by Minda Webber
The grandfather, Billy Senior, whom Sam had never particularly liked, was retired. He was a randy old goat who was always pinching her rear. The grandson, Billy Double, was generally a whiner and fairly lazy. But the randy old man's son, Billy Junior, was okay by her. Junior was the mayor of Dodge, and he ran a construction company that dealt with all the county's roadwork; bridges, too. Their defection to the competition hurt.
Well, if the competition wanted to play dirty, Sam would oblige them. She would butt heads with Nicolas Strakhov any day of the week; she swore valiantly as she climbed to a bump in the middle of a hillside above the bridge. Bogie trailed a few paces behind, his eyes carefully scanning the darkness.
Kneeling, binoculars in hand, Sam scouted out the entire location, the world progressing in shadowy motion. Tonight the dark was like an old friend; it was good company, and needed. Soft patches of misty fog rose like cold fingers and stretched into the night.
Methodically Sam scouted the old bridge with her infrared binoculars. She and her brother Bogie were about a mile off, hidden in some brush among the gently rolling hills. "Hmm, it appears all is quiet on the Eastern front."
"Nothing good ever happens after midnight," her brother replied, raising his own binoculars to quickly check out the dirt road that trailed down to the bridge. He frowned as the smell of trolls floated up on the breezy night winds. "Phew, they stink!"
"How I love the smell of trolls in the evening," Sam muttered sarcastically, grimacing as the rank odor wafted past them.
Below, she could see the dark outlines of the bridge with her infrared scope and the red forms huddled in slumber underneath.
Trolls. Unlike some supernatural creatures, they slept at night and wrought their havoc during the day. People had to pay a toll if they wanted to cross an infested bridge. Though they truly would have preferred goat meat, bridge trolls were also partial to donuts. Therefore, informed people would buy two dozen donuts and then throw them over the metal handrails of the bridge. After said tribute was. paid, the trolls would then move whatever blockade they had set up and a car would be allowed to pass over. Heaven forbid the car's occupants didn't have any donuts or goat meat; those unlucky few that didn't pay the troll's toll were in for one big stinking surprise. No food meant disaster, for their car and personage would be pelted with large chunks of troll dung. And while trolls were unsightly, short and chunky creatures, they had pitcherlike precision when throwing their waste. They rarely missed. Sam had always thought it a shame that major league baseball discriminated against them.
Personally, Sam thought some of the trolls were kind of cute, what with their big four-toed feet and long, shining rainbow-colored hair. Sam knew she would give her eyeteeth for a chance to style and cut troll hair, but it was a fool's wish; trolls were feisty, mean-tempered little creatures that died in captivity and disliked human touch. Whenever she and Bogie made a troll haul, they literally moved the beasties in the same night from a well-used bridge to some other place.
Her brother hunched down beside her and shifted uncomfortably. "Anything stirring? I wish those lousy Strakhovs would hurry up and get here. I have a hot date tonight."
Sam rolled her eyes. "Swell. Just when don't you?"
"Well, you have to admit that sitting down to a bite of dessert with Mary Alice Lorz beats the crap outta sitting here in the dark, a bite for mosquitoes, waiting for Nicolas Strakhov to get his just desserts—a crap-filled beating."
"That remains to be seen. Nicolas Strakhov and his brothers are at the top of my shit list. What could be better than seeing them get pelted with troll turds?" Tonight's revenge would be a feast for the senses, like sipping champagne and eating strawberries or trying out a new hair color—though on the grosser end of the spectrum. "I can't wait to see the trolls' welcome wagon for those rotten Russians. Every time I think about them, I see red," she added heatedly. "I can't believe those sneaky Slavs are giving discounts on creature capture." Earlier, her crafty uncle had handed her a flyer snatched from the Strakhov warehouse. Monsters-R-Us was now giving a discount on captures of supernatural creatures in groups of a dozen or more. In big print, their sleazy advertisement read: TROLLS, GREMLINS, GARGOYLES AND GHOSTS—ALL CHEAPER BY THE DOZEN! The price-cutting creeps.
Frustrated, she mumbled, "What this country needs is a good ten-cent cigar, another Roosevelt in the White House and Nicolas Strakhov expelled. I bet he doesn't even know who Kermit the Frog is. And I bet he hates apple pie."
"What do apple pie and Kermit have to do with anything?"
"Oh come on, Bogie. What's more American than apple pie or Kermit the Frog?"
Her baby brother thought a moment. "I think you're wrong. Not about the pie, but about Kermit. Frogs are French. Baseball. Baseball is the big American thing. And football. And don't forget Star Wars and Lord of the Rings." Losing interest in the conversation, he began to scope out the trail below again. "Maybe they're going to be a no-show. It's been dark for over two hours, and they still aren't here."
Sam shook her head. Her brother could be a lot of fun sometimes, but patience wasn't one of his virtues. "You really should learn to be more patient."
"Ha! This from the woman who throws a temper tantrum if I'm ten minutes late to go on a job."
"Time is dough."
Bogie shrugged, then stiffened as he glanced back down the hill. "Sam, look!"
She nodded. "They're here at last. Dumb, dumber and dumberest." Her whole attention was captured by what was going on down the hill and under the bridge. Her night vision binoculars allowed her to see three men slowly and cautiously heading forward—toward the big fat booby trap she and Bogie had engineered.
All three men were tall, well over six feet. They moved with catlike grace and assurance, despite wearing heavy coveralls designed with steel mesh to protect them from troll bites. Those bites could make a human go crazy for a couple of days, since troll saliva had compounds that resembled really bad LSD.
With a thumbs-up at her brother, Sam pushed down on a remote control switch connected to a set of speakers and a CD recording of Beethoven's "Ode to Joy," which was located close to the bridge in some underbrush. She grinned, her white teeth shining in the dark. She knew only too well that there were three things trolls hated absolutely.
Captivity.
People ignoring their tolls.
And classical music.
"Ode to Joy" was an inspired choice, Sam felt.
"Tonight's the night. This time the Strakhov brothers won't come out smelling like a rose," Sam remarked slyly as the sounds of Beethoven saturated the night, clashing cymbals and pounding piano.
Between chuckles, Sam saw that the three men were frozen in their tracks. As the music burst forth, within seconds the trolls had woken from their sleep, shrieked and loped over to gather up their bodily wastes from the spot beneath the bridge where they stockpiled it in case of emergencies. And with remarkable aplomb they began lobbing their missiles at the interlopers, who busily began trying to cast their troll netting.
It was a scene straight from a farce. Sam covered her mouth to dampen her laughter. She could feel her brother beside her shaking with mirth. "To Russia with love, courtesy of the Hammetts," she muttered.
Bogart nudged her. "They don't look like happy campers, these Krapov brothers. Or maybe we should call them the Krap-on brothers."
"What can I say? Shit happens."
Her words cracked both of them up.
Still chuckling, her brother said, "You know, Sam, sometimes you are just plain evil."
Wiping tears of mirth from her eyes, she sighed. "Time to go. I would give a week's pay to see them up close, but I think discretion is the better part of valor tonight. They may suspect that we did this. This way, they won't know for sure."
Bogie nodded, and they crept away in the opposite direction.
Before they completely crested the hill, Sam took a quick glance back. Her infrared binoculars showed two of the men holding up their arms as the
y were being hit by flying objects, while another was being pelted from behind. Oh yes, the shit had surely hit the fan. Or in this case, the fam. The Strakhov family.
Without a Paddle
Angry took on a whole new meaning as Nicolas Strakhov yanked off his protective headgear. He was covered in troll dung from head to toe. Running a hand through his ebony black hair, he stared at his brothers. His smoke gray eyes held a ruthless gleam.
"Somebody sabotaged us!" His voice was coarse and raspy.
Nicolas, known as Nic to most, was a product of both the old and the new Russia. He was a supremely confident man, a natural-born leader. He took what he wanted because no one was usually foolish enough to stand in his way. He was in essence a man who could move mountains. He was also fiercely loyal to his friends and family, although he saw himself as essentially alone, a persuasive, pervasive and perplexing personality.
"Merde! This diabolical dung-throwing means war. We will show no mercy to our enemies!" Nic spat as he began unzipping his protective outerwear.
His two brothers, Gregor and Alexander, nodded in agreement. They too had pulled off their helmets, their pale gray eyes glittering in the twilight, their features taut with anger.
Alex, who was the youngest of the three, remarked slyly, "I bet I know who sabotaged us, Nic."
"I think, so do I. Paranormalbustin' Pest Pursuers, Inc. Who else would care if we rounded up these trolls and sent them off to Russia but our competition?" Nic growled.
Gregor, the middle child, more studious and even tempered, was less resolute. "We don't know for certain. We have no proof. Just because they are unworthy Americans doesn't mean they are behind this morass."
Nic gave his brother a glacial stare. He had made it his business to learn something about his competition, which was this brother and sister team. The sister probably looked like a sumo wrestler and cussed like a sailor. Why else, Nic reasoned, would any reasonable female be in the business of monster removal? Certainly no one dainty or attractive would want to wrestle ghosts and get their pretty white hands dirty—like his own were at this moment. Ugh, troll dung.
Of course, Nic had also gathered that the Hammetts, including their strange old bird of an uncle, were enamored with that Humphrey Bogart fellow and his movies. And after renting some of those classic forties films, he had unwillingly admitted that, though he didn't trust or care too much for his business competition, he did appreciate their taste in entertainment.
"Who else would ruin this troll run? Who else would dare?" Alex argued. "Our surveillance showed twelve trolls living and breathing under the bridge. Because of this sabotage, we only captured seven. Seven! We Strakhovs never fail! But tonight we did, and all because of them." He spat the last words out with great distaste.
Nic's eyes were smoldering, their gray smoke almost afire. He added, "And the five we didn't capture will now head for the hills. We'll have to try and track them to their new lair. Only, now they'll be leery and hard to track. Someone will pay for this fiasco! No one makes a fool out of a Strakhov, or causes him to rescind on his word!"
Nic's ruggedly handsome features were hard, making him appear a bit older than his reputed thirty-nine years of age. Yet, that hardness did not diminish from his natural, rugged good looks. He had prominent cheekbones and a full, firm mouth. He was a man who women looked at not once or twice, but for whom they would wrench their necks trying to get a third or fourth glimpse.
Still, as the years marched on Nic had stayed alone for the simple reason that he never met a woman he wanted to spend time with on a day-today basis for the rest of his life. His shortest relationship had lasted one night, and there were more than a few of those. His longest relationship had lasted six months.
His brothers, who were peeling out of their filth-covered uniforms, were also handsome men. Not as attractive as Nic, but close enough. They were both well over six-feet tall, with hair so black it shone with blue highlights in the daylight.
Alex was cunning, sometimes unprincipled, and loved playing pranks. Gregor was thoughtful and more reserved. Nic was the aggressive one, unafraid to show his feelings and ruthless when crossed. And none of the brothers had any trouble with women. In fact, they could beat them off with a stick if they were so inclined. But they weren't. They loved women, were worshipped by women, were spoiled by women and rarely had a serious thought for any particular woman. They were playboys at their best and worst. Likely it was because they were raised from birth with wealth, privilege and the punishing need to win at all costs. Like tonight's treachery—that would not go unforgiven or unpunished.
"Alex, make sure you find out who did this by tomorrow night," Nic ordered. "Then I will take appropriate action. We're going to crush those Hammetts! They'll rue the day they were born."
Alex grinned. He loved it when his brother got that feral glint in his eyes. Nic was a man others revered or feared, and it looked like the Hammetts were going to get a chance at the latter. "What will you do to punish them? Shall we hang them by their thumbs with corkscrews, or should it be the rack?"
Gregor choked. Nic laughed harshly, then grudgingly said, "Ah, for the old days."
Gathering up his equipment, he opened the door of their specialized van. He reminded Alex, "I need the answers soon, before I leave for my trip to help out our cousin. Once I know for absolutely certain who did this, then. I will decide which method of punishment fits the crime. I'll think on it while I'm gone."
"But you'll be gone a good week," Alex argued. "What was done tonight deserves swift retribution. Triple-P Inc. needs to be ground into dirt beneath our feet. We need to strike at their hearts, their pride!"
Only half listening to Alex, Nic was letting his mind revolve; it was spinning quickly as he came up with scenarios. Glancing at his youngest brother, he nodded. "Yes, you always hated competition. But remember the Russian saying, 'Revenge is a dish best served cold.' And I intend to serve these Americans cold cuts."
Getting into the van and sitting next to him, listening to his brother's harsh warning, Gregor shuddered. Nic was formidable even before the added stimulation of being angered. Angry, Nic was a force to be reckoned with.
His eyes on the road, Nic added in a voice rilled with grim determination, "Merde! Nobody but nobody—and certainly not some insignificant little American nobody—crosses Nicolas Strakhov and gets away with it!"
Driving off toward their warehouse, Nic turned to his brothers, eyeing them with heat. "What is that saying… ?" Snapping his fingers, he suddenly nodded. "Ah, yes. Samantha and Bogart Hammett will soon be up that creek without a paddle."
Public Nuisance Nos. One, Two and Three
Sam and Bogie had gotten home a little over ten minutes earlier. Her baby brother had gone to shower and get dressed for his date while Sam headed for the den. As she passed, she noted the furnishings here had a distinct look of wear and tear, but it was the sort of look a house gets that has been well lived in.
As Sam stared at the flickers of flame in the den fireplace, her Uncle Myles wandered in. A cigarette was pinched between his fingers, smoke wisping into the air.
"So how'd it go, kid?" he asked.
"You know how those Russian brothers all think they're Ivan the Terrible? Well, our scam ran like clockwork. The music played, the trolls danced, and the Strakhovs got pelted. They got their noses a little dirty tonight, I'd guess. And everything else."
"I get the picture."
"I would have given a fiver to see their faces underneath those helmets" Sam remarked, laughing. "That'll teach them to play chicken with us."
"You said it, doll." Myles chortled and ground out his cigarette in an ashtray. "You didn't happen to see the black bird, did you?"
Sam shook her head. Over the years she had gotten various artists to design replicate Maltese falcons, but her uncle had never been fooled. Now the decorated birds sat on the mantle and bookshelves, while her uncle was still patiently looking for the original.
He sighed. "
I didn't find the bird tonight, either, but let me tell you how it went down. Casing the Strakhov joint was tough. They put in more security. Even so, I beat their system. I got the info you wanted," Myles explained, his light blue eyes alive with excitement.
Sam's grin widened.
"The Strakhovs are in contact with Prince Petroff Varinski, the vampire prince."
Her grin faded a bit. Prince Varinski was the big-time. He was rich beyond all get-out, and was literally a royal vampire of the Tolstoy-Vlad lineage, the very top of the old royal line. At one time he had ruled a large part of Russia, but had abdicated to come and live in America. If blood was blue, his was a shrieking cerulean, the color of deep-frozen icebergs.
"You see, sweetheart, they're talking to that prince fellow about doing a Bustin' job, and it ain't gonna be a pretty one."
When her uncle called her sweetheart, things were going to move. And move fast, like a runaway locomotive. Anyone on the tracks better get out of the way double quick.
"Varinski, it seems, has got a real doozie of a problem with that castle of his he bought in upstate New York. He's got not one ghost, or two ghosts, but three of the little buggers, a real paranormal pest parade. And all of them are causing mayhem in that fine new place."
Sam took in her uncle's words. The competition had been contacted and she hadn't even been called in for a consult? This harsh reality not only made her angry, it made her stark-raving mad. Gritting her teeth, she thought about the client, wondering if all of Russia was intending to move to Vermont. First Prince Varinski and his entourage, then the Strakhov brothers themselves. She supposed it wasn't surprising they were sticking together. Russian bears of a feather, as it were…
Myles continued: "They've got a ghost called Andy whose been painting scenes all over the house."
"An artist ghost, huh? I've handled a few of those before." They were usually highly emotional and often messy, leaving turpentine and oil paints all about a place. Noticing her uncle's grimace she asked, "What? He's a bad artist?"
