The Half-Assed Wizard: The Complete Series: Books 1-4: The Half-Assed Wizard, The Big-Ass Witch, The Dumbass Demon, The Lame-Assed Doppelganger

by Gary Jonas

  “Fewer.”

  “That too.”

  “Upright, card good. Reversed, card bad.”

  “What are we talking about?”

  “The Star card.”

  “And why are we talking about that now?”

  “Because Delgado said Estrella?”

  “Well, it wasn’t Estrella exactly. It was something like that, though.”

  “So he wasn’t talking about a card.”

  “Not a singular card. He wants the whole deck.”

  “But he said something like Estrella?”

  “He’s got an accent. He’s hard to understand.”

  “You weren’t paying attention, were you? The man had you kidnapped and you couldn’t be bothered to listen to him?”

  “He offered to buy the cards. Fifty million dollars, and I think he’d go higher.”

  “You offered to sell them?”

  “No. I said I didn’t have them. He didn’t believe me. Look, I think he was supposed to keep them safe. I think he was the guy who was supposed to pick up the deck from Sinclair, but your father stole them first.”

  “The unsavory client my father mentioned?”

  “Have you talked to your dad since then?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve left him messages, but he hasn’t returned my calls.”

  “Is that normal?”

  She laughed and nodded. “Chaos is normal for my father. He’ll surface at some point.”

  “So Delgado was the unsavory client,” I said, weighing the thought in my head.

  “I don’t think so. I think he was the courier who was supposed to pick up the cards to deliver them to the unsavory client.”

  “Care to hazard a guess as to who that client might be?”

  “Has to be a wizard, but that’s about all I can say.”

  “Most wizards are unsavory,” I said. I kept my eyes on the entrance in case Gentry returned. He didn’t.

  Sabrina changed the subject. “Your band mates are pissed.”

  “They’ll get over it.”

  “So,” she said, trying to sneak her next question in, “what can you tell me about Michael?”

  “We’re not in junior high. You want to know about Michael, talk to him.”

  “I started to, but one look in his eyes and I forgot what I was going to say.”

  “You’d have given it up to him tonight.”

  “Oh my God,” she said. “In a heartbeat. Something about him.”

  “He drinks blood.”

  “He can drink whatever he wants.”

  “Why aren’t you in his arms right now?”

  “He had to give Teddy a ride home, so he was gone before I got a chance to talk to him.”

  I finished my drink. “He’s playing you.”

  “He’s welcome to play with me. Any way he wants.”

  “You want me to slip him a note in homeroom?”

  She gave me a playful slap. Then her eyes lit up. “Could you?”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I rolled out of bed the next day at around 3:30 in the afternoon, and staggered down the stairs to the kitchen. I was getting better about sleeping in. It helps when shark dudes don’t show up to kill you.

  Sabrina was bent over in the family room adjacent to the kitchen doing some twisty yoga move. I didn’t stare at her because we’re related, and that would just be weird. Instead, I fired up some coffee in the Keurig. I leaned against the counter to wait, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

  “You slept the day away,” Sabrina said.

  “Only the bad part,” I said.

  “You don’t like church?”

  “If I walked into a church, I’d leave flaming footprints on the floor.”

  “Of course you would.”

  The mention of church registered a little deeper. “Is it Sunday?”

  “All day.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Have you given any more thought to the cards?”

  “The only thought I have right now is for coffee.”

  The machine spit coffee into my cup. It was always too hot to drink, so I dropped in a couple of ice cubes to cool it down a tad. The cubes melted quickly and I took my first heavenly sip.

  “Your phone has been buzzing all day,” Sabrina said.

  My phone sat on the kitchen counter where I’d plugged it in to charge overnight.

  “Anyone calling before four in the afternoon doesn’t know me.”

  “You’re grumpy when you get up.”

  I grumbled under my breath and checked my phone. Three calls from a 212 area code, and one call from my parents in New Orleans.

  “Where is area code two one two?” I asked.

  “New York City,” Sabrina said.

  I don’t have any friends there.”

  There were two voice mails. One was from the old homestead and one from the New York number. I sipped my coffee. Which should I listen to first? Unknown and probably a sales call, or known and probably my mom bitching about me not calling her?

  I opted for the Big Apple. When I pressed play, I put the phone to my ear and heard a female voice. “Brett, this is Olivia Dartmoor. We didn’t get a chance to talk at the club last night, so I was hoping we could do lunch. Call me.” And she gave me her phone number.

  How did she get my number? Had I given it to her?

  She was a good looking woman and seemed smart. I like smart women. They can do my thinking for me and I don’t have to worry about things. Let them figure shit out and I can make easier decisions. Yeah, I’m lazy like that. Stupid women offer stupid suggestions or expect me to do all the thinking. Not my strong suit. Not that I can’t think. I just don’t like to waste much time in that department. I prefer a simple life.

  I wasn’t awake enough to call Olivia, and I doubted she’d consider it lunch time now. Most people do lunch at noon or one. It was twenty to four now. Closing in on dinner time. I could ask her to dinner, but women can be weird about granting a dinner date at the last minute. Makes them seem like they have nothing else going on. But maybe Olivia would be the exception to that, or maybe she’d cancel dinner plans to see me instead.

  Of course, she was visiting Galveston, so there was a good chance she didn’t actually have any plans.

  I drank my coffee, wondering about that. The easy answer was to call her and ask.

  But I figured I ought to get my parents’ call out of the way first. I gave it a listen. Yep. Mom was upset that I hadn’t called her. I was about to delete it, but I heard my father’s voice. I couldn’t make out the words, but then Mom said, “I’ll tell him. Brett, your father is going to be in Galveston on Tuesday. What was that, honey? Okay, I’ll tell him. Brett, he says he’s expecting a package. What was that, honey? Well, why don’t you tell him yourself. Here.”

  My father’s voice came on and as soon as he spoke, I felt small. “Son, this is your dad,” he said, as if I wouldn’t know that. “Paul sent a package to me. You probably already have it. Put it in a safe place and I’ll pick it up on Tuesday. I hope this is within your limited skill set. And, son, don’t open it. The less you know about this, the better. See you soon.”

  Dear old dad was late to the party. That was odd.

  I finished my coffee, rinsed the cup, and stuck it in the dishwasher. Sabrina was getting all bendy on the floor in an amazing pair of yoga pants, but I pulled my eyes away. We weren’t kissing cousins, and I didn’t like the way my nether regions were reacting to the sight of her pose. Maybe I could get Olivia to try that.

  After going upstairs to shower, shave, and brush my teeth, I returned her call. Not that she’d see or smell me over the phone, but I wanted to feel more human when I talked to her.

  The phone rang, and rang, and went to voice mail.

  Shit.

  “You’ve reached Olivia. Beep beep, you know what to do.”

  “Hello, Olivia, this is Brett. Just returning your call. Give me a holler when you have a chance. I’ll just be hanging. Maybe we
can hang together later. Not by the neck, of course, but just hang out. You know? Okay. Bye.”

  I threw the phone on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Of all the stupid things to say. “Not by the neck?” I said. “She’s going to think I’m a moron.”

  And of course Sabrina was walking by my door as she went up to her room, so she poked her head in and said, “She already knows you’re a moron.”

  “Fuck you very much.”

  “No, and I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t stare at my ass.”

  “Then stop aiming it my way.” I really shouldn’t speak before five o’clock. I don’t think she heard me, which was just as well, because she was doing yoga, not trying to shoot farts in my general direction.

  Great. Now every time I watched a girl bend over doing yoga, I’d wonder if she was farting at me. Well, as long as I was far enough away that I couldn’t smell it, and still close enough to appreciate the view. I gave my head a vigorous shake because I needed to erase that thought and focus elsewhere.

  I wondered what Olivia was doing. Maybe she was writing. Then again, maybe she’d met Michael and he hypnotized her into sleeping with him. Well, not right now, of course, because he wouldn’t be awake yet. But last night? Or tonight? I made a note to tell him I had dibs on Olivia. He’d honor that.

  There was no band practice today. I was a little hungry, but not enough to go back downstairs. I didn’t have any real plans for the day or night. It was Sunday. That’s a great day to be lazy. Okay, every day is a good day to be lazy. But Sunday is an especially good day for that.

  So I went back to bed.

  I engaged my superpower and drifted off to sleep in a matter of seconds, but alas, it was a short lived reprieve from the bittersweet tapestry of life itself because my damn phone rang, and it was on the dresser.

  Let it go to voicemail?

  I sighed and sat up. I answered on the fourth ring.

  “Hmm?” Something like that. I was still in dreamland.

  “Is this Brett?” Olivia asked.

  “Oh, um, yeah.” I yawned and blinked a few times. “What’s up?”

  “You sound like you just woke up.”

  “I did.”

  “You called me five minutes ago.”

  “Did I? Okay.”

  “Did you seriously go back to sleep in that short span of time?”

  “It’s a gift.”

  “You want me to call back later?”

  “I’m good. What can I do for you?”

  “You want to have lunch tomorrow?”

  “What time?”

  “Eleven?”

  “I’m not in my body at eleven.”

  “Noon?”

  “Can we do dinner instead? I’m not much of a day person.”

  “I have plans tomorrow night.”

  “Later this week then?”

  “I can rearrange a few things to get Tuesday open.”

  Tuesday was when my father was coming to town. That wasn’t going to work. “Tuesday’s a no-go.”

  “I’m leaving town on Wednesday, so I guess we’re in a no fly zone. You have a nice life.”

  “Wait,” I said. “What about tonight?”

  “I’m having dinner with a local resident. I’m interviewing her for my novel. If that ends early enough, maybe we can have a drink on the Strand. But I can’t make any promises.”

  “I never say no to a drink,” I said. “And while it’s often too early for me, it’s never too late.”

  “Don’t hold me to it. The interview might run long.”

  “No worries,” I said. “I’ll see you when I see you.”

  “You’re an odd duck, Brett.”

  “Uh, thank you?”

  She laughed. “Take care and sleep well.”

  “Always,” I said and hung up. I dropped back into bed and was asleep when my head hit the pillow.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Olivia met me for drinks at Martone’s, a bar in the Strand District. She looked amazing in a little black dress, and when I saw her, I couldn’t help but smile. She sat on a stool at the counter, and had her purse saving me a seat next to her. When she saw me, she did not smile.

  “Wow. Did you sleep in that shirt?” she asked, looking me up and down as I approached her at the bar.

  I looked at my T-shirt. It was wrinkled, but at least it was plain white, and I’d given it the sniff test before putting it on.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  She sighed. “You couldn’t have worn a clean shirt? Maybe one with a collar and buttons. Maybe even one that was ironed? Wear some slacks instead of shorts?”

  “We’re just having drinks.”

  “Way to impress the ladies,” she said. “Dressing like that will never get you laid.”

  “I’m a musician,” I said. “I get laid all the time.”

  The bartender pointed at me. “What can I get you?”

  “Jameson,” I said. “Make it a double.” I looked at Olivia. “You want a fresh drink?”

  She had a foo-foo drink with a little pink umbrella sticking out of it. I wondered if this one had alcohol in it, or if it was another virgin sacrifice. “I’m good.”

  I got my drink and sat down next to her.

  She hesitated before speaking, and I got the impression she was thinking about just leaving, but finally she grinned. “Speaking of musicians, you didn’t tell me you were in the band.”

  “I wanted to surprise you.”

  “You started out really good. What happened?”

  “Uh, I hurt my hand.”

  “Oh no,” she said and reached for my left hand. She turned it over. “It looks okay now.”

  “I’ll live.”

  The conversation was awkward, and she kept looking at the door and the time on her phone. “I’ll be right back,” she said. “I need to go to the little girls’ room.”

  She was texting as she entered the restroom.

  I finished my drink and ordered another before she came back.

  “Sorry,” she said. She looked a little green around the gills.

  “I was about to send out a search party,” I said. “Stomach trouble?”

  Her mouth twitched. “Work trouble. My boss keeps texting me.”

  “I thought you were a writer.”

  “In my spare time. I’m also a … personal assistant, I guess. I solve problems, consult, take care of things, shop, travel, research, all sorts of stuff. Wealthy client.”

  “Cool. So where do you live?”

  “I’m based in California.”

  “You have a New York number.”

  “I lived in New York when I got the phone. I moved to Los Angeles two years ago.”

  “Movie star client?”

  “I wish.”

  “What’s your boss do?”

  “Can we talk about something else? I have to go back to work on Thursday, and it’s bad enough that she’s texting me stuff now.”

  “She?”

  “What’s the matter, Brett? Women can’t have personal assistants?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “So what took you to California?”

  “The job.”

  “Sorry, you wanted to talk about other stuff.”

  “So tell me more about you,” she said.

  “Not much to tell. I just do my thing.”

  “Music?”

  “Sometimes. Mostly, I just hang out.”

  “You don’t have a job?”

  “Oh God, no! I would hate to have to work for someone. That would suck balls.”

  “You seem to have money, bad taste in clothing notwithstanding.”

  “I get by.”

  “Meaning you’re rich?”

  “No.”

  “So your parents are rich?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So you’re a trust fund baby.”

  “Something like that. I get a monthly stipend. My father wanted to set it low enough that I’d be what he called incen
tivized to build a lucrative career. He’s not really in touch with how much things cost, so what he thought would be a low income was more than I need to have a good life. I can play my music, party all night, spend time at the beach, travel from time to time. I was at the family house in Miami a few years ago, then spent a winter skiing in Aspen, and then I came out here.”

  “Family homes all over the world?”

  “Yep. Makes for a pretty good life.”

  “Want to trade?”

  I laughed.

  “So you have a nice house here?”

  “It’s pretty nice. Victorian home in the East End built in 1888, same year Jack the Ripper was active.”

  “Jack the Ripper was in London. Whitechapel.”

  “Still the East End. Just a different East End.”

  “I knew a girl in high school named Mary Ann Nichols.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” I asked.

  “Um, Jack the Ripper’s first victim?”

  “Oh, I don’t really know jack about ol’ Jack.”

  “I see. What do you know a lot about?”

  I raised my glass. “Drinking? Partying?”

  “Sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll,” she said.

  “Guilty.”

  “Which is your favorite?”

  “Depends. Which are you offering?”

  “None of the above,” she said.

  “Damn.”

  “Maybe if you’d worn a nicer outfit.”

  “You’d sleep with me if I changed my shirt?”

  “No, I’d listen to rock music.”

  I rubbed my chin. “Not worth it. I can do that alone.”

  “You can do any of them alone.”

  “Well, sure, but sex is more fun with a partner.”

  “So is music.”

  “But not drugs?”

  “I don’t touch drugs,” Olivia said. “I like to be in control.”

  “I’ll let you control things. Not on the drug side. I’m not big into drugs. A joint now and then maybe, but that’s about it.”

  “So I can control the music?”

  “Or the sexual exploration of spirit.”

  She laughed. “That has to be the stupidest come-on I’ve ever heard.”

  “I can come up with a stupider one if you give me a minute.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “You want to get out of here?”