by John Levitt
Lou ran over to greet him. Timothy was not a practitioner; he was just a normal person, but he was still one of Lou’s favorites. Tim reached into his pocket, pulled out a Snausage, and offered it to Lou, who accepted it gravely. He was just being polite; he doesn’t really care for them that much. In fact, his attitude toward all things dog food are about the same as mine about tofu—he’ll eat it if he’s really hungry, but it’s no cause for celebration.
Victor looked up from his desk with a quick glance of inquiry. He knew I didn’t stop by for random chats.
“I need a gun,” I said.
“I seriously doubt that. What for?”
I told him about the fake Ifrit showing up at the Columbarium, as well as the vision of Sherwood I’d seen. Eli would have been more interested in the Sherwood story; Victor, ever the pragmatist, was more focused right now on the fake Ifrit. He had a point—Sherwood’s apparition could wait, but the Ifrit was a serious and immediate threat.
“So how did it find me there?” I concluded. “Why hasn’t it appeared before? And how about lending me something that will blow its head off next time it shows up?”
Timothy had been listening carefully. There was a time when I would have been more circumspect around him, since he’s not a practitioner, after all, but by now he was one of the family. I trusted him as much as I did Victor. Maybe more.
“Think a moment. What did you do that was different today?” he said.
“You mean besides calling up a vision of a long-dead girlfriend?”
Then I got what he was saying. Of course. Whatever the vision had been, it had involved some sort of enormous magical dislocation. For a creature sensitive to such things it must have lit up the magical landscape like a fireworks display.
Victor looked over at Timothy and nodded approvingly.
“Good point,” he said. “It was the evocation that drew it to you. And the last place we saw it was at the Presidio. It could easily have been hiding out in Golden Gate Park, right next door.”
“Wasn’t there a family of coyotes living there last year?” Timothy said. “They had to track them down and shoot them when they started attacking joggers, remember?”
“Okay, fine,” I said. “So it’s not going to be hiding behind every bush ready to leap out at me. But I’d still like something more than a couple of illusion spells for protection.”
“Fair enough,” said Victor, after a moment’s thought.
He walked over to the giant safe in the corner of the room and spun the dial a few times. The safe is at least six feet tall and surprisingly deep, and you could cram a lot of stuff in there. Sometimes I wondered if he hadn’t magically enhanced the inside space in some fashion. He was more than capable of something like that, and it always seemed there was way too much stuff in there, even for a safe that size.
Victor keeps his more potent magical tools in there, along with some rare artifacts. He also keeps an AK-47 assault rifle locked away, as I knew from experience.
After fiddling with the dial some more he swung open the safe door and rummaged around inside. Eventually he pulled out a long object swaddled in cloth. I could see a rifle barrel poking out of the top, and recognized it immediately.
“The AK- 47?” I asked. “I thought you didn’t trust me with such things.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “You’d end up blowing off your own leg.” He reached back farther into the safe and pulled out another weapon, giving a grunt of satisfaction. “This should fill the bill.”
I was disappointed, but also relieved. I’d never shot an automatic assault rifle and a street confrontation is no time to be learning. But I did know how to use the weapon he had in his hand: a perfectly ordinary shotgun.
My grandfather was a man who had possessed quite a bit of talent himself, though I never knew it at the time. But he was also a hunter of small, inoffensive quail and large, strident geese, and by the time I was twelve he had taught me all I needed to know about those weapons. The one Victor held was a standard Remington 12-gauge pump, the workhorse of shotguns.
“I don’t suppose you’ve ever fired one of these,” Victor said.
“That Remington?” I said. “What is it, an 870? Actually I prefer the Browning over and under. But that’s more for hunting birds. This one will do just fine, I imagine. Holds, what, five rounds?”
Victor looked at me suspiciously, sure I was putting him on. I gazed back blandly, then took the shotgun out of his hands, pressed the slide release catch, and cycled the pump a couple of times to make sure it was unloaded.
“What do you think?” I said. “Buckshot or slugs?”
For once I had Victor at a loss for words. His notions about me didn’t include my having familiarity with firearms of any sort, even after the session at the range. I couldn’t blame him, but it was nice for once to throw him a curve. Timothy watched, grinning, making no effort to hide his amusement.
Victor struggled for a moment with the desire to ask me where I’d acquired such expertise, then decided to pretend it was no surprise at all.
“Both,” he said, as if it were the most obvious question in the world. “You might miss with slugs; load four buckshot and one slug. Lead, not steel. Load the slug in first, keeping it for the last chance in case the buckshot doesn’t do the job.”
“Got it,” I said.
He stared at me again, shaking his head almost imperceptibly before reaching back into the safe. He brought out two boxes of shells, one of double-ought shot and one of rifled slugs. I closed the slide so there wouldn’t be a round chambered, slid a slug round in first, then the four buckshot shells so the slug would be the last to be fired. First in, last out. I clicked on the safety, just to be double safe, hefted the gun, and smiled.
“Thanks,” I said. “This might come in handy.”
I HAD JUST ENOUGH TIME TO CATCH A QUICK bite and make it to my gig at the Glow Worm. Now that Jazz at Pearl’s had closed once again, the Glow Worm was the only place left trying to uphold the tradition of quality jazz in North Beach. It was too bad about Pearl’s; it had been a great venue with a lot of tradition and history. But it had closed before—it’s not an easy task to make a jazz club financially successful. It always seems to resurrect itself from the ashes, though.
I debated about whether to take Lou along and decided not. I like having him nearby but he couldn’t hang out at the club, and North Beach is a tough place for a dog on the streets—the sidewalks are often crowded with tourists, and someone would eventually decide he needed a home and try to scoop him up. I didn’t want him biting anyone. Besides, I had the shotgun now, just in case. I couldn’t take it up on the bandstand, but I could at least have it handy in my van.
The Glow Worm is on Columbus Avenue, not far from Pearl’s. You’d think that since jazz clubs tend to struggle anyway, having two of them on the same street wasn’t the smartest move. Maybe that had been a factor in the demise of Pearl’s. So far, the Glow Worm seemed to be holding its own.
I parked in a nearby lot that had a discount arrangement with the club for the musicians, which is another indication they’re a class act.
Weekends usually feature an out-of-town big name, with the rest of the week dedicated to locals. It’s as much a supper club as it is anything else—appetizers are served at the front tables closest to the bandstand and full dinners farther back in a raised portion to the rear. The food’s excellent, and a lot of tourists frequent the place for the food as much as for the music. The live jazz being played up front serves mostly as high-class Muzak to accompany the meal.
I didn’t mind. The club paid well and a working musician can’t afford to be a snob. Besides, there were always a few people down front who came for the music.
I got there about seven and set up. I’d been gigging fairly regularly with Dave, the bass player from Oakland, and Roger Chu, the wunderkind drummer I’d gigged with at Julio’s at few months ago. After a couple of gigs he’d got over his pathological shyness
, and he turned out to be a great kid with a wicked sense of humor. Except, he called me “Gramps” all the time, which I didn’t find all that amusing. He was an amazing drummer, though, energetic and subtle at the same time.
There was a good supper crowd, and we started right at seven. Just as we launched into the first tune, Morgan walked in wearing a black long-sleeved top and loose-fitting jeans. I hadn’t really expected her to show up, so it was a pleasant surprise. She had her parents in tow, which meant either she was a dutiful daughter, or she had no interest in me, or she felt she needed protection from possible lecherous intentions. Or all three. They took one of the free tables down front and ordered drinks. I caught her eye and she gave a little wave hello.
We played a relaxed set. People at dinner don’t want discordant and “interesting”; they want melodic and relaxing. We played mostly standards but did slip in one of my own tunes right before the break, a ballad based on a re-harmonization of “What Is This Thing Called Love?” and I did manage to throw in some outside playing.
After the set, I joined them at the table and asked the waiter for a Calistoga water.
“A wonderful set,” said the father. “Outstanding. That last tune—one of yours? Based on ‘What Is This Thing Called Love?’ wasn’t it?”
“But reharmonized,” Morgan added.
Okay. Actual jazz buffs. What were the odds?
“Do you play?” I asked, looking at them both. The father shook his head.
“No, not me.” He waved a hand at Morgan. “Now, my dad, her grandfather, he played in swing bands all through the thirties and forties. I grew up on that music and never stopped listening. Morgan’s taste is a bit more modern, but she still caught the jazz bug.”
The mother held out her hand to me. “I’m Lily,” she said. “I just want introduce myself properly and thank you again for this afternoon.”
“And I’m Frank,” the father said. “That goes double for me.”
They both sat there beaming at me. Nice, friendly, very normal people, totally unaware of the world I lived in, the world of deadly creatures and dangerous practitioners. I had a moment of envy, nostalgia for a life I’d never had and never would.
Of course, it wasn’t a life I wanted. It wasn’t a life that would have made me happy. But sometimes I thought about how much simpler things would have been if I hadn’t been born with talent. Then again, if I hadn’t been blessed with talent, I’d never have known Lou.
“Right place, right time,” I said, acknowledging their thanks. “Just luck.” I changed the subject quickly. “Are you in San Francisco for a visit?”
“Oh, yes,” said Lily. “Morgan here’s been a little down lately, so we thought we’d visit and cheer her up.” She looked over brightly at her daughter. “She just broke up with her boyfriend.”
Morgan was in the act of lifting a glass of wine to her mouth. She froze, glass suspended inches from her lips. Her head slowly turned until she was looking directly at her mother. There was going to be a reckoning after they left, without doubt. Lily blithely continued on as if unaware, though I doubt she was.
“She was too good for him anyway.”
I hastily excused myself and went off to the bar to get another Calistoga. It was getting uncomfortable at the table, and I thought I’d give them a few minutes to sort it out. Dave was standing at the bar with a beer in his hand. I try not to drink at gigs, but Dave has no such rule. Wunderkind Roger had no such option, being all of seventeen.
“Who’s the lady?” Dave asked.
“Just someone I met recently.”
“Lucky you.”
“Well, unlike you, I’m not married.”
“As I said, lucky you.”
Dave liked to play the long-suffering married man tethered to a ball and chain, but it was all an act. He’s happily married with two kids, and the last time a woman had hit on him, he’d run into the men’s room and hid.
I snagged my water and returned to the table. Morgan’s face was set, and her mother seemed a bit subdued. This posed something of a dilemma. I didn’t know if they’d be staying for another set, so I wanted to take my chance and ask her out. But asking out a young woman while she’s sitting at a table with her parents is not the easiest task, even for someone adept at such things, which I’m not. And the residual tension at the table made it even more difficult.
So I indulged in the usual small talk with her parents—how they liked San Francisco, what they did back home, how tough it was being a musician these days—until it was time for the second set.
“Time to play,” I said. “Can you stand to hear another set?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” said Morgan, smiling. So she was interested. Or maybe she just liked my playing. Hopefully, both.
I concentrated more on my playing for the second set. Now that I knew she was a knowledgeable listener, I wanted to impress her with my ability. Pitiful, really, like a high school jock hoping to score a touchdown so he’d have a better chance of scoring with the cheerleader after the game. But there you have it.
When I rejoined their table after the set, Morgan smiled approvingly. “Very nice,” she said. “Very nice indeed. And I love that drummer.”
Of course. Everybody loved that drummer. Partly because he was so young, but mostly because he was the best drummer around. Pretty soon other musicians in town were going to catch on to that, and he’d be snapped up by a big name. New York or L.A. would be beckoning.
“He is good,” I said.
“He looks so young—he really surprised me.”
“And Morgan’s difficult to surprise,” her mother said. She beamed proudly. “Morgan’s a psychic, you know.”
Again, the glass of wine was suspended halfway to Morgan’s lips, and her head turned slowly with a glare terrible to behold. I was never going to get a date out of this.
“How interesting,” I said quickly, hoping to deflect her. It worked. The glare became fastened on me. “How does it work? Can you tell something about me?” I was babbling inanely, digging myself an even deeper hole.
“Go on, show him, hon,” her mother said, ignoring Morgan’s glare.
It was hard not to laugh, and Morgan could see it. This was going from bad to worse. She would be thinking I was laughing at her, when I was laughing at the whole dynamic between her and her well-meaning, clueless parents.
I threw up my hands in wordless supplication, hoping she’d understand. If she was psychic, maybe she’d pick up on that. She looked at me with that same flat affect I’d noticed at the taqueria, then looked at her mother, then back at me. The corner of her mouth twitched, and a small snort of laughter escaped. Which of course set me off, and then we were both laughing uncontrollably. Her parents looked at us in bewilderment.
“What’s so funny?” her dad asked, which naturally set us off again.
“Nothing,” she said.
“Are you really?” I said. Now that the ice was broken, it seemed the most natural question in the world.
“Sort of. I don’t usually talk about it, because people then think I’m a New Age kook, which I’m not.” She sent a significant glance over toward her mom. “But, yes.”
She looked at me not with a challenge, but with resignation, like she knew what I was thinking.
“I’ve seen a lot of strange things in my time,” I said. She had no idea how true that was. “I’m not about to dismiss any possibilities.”
“Show him, why don’t you?” her mother repeated.
She cocked her head to one side, shrugged in defeat, and said, “Okay, why not? Give me your hands.”
I did so, reaching across the small table, palms down. She slid her hands under mine and grasped my wrists. Her hands were long and slim, and cool even in the hot atmosphere of the club. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and let half of it out, just like a shooter on a target range. After a pause, she started breathing again, slow and measured. I wondered if I would feel any surge of energy coming off her. Man
y times, those who are termed psy chics have a small bit of unfocused and untrained talent. They just don’t realize what it is.
I felt nothing, though. Just a sense of calmness and peace. Morgan’s deep and even breathing was oddly soothing, and my mind started to wander. Then, with no warning, she gasped and abruptly released my wrists, jerking back in her chair so violently that it almost overbalanced.
Her mother reached over and touched her arm in concern. Morgan took a deep breath to steady herself.
“I’m fine,” she said. “But it’s getting late. Why don’t you and Dad get the car, and I’ll settle up here and meet you outside? My treat tonight.”
Mom and Dad both looked dubious, but they knew their daughter. They got up without too much protest, shook hands with me, and made their way toward the door.
Morgan didn’t get up right away, just sat staring at me across the table.
“You look like you want to say something to me,” I said, smiling, still trying to keep it light, though that ship had long since sailed. The smile was not returned.
“Okay, listen,” she said. “I know how weird this is going to sound, believe me. And I know how it makes me look. But I’ve got to tell you.
“Sometimes, when I do readings for people, nothing comes. When it does, mostly I get flashes and images, and a lot of what I can tell is just putting together those hints with what I already know about the person. But sometimes, I get a hit of something so strongly, it’s almost like being there. And when that happens, I’m never wrong. Well, almost never. And I got something when I grabbed your hands, the strongest images I’ve ever had. So whatever you think of me, no matter how crazy you think I am, I’ve got to warn you. I’ve just got to.”
“About what?” I said, genuinely curious. “What did you see?”
“You were in the woods. Tall trees were all around. In fact, I saw the place so clearly I even recognized where it was—I’ve been there. Muir Woods, and not too far from the entrance, I think. You weren’t alone—you had a companion, something like a dog, but it wasn’t a dog, not exactly.”
