Haunted Air rj-6

by F. Paul Wilson

  "Yo, Lou!" Julio called, turning toward the bar. "You play that, meng?"

  A rhetorical question. Everyone in the place-except Edward, of course-knew Lou had a jones for Meatloaf songs. If he had the money, and if the other regulars didn't strangle him along the way, he'd play them all day and all night. One night a couple of years ago he overdid it. Played "Bat Out of Hell" one too many times. Some writer from LA-a friend of Tommy's, this jolly-looking guy Jack never would have guessed had it in him-pulled out a .357 and killed the machine. Julio had picked up this classic Wurlitzer as a replacement and didn't want it shot up like its predecessor.

  Lou shrugged, grinning and showing sixty-year-old teeth stained with fifty-nine years of nicotine. "Could be."

  "What I tell you 'bout Meatloaf when the sun out, eh? What I tell you?" He strode over to the jukebox and pulled the plug.

  "Hey!" Lou cried. "I got money in there!"

  "You jus' lost it."

  The other regulars laughed as Lou hamimphed and returned to his shot and beer.

  "Thank you, Julio," Jack muttered.

  Meatloaf's opuses were hard to take on any day-twenty-minute songs with the same two or three lines repeated over and over for the last third-but on a Sunday morning... Sunday morning required something mellow along the lines of Cowboy Junkies.

  "So, Edward," Jack said after a sip of his coffee, "how did you get my name?"

  "Someone mentioned to me once that he'd enlisted your services. He said you did good work and weren't one for telling tales."

  "Did he? Mind telling me who that someone might be?"

  "Oh, I don't think he'll be wanting me to talk about him, but he had only good things to say about you. Except for your fee, that is. He wasn't too keen on that."

  "Do you happen to know what I did for him?"

  "I don't think he'll be wanting me to talk about that either." He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Especially since it wasn't exactly legal."

  "Can't believe everything you hear," Jack said.

  "Are you telling me then," Edward said, flashing a leprechaun's grin, "that you're as gossipy as the village spinster and you work for free out of the goodness of your Christian heart?"

  Jack had to smile. "No, but I like to know how my customers find me. And I like to know which ones are shooting their mouths off."

  "Oh, don't worry about this lad. He's a very careful sort. Told me in the strictest confidence. I might be the only one he's ever told."

  Jack figured he'd let the referral origin go for now and find out what this little man wanted from him.

  "Your call mentioned something about your brother."

  "Yes. My brother Eli. I'm very concerned about him."

  "In what way?"

  "I fear he's... well, I'm not quite sure how to be putting this." He seemed almost guilty. "I fear he'll be after getting himself into terrible trouble soon."

  "What kind of trouble and how soon?"

  "The next couple of days, I'm afraid."

  "And the trouble?"

  "He'll be getting violent, he will."

  "You mean, going out and beating people up?"

  Edward shrugged. "Perhaps worse. I can't say."

  "Worse? Are we talking about some sort of homicidal maniac here?"

  "I can be assuring you that he's a rather proper sort most of the time. He owns a business, right here in the city, but at certain times he... well... I think he goes off his head."

  "And you think one of those times is soon. That's why this couldn't wait till tomorrow."

  "Exactly." He wrapped his fingers around his coffee cup as if to warm them. But this wasn't January, it was August. "I'm afraid it's going to be very soon."

  "What makes you think so?"

  "The moon."

  Jack leaned back. Oh, no. He's not going to tell me his brother's a werewolf. Please say he's not.

  "Why, is it full?"

  "Quite the opposite. Tomorrow is the new moon."

  New moon... that sent a ripple through Jack's gut, tossing him back a few months to when the drawing of some very special blood from a very special vein had to be timed to the new moon.

  But this didn't sound anything like that.

  "Lunatic... the origin of the word is lima... moon."

  "Yes, I know," Edward said. "And it's not as if this happens every new moon. It's just that it's going to happen this one."

  "How do you know?"

  "Eli told me."

  "He told you he's going to go wilding or something tomorrow night and-"

  "It could be tonight. Or Tuesday night. The new moon phase lasts more than one day, don't you know."

  "Why would he tell you?"

  "He just... wanted me to know, I guess."

  Jack knew the answer to the next question but felt obliged to ask. "Just where do you think I fit in?"

  "Well, it's not something I can be going to the police with, is it now. And I'm too old to be doing it meself. So I was hoping you'd be watching over him."

  Jack had been afraid of that. Guardian angel to some lunatic. Make that new lunatic.

  "Afraid not, Ed. I'm not in the bodyguard business."

  "Wait, now. It's not like a real bodyguarding job. You wouldn't be after protecting him from someone else. You'd only be protecting him from himself. And it's only for three days, lad. Three days!"

  Jack shook his head. "That's the problem. No way I can spend three days baby-sitting some wacko."

  "It wouldn't be three whole days. Just at night, after he closes his shop."

  "Why do you need me at all? Why not just hire a professional bodyguard? I can get you a couple of numbers."

  "Oh, no," Edward said, vigorously shaking his head. "It's imperative that he not know he's being watched over."

  "Let me get this straight: you want me to bodyguard your brother without him knowing his body's being guarded?"

  "Exactly. And the beauty part is, you might not be having to do a thing. He might not go off at all. But if he does, you can be there to restrain him, and perhaps be preventing him from hurting himself or anyone else in the process."

  Jack shook his head. Too weird.

  "Please!" Edward said, his voice rising. He reached into his back pocket and wriggled out a thick legal-size envelope. His trembling hands unfolded it and pushed it across the table. "I scraped together every spare cent I have. Please, take it all and-"

  "It's not a matter of money," Jack said. "It's time. I can't spend all night watching this guy."

  "Then don't! Just watch him from the time he closes his shop till, say, midnight. We're talking about a few hours a night for three nights, lad. Surely you can do that."

  Edward's intense concern, almost anguish, for his brother wormed under Jack's skin. Three nights... not forever. The only other fix-it he had running was the Kenton brothers, and he didn't think watchdogging their place would be necessary after last night.

  "All right," Jack sighed. "For three nights, I suppose I can give you something."

  Edward reached across and grasped both Jack's hands. "Oh, bless you, lad, that's wonderful! Wonderful!"

  "I said 'something.' No guarantees."

  "I know you'll be doing your best. I know you won't let me down."

  Jack pushed the envelope back toward Edward. "Give me half of that. I'll keep an eye on him for three nights. If nothing happens-that is, if I don't have to step in and restrain him-we'll call it even. If there's any rough stuff, any at all, you owe me the other half."

  "Fair enough," Edward said as he lowered the envelope into his lap and began counting the bills. "More than fair, actually."

  "And speaking of rough stuff, it may come down to putting the hurt on him if he decides not to listen to reason."

  "Hurt? How?"

  "Disable him. Put him down hard enough so that he won't be able to get back up."

  Edward sighed. "Do what you must. I'll trust in your judgment."

  "Right," Jack said, leaning forward. "Now that
that's settled, where is he and what does he look like?"

  Edward jutted his chin at the manila envelope on the table. "You'll be finding it all in there."

  Jack opened the flap and pulled out a slip of paper plus a candid photo of a balding man who appeared to be about sixty years old. Jack stared at the upper-body shot; the man's face was partially turned away.

  "Doesn't look much like you."

  "We had different mothers."

  "So he's really your half-brother."

  Edward shrugged and kept counting bills.

  Jack said, "Don't you have a better photo?"

  "I'm afraid not. Eli doesn't like to be photographed. He'd be upset if he knew I took that one. I wish I could be telling you more about him, but we weren't raised together, so I hardly know him."

  "But he came to you and told you he was going to do something crazy?"

  "Yes. It's the weirdest thing now, isn't it?"

  "I don't know about the 'weirdest,' but it earns a spot in the 'odd' category."

  Jack glanced at the sheet of paper. "Eli Bellitto" was printed in large letters.

  "Bellitto?" Jack said. "That's not an Irish name."

  "Who said it was?"

  "Nobody, but, I mean, you've got this Irish accent and that's an Italian name."

  "And because the 'O' is on the wrong end you're after saying that Eli can't be Irish? Would you believe that where I grew up in Dublin we had a Schwartz on our block? God's truth. His accent was thicker than mine, don't you know. My American uncle came to visit and couldn't understand a word he said. And then there was-"

  Jack held up his hands surrender style. "Point made, point taken." He tapped his finger on the downtown address below the name. "What's this 'Shurio Coppe' mean?"

  "That's the name of his shop. He sells-"

  "Don't tell me. Curios, right?"

  Edward nodded. "Antiques, odd stuff, rare books, and all sorts of grotesque thingies."

  "Where's his home?"

  "Right over the store."

  Well now, Jack thought. Isn't that convenient. It meant he wouldn't have to trail this bozo all the way out to someplace like Massapequa for the next three nights.

  "When's close-up time?"

  "The store? Usually at nine, but he'll close early tonight because it's Sunday. You'll be wanting to get there before six."

  He handed Jack the thinned envelope and stuffed the remaining bills into his pants pocket. Then he leaned back, closed his eyes, and placed a hand over his heart.

  "You all right?" Jack said, thinking he might be having a heart attack.

  Edward opened his eyes and smiled. "I am now. I've been worried sick about this since he told me. I felt I had to be doing something, and now I have. I'd never be forgiving meself if he hurt some poor innocent..." He stopped, glanced at his watch, then slapped his hands on the table. "Well, I've taken up enough of your time, Mister Repairman. I'll be letting you get on with your day."

  Jack waved and watched him thread his way through the tables and disappear out the door. He thumbed through the bills in the envelope and stared at the photo of Eli Bellitto. Two days, two fix-it jobs. Not bad. Although this Bellitto deal wasn't exactly a fix-it. More like preventive maintenance.

  He glanced at the clock over the bar's free beer tomorrow... sign. Time to get rolling. Had to get home and fix himself up for his date with Madame Pomerol.

  4

  "Your dad gave a def sermon this morning," Charlie Kenton said.

  He stood next to Sharleen Sparks at the sink in the basement of the New Apostles Church. After the morning service he'd come down here with her and a few other volunteers to pitch in on the church's weekly Sunday dinner for the poor and homeless. The sink was old and rusted, the big gas oven battered and scarred, but both did their jobs. The linoleum floor curled up in the corners, the old tin ceiling flaked here and there, but a spirit of love and giving that Charlie sensed around him made it all feel new. He'd just peeled his way through the first half of a bushel bag of potatoes; his fingers ached but he didn't mind at all. It was for a good cause.

  "Yes, praise God," she said. "He was in rare form today."

  Charlie glanced up from the potato he was peeling to steal a peek at her, wondering what to say next. Had to say something. He'd been waiting for a chance to talk to her alone, now he had it and his mind was flatlined. Maybe it was her beauty, inside and out, or the fact that she didn't seem to know she was beautiful.

  She had corn-rowed hair, huge brown eyes, and a smile that made his knees go gumby. She was wearing a white T-shirt under her loose denim overalls, the bib front doing a poor job of hiding her full breasts. He tried not to look at them.

  He'd never been this tongue-tied before his conversion. Back in those days he'd been some kinda playa, ragged out in chains and silk, always stocking a little powder and some boo-yaa weed. The women he called bitches and bizzos back then painted on their clothes and faces, wore wigs and big jingly zirconium earrings. Not one thing real about them, but they was easy. He'd sidle up to one, offer a taste of this or that to get her loose, mack her up and down with a few sweet lines, and soon they'd be heading to his place or hers.

  He shook his head. A life of sin. But he had the rest of his life to make up for it.

  "Sharleen," said a deep voice, "do you mind if Charles and I have a few private words?"

  Charlie Kenton looked up to see Reverend Josiah Sparks, a big man whose black face was made all the blacker by the mane of white hair and beard that wreathed it. He'd just arrived after trading the clerical suit and collar he'd worn at the service for a work shirt and bib-front overalls like his daughter's.

  Sharleen gave Charlie a concerned look. "Oh, um, sure Daddy."

  After she'd moved away to one of the stoves, the rev peered at him through the thick lenses of his rimless glasses. "Have you given more thought to the matter we've been discussing?"

  "Yes, Rev. Every day."

  The Reverend Sparks took up a knife and began quartering the peeled potatoes, then throwing the pieces into a pot. Eventually they'd be boiled and mashed.

  "And what have you decided?"

  Charlie hesitated. "Nothing definite yet."

  "It's your soul that's at stake, son. Your immortal soul. How can there be even an instant of indecision?"

  "There wouldn't be... if Lyle weren't my brother, know'm sayin'?"

  "It matters not that he's your brother. He's leading you into sin, making you an accomplice in his evil. You must break off from him. Remember, 'If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out, for it is better to enter into the kingdom of God with one eye, than have two eyes and be cast into hell fire.'"

  "Word," Charlie replied.

  "Yes, it is. The Word of God, spoken through Matthew and Mark."

  Charlie glanced around. Sharleen was out of earshot and no one else was nearby at the moment. The rev was keeping his voice low. Good. Charlie didn't want the whole congregation to know his problems. Especially Sharleen.

  Sometimes he wondered if he'd made a mistake in opening up to the rev about Lyle's spiritualist act. The man now saw Charlie as a member of his flock in danger of losing his salvation, and he was determined to save him.

  "But what about Lyle's soul, Reverend? I don't want him in the everlasting fire."

  "You told me you've witnessed to him, is that correct?"

  "Yes, many times. Many, many times. But he just ain't hearin'."

  The reverend nodded. "Your words are seed falling on rocky ground. Well, you must not give up on him-never give up on a soul in need-but you must not neglect your own salvation. You must make sure your own soul is safe before you try to save your brother's. And to do that you must renounce his evil activities."

  Charlie looked away, bristling. Reverend or not, no one should talk about his brother like that.

  "Lyle's not evil."

  "He may not appear so, but he's doing the devil's work. Jesus warned us against his sort: 'Beware of the false prophets, who come t
o you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly are ravenous wolves.'"

  Charlie felt a hot stab of anger. "He's not a wolf, Rev."

  "Son, you must face the fact that he's leading souls along a path away from Jesus, he is doing Satan's work. And as long as you're with him, you are an accomplice. You must first remove yourself from his influence, then you must strive to counter his evildoing. The best way to do that is to lead him to salvation."

  Charlie stifled a laugh. Lead Lyle? Ain't nobody never led Lyle nowhere.

  "That last part won't be easy."

  "Do you want me to go speak to him? Perhaps I-"

  "No!" The knife jumped and Charlie almost cut himself. "I mean, it's better if he don't know I been jawin' 'bout him. He won't like no outsider mixin' in, know'm sayin'?"

  So far Charlie had kept Lyle's location from the rev. Didn't want anyone in the church connecting him to Ifasen the spirit medium. That was why he'd, joined a church in Brooklyn instead of Queens. The weekly ride on the subway was long, but worth it.

  "Then it's up to you, son. I'll be praying for you."

  "Thank you, Rev. I'll need those prayers, because leaving's gonna be so hard. First off, he's blood, my only brother. I'll be breaking up all that's left of the family."

  What Charlie couldn't explain, because he was sure Reverend Sparks wouldn't understand, was that he and Lyle were a team. They'd been a team since Momma died. Lyle had scammed the Man to keep them from being split up, got them onto the government cheese to keep them from starving, and they'd been scammin' the world ever since. After Lyle had gone to such lengths to see that they stayed together, how could Charlie look him in the eye and say he was splitting?

  And something else Charlie couldn't tell the rev, something dark and guilty: he liked running the game. Loved it, in fact. He loved piecing together new gags to wow the marks. When a sitting went according to script, when all the bells and whistles were working, it was so def. Lyle would have those people in the palm of his hand, and Charlie would know he had a big part in putting them there.

  Times like that he felt stoned, better than stoned, better than he'd ever felt back in the days when he was doing coke and weed.

  But for the sake of his soul he was going to have to put all that behind him.