The Case of the Pitcher's Pendant

by Tee Morris

  No, I didn’t presume to think the gun was charmed in any way; but Beatrice does have a personality about her. She was getting antsy.

  The surrounding windows were dark, save one. A lookout could be up there, keeping a watchful eye over the alleyway, but it would be a real hassle getting word to Flyball without me catching it. The one lit window revealed nothing more than an empty room. Probably someone left a light on by accident.

  With a tug at my tie, I checked the time. 7:32. Not enough time to run off, grab a cup of java, and get back before meeting time. Plenty of time, though, to holster my weapon, find a quiet place to lean, and enjoy a good bowl’s worth of weed.

  Pinching the pipe’s bit in between my teeth, I packed what would do for a quick yet leisurely smoke. Through the scent of my freshly-lit match, however, came a coppery whiff I knew far too well. So much for enjoying a “leisurely” smoke. My hand remained over the flame, but while I prepared to light the tobacco, I shifted my eyes upward from the pipe’s bowl.

  Lights were flickering on from the street as that purple-blue of sunset was replaced by the dark inkiness of night. I was thankful to the Fates for the man-made illumination; because of it, there were few corners of the city that knew true, total darkness. The light around me and from the street was enough to reveal a silhouette standing in the open alleyway.

  Cocky son of a traulssa. Didn’t even bother to find a hiding place.

  I fired up the bowl and started puffing. The plan was to create enough of a mask that Mr. Boulder Balls over there wouldn’t notice me reaching for Beatrice.

  I blinked as my mass of tobacco smoke shifted, and then returned to lazily hover in front of me. Peering through the wisps, I could see that the lone figure was gone.

  He might have been gone, but I sure wasn’t alone.

  Beatrice was back in hand, and this time I wasn’t sheathing her without loosing a round or two. Something then struck my wrist, moving too quick for me to catch more than a blur. The speed of the attack relieved me of my gun, and sent my arm bending in an unnatural direction. The shock wasn’t enough to break bone, but it was enough to sting from shoulder to fingertip.

  I also felt my balance give way. Instead of holding up the Jefferson with my back, I was now in the middle of the loading dock. Didn’t matter if it was the Shri-Mela Plains in the heart of a battle or a loading dock in downtown Chicago, being out in the open was never a good place to be.

  Before I could move to a better vantage point (which would have been anywhere, right now!), something slammed into my gut. Hard. Hard enough to relocate a few organs. I felt a sensation of weightlessness; nothing under or around me, but still I felt myself moving.

  When this (literal) gut-wrenching trip ended, it wasn’t going to be nice.

  My upper back and shoulders took most of the hit. I crashed though a couple of empty crates, the wood splintering around me as I fell to the pavement. The impact knocked my innards back into place, but also knocked the wind out of me. I went to take a breath, and I seized up immediately. I had a severely bruised rib…if I was lucky. Easier now, I took a deep breath. It came out as a series of quick puffs.

  Now would be a good time to get up.

  I felt a stinging sensation around my neck, and then I was up in the air again like some damned winged unicorn. This time, it was into the trashcans. I was now working against a bruised—probably broken—rib, a necktie that reduced my collar by about two inches, and an oppressive smell of what had to be the garbage awaiting pick-up. This whole lack of quality air was not helping me in a fight I was losing, and losing with a lot of style. Then again, when your opponent is stacking the deck with dark magic, all your hands are going to suck.

  My head wobbled upright and then turned sharply to the left. A moment later, another blow jerked it to the right. This guy was now slapping me, as if I was his own little tavern wench bought and paid for, to answer to his whims. His slaps might as well have been full-out right crosses; with how fast he was moving, I was feeling each blow down to the core.

  Now I know how you felt, Kev, I thought through a haze of memory and consciousness.

  My shoulder stung from hitting the alleyway, but my Gryfennosian pride kicked in and I refused to fall flat on my face. I worked my other arm, throbbing shoulder and all, underneath me and pushed myself up to my knees.

  Yeah, to my knees. It was progress. Humiliating and degrading, sure, but it was progress.

  I couldn’t think of a clever way to get my ass out of this campfire—I was too busy trying to stay awake. The thought of bluffing my unseen opponent came to mind: Feign passing out, and let him think I was ready for a meat wagon. It sounded like a good plan for about five long seconds, but I really didn’t like the idea of turning the light out for myself when something was using me as its personal punching bag.

  What were my alternatives? Come on, Billi, I chided. (Even my thoughts were slurring at this point. Yeah, this was definitely a bad situation…) What can you use, right now, against the dark magic kicking your ass from Al’s South Side to Bugs’ North?

  The flash made me bring my hand up to shield my face. At first, I thought the light was coming from headlights. Very big headlights. Then I wondered if I had been hit so hard that I felt no pain, or that maybe I wouldn’t feel the pain until later. Or if this light was in fact the Great Crossroads, and I was on my way to those Everlasting Fields I’m always blabbering about. Considering those wench whacks, a full out punch would probably have knocked me right into the afterlife.

  It hurt to blink. My face was swelling up. Still, I tried to grasp onto some semblance of awareness and reason. The light was white. Pure white. Pure white, touched at some point with…

  This was magic. Someone was casting a charm. A protection spell.

  My body swayed for a bit, and then I was back down, kissing the pavement. Cast a protection spell, Billi, I thought. Good thinking.

  Chapter Twelve

  Detective, Heal Thyself

  “I would tell you to stay in bed,” the old man grumbled, “but we both know you won’t listen.”

  “This time, Doc,” I slurred through a swollen cheek and slightly puffy lips, “I actually might.”

  Okay, that hurt.

  I tried to readjust myself against the pillows. That hurt. I looked back up to Dr. Roberts. That hurt. Miranda’s hiss, followed by her grumble, reached my ears. And as you probably know the words by now, sing along. Yeah, it hurt.

  “So if this is how you look, how did the street gang fare?”

  Old Doc Roberts might come across more like a pain-in-the-ass than an experienced healer, but he really did know his medicine. When it came to patching people up, tending to battle wounds, and making sure that when you were on the mend, you mended proper, Dr. Ned Roberts didn’t practice anything. He knew what he was doing. He was a true master of the healing arts. While our first meeting had been a visit of convenience (as Doc Roberts’ office was across from my own), he had become the only guy I trusted to keep me going after the more perilous nights in a detective’s life.

  Last night had been one of those nights.

  When I came to, I was in my bed. That was kind of nice, considering how uncomfortable the alley had been. I knew I had hit that asphalt hard. Now that I looked back on things, I had hit that asphalt repeatedly, bouncing across the pavement like a child’s play-ball. My bed was a really nice follow-up to all that unpleasantness.

  But the big question was how the hell I’d gotten from the Jefferson to my flop.

  This was immediately followed by another question: How long had I been out? I could tell by how the room was lit that the sun was up and had been for a while, and I’d missed most—if not all—of the morning.

  “I’ve set myself up on the couch, Billi,” Miranda said. “If you need anything…”

  “I do need something, sweetie, but it’s back at the office.” I took a deep breath, hoping that was going to ease up some of the pressure. Not even close. “Think you coul
d go and get it for me?”

  Miranda tipped her head to one side, that silent warning I knew oh so well.

  “I swear, my ears are free of the dungeon muck. I’m not going anywhere, but I might as well preoccupy myself with some light reading.”

  “Billi,” Miranda huffed, unwrapping a piece of Wrigley’s and popping it in her mouth. The ferocity of her chewing reminded me of a pack of sabertooths enjoying an inept hunting party as fine cuisine. Yeah, she was upset, and she was going to let me know exactly how upset she was.

  “If he’s not going to listen to you, Miss Tanner, I can just give him something that will put him out of his misery faster,” grumbled Doc Roberts.

  “Reading.” I screwed my eyes shut, groaning a bit as I shifted in my bed. “I just want to have something to read, something productive. I know I’m not going anywhere today.”

  “You might want to consider canceling your plans for tomorrow, as well. Since your organs are—well, they’re not where they’re supposed to be to begin with, I don’t know what kind of internal bleeding you may have.” He started packing his bag, thank the Fates. Didn’t mean he went quiet, though. “I know you’ve got a few bruised ribs. Doesn’t matter where your kidneys or liver are, those ribs need to heal.”

  “I would not presume to debate you on that, Doc,” I agreed, giving a slight groan as I finally came to a stop among the mountain of pillows Miranda had built behind me. “But if I’m staying put, I should have something to entertain myself. My eyes aren’t bruised or busted up, so I can read, yes?”

  “I’m not moving in or anything,” she blurted out, “but I will make sure you rest up during office hours.”

  I look at them both, and asked “Why does everyone think—”

  “The Tennison Case,” they both shot.

  “Oh, come on,” I retorted, my memory coming down on me like a sudden avalanche along Rancorsia’s western face. “The Tennison Case was a pretty big deal.”

  “That muscle the perp hired was a pretty big deal, too,” Miranda snapped. The pop of her gum made Doc Roberts jump. “He may not have done the number on you I’m looking at now…”

  “Miranda, this case is different.”

  “Really?” she huffed. “How different?”

  I glanced at Doc Roberts, and then narrowed my eyes (Ouch!) on the one woman in Chicago who knew everything about me and where I truly hailed from. Might as well let her know now where this case with the Cubs was headed. “Very different.”

  Miranda’s gum popping stopped.

  Doc Roberts closed up the bag and looked at me for a moment, snorted, and then turned to Miranda. “Make sure he takes it easy.”

  The bag was in his hand, clattering loudly as he removed it from my bedside table. A few moments later, his footfalls were echoing in the stairwell of my building, but Miranda just looked at me in silence.

  She sat down on the couch, and softly popped her Wrigley’s for a moment. Finally, she asked, “This has to do with you and your…past?”

  “Miranda…”

  “First, the weird phone call telling us where to find you. Then we get there, and Jer finds you still got Beatrice in the holster, fully loaded.” She was now on her feet, pacing. “I shoulda known…I shoulda known…”

  “Miranda…”

  “I mean, why would someone attack you and then drive you to your office and leave you on the couch, huh? Yeah, just a little peculiar, don’t you thi—”

  “Mindy!”

  That snapped her out of the tirade. From the look on her face it seemed only one person had permission to call her by that name.

  “I need to take a look at a book I’ve got stashed in my office. It’s behind the bookcase.”

  “What does it look like?”

  It hurt to smile, but I did anyway. “It’s the biggest one in that nook, and when you see it, you’ll understand why I hide it.” I thought about My World Book being out in the open, and added, “Carry it under your arm, and walk inside the sidewalk. Make sure the cover is facing into your body.”

  “Sure, Billi.”

  I was pretty certain that gum was still sitting in her mouth, inert.

  “Look, Miranda, you wanted to know, so now you know.”

  She nodded, and then suddenly became aware of the wad of gum in her mouth. Miranda spit out the small, gray mass and tossed it into a waste bin.

  Another slow wave of pain swept over me, but I knew it wasn’t from trying to get comfortable. This was stress triggering a few bruised muscles. Nothing I could say would have helped. After the financial bubble burst, we hadn’t found many opportunities to talk about Billibub Baddings, Captain of the Stormin’ Scrappies. We hadn’t talked about magic, the Nine Talismans, Black Orcs, Portals of Oblivion, or anything outside of the confines of this familiar world since that day in Grant Park. We had been focused on staying in business.

  I had also figured she had never brought it up again because she really wasn’t curious about it, but now I could see how far off the mark that guess had been. Miranda was not a Cleric Clapper, but that didn’t mean she didn’t go to church on Sundays. While she’s got the kind of rack an inquisitor could appreciate, she didn’t wear that crucifix of hers simply for looks. It meant something. Magic, and me just breathing her air, didn’t challenge or test it, but it sure did bring up a few questions that neither volume of her Good Book covered in detail. She knew the truth about me now, and that was fine; but this was a case that forced her to really come to grips with that truth.

  Truth, no matter where it comes from, carries with it a kind of responsibility. Miranda could handle that responsibility. Didn’t mean it was easy for her to face.

  “Is there any special latch that I need to worry about?”

  “Nah, it should just open up if you pull hard enough, and you shouldn’t have to pull that hard.”

  She took a deep breath. “Okay, I’ll be right back.”

  “Thanks, Miranda,” I said.

  My girl didn’t reply, nor did she look at me. She just picked up her purse, looked around my flop for a moment, and then headed out. I never wanted to complicate things for her. Miranda was a good girl. No, scratch that. She’s a kind soul. One of the best apples I’ve known in either realm, and loyal to a fault. That’s something I really appreciated about her, and now I couldn’t help but worry that I was somehow taking advantage of that.

  I was still staring at the door, my breathing the only sound in the room. Parts of my skin tingled, and not in a good way. Another twinge of pain. And then, completely unexpectedly, I saw in my mind’s eye the light that consumed the loading dock of the Jefferson.

  Fucking magic. It had saved my ass, and now it was putting my relationship with Miranda under a serious strain.

  Thank you so much, Miranda, I thought as my eyelids began to close. For everything.

  ***

  When I finally woke up, I saw Miranda curled up on the couch, with the remains of a day falling on her and a finished dinner special from Mick’s. I had slept the entire day away. That meant I was probably going to be up all night. At least it wouldn’t be too long of a night, provided Miranda had done what I asked her and…

  I noticed that the lamp next to my bed was on. I took a deep breath and looked over the side, and there it stood on its spine. There was a slight twinge of pain when I smiled, but I didn’t mind so much. Why, oh why, do I ever doubt my girl Miranda? Maybe it had been that cold stare that had penetrated through my deep sleep. She wanted me to rest up. Casework, in her mind, wasn’t really rest. Delivering My World Book bedside was just contributing to the delinquency of a Dwarf.

  Now, the hard part.

  The act of reaching down shot pain along my left side, and then worked up my arm, threatening my hold on My World Book. My groaning remained at a soft rumble, but from the cold sweat that had broken out just from reaching down to heft the book off the floor and slide it across my lap, I knew I wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. I promised myself that the next tim
e I ran into Trouble, I would make life extremely miserable for them. For all of them. I had really thought “Flyball” was going to be my guy on the inside, and then the whole thing wound up being an elaborate shut-out.

  The book remained closed after the Herculean effort of getting it into bed with me. I really wasn’t caressing its leather skin for any particular reason, just feeling the comforting sensation against my fingertips. Once more, my mind wandered back to the alleyway. I knew by the warmth, the scent (of course), and particular brightness of the light that my rescue had come from some kind of magic.

  What was bristling my beard so much, though, was that I hadn’t thrown the charm.

  My fingertips paused between the cracks in the worn cover, the word Chronicles visible through parted digits in a language only I understood.

  I never had figured out that locked drawer in the Assistant D.A.’s office. I did remember the spell, though, and a damn fine charm that was. Low enough level to be dismissed by most as just a particularly tough lock to pick, but a big enough dagger-in-the-side to make enchanted picks work hard for the treasure.

  The charm that saved me in the alley, though, had been something else. It couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than magic. That pitch had been out in the open, and the events at the Jefferson would have been a real problem for anyone not familiar with sorcery to explain away. I noodled through what might have led someone to throw such a spell. First, I was a Dwarf in Chicago, and I wasn’t acting like a complete and total chump. No screams for God, no scurrying into the shadows in a panic, or the like. Hell, I had actually tried to fight back. It would have been clear that I was familiar with magic, and knew that magic was kicking my ass. Then there had been the unseen assailant using me like a party favor at some after-slaying bonfire. (Club the straw dragon hard enough, kiddies, and the sweets will pour out of his belly!) The offending party had obviously been using magic. That alleyway had been brewing over with alternative culture like a seer’s cauldron left over the flame too long.