by Mike Resnick
THE BIZARRE BAZAAR
Specialists in the Unusual
461 N. LaSalle—5th Level
Scrawled across the back of it, in nearly illegible handwriting, were the words: “Come alone.”
It could be a trap, of course; after all, if his life weren’t in continual danger, he wouldn’t require a bodyguard in the first place. However, most of his bigger deals were consummated in just such a manner—a politician who couldn’t be seen going into Moore’s office, a rival’s underling with some information to sell, a deserted lover ready to turn against a man or woman Moore was out to ruin. After a moment’s debate with himself, he dismissed his bodyguard and rode the escalator to the fifth level of Wabash Street. Then he took a slidewalk to Randolph Street, transferred to a northbound slidewalk, got off at LaSalle, and began walking north on a stationary ramp.
When he crossed over the long-dry bed of the Chicago River, which now housed a park and a huge sporting complex, he became aware of a subtle change in the stores and shops. Gone were the huge, brightly lit department stores, the plush, velvet-walled jewelers, the fashion shops and gift emporiums and other high-quality specialty shops. In their place were grubby little antique stores, secondhand bookstores drowning in stacks and stacks of dusty, moldy volumes, bars and brothels and warehouses.
Finally he came to the address he sought. It looked like a little hole in the wall, a storefront out of some Western ghost town. The windows were covered by dark, opaque shades, there were no signs, stating either the name of the establishment or what it dealt in, and a distinct smell of incense emanated from its half-open doorway.
He took one last look around to make sure he hadn’t been followed, then walked into the store. He found himself in a dimly lit maze, with the walls blackened up to the ceiling, and followed it carefully as it continued to turn back upon itself. Finally he emerged into a long, narrow room that was illuminated only by an occasional red light bulb.
There were two glass showcases, one running down each side of the room. On display in them were various grotesque torture devices: spiked necklaces, tongue ties, exotic branding irons, razor-sharp chastity belts, instruments for piercing or removing all limbs and organs not essential to the minimal maintenance of life. Hung on the walls (or nailed to them; he wasn’t sure which) were shriveled human heads, hands, legs, fingers, genitalia, noses, eyes, and ears. Stacked neatly in a corner were dozens of spears, spikes, and prods.
“May I help you?” said a hoarse voice from behind him.
He turned and found himself confronted by a little man with a satin patch over one eye. The man extended a hand, which was missing two fingers and part of a thumb, and Moore mechanically took and shook it.
“Welcome to the Bizarre Bazaar,” said the man. “My name is Krebbs. If there is anything you don’t see, just ask. We have many more rooms, each designed around a single theme.”
“I’m not a customer,” replied Moore, showing the card to Krebbs.
“Ah, well,” sighed the man, “there was no harm in asking. One must try to make a living.” He smiled. “Surely you, of all people, can appreciate that.”
“You sound as if you know me.”
“I know of you, Mr. Moore,” said Krebbs. “You’re one of my idols, if truth be known. Ah, to wield such power, to maim and kill and destroy! It must seem like paradise itself!”
“You must have me confused with someone else,” said Moore in cold, level tones. “I’m just a businessman.”
“Whatever you say, Mr. Moore,” said Krebbs with a grin.
“That’s what I say. Now, why did you ask me to come here?”
“Oh, but I didn’t,” said Krebbs. “I assure you, Mr. Moore, that I am content to worship you from afar.”
“Then who did?”
“I can take you to her if you like,” offered Krebbs.
“To who?”
“Why, to the young lady you’ve come to see.”
“What’s her name?” asked Moore.
“You needn’t be coy with me, Mr. Moore,” said Krebbs. “I told you—I’m on your side. If you wish to conduct your liaisons in my place of business, I’m only too happy to oblige.”
“Where is she?” asked Moore, deciding that further questions would be fruitless.
“She wasn’t quite sure when you’d arrive,” replied Krebbs, “so I had her wait for you in our Unique Boutique. I’m sure she’ll find something suitable to wear there, and there’s a huge bed just across the hall.” He gave Moore a sly wink with his only eye and took him by the arm, leading him to a curtain of hanging beads. “Fifth room on the right.”
Moore shook his arm loose and walked down the corridor until he came to the fifth, and last, right-hand door, then opened it softly and walked in. The room was as poorly lit as the rest of the shop, and seemed to be composed of nothing but clothes racks and mirrors. It was actually quite small, but the mirrors, which covered the walls, ceiling, and floor, gave it the appearance of extending to infinity in all directions.
A blond girl stood at the far end of the room, about twenty feet from him. She wore leather hip boots with long, sharp heels, shoulder-length leather gloves, a black waist cincher, and nothing else. In her left hand she held a small cat-o’-nine-tails, which had bright little metal prongs at the end of each tail. Her face was covered by a catlike mask, replete with silver whiskers.
“I had a little time on my hands,” she said in a low, husky voice, “so I decided to try out some of the merchandise.” She turned around gracefully. “Do you like it?”
“I don’t buy this shit; I sell it,” said Moore distastefully. “Am I supposed to know you?”
“Would you like to?”
“Not especially,” he replied. “Did you place the card in my pocket?”
“No.”
“But you had it placed there?”
“Yes.” She moved a bit closer to him, making the tails undulate rhythmically with a flick of her wrist.
“Why?”
“I have something to give you.”
“What?”
“This!” she whispered, suddenly bringing the whip down toward his face.
Moore reached out his arm instinctively and absorbed most of the blow’s force on the fleshy part of his biceps. He backed away, startled, and the girl came after him.
“Who sent you?” he demanded, dodging another blow. “What the hell is going on here?”
There was no response from the girl, except for a renewed effort to rip his face apart with the whip. He knew better than to keep using his arm as a shield, and he turned and ran down the narrow corridor to the room where he had met Krebbs. Once there, he looked around for the one-eyed proprietor, but the place was deserted. He raced to the stacked weapons and pulled a hooked spear off the top of the heap.
“All right,” he said, leveling the weapon between her breasts as she entered the room. “Are you ready to tell me what this is all about?”
The girl screamed an obscenity and swung the whip again. He ducked and prodded her shoulder with the spear. A little trickle of blood appeared, but the girl didn’t seem to notice it. Unmindful of the spear, she continued chasing him around the room. Finally he decided that he had no choice but to start defending himself in earnest, and he cut her twice on the arm, once deeply. She fought on like a cornered beast, totally ignoring the wounds. He practically severed her ear with the next swipe of his weapon, again with no effect.
“Of course!” he said suddenly. “You’re one of the Living Dartboards!”
He ducked as she picked up a glass jar from the counter and hurled it at him. “Who put you up to this—Nightspore or Thrush? Or was it the pair of them?”
Her only response was to kick out with her boot, trying to stab him with its long, murderously sharp heel. He stepped aside, grabbed her leg, and twisted it. She fell heavily to the floor, and he leaped on top of her, turning her onto her stomach and holding her motionless. It took six sharp blows to the base of her skull befor
e he finally managed to render her unconscious.
He dragged her over to one of the red light bulbs and examined her back and neck very carefully. Yes, there were the tiny, almost invisible scars from the nerve-severing operation that had rendered her insensitive to pain.
He decided against waiting to question her when she awoke. After all, if she didn’t want to talk, nothing he could do was going to change her mind—and for all he knew, Krebbs was still lurking around somewhere, waiting to put a bullet in his back. He toyed with the notion of covering the girl with a blanket, slinging her over his shoulder, and taking her with him, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to control her if she regained consciousness, so he decided to leave her to the tender mercies of one of his security squads. Still worried about Krebbs, he pulled out a cellular phone and called Pryor.
“Ben? Moore here. It appears that one of our new partners has gotten delusions of grandeur. Maybe both of them.… Yeah. Right.… You won’t believe me.… A naked blonde with a whip, if you must know.”
He grimaced at Pryor’s reply. “I told you you wouldn’t believe me. Anyway, I want you to collect the muscle and find out which one tried to whack me. And while you’re at it, send a squad to a little joint on LaSalle Street called the Bizarre Bazaar, at 461 North on the fifth level, and do a job on it. You’ll find the girl there. I think she’s got an accomplice—a guy with a maimed hand. Bring him in if you find him hanging around the place.… No, I’ll be fine. Catch you in the morning.”
He hung up, walked to the nearest monorail platform, and within ten minutes was approaching the entrance to his apartment, part of an exclusive complex at the south end of the inner-city dome. He nodded to his security men and went in, locking the door behind him. Then, being a thorough man, he began a methodical search to make doubly certain nothing had been stolen or tampered with. When he was finally satisfied that everything was as it should be, he sat down in an antique leather chair, put his feet up on a stuffed armadillo that he used for a hassock, and mentally reviewed the events of the evening.
His conclusion was that they just didn’t make any sense. Any fool would know that sooner or later he’d be able to spot the girl as being from the Thrill Show—and Nightspore and Thrush, while certainly malleable, hadn’t struck him as fools.
Suddenly restless, he arose and began stalking around the apartment.
Like his office, his personal dwelling was modestly furnished and did not interface with the outside world except for two telephones, both unlisted. Remaining aloof from the masses that he victimized had become almost a fetish with him, and he allowed himself none of their vices for fear that their accompanying weaknesses might rub off on him.
Once, as a surprise, some of his bodyguards had imported a pair of women and ensconced them in his bedroom before he got home; he had rushed to the phone and fired them on the spot, then ordered Pryor to come over and take the women away. Sex, especially the kind the women had promised him in low, sultry voices, was hardly apt to be boring, but he was in the business of selling sex—among other things—and bartenders don’t drink when on duty. For one week every three months he packed up and left everything in Pryor’s charge. He never said where he went or what he did on these quarterly trips, nor did anyone ask him, but the betting around the office was that the bartender went on a binge four times a year.
The apartment contained no drugs, no alcohol, nothing that could possibly be construed as a means of escaping from reality. When he worked at selling fantasies he practiced only austerity: he partook of no sex, no stimulants, no hobbies or crafts. He had two indulgences: one was gourmet food, and the other was his library. From floor to ceiling all the walls were lined with books, some new, some incredibly old. They were neither neat nor ordered, but he knew where every title was, what knowledge or emotion each author had to impart to him. There were poets and playwrights, philosophers and biographers, modern fiction intermixed with ancient and future fact, and even an old, timeworn copy of the Bible.
It was to his library that he now turned for relief and relaxation. He picked up a couple of works by Wilde and Austen, chronicles of more civilized eras that had no need for a business such as his, returned to his oversized leather chair, sat down with a grunt, and prepared to read himself to sleep.
He was drifting in the halfworld between clarity and slumber when the buzzing of the phone brought him to instant wakefulness.
“Moore here.”
“This is Ben. How’s the ravisher of Living Dartboards?”
“Knock it off and get to the point.”
“The point is that we’ve got a couple of problems,” said Pryor.
“You’ve been to the Thrill Show?”
“Yes.”
“And the Bizarre Bazaar?”
“No such place.”
“The hell there isn’t!” snapped Moore. “It’s at”—he pulled the card out of his pocket “461 North LaSalle, on the fifth level.”
“The hell there is,” replied Pryor, not without a trace of enjoyment at Moore’s distress. “We went through the whole four-hundred block, both sides, and it’s just not there.”
“I was there two hours ago!”
“You’re sure it wasn’t South LaSalle, or 461 North on some other street—Clark or Wells, maybe?”
“Damn it, Ben—I know where I was and I know what happened to me!”
“I’m sure you do,” said Pryor. “But the fact remains that the store isn’t there. Besides, the whole thing sounds like some adolescent fantasy. If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you’d been drinking.”
“I’ll take you there myself, first thing in the morning,” said Moore disgustedly. “What about Nightspore and Thrush?”
“I know this is going to sound like we’re operating in two different worlds, but they didn’t know anything about it.”
“Horseshit!”
“That’s the strongest word I ever heard you use,” said Pryor, amused.
“They had to know something,” persisted Moore, ignoring him.
“We were pretty thorough.”
“How thorough?”
“You are now the sole surviving partner of the Nightspore and Thrush International Traveling Circus and Thrill Show.”
“Great,” spat Moore. “Just what I always wanted.” He sighed. “Damn it, Ben, I told you to question them, not kill them!”
“You also told me that one of them was behind all this, so we used enough force to get the answers we needed. It was just their hard luck that they happened to be innocent. I’ve got our legal eagles down at City Hall smoothing things over. I think we can handle it.”
“Operating on the assumption—probably erroneous—that our muscle didn’t kill them before they could tell the truth, who the hell sent this girl after me?”
“The only thing to do is find the girl and beat it out of her,” replied Pryor. “I’d love to try.”
“Lots of luck,” said Moore, repressing an urge to laugh. “You’ve got a remarkably single-minded approach to problem-solving, Ben.” He paused. “As for identifying her, hell, I probably wouldn’t recognize her with her pants on. Check the Thrill Show and find out which of the Living Dartboards was missing for a couple of hours starting at about six o’clock this evening. Track her down and bring her back to the office. Then check out the Bizarre Bazaar again, and if it’s really not there, assemble some muscle in my office tomorrow morning at nine sharp and we’ll go hunting for it. And Ben?”
“Yeah?”
“Unless you want to find out what happens when I become seriously displeased with someone, don’t mess up again.”
He placed the receiver back on the hook, picked up Jane Austen, and tried to read himself to sleep again.
It wasn’t so easy this time.
Chapter 3
You look even more frazzled than usual for this time of day,” remarked Moore as Pryor entered his office the next morning. “Shall I assume that we haven’t accomplished a hell of a lot?”
>
“A fair assumption,” admitted Pryor. “I did manage to assuage the high moral principles of the city fathers, though. They now agree that both Nightspore and Thrush died of heart failure.”
“Well, that’s something, anyway,” said Moore. “What about the girl?”
“We checked out the Living Dartboard show, and it seems that one of them—a Lisa Walpole—has been missing since four o’clock yesterday.”
“Blonde?”
Pryor nodded. “And from what I can tell, she’s just the type who’d rather whip you to death than stand back and shoot you. I’ve got a couple of men trying to pick up her trail, and we’ve stationed agents at all the airports and bus stations. If she’s anywhere in the Chicago complex, we ought to turn her up in a day or two.” He paused. “We learned one other thing about her, too: she was sleeping with Thrush.”
“Are you sure?” asked Moore, frowning. “I thought when they severed the pain receptors, it deadened the capacity for pleasure as well.” He paused, then shrugged. “Oh, well, I suppose there’s no law that says a girl who sleeps with her boss has to enjoy it. But I still can’t figure out the connection. If Thrush didn’t put her up to it, then what the hell was she doing there?”
Pryor shrugged. “I imagine we’ll have to catch her to find out.”
“While you’re at it, I’ve got someone else who needs a bit of catching: an old man named Krebbs, sixtyish, about five foot seven or eight. He’s wearing a patch over one eye—I can’t remember which—and his right hand is missing a couple of fingers and part of the thumb. Real slimy type.”
“I’ll skip the slimy part, and get the rest of the description to our men right away,” said Pryor, entering the information on his ever-present pocket computer.
“How about the Bizarre Bazaar?”
“I checked it out again myself, and it’s simply not there. The phone book doesn’t have it listed either. Are you absolutely sure of that address?”
