by Robin Ray
“That backlight is OLED,” L’Da answered, “Organic light emitting diode. The wax paper is tuned to match its electroluminescence – the technology can differentiate between actual structures and tissue so there’s no ambiguity. In other words, sharp, contrasted pictures for your convenience.
“Oh,” Gregory fawned, “you’re too good to me.”
He began examining the photos one by one. From his experience, nothing seemed out of place, and that, in itself, was an issue. “It’s all intact,” he mused, rubbing his chin in confusion. Then, sitting down at the desk, he took a blank piece of paper from the top draw and drew a sketch. Seconds later, he held up his drawing for all to see.
“This is what you’re looking for,” he professed.
L’Da took the paper and scrutinized it from left to right. Based on Gregory’s sketch, it looked like the hilt of a dagger with a flattop umbrella tip about 4” in length attached to the top of it. The hilt had two buttons. The angel passed the drawing to the young sax man. “Good luck with your quest,” he told him, then turned to Gregory. “Interesting instrument you’ve rendered there, Gregory. All that based from those photographs?”
“Call it a strong hunch,” the PI said. “No entrance or exit would, quick jab with a round, flat tip that can be quickly heated, no irregular side by side movement…”
“Well,” L’Da said, “if we’re done here, I must get to a previously scheduled appointment. Feel free to drop by if you have any questions.”
“Bye,” the PI and Tony said as L’Da exited.
“Well, young man,” Gregory told his assistant, “seems like we have a lot of work to do. Where do you think is a good place to start?”
“The pizza shop in the Green,” came the novice’s immediate reply.
“Why?” the PI asked. “You know someone there we can talk to?”
“Nope,” the young man said. “If Tony doesn’t eat soon, Tony can’t work.”
Gregory nodded. “I heard that.”
The two private investigators sat in the cozy pizza restaurant enjoying their lunch, Tony his two Sicilian slices with lemonade, and Gregory his Eggplant Parmesan and lager. On the red and white-chequered table cloth sat their missives from the police station, including the sketch of the dagger. Most of the tables in the restaurant were occupied by at least two diners. Indie rock was wafting from the full-range cubical speakers hanging off the ceiling. One young waiter was going around asking visitors if they were okay; the two older cooks behind the counter, wearing aprons that had seen better days, were busy preparing Italian-inspired meals.
“Gregory,” the novice sleuth began, “did you ever see an accident so gruesome you wanted to quit police work?”
“All the time,” came the elder’s response, “but what can you do? Somebody has to take out the trash. Tag, I’m it. Anyway, after a while, not that you get used to seeing carnage, you just learn to block it out so it doesn’t affect your feelings. That’s when the danger starts. Somebody did something bad, there’s the aftermath, go get ‘em. Business as usual; nothing personal.”
Tony grabbed his midriff. “Wow,” he groaned, “I think I’d need a cast-iron stomach.”
“Or a good collection of barf bags,” Gregory suggested.
“Can I get you gentlemen anything else?” asked the waiter who’d arrived unseen.
“I’m okay,” Tony claimed.
Gregory handled his empty beer stein to the waiter. “I’ll have another.”
As the employee turned to leave, he saw the crude drawing of Gregory’s rendition of the alleged murder weapon on the table. “What is this?” he asked to no one in particular.
“A sketch my partner came up with,” Tony proudly answered.
“Can I see it?” the waiter asked. “I’ve always had a fascination with knives.” Picking up the paper, he studied the drawing. “Pretty unusual.”
“That’s what I said,” Tony explained.
The curious waiter flicked the draft paper, turning his attention to the older investigator. “Were you looking to buy one of these?”
“Have you seen these before?” Gregory queried.
“No,” the dark-haired employee replied. “Is it middle eastern?”
The PI shrugged. “Beats me.”
“Let me show this to the boss,” the waiter suggested. “He’s a knife freak, worse than I am.”
Gregory nodded. The young man took the paper with him to the kitchen area.
“How’d you learn to draw?” Tony asked his partner.
“That’s drawing?” Gregory laughed. “I’ve seen better sketches by quadriplegics.”
“It’s not bad,” the young man admitted, sighing. “I wish I could draw. One of the things I resented from my upbringing is I was never really exposed to the arts. After my dad bounced, it was work, work, work. Everybody else was having fun, but there I was, rolling up my sleeves in the hot sun moving boxes and hammering shelves all day long. Ridiculous. No wonder I’m still a virgin.”
“You just haven’t met the right guy yet. What about him?” the PI asked, referring to the waiter.
“He’s cute,” Tony admitted, “but he wouldn’t want me.”
Gregory pointed to his assistant. “We gotta work on your self-esteem.”
Just then the waiter returned with the sketch and a full stein of beer which he placed in front of the anxious PI.
“My boss is old school,” the waiter explained. “He saw something like this in a book years ago but that book’s been out of print. Anyway, the dagger’s just a myth, kind of like Excalibur. In the book it was called Anima Furabatur, or something like that.”
“Thanks,” Gregory said, taking the sketch back. “You’ve been helpful.”
Minutes later, the two dicks were sitting in the Woodstock Library looking up Anima Furabatur on a holographic computer. Small in size, the library was, nevertheless, as up to date as any super-sized metropolitan depository of information. Gregory, tap-tapping the wireless, bamboo keyboard with the furiosity of a tomb raider, seemed to be getting nowhere.
“I think I must be spelling it wrong,” he mused. “All I get are dead ends.”
“You’ve already tried Spanish, German and Italian,” Tony noticed. “What’s next?”
“I don’t know,” Gregory admitted, relinquishing the com. “You try.”
Exchanging positions, Tony started typing commands in the computer.
“Let me try a different spelling,” he suggested. Nearly a minute later, something finally popped up. “There it is,” he said, pointing to the screen.
“Soul stealer,” Gregory read. “Stealer of souls.”
“It’s Latin,” his assistant remarked. “What’s a soul stealer?”
“I don’t know,” the trained detective answered. “We’ll ask L’Da later.”
CHAPTER 10
“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” the confounded angel professed, reading the printout of information from the library on the Anima Furabatur. Sitting at the desk in the office in the police station’s lobby, L’Da scanned the note thoroughly. Gregory was standing in front of the desk awaiting instructions while Tony sat in another chair watching a man he’d never seen before, twisting and turning the knobs on the polygraph machine with such familiarity it seemed like he built it himself.
“Oh, gentleman,” L’Da said, forgetting his manners. “This is D’Ariel. He’s a forensic specialist from Legal Heaven. You might say he’s on loan. And, yes, he’s an angel. D’Ariel, this is Gregory and Tony.”
D’Ariel waved ‘hi’ to the partners and they returned the gesture. Unlike the other angels, the polygraph specialist wasn’t dressed totally in white; he was clad in black harem pants, a decorative red tunic and brown shoes. His bald head was so shiny it could blind anyone should sunlight reflect off it at the wrong angle.
“D’Ariel,” L’Da asked, “can you come over for a minute?”
“Sure.” The bald visitor got up and trekked over to the desk where
L’Da passed him the sketch of the Anima Furabatur.
“Ring any bells?” the white-attired angel asked his friend. “A soul stealer?”
“Can’t say that it does,” D’Ariel answered. “It’s improbable though, only because the soul cannot be removed, as far as I know anyway.”
Gregory chimed in the conversation. “Is there a way to check if someone has no soul?”
“I’ve never heard of a way,” L’Da lamented. “Yes, your soul can be read by the device in Karen’s employ, but never has it been tasked to read that which wasn’t there.”
D’Ariel remembered otherwise. “You know, I’ve heard something once but, like everything else, seemed like a myth at the time; maybe still is. There’s an old contraption in the archives that hasn’t been used in several millennia because it’s never been needed. As a matter of fact, I don’t even know where it is today or even what it looks like, but like I’d said, probably just some old wives’ tale made up to keep kids out of the forest.”
“Where are the archives?” Gregory asked him.
“Can I see your manual?” D’Ariel asked in return.
“I left mine back in my room,” the PI admitted.
“I have mine,” Tony stated, removing his from his pocket.
D’Ariel took the blue covered manual and flipped through a couple of virtual pages.
“You know,” Gregory wondered aloud, “I must say I’m very surprised.”
“About what?” D’Ariel asked, pausing his search.
The PI threw up his hands like he was Atlas holding up the world. “That you guys just don’t do magic and find what you want. I thought all y’all did that.”
“What pro basketball team did you play for, Gregory?” D’Ariel asked, tapping the manual non-consciously. “The Lakers? The Suns?”
The detective squinted at the forensic specialist. “I never played pro ball.”
D’Ariel shook his head. “That’s a surprise. I thought all y’all did that.”
Gregory jumped up like he was going to force the bald interloper to swallow his words, then he realized what tempestuous feelings the slick angel was trying to create, and at which he succeeded.
“Touché,” the corrected PI admitted.
D’Ariel continued browsing through the manual till he arrived at his destination.
“Just like I figured,” he expressed. “The portal was changed.”
“Heaven grows by leaps and bounds continually,” L’Da informed the detectives, “so it’s often necessary to shift portals and chambers around.”
“What’s a portal?” Tony asked.
“A door to a parallel dimension,” L’Da answered.
“Oh,” Gregory joked, “like the Twilight Zone, except without Rod Serling. This is a journey, not of sight or sound, but of mind.” When he saw everyone in the room kept a straight face at his poor Serling impersonation, he went back to reading the pamphlet in his hand. “Why do I even waste my time?” he mumbled to himself.
“I can locate the machine,” D’Ariel hoped. “It’d just take a day, maybe less.”
“You have to go to another heaven?” Tony asked.
“No,” D’Ariel reckoned. “There’s a portal to the other portals in the basement of this building. Once I’m in I’ll begin my search. It just takes a long time because the halls of the archives are endless. As soon as I’m finished here, I’ll start.”
“Thanks, D’Ariel,” L’Da stated, then turned to the newly arrived residents. “In the meantime, you two feel free to interview as many people as you can. The sooner we solve this problem, the better the chance of staving off a ‘stop placement’. I can just imagine the havoc that would wreak throughout the universe.”
By mid-afternoon, Gregory was beginning to feel the burn from all the walking around he and his partner had done. They’d spoken to six people thus far who stated they were knowledgeable about interdimensional travel but none could help the duo the way they hoped. Taking a break, the elder PI opted to visit the farmer’s market in the center of town to purchase food for his apartment and emollient for his aching feet. Tony, itching to play a guitar, any guitar, told his friend he’d see him later, then moseyed on over to Les Paul’s shop just down the block to check out what was on sale. Because his ID card was new, he knew he’d at least have to volunteer for several jobs around town just to be able to earn enough credits for an el cheapo axe. Entering the cozy luthiery shoppe, he started checking out the dazzling, shiny instruments displayed against a wall. Carefully bringing one down, he sat on a stool and started strumming away.
Over at the farmer’s market, Gregory grabbed a black handbasket from a stack near the door as he entered and proceeded inward. The first thing he noticed was a conspicuous lack of cash registers in the store. There were self-checkout stands, as well as aisles and aisles of goods, but no traditional payment terminals in sight. Strolling around, he noticed it was set up like a typical market. There were familiar offerings such as bottled water, bread, fruits and vegetables, paper products, beauty supplies, beer, cigarettes, canned goods, and so on. On closer inspection, it appeared none of the items were manufactured by international corporations; that is, no Coke, no Colgate, no Charmin – according to the labels, many of them primitive in nature, everything in the store was naturally or holistically created or grown in Woodstock, from asparagus to zucchini and everything in between.
Looking down an aisle, he noticed one of the market workers stocking different personal care products up on a shelf. Removing his ID card, he approached the bearded gentleman with the warm, inviting face framed by long red hair streaming down his back.
“Excuse me,” the PI opened, holding up his spanking new, recently-issued, dark blue card. “Where can I find out what’s left on here?”
“Over there,” the stocker said, pointing to a small black box at the end of the aisle. “Also, as you come in, you can just swipe it in front of one the checkout kiosks.”
“Thanks,” Gregory conceded. “So I just get whatever items I want, put it in a cart, walk to the front and watch credits get subtracted from my card?”
“Just like that.”
“Suppose my card is empty or I don’t have enough?”
“That’s okay,” the stocker said. “Food you can take. You’ll just owe credits to your card. You wouldn’t be able to check out the good stuff, though.”
“The good stuff?”
“Non-food items like beer, wine, cigarettes…and you have to be at least 21, otherwise you’ll set off an alarm, and that’s pretty embarrassing.”
“I see. And to add credits I just volunteer or do something good for somebody.”
“That’s it,” the employee stated. “Real easy.”
“Thanks. What’s your name?”
“Duane. Duane Allman.”
“Hey, Duane. I’m Gregory. You’ve been helpful.”
“Any time, man. Oh, by the way,” Duane added, waving a box of toothpaste in his hand, “in case you’re interested, all the flax products came in. Get ‘em while they’re hot.”
The PI took the natural toothpaste from the clerk and studied it. “These are big sellers around here?”
“You bet,” Duane answered. “Can’t keep ‘em in the store. You know, flaxseed oil has kind of a short shelf life.”
Gregory gazed at the shelves the worker was stocking. “What do they make from it?”
“A lot of stuff,” the crimson pated gentleman replied. “Toothpaste, soap, shampoo, hand cream, rash and inflammation cream, foot cream…”
“Yeah!” the excited PI shouted. “I’ll take one of those. My dogs are killing me.”
Gregory waited as Duane rummaged through one of the boxes by his feet, brought out a jar of whitish cream, and handed it to him.
“Flax Mill Foot Cream,” the detective read, then opened the jar and sniffed the contents. “It doesn’t have an odor,” he noticed. Dipping two fingers in lightly, he pulled them back out and rubbed them together. “It’s
not greasy,” he realized. “You know what? I’ll take one of each of that flax stuff.”
Duane glanced at Gregory’s relatively short curly black hair. “Including the shampoo?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” the PI objected. “I can’t use shampoo?”
“No, no, no,” Duane quickly backtracked. “I didn’t mean anything. My hair’s long and I don’t even use the stuff. To each his own, I guess.”
“Yeah,” Gregory snickered, adding the shampoo to his basket. “To each his own.” And with that, he strutted off while the clerk loudly gulped, swallowing his spit.
The PI continued walking around the store checking out its many contents, even sampling some of the faux cheeses, jams, crackers and Asian-flavored tofu squares that were being handed out by volunteers from various farms. At the back of the store he studied the meat and seafood collection closely. Amazing, he thought, that they could create vittles which resembled the real thing so closely. At the deli, he picked out a steaming, barbecued shish kebab of lamb, onions and peppers, a bag of cooked de-tailed, de-veined prawns, Spanish brown rice, and several other items, all of which, according to their tags, should equal around 25 credits. Walking over to one of the credit check boxes, he scanned his card to make sure there was enough currency in it – there was – and proceeded to the exit.
CHAPTER 11
About an hour after sundown, and getting some much needed rest, Gregory donned his clothes and went to Tony’s place on the same floor and coaxed him into going out for some air. The neophyte investigator, now torn between spending time with Eddie C. and the PI, agreed to hang out simply because his boyfriend was at work at Cumby’s.
As it was still relatively early, they trekked to one of the local bars they’ve never been to before to see if they could garner any more clues about Amy’s mysterious death. Marching up stone-paved Rock City Road, they arrived at a one-level dive with a western feel, a shanty with the huge faux horns of a bull over the door of a little getaway called Shangri La. From outside it seemed simple enough – a bar married to a beer garden, soaked in light blue paint, possibly as a tribute to Frida Kahlo’s cobalt house. Man-sized cacti planted in front of, and to the sides of, the dive made them feel like they were lost in 1880 Arizona somewhere.
