by Mike Ashley
“You wanted information on the Chalice?” asked the bodyguard, straight off, without any word of greeting. “I know where it is.”
“Sal has it?” asked Taine, uncertain what to believe.
“Nah. He won’t touch no religious stuff. You know him. But ain’t nothing goin’ on that Sal don’t hear about. He was just too scared to say anything to you at the Club. Sal suspects that somebody’s passing on all our secrets to those crazy Jamaicans. Bracco’s been acting pretty odd lately, flashing a lot of money and making big talk. So the boss had me make this call, private like. Sal thought you’d want to know the truth. That lunatic, King Wedo, stole your precious chalice.”
“King Wedo?” repeated Taine, taken by surprise. Though he had never met the mysterious Jamaican crime lord, he had heard quite a bit about him. In Chicago for less than a year, the gang leader had earned a reputation as a merciless, violent killer with a taste for the bizarre.
“Sal’s frightened and with good reason,” continued Scaglia. “Those Jamaican bozos working for King Wedo are crazy. They’d just as soon rip out your guts as look at you. Life is cheap, don’t mean a thing to them. Bastards take a dislike to somebody, he’s dead meat.”
A note of fear crept into Scaglia’s voice. “Joey Ventura made the mistake of crossing King Wedo. Got greedy during a coke delivery and swiped some goods he didn’t pay for. Stupid idea. The Jamaicans pulled Joey right out of a restaurant at lunch time. Shot down three bystanders dumb enough to interfere. Like I said, life don’t mean nothin’ to them devils.”
Scaglia’s voice dropped to a whisper. “King Wedo planned a special finish for Joey. Called it a demonstration. The maniac cut off Joey’s fingers and toes, one joint at a time, and forced him to swallow the pieces. It took the poor slob three days to die. Now you understand why Sal is cautious.”
“Perfectly,” said Taine. “Any clue to why King Wedo clipped the Chalice? Ransom perhaps?”
“Nothing definite. But King Wedo don’t need no money, not with the dough he’s raking in from the drug trade. Word on the street is that the Jamaican is heavy into black magic. Maybe he figures this chalice of yours will give him some sort of mystical powers. Who the hell knows with these crazy bastards.”
“Sure,” answered Taine, his mind racing. King Wedo and the Holy Grail added up to a dangerous mix. He had to retrieve the Chalice. “Maybe I should talk to the King about returning the Cup. You have any idea where he holds court?”
“You’re nuts, man. One wrong word to that geek and he’ll carve out your heart. With his fingernails.”
“Let me worry about that,” said Taine. “Where’s his main base?”
“On the near south side,” replied Scaglia. “Around Twenty-Sixth and the railroad tracks.” The bodyguard hesitated for a moment, then cursed. “The Jamaicans might let you enter their hideout, but they sure the hell won’t let you leave. No chance you’ll change your mind?”
“Can’t,” said Taine. “It’s my job.”
“Well, you’ll need some backup,” said Scaglia. “And I guess that means me. I’ll meet you there in an hour. Corner of Twenty-Sixth and Rand. Don’t be late, ’cause if you are, I might just lose my nerve.”
“I’ll be there,” said Taine and hung up the phone.
Taine arrived at the designated location a few minutes after midnight. Amber-colored street lights cast an eerie glow on the otherwise deserted avenue. Huge old warehouses lined both sides of the street, towering into the night sky like ancient tombs. Soundlessly, Leo Scaglia beckoned from the doorway of a nearby building. After a quick check of the surroundings, Taine slipped out of his car and joined the mobster.
“What’s the story?” whispered Taine.
“We’re in luck,” replied Scaglia, grinning. “King Wedo and his thugs are out celebrating. One of Sal’s contacts spotted them a half-hour ago at the Kozy Klub. We should have no problem finding that chalice and making off with it before the Jamaican returns. Damned SOB is so sure of himself, I doubt he bothered leaving anybody on guard.”
“Sounds too easy,” said Taine, staring at Scaglia suspiciously. “Why are you so eager to help, Leo? I never knew you to take any unnecessary risks.”
“Back off, Taine,” said Scaglia, glancing around the deserted street. “Sal’s pushing for King Wedo to take a fall. Wants me to lend you a hand. Anything that makes King Wedo look bad, makes Sal look good. I’m following the Capo’s orders. Besides, we’re friends.”
Leo pushed open the door to the warehouse. “Follow me and don’t make a sound. There might be a guard inside. King Wedo’s office is in the rear of the building. That’s probably where he’s keeping the Chalice.”
The two men crept silently. Taine moved with surprising grace for a man his size. Leo Scaglia slithered through the darkness like some giant snake, intent on its prey. Past rows and rows of massive crates filled with unknown goods they slipped, only the soft sound of their breathing breaking the stillness of the stale air. Finally, they reached the rear of the building.
“That’s the place,” Leo whispered softly in Taine’s ear, pointing to the foreman’s office located at the junction of two walls. “No lights on. Looks deserted.”
Both men pulled out their guns. “You go first,” said Scaglia. “You know what to look for. I’ll cover you.”
Carefully, Taine twisted the knob. It turned effortlessly, not locked. Taking his time, the detective inched open the door. It was as dark inside the office as without. Slowly, ever so slowly, he slipped inside.
And found himself staring at a slender black man, sitting behind a wide desk. King Wedo. Waiting with him, standing at his side, were two powerfully built Jamaicans. Both men held Skorpion machine gun pistols aimed at Taine’s stomach.
“Mr. Taine,” said King Wedo, with a faint smile. “How nice of you to drop by.”
Behind Taine, the door swung open. “Sorry, buddy,” he heard Leo Scaglia say, “but orders is orders.” Then something hard and unyielding crashed down on his skull and he heard nothing else.
When Taine regained consciousness, he found himself securely bound to a heavy wood chair. He was in the same room, now brightly illuminated. King Wedo faced him on the other side of the wide desk. The two massive bodyguards stood behind their boss’s chair. Leo Scaglia, arms folded across his chest, lolled against a large metal filing cabinet. “You’re the informer! In Albanese’s organization?” said Taine, disgusted by his own stupidity. “Not Bracco?”
“So what else is new?” said Scaglia, chuckling. “When I called the King and told him you were fishing for the Chalice, he ordered me to reel you in. Easiest assignment I ever had. You didn’t suspect nothin’.”
“I’m too naive for my own good,” said Taine. Whoever had tied him to the chair had taken his gun as well as the knife sheathed to his ankle. However, they had missed the razor blade concealed in his shirt sleeve. Cautiously, he started sawing at the ropes binding his wrists. “For some reason, I still trust my fellow man.”
“A bad habit, Mr. Taine, especially for a private investigator,” said King Wedo. The Jamaican spoke softly but distinctly, with the barest trace of an English accent. “But, of course, you are no ordinary detective. That is why I instructed Leo to bring you here. You are going to prove very useful to me, Mr. Taine. Very, very useful.”
Reaching into a drawer of the desk, King Wedo pulled out a plain wooden goblet. Though Taine knew the Chalice’s origin dated back thousands of years, there was not a scratch on it. “The Holy Grail,” said King Wedo, to no one in particular. “Stripped of that foolish silver decoration, it appears incredibly ordinary. But, as we all well know, looks can be deceiving.”
King Wedo rose from his chair, casually balancing the Cup in one hand. A short, slender man with pleasant, even features, only his narrow, mad eyes betrayed the cruelty lurking within. “Consider me, for example,” he continued, circling the desk so that he stood only a few feet away from Taine. “I am notorious as a crazy gangster. An imag
e I work hard to cultivate. Fear serves me well, Mr. Taine. Still, none of my enemies, or my friends for that matter, suspect that I am also a master of black magic. Only a select few even realize that sorcery exists.”
King Wedo chuckled. “In my youth, I attended school in England. My father, a wealthy plantation owner, had dreams of me continuing and expanding the family business. Even then, I had other plans.
“You can imagine my surprise when I discovered, quite by accident, that my history professor was a practicing black magician. Delivering a paper to his home, I stumbled on him placing a curse on one of his faculty rivals. Immediately sensing my interest in the dark art, he offered me the opportunity to become his apprentice.” The Jamaican’s eyes narrowed. “For a price, of course.”
Taine grimaced. Sorcerers always demanded payment for their services. A fee paid in blood.
“I learned a great deal from Professor Harvey during the three years I studied with him. He taught me some rather unusual business methods. Tactics for success I have employed well. Still, the Professor and I parted on good terms nearly a decade ago. Never once during the intervening years did I hear from him.”
Taine remained silent, busily sawing his razor blade into the ropes. Gangsters loved to brag about their accomplishments. King Wedo was consumed by a desire to display his brilliance. Surrounded by thugs and assorted lowlifes, the Jamaican reveled in the chance to show off for Taine. Which made it quite clear to the detective that the gangster planned murdering him afterwards. Dead men never betrayed secrets.
“That was why I was surprised, a week ago, to suddenly receive a call from him. No sentimentalist, Harvey’s contact was strictly business. The old man told me of the Holy Grail and how it was being shipped to Chicago. The Professor requested my aid in stealing the relic, promising me fabulous riches for my cooperation. I agreed to help. But, my arrangements benefited only me.
“Using information supplied by Harvey, my men intercepted the Grail messengers, killed them both, and made off with the Chalice. Instead of turning it over to the Professor, I kept the Cup for myself. The old fool should have known better than to trust someone like me. I have plans for the Grail. Plans that concern you, Mr. Taine.”
A cold chill swept through Taine. He did not like the sound of that remark.
“Why me?” asked the detective. Anything to stall for a little more time. Cutting the ropes was proving difficult. “What makes me special?”
“Sidney Taine, the psychic detective,” replied King Wedo, his lips curling in a slow grin. “I know all about you, Mr. Taine. Those who practice the black arts like to keep close tabs on their adversaries. And, I believe that description fits you very well. Adversary.”
Gently, King Wedo placed Seth’s Cup on his desk. Crossing his arms across his chest, he shook his head in mock dismay. “If I am an evil soul, my friend, then by definition, are you not a good one? A righteous one?”
Taine shuddered. King Wedo’s words struck a chord deep within his being. He finally understood what the Jamaican planned – an ancient rite of dark magic, of blood sorcery. Evidently the concern showed in his face. The gang leader chuckled.
“Seven drops of blood from a righteous soul,” he recited, using words of frightening power, “if the Cup of Purity is thy goal.”
King Wedo strolled back around the desk and dropped back in his chair. Smiling, he reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a plastic bag filled with white powder. “Coke,” said King Wedo, confirming Taine’s immediate suspicions.
“Good stuff,” continued the Jamaican, “but not perfect. Not pure.” The gang leader leaned forward, his gaze fastened on his prisoner. “The purer the dope, the better the hit. That’s the story on cocaine. Even the dumbest crackhead knows it. Problem is that no system filters out all the impurities. No matter how fine you make it, the stuff ain’t perfect. It’s never totally pure.”
“You don’t intend . . .,” began Taine, shocked by the Jamaican’s plan.
“Ah, but I do, Mr.Taine,” said King Wedo, nodding. “I do. According to all of the medieval legends, the Holy Grail purifies whatever it touches. The mere contact with the Cup changes water into wine, poor man’s bread into cake. Well, we’re going to see if those stories are true.”
The Jamaican opened the bag holding the cocaine. “Think of the rush, Mr. Taine. Imagine the purest cocaine in the world – available only from me. I’ll be able to name my price.”
King Wedo beckoned Scaglia closer. “You got your knife handy, Leo?” he asked.
“Of course,” said Scaglia, pulling out a six-inch switchblade. With a bare whisper of sound, the metal blade glittered in the harsh light. “Never go anywhere without it.”
“Take the Cup,” said King Wedo commanded. “And christen it with seven drops of Mr. Taine’s blood.”
“Whatever you say,” said Scaglia, delicately balancing the switchblade in one hand, the wooden Cup in the other. “You want me to cut his throat?”
“Leo, Leo, Leo,” said King Wedo, sounding properly shocked. “How wasteful. The formula calls for the blood of a righteous man each time we perform the ceremony. We don’t have an endless supply of righteous men in Chicago.” The Jamaican’s voice turned grim. “We must make Mr. Taine last a long, long time.”
“You’re the boss,” replied Scaglia, shrugging his shoulders. Nonchalantly, he slipped the cold steel beneath the first button of Taine’s shirt. With a flick of the wrist, the hood slashed through the thin material up to the detective’s neck.
“Tough break, buddy,” he muttered, bending close with the Cup of Seth. “But orders is orders.”
Another slash of the knife. A thin red ribbon blossomed across Taine’s chest. Carefully, Scaglia collected his bounty. “Seven drops,” warned King Wedo. “No more, no less.”
“Got ’em,” said Scaglia. He straightened, holding the Cup before him. “Now what?”
The gang leader opened the plastic bag holding the cocaine. Using his pinky, he casually stirred the white powder. “From what I’ve read, the blood activates the magical properties of the Cup instantly. Let’s see what it does with the coke.”
Scaglia growled – a beast-like sound rising from deep within his chest. A mad noise that caught all of them by surprise. Taine’s eyes blinked in shock as the grail-bearer’s features twisted with sudden fury.
“You dirty son-of-a-bitch!” Scaglia shouted, and grabbed for his gun.
Weapons exploded and the room filled with the sound and smell of gunfire. Scaglia’s body erupted in blood. Like a grotesque, drunken marionette, he staggered back and forth, driven by the fury of the bullets slamming into his torso.
“Be careful of the Cup!” shrieked King Wedo, standing, only his voice betraying any sign of panic. “Try not to hit it.” Hot blood gushing from a dozen wounds, Scaglia should have been dead, but wasn’t. Only his burning will kept him alive. Somehow, some way, he pulled his gun free and returned fire. Taine, not sure he understood what was taking place, wrenched hard on the last few strands of cord imprisoning his hands. The rope snapped, and the detective dropped to the floor. Unarmed, he was not crazy enough to attack either Scaglia or Wedo’s cronies.
The shooting stopped as abruptly as it began. Silence echoed through the small office. Both bodyguards were down – one shot through the heart, the second man’s nose a red ruin where a bullet crashed up and through to his brain.
Scaglia lay sprawled across King Wedo’s desk, the Grail clutched tightly in one hand. Amazingly, a spark of life still flickered in his eyes.
“I don’t like traitors, Leo,” said King Wedo, rising up from the floor on the other side of his desk, a stiletto tightly gripped in one hand. He spoke calmly, without the least trace of malice. “You took my money to betray your boss. But, evidently, he paid you even more to double cross me.” King Wedo shook his head. “Bad choice, Leo.”
Scaglia raised his head. “You scum,” he gasped out, his mad eyes burning with hatred. “No one paid . . .”
“Don’t try anything, Mr. Taine,” continued King Wedo, a .45 automatic appearing in his hand as if by magic. He never even glanced at the dead man. “Please rise very slowly from the floor. And, keep both of your hands in plain sight.”
Taine stood up. At this range, King Wedo couldn’t miss. The Jamaican seemed unruffled by the violence that had taken place during the past few minutes.
“I never panic,” said King Wedo, as if reading Taine’s mind. Careful never to shift his eyes from Taine, the gang leader reached down for the Holy Grail. “That’s why I always come out on top. That’s why I’m the king.”
Wrapping his fingers around the edge of the wood goblet, King Wedo pulled the Grail free of Scaglia’s grip. “I thought I could trust Leo, but I guess not. No matter.”
The muzzle of the automatic never wavered. “Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead, Mr. Taine,” said King Wedo. “Good-bye.”
Desperately, the detective flung himself to the side. One of the dead bodyguards still held a gun. It was a forlorn hope, but Taine’s only chance. He scrambled for the weapon, expecting any second to hear the roar of King Wedo’s automatic and feel the impact of a slug in his back. Surprisingly, nothing happened. Taine whirled, the dead man’s weapon in hand. Then came to a sudden stop, caught completely by surprise.
King Wedo stood frozen in place. Sweat glistened on his forehead. Madness twisted his face in a grimace of incredible pain. The .45 automatic no longer threatened Taine. Instead, its muzzle touched right against the gangster’s forehead. Wild eyes meet Taine’s in a silent plea for help. But there was no time left. King Wedo’s finger jerked hard against the trigger. The gun roared once, then fell silent.
“An interesting, if not surprising tale,” said the man called Ashmedai. “Many legends refer to the Grail as the Cup of Treachery.” He paused, and shook his head, as if in disappointment. “A title it has well earned. Too many men have been betrayed. I wonder if this King Wedo ever grasped the truth?”
