woman in her twenties, possibly pretty but it was hard to tell because she was done up as a traditional Napoleon, complete with his famous hat and her hand tucked firmly into her vest.
“Excuse me, but where’s the King?” I asked.
“Wheech keeeng?” she asked with an outrageous French accent. She waved her free hand around the room. “Zere arrr two Hen-ree zee Eighths over zhere, a couple of Tuts up by zee temple…”
“No, no,” I corrected her. “TheKing. Presley!”
Napoleon laughed and slapped me on the shoulder.
“Silly!” she said. “Zhees is adead celebrity party!”
Before I could further argue the point, she walked off to join a group who had come as the paintingA Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte.
A Marilyn Monroe holding a carnival mask on a stick sidled up to me, laughing.
I turned and there was Jane dressed as a most impressive and stunningly attractive Marilyn Monroe, right down to the billowy white dress that had danced over an air grate to the delight of millions of men (and a few women, too, I suspected). Between the wig and the mask, I had hardly recognized her.
