by Matt Sheehan
He also had a psych test on file, probably taken during the interview process to weed out the crooks and lunatics. It probably did filter out the dumb ones, but anyone with a brain could manipulate the results. I could make myself look like a bleeding-heart pacifist or an ax-wielding sociopath depending on what my audience was looking for. Sociopaths make great snipers, but poor social workers. So John’s results showed he was loyal, honest and dependable. Not exactly what one would expect from a thief and possible blackmailer. However, if he was a master crook, the test would be meaningless.
What I didn’t understand was why he’d traveled across the country to our fine city. There was no reference to any friends or family anywhere in the state, or of any clients or professional contacts. Alek’s “internal security” had been able to find his name on a passenger manifest for a cross-country flight on Apollo Airlines, nonstop from Megapolis to Wudong. There was no proof that he had actually stayed here. For all anyone knew, he could have gone native down in the jungle kingdoms of Tamoanchan. I wasn’t quite willing to scour both continents looking for him, even for the daily rate we were getting.
The good news was that, in this part of the world at least, he would stand out. His Eastern complexion and height would see to that. In the group photo he was obviously taller than everyone around him. My guess was that unless they were all pigmies, he was at least 6’4” and a fit 190. He was wearing a tweed flat cap, a bold collared shirt and denim pants. In the more formal pic he looked more like a professional of some sort.
The last and possibly most useful item was the metal lighter. If John was a smoker, or if it was a gift, Shamus might be able to get a good reading off it. Items that have more meaning to their owner or that are used frequently give Shamus more information than something that was owned but rarely used. Of course that matters not if Shamus isn’t in the right frame of mind. What’s required for the right state of mind is copious amounts of beer and deep-fried foods. All the better when it ends up on the expense report.
Chapter Five
After a nap and coffee, Shamus was ready to face the second half of his day. It’s never a good idea to approach him about work on an empty stomach, or empty liver for that matter, so I brought him to O’Kelly’s for his usual fish and chips washed down with a few pints of ale. Shamus makes his own ale, a potent and bitter brew that he samples throughout the day for quality-control reasons only. No beer anywhere else we go is good enough, but the stout at O’Kelly’s is only “a little bland” by his standards. As close to a compliment as any brewer is likely to get. I just like a good steak, well-seasoned and bloody, and the brizoles there are excellent.
I got through half my steak before Shamus started pestering me about my choice of meal.
“Do you know how much blood comes out of a cow when they slaughter it?”
I knew his answer was gallons, because we’ve had this one-sided conversation before. He either doesn’t remember, or he thinks that bombarding me over and over with the same arguments will eventually sway my opinion.
“Gallons. And it spurts everywhere. If you ever felt hot bull’s blood on your hands, you wouldn’t ever want to eat it again.”
“Lucky for me I haven’t.”
He has, from his childhood Druidic training. I took another bite for effect, and Shamus shook his head and went back to his more civilized meal. Animal sacrifice is one of the Druids’ last holdouts from the more barbaric times. When Shamus was forced to sacrifice his “pet” bull Sir Loin, the old men in robes lost him forever. At least they don’t sacrifice virgins to the gods anymore. What an absolute waste that was. The animals aren’t really sacrifices to the gods anymore either, more tradition and symbolism. Anyway, it messed up Shamus in the head and now he won’t eat any hoofed beast.
It was almost eight years ago that I dragged him away from the Emerald Island of Eire to take part in the grand experiment of democracy here in the States. I had come back to Limerick on a sabbatical from the military. Some would call it AWOL. I found I didn’t take so well to taking orders. When it turned out that neither of us was happy in our fledgling careers, which we never chose for ourselves I might add, I suggested making a new start. I didn’t really expect him to say yes.
Shamus and I were essentially wards of the state as children, but for completely different reasons. All the children in Eireland are tested at a very young age to see if they have the right stuff, and Shamus had the misfortune of scoring off the charts. He was immediately taken from his parents in Cork and skirted away to the training center in Limerick. I’m sure his abductors thanked his parents and told them how important it was for the homeland that he be raised away from them. I did get to meet them a few times, and they were obviously proud but seemed sad as well.
My parents were from somewhere in Rhineland but moved us to Eireland when I was just a wee lad. I don’t really remember them, but I remember being told that they died in an accident. Since I had no known next of kin, I too was taken in by the state. But since I wasn’t a prodigy, I had the misfortune of growing up in Paddy’s Home for Wayward Boys. It wasn’t really a bad place; it just wasn’t a home.
When I was eight, a group of Druid children were brought in to dazzle us with minor weather tricks. Now, they were all pale, skinny kids in robes, but I still remember thinking Shamus specifically needed a shepherd’s pie and some time in the sun. He seemed so uncomfortable that I took it upon myself to rescue him. We snuck out the back—I was already well-versed in escape by that age—and we spent the day playing silly pranks on random town folk. Once I got him alone, I found him sarcastic and a little mean-spirited. We got along just fine.
All Eirish lads at eighteen, excluding Druids and Bards, get the fantastic opportunity to serve their country as members of the armed forces. I wasn’t exactly Eirish, but they didn’t seem to care at the enrollment office. So there we were, as I said, in careers not chosen for us, and at a crossroads. I asked him about crossing the drink and starting a new life, and Shamus liked the idea. Not only that, he was ready to leave immediately.
He was judging his first case that would have determined if the man on trial was to live or die. He’s fine fiddling around with weather, but life or death is more pressure than he signed on for. Not that he ever signed on for any of it. When he saw me in court, he called for an end to the day’s deliberation, and by morning we were at open sea on a ship bound for Hespera. What a long, miserable trip that was. Unfortunately, there wasn’t the option of transatlantic flight back then.
I waited until the main course was cleared and he was on to his coffee before starting in on him. Shamus is the temperamental sort when it comes to work. Mostly he doesn’t want to, so I always have to pester with the utmost care. I like to think of it as the work dance, and I am expected to lead.
“So, how’s the spiritual radar working this evening?” I gave him my most caring and thoughtful voice.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. You bought me dinner and now you want me to put out.”
As usual my thoughtful voice went unappreciated. “You make it sound so cheap and tawdry.” I took the pictures out of my jacket pocket and passed one across the table.
Shamus made a point of sighing deeply before taking a quick look at the head-and-shoulders shot of John.
“He’s not a criminal.”
That was it. One line and no explanation. He knew the next question was coming, but he waited for me to ask it. He pushed the picture aside and began watching the hurling match on the corner screen. The dance continued.
“And you know this because...”
“The honest eyes, of course.” Sarcasm, how droll. I just stared at him.
“You won’t understand the real answer anyway.” I continued to stare. After an uncomfortable few moments he broke.
“Okay, fine. When I first saw his photo it made me think of the beach.” He was actually
being sincere with that one. The only reason I press him is to make sure he isn’t just making things up. I’ve learned that one the hard way.
“One more.” I passed him the group photo.
He gave it a cursory glance. “Who’s the girl?”
Now the photo shows our guy walking down the sidewalk with two men and three women close by. He actually seems to be walking with another man, and the others may or may not be in a group with them. I took a moment to look at the picture again, and when I looked up, Shamus was halfway to the bar. I watched him get to the counter and order a drink. Once it arrived, he sat down on one of the stools and proceeded to drink it there. I closed my eyes and counted to ten before getting up and walking over.
By the time I got there, his pint was half empty.
“Shamus, work with me here.” I stuck the photo in his face. “Which girl?”
He put his hands up and shrugged his shoulders as if to say “isn’t it obvious” before answering. “The blonde with the nice legs. He’s in love with her. He would follow her to the ends of the Earth.” He drained his pint. “Are you ready to go or what?”
I really hate him sometimes. If I could do what he can I would rule the world. He spends his time teaching his dog to open beer bottles. I followed him out the door and into the brisk summer night. So according to Shamus, our prey is not a criminal and is in love with a knockout blonde. Why are we really looking for him? We discussed it some on the way home but didn’t make any real progress.
The business aspect of our evening ended when we got within visual range of the office. Willie the Wonder Dog was out waiting to greet Shamus and glare at me.
“Willie my boy. How’s my big boy doing?” Most of that was in a voice that people talk to babies with. I just averted my eyes and pretended I didn’t know them. However, it sent Willie into a tail-wagging frenzy. “Who wants a nice steak?” Still in baby talk. Shamus always buys a whole steak for the damn dog. He gives me a hard time for eating steak, but it’s fine for Willie. I’ve been told many times that dogs are carnivores and need red meat as part of their diet, while humans can eat nuts and beans instead and do just fine.
At the dinner table he feeds him with a fork, which I find obnoxious. According to Shamus his favorite cut is a filet; however, if he’s feeling melancholy then he prefers a strip steak. Unfortunately all O’Kelly’s had at the end of the night was rib eye, but as far as I could tell Willie seemed to be fine with it.
“Helmut, I’m beat. I’m going to bed.”
Those five minutes of work must have been exhausting. “All right bud, get some rest. I’ll need your help tomorrow.” He just gave me a noncommittal half wave and headed up to his room above the office.
So we learned we were looking for a noncriminal who liked blonde girls with nice legs. Well, at least our meal went on the expense report. I realized as I saw him close the door that I’d forgotten to pull out the lighter at the restaurant. I could have tried to pull him back in then, but he would have given a half-hearted effort, and Willie might have bitten me for disturbing his snuggle time. I considered calling down to the precinct and hitting up one of our contacts for background information on our employers, but thought better of it. The night was young, the air brisk and scented with the sweet smells of honeysuckle, and my thoughts turned to the fairer sex.
Chapter Six
I decided on the drive to the office the next morning, not for the first time, that I needed to keep a change of clothes in the car. I hate smelling like women’s perfume all day; not to say it wasn’t worth it. It’s always nice to make new friends, and the friend I made that night was exceptional. I was looking forward to Shamus’s strong coffee at the office.
At this point we had very little to go on. The plan was to have Shamus take a look at the lighter, and after that do a little checking up on our quarry, as well as our employer, with our friend Officer Phoebe down at the precinct. Now, I use the term friend loosely. I wanted to be friends with Phoebe Iphito, but for some reason she had spurned my chivalrous advances.
Initially I assumed that she played for the other team, but I had been proved very wrong on that count a year or so back when she met my friend and business partner Shamus O’Sheagan. Not my finest moment, and honestly I don’t want to talk about it. To this day their relationship has remained fruitless. I would have closed that deal ASAP, but Shamus is an odd duck and apparently so is Phoebe.
I do have to admit, Phoebe is one stunning woman. She’s close to two meters tall with flaming red hair and a body to die for. Supposedly her mother was a genuine Amazon warrior. I could easily picture her in a loincloth, battling barbarians with a shield and sword. I could also picture her without the loincloth, but I digress.
My tires and I were both happy that Willie wasn’t there for his usual greeting. I was hopeful he was out playing in traffic. As I entered, I was assaulted by The Harpies blaring in the background, as well as the more welcome smells of strong coffee and frying bacon. The bacon is turkey, but even less-than-stellar bacon is better than no bacon at all. The nicest thing I can say about the music is that the lead singer sure can holler. I’m sure if I could understand the lyrics they wouldn’t make sense, but apparently this type of music is all the rage with the kids these days.
Shamus always loves to acknowledge that he knows I’m there without looking up, and it was no different this morning. He was at the stove flipping faux bacon with his back to me, but he gave me a backward wave when I entered the room.
“Grab some coffee. Try the new creamer—it’s vanilla flavored.”
He’s always putting that sugary crap in his coffee. I take mine black to match my soul. He knows it, but he enjoys pestering me.
“I see you had a sleepover last night.”
I was glad at that point that I had forgotten to give him the lighter the previous evening. He was on this morning and in the mood to show off. We needed a good reading to move the case forward. He seems to get one shot at something and rarely gets anything after that. Sucks all the cosmic juice out of it I guess.
“‘See’ implies that you actually looked at me. And honestly, I didn’t get much sleep.”
“I’m seeing you with my third eye. And you smell like perfume.” He finally turned around and gave me his gloating half smile.
“Wow, if you start doing mundane detective work and simply notice what’s in front of your face, you won’t need me anymore.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll always need someone to drive me places.”
Ahh, mornings with Shamus. “Here, take a look at this with your third eye. I’ll finish the bacon. You’ll just burn it anyway.” I tossed him the lighter.
He caught it and then quickly dropped it onto the ground. “It’s burning hot. What’s the deal?”
“What are you talking about?” I touched it carefully at first, then picked it up. Cold as the passenger-side pillow on Shamus’s bed. “Here, try again. It’s fine.”
Shamus backed away with his hands up and a panicked look on his face. “I don’t want to touch it.”
“That’s what she said. Look, it’s not hot. It won’t hurt you, you big baby.”
He kept backing up, trying to put the kitchen island between us. Sometimes he gets a very intense vision off an object. I just figured he didn’t like the vibe he was getting.
“I’m not gonna touch it.” We were facing off across the island. It was now or never.
“The bacon’s burning.” As soon as he turned his head to look, I was on him. A simple hip throw and I had him on the ground. He was struggling and his hair was already starting to stand up, so I knew I had to move fast. I held the lighter against his arm and braced for the jolt.
Chapter Seven
I remember smelling bacon and coffee and hearing loud music in the background. At first I thought it was deja vu. Then I
realized I was on the floor with a headache and woozy vision.
“You’re a jackass, Helmut. You know I can’t control the voltage.” He helped me up off the floor and sat me down at the kitchen table.
“If I didn’t do it, the window would have closed and the lighter would have been worthless.”
He put his hands up in the air and gave me his I surrender look. “Just relax and have some breakfast. You won’t have to badger me. I’ll unload after you’re done.”
He’s too nice sometimes. He felt bad for almost electrocuting me after I jumped him. I realized I was famished when he put the plate of eggs, faux bacon and fresh sourdough toast in front of me. I finished it all with two cups of coffee and afterward felt like I needed a nap, but otherwise was okay. He was just staring off into space, so I broke the silence.
“So, what did you get? Anything good?”
“A burned arm for one.” He held up his arm and there was a burn on his left biceps where I’d pressed the lighter against him.
“What the hell?” I was genuinely surprised. Nothing remotely like this had ever happened before. I was glad I didn’t go with my first instinct and stick it down his pants.
“It’s okay, chicks dig scars.” He has no idea what chicks dig, but this was not the time to needle him. He started to try and explain and stopped a few times. Usually he’s in a hurry to spill the beans so I will quit pestering him, but everything about this reading was off. He had never resisted like he did in this instance, and he had definitely never been burned before. Finally he blurted out, “Do you believe in the Devil?”
“You know for a fact that I don’t. I don’t believe in a God that has any power over our day-to-day lives. There’s certainly no Devil going around stealing souls or playing tricks or whatever he’s supposed to do. What did you see?”
