The Wizards of Central Park West_Ultimate Urban Fantasy

by Arjay Lewis

  “Your crime scene?” Wilcox scoffed. “It’s Manhattan North’s crime scene. Of course you two worked there once.”

  “Until you showed up,” Luis grumbled through clenched teeth.

  “You involved yourself in my case, after I told you to back off.” Wilcox pointed his finger at Luis like a weapon. “As it is, I caught the creep.”

  “While we almost got killed,” Luis argued.

  “You were grandstanding,” Wilcox jeered. “You should have been happy to share information—”

  “Save us the Fed bullshit. You’re not supposed to get involved in a city case unless you’re asked,” Vasquez snapped. “On this case, forensics is still trying to locate all the body parts.”

  Wilcox brightened up. “Really? This one is sure to get headlines.”

  “It’s not about credit, Wilcox.” Eddie felt himself grow hot under the collar.

  “That’s right, Berman, it’s about catching the bad guys, and a few headlines are good for advancement,” Wilcox pointed out. “I mean, for those of us who don’t get affirmative action.”

  Vasquez turned his even larger body toward the muscled Wilcox. “You want to know how a Chicano fights, I’ll be happy to show you.”

  “Any time,” Wilcox spat back.

  Sam and Eddie ran between their respective partners and attempted to pull them in separate directions. They might as well have tried to move granite.

  “Luis, let’s go,” Eddie said.

  Luis shifted his eyes to Eddie and relaxed. “Yeah, we got reports to fill out. You might try it sometime, Wilcox. Oh yeah, I guess you gotta learn to read first.”

  “I’ll try not to fall into anything,” Wilcox gloated.

  The big man lumbered away with Sam behind him, like a well-heeled lapdog. Vasquez opened the trunk of their police car and took out the trash bags. He fumed as he brought them to the passenger side and began to line the seat with them.

  “That gringo is going to get in my face one time too many,” he muttered, “and then I’ll show him how a real man fights—one who doesn’t pump up with steroids.”

  “My hero.” Eddie got into the car.

  “Whatever.” Luis hopped in the driver’s side and gunned the engine.

  ∞∞∞

  A figure, neatly arrayed in a suit and tie, stood in the grove of trees watching the vehicle depart. His long, white beard gave him the appearance of a skinny, springtime Santa Claus.

  He returned his gaze to the crime scene as his mouth tightened into a hard line.

  There was a sound, and he turned so quickly, it was as if he’d jumped into a new position, the slim cane in his hand raised.

  “Marlowe?” a voice asked.

  The nattily dressed man lowered his stick.

  “Trefoil, is that you?” He exhaled in relief.

  “You heard?”

  “Quiptail witnessed the entire event and came to me,” Marlowe said. “I was too late to help.”

  “As was I,” Trey sighed and stepped closer. He leaned against his broom handle. The two men stood next to each other and watched the police at work.

  “I hope you don’t mind, old friend,” Marlowe grimaced, “but your disguisement—”

  “Good, ain’t it?” Trey boasted.

  “Yes, very effective. It is just…well, the odor.”

  “Oh, of course,” Trey acknowledged and raised his broomstick to give a small wave. “Better?”

  Marlowe inhaled deeply and smiled. “Much, thank you.”

  “Gentlemen,” another voice announced behind them.

  “I know who that is,” Trefoil noted as he gazed up at the heavens.

  “He had to show up. It was inevitable,” Marlowe agreed bleakly.

  The two men turned slowly in unison to face the short, thin man behind them. He stood about five feet four, and wore a tightly buttoned tweed jacket, a bow tie, and round horn-rimmed spectacles on his face.

  “Good morning, Bankrock,” Marlowe forced a smile.

  “Gentlemen.” Bankrock adjusted his spectacles nervously then glared at the leather-bound notebook in his hand. “There was a serious and—may I add—unauthorized use of high levels of mystical energy in this area within the last twelve hours—”

  “We are well aware of that, Bankrock,” Marlowe stated.

  “Well, I for one want to make sure all protocols were followed.” Bankrock checked his pad. “Were there any witnesses to this event, and what was the cause of such an enormous shift in—”

  Trefoil gestured to the crime scene. “Riftstone’s dead.”

  Bankrock stopped speaking and looked from one man to the other. He swallowed hard. “What?”

  “Murdered,” Marlowe intoned.

  “Murdered?” Bankrock repeated and grew pale.

  “Torn limb from limb,” Trefoil explained.

  They stood silent.

  “Who could have done this?” Bankrock gulped. “He was a prophet!”

  “You detected mystical energy. Don’t you know?” Marlowe asked.

  “My own oracular abilities are limited,” Bankrock demurred. “I’m no seer.”

  “You just a damn bureaucrat,” Trefoil muttered.

  “I can tell you that a level nine magickal disturbance occurred,” Bankrock offered, a bit testy.

  Marlowe turned back, his eyes wide. “Level nine?”

  “Damn,” Trefoil added.

  “As you well know,” Bankrock continued, smugly, “anything above a level three must be investigated.”

  “A level nine,” Marlowe murmured. “Such power.”

  “You can see why I was concerned,” Bankrock said.

  “It is times like these I miss Greywacke,” Marlowe mused.

  “As many of us do,” Bankrock commiserated. “What is the current situation?”

  “The police are here,” Trefoil said. “Found his body. Well, the parts.”

  “This is terrible!” Bankrock adjusted his collar, as if to get more air. “Who could attack Riftstone? He was one of the Five—a seer. You couldn’t just sneak up on him.”

  Trefoil stared. “My guess is the Great Evil.”

  “What?” Bankrock quavered and checked his notebook. “Him? Are you mad?”

  “Bankrock has a point.” Marlowe’s face was lined with concern. He turned to his taller companion. “What makes you think so? He has never manifested near New York. Besides, would he dare attack one of the Five?”

  “Maybe he’s changed his style,” Trefoil implied.

  They stood in silence for a moment.

  “He could never manifest at a level nine,” Marlowe declared, his eyes still on the police.

  “Only a power level of three or four.” Bankrock checked in his notebook. “At most.”

  “You know the ancient prophecy,” Trey said, his eyes still focused on the police in the distance. “One day, he is supposed to bring about the end of the world. It’s his destiny.”

  “And yet, he has been stopped again and again by the Five,” Marlowe said. “He has grown weaker with each defeat.”

  “Well, I still think it’s him,” Trefoil pointed out. “‘Cause the first one he would go for is Riftstone.”

  “Aye,” Marlowe replied with a nod. “Riftstone dispatched him numerous times.”

  “Riftstone made it his business to track the Great Evil down anywhere he showed up,” Trefoil commented.

  “If you are correct, this is terrible,” Bankrock interjected. “We can’t have the Great Evil showing up here, unannounced—”

  “Like we got a choice,” Trefoil sneered.

  “Maintaining secrecy will be impossible.” Sweat broke out on Bankrock’s forehead. “Haven’t you two both fought him before?”

  “We have defeated him,” Marlowe insisted. “Each of the Five possess the power to cast him out.”

  “Sometimes, it’s taken two or three of us to do it,” Trefoil proposed. “Right now, there’s Marlowe and me.”

  “Good!” Bankrock pleaded. “The
n you must bind him, cast him out at once.”

  “It is more complicated than that,” Marlowe reckoned. “Riftstone’s staff has touched my consciousness.”

  “Of course it has,” Bankrock whined. “You must decide who will receive it and its power. I have a list of appropriate apprentices that might be suitable—”

  “I cannot,” Marlowe said.

  “Of course you can…” Bankrock began and checked his list a second time.

  “You lead the coven,” Trefoil assured. “It’s up to you.”

  Marlowe, his face as still as a statue, said, “One has been summoned.”

  “Summoned?” Bankrock repeated, his mouth agape.

  “Summoned?” Trey grunted. “That still happens?”

  “Desperate times have their own energy,” Marlowe expounded.

  “Yeah, your mama,” Trey said. “Does this guy know?”

  Marlow sighed. “It falls to me to inform him.”

  “This is terrible!” Bankrock croaked, agitated. “We have an unsanctioned summoning! I shall have to consult several grimoire on the proper way to handle this!”

  “Calm yourself, Bankrock,” Marlowe boomed, his patience wearing thin. “None of us asked for this. We must accept the circumstances we have been given.”

  “But you are the coven master. You are linked to Riftstone’s staff until a bearer is initiated,” Bankrock fretted.

  “You sayin’ we should fight the Great Evil with a Newling?” Trefoil bounced the bottom of his broom handle against the ground. “You are losing it, m’man,”

  Marlowe shook his head and began to walk. Trefoil followed close at hand, as did Bankrock, who had begun to scribble in his pad.

  “The Staff of Fire made the selection; we must abide by it,” Marlowe consoled. “I believe the pair of us can defeat the beast. We will merely bring the Newling to assure our success.”

  “Provided he ain’t in the way,” Trefoil cautioned.

  “In the meantime, we have much to do.” Marlowe snapped the fingers of his free hand. “Bankrock!”

  “Yes, Marlowe!” Bankrock stepped forward.

  “All must be told of Riftstone’s death and Trefoil’s belief that Abraxas has returned,” Marlowe advised.

  “I’ll get on my mirror right away,” Bankrock acquiesced.

  Marlowe raised his cane to stop Bankrock in his path and gazed intently into his eyes. “Nay, do it face to face, so none of the Dark Forces can intervene.”

  “But that would require so much traveling,” Bankrock groused.

  “It must be done in person,” Marlowe intoned. “And warn all that none should go forth alone at night if they are near New York. Once the sun sets—”

  “There has been an increase in Vampire activity of late.” Bankrock took another glance to his notes.

  “This takes precedence. One of our own has been slain.”

  “I’ll stay at your townhouse tonight, if thass all right,” Trefoil said.

  “Of course, my friend,” Marlowe replied.

  Trefoil nodded. “We need to find the other two. Last I heard, Ahbay was in China.”

  “I believe Eugenia is in England,” Bankrock interjected.

  “As we travel, leave word that they are to contact me—and not by the standard techniques,” Marlowe warned. “If you are right, Bankrock—”

  “And I usually am—”

  “A level nine disturbance could disrupt some of our abilities. My only explanation for Riftstone’s death is that he was caught unawares.”

  “Unawares? A prophet?” Bankrock worried. “How is that possible?”

  “There are ways to cloud second sight,” Marlowe stated. “All of us must be on our guard.”

  Trefoil nodded gravely. “Damn straight.”

  With that, Marlowe and Trefoil each stepped into a separate grove of trees and disappeared.

  “What about the paperwork?” Bankrock demanded to the empty air.

  Four

  Eddie rubbed the towel over his naked body as he stepped out of the shower stall and strode barefoot to his locker. There, he dressed in fresh underwear and socks and put on a new shirt, pulling it loose from its wrapper. He put his dirty suit in the plastic bag and slipped it into a small duffel.

  He put on a different tie and returned to the sink to examine himself in the mirror. He was coming up on the big four-oh, forty years old, but he still carried himself well. He made sure to jog around the Central Park Reservoir and lift weights regularly.

  He scrutinized his reflection and opened an eyelid with his fingers to examine the orb.

  Not too bloodshot.

  In the mirror, Eddie saw the glint of metal in the corner of the room behind him.

  He turned and approached his open locker. There was an object in it…with a gleaming ball of silver on top.

  “It can’t be.” Eddie reached in to extract the ebony wood cane. “How the hell…” The wood felt alive in his hand, as if it pulsed.

  Eddie thought about it for a minute and felt his temper rise. This was some wise guy’s idea to make the lieutenant squirm.

  He held onto the cane and threw his duffel and toiletries into the locker, then slammed the thin metal door. He went up the stairs two at a time, until he reached the second floor, the level of the “double-deuce” detectives’ bull pen.

  He walked into the large, open room where several detectives had individual workspaces. There were no walls between desks, so there was little privacy. At the far end of the room were several walled offices—one a conference room, the other two for interrogation. They were lined with one-way, mirrored glass and the latest in audio and video equipment.

  He strode up to Vasquez’s desk where Luis leaned with his chair balanced on the back legs.

  Eddie rammed the cane against the back of the chair, and the big man tumbled to the ground with a thump.

  Looking up from the floor, Luis was shocked. “What the hell?” was all he could manage.

  “I bet you think this is funny.” Eddie brandished the cane. “You say you’re leaving this at the scene, then you bring it back with you and stick it in my locker! Very funny!”

  “Wha…?” Luis pulled himself off the floor.

  “It’s a good thing you are a damn good detective and the best partner I ever had, because if not, I’d get you transferred to a beat on the Lower East Side until you were so old you’d need a walker.”

  Luis’ clouded face brightened. “You think I’m a damn good detective?”

  “Your idea of a practical joke stinks! I’ve had a bad enough day—”

  “I’m the best partner you’ve ever had?” Luis smiled from ear to ear.

  “Yes, yes.” Eddie held the cane right in Luis’ face. “This was not funny!”

  “Isn’t that…” Luis puzzled, finally aware of the walking stick.

  “The cane from the crime scene!” Eddie raged. “The one you brought here.”

  “I brought?”

  “Come on, just admit it. Ha, ha, you’re a comic genius.”

  Luis opened his hands in innocence. “I din’t do it, Eddie.”

  Eddie stopped, stunned at Luis’s reaction. The man couldn’t keep a secret. Eddie knew of his upcoming surprise party Cerise had planned for months because of Luis.

  “Look, the gag’s over,” Eddie said, calmer now.

  “I stuck the cane back into the shopping cart, like I tol’ you,” Luis insisted.

  The two men stared at each other.

  “Well, if you didn’t,” Eddie wondered, “and I didn’t…”

  Luis snapped his fingers. “Wilcox! That son-of-a-bitch—”

  “Wilcox couldn’t walk into this precinct without being noticed.” Eddie inspected the wooden rod in his hand. “Today is getting weirder and weirder.”

  “You’re tellin’ me.” Luis stared at the stick as well.

  “I’m taking this to evidence.” Eddie exhaled deeply and twirled the stick between his fingers. “I want to make sure it’s lock
ed up tight.”

  Luis nodded. “Eddie, you got to make sure we don’t lose this case to Manhattan North. We can handle it.”

  “It’s the captain’s decision.” Eddie was unable to take his eyes off the round top of the cane. Why did it intrigue him so?

  “Come on! This is our first real case since we got here,” Luis whined. “When the Metropolitan Museum of Art was robbed last month, we didn’t get anywhere near it.”

  Eddie forced himself to meet his partner’s stare. “Luis, We have no experience with robbery division, and we don’t know anything about South American Pre-Columbian artifacts.”

  “That’s not the point!” Luis sat heavily on the edge of his desk. “It happened in the park. We’re detectives, and we weren’t part of the investigation. The FBI got in on that one as well with their FUCT task force.”

  “It’s UCTF: Urban Crime Task Force. The way you say it would be Force of Urban Crime Task.”

  “Yeah, well, every time they show up, we’re FUCT.”

  Eddie shook his head. “You have a point, and they haven’t a clue who did it, anyway.”

  “This case is right up our alley,” Luis said. “Talk to the captain? Convince him?”

  Eddie sighed. “Do we have any leads?”

  Luis shrugged his massive shoulders. “The uniforms are casing the neighborhood. We should have something to start with by tomorrow.”

  Eddie sighed again. “All right, I’ll ask.”

  “And you can share the case with the best partner you ever had.” Luis smirked.

  “I take that back. It was said in a moment of weakness.” Eddie headed for the stairs to go up to the top floor and the evidence room.

  The third floor was the same size as the floor below, except there was a crisscross of metal fencing that created a small lobby, with only a locked gate to get in or out. Behind the fence was a collection of files, tagged items, and small locked rooms that resembled a huge garage sale. Framed by a three-by-five, window-like opening, an aged officer sat on a tall metal stool.

  “Hey, Hank,” Eddie said.

  “Hey, Lew,” Hank responded, using verbal shorthand for lieutenant. “What d’ya need?”

  Eddie handed Hank the walking stick. Hank whistled in approval.

  “That’s a beaut. Where did you get it?”

  “From a very dead homeless guy.”