Known Devil

by Matthew Hughes

  “What happens at the food court?”

  “I slip him an envelope with the cash in it – enough to pay for last week’s supply. He fronts me the money, a week in advance. He’s got a bag with him, from one of the stores in the mall. He puts it on the table. We shoot the shit for a couple of minutes, then he gets up and leaves. He don’t take the bag.”

  “What store is the bag from?”

  “It ain’t always the same.”

  I muttered to Karl, “Description of Larry.”

  “What’s this Larry look like?” Karl asked.

  “Black hair, dark eyes. ’Bout average height. Looks like he lifts weights some.”

  “How old you figure he is?”

  “Pretty old – at least forty.”

  Karl gave me a look, eyebrows raised. He was asking if I still wanted to end this the way that we’d discussed. I nodded.

  He turned back to Gillespe and said, “Roger, that Slide that you were carrying is gone – you can’t remember what happened to it.”

  “Can’t remember.”

  “And Larry – he’s gonna be pretty pissed when you can’t pay him for last week’s supply.”

  “Yeah, he’ll be pissed. Real pissed.”

  “He might do something bad to you, when he finds out.”

  “Something pretty bad.”

  “Your best bet is to leave town, before he finds out.”

  “Gotta get out of Dodge – quick.”

  “You’re gonna pack a couple of bags, throw them in your car, and start driving – west.”

  “Drive west. Yeah.”

  “And you’re never coming back to Scranton,” Karl told him. “It’s not safe for you here anymore.”

  “Can’t come back. It’s not safe.”

  “And you’re gonna forget everything that happened since you came out of your building this morning. You never met us. This little talk never happened.”

  “Yeah, sure. Never happened.”

  We dropped Roger Gillespe back where we had picked him up. He got out of the back seat and slammed the door without giving us a second glance. Then he walked toward the entrance to his apartment building – moving quickly, like somebody with a lot to do in a short time.

  “We’d better do some hustling ourselves,” I said to Karl as he drove us away from there. I looked at my watch. “The sun’ll be up in–”

  “Nineteen minutes,” he said calmly. “Plenty of time.”

  When we were a block away from the station house, he said, “Well, we got one Slide dealer off the street. Didn’t even have to arrest him – for real, anyway.”

  “We got more than that,” I said. “We also have six ounces of his product, obtained at no cost.”

  “Just think of the money we saved. It’s better than coupons.”

  Once Karl was on his way home, I went back up to the squad room. I needed to tell McGuire what we’d learned at the bombing scene and at Renfield’s.

  When I’d finished, McGuire sat back in his chair and said, “Doesn’t give us a lot to go on, does it?”

  “My thoughts exactly,” I said. “But I did get one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Six ounces of Slide, divided into one-ounce packets.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Do I even want to know where that came from?”

  “Not to worry, boss,” I said. “It’s not like I was carrying heroin. Slide’s legal, remember?”

  He made a face, like I’d just reminded him that he was going to die, someday. “So, why are you carrying it around at all?”

  “I want to have Louise send some to the State Police Crime Lab for analysis. If we can figure out what the shit actually is, maybe we can get a handle on where it comes from.”

  “What good you figure that’s gonna do?”

  “Maybe none – but I won’t know until I get some answers. I’m also thinking about sending some over to a couple of profs I know at the U. One’s a biologist, and the other one’s in the Chem department.”

  “How come? The crime lab’s pretty good.”

  I shrugged. “Second opinion – and quicker results, too, probably. I’m also going to leave some with Rachel. She said she’d take a look at it, see if magic might have any effect on its addictive properties.”

  “Not a bad idea,” he said. “Can’t do any harm, anyway.”

  “That’ll leave me with two ounces,” I said.

  “Got any big plans for those?”

  “Well,” I said, “Karl’s got a birthday coming up. And since he’s a supe and everything….”

  “Get the fuck out of here, Markowski. Just get out, and go home.”

  I got out, but I didn’t go home – not immediately, anyway.

  My first stop was the desk of our PA, Louise. I left one of the packets of Slide with her and told her to send it on to the State Police Crime Lab.

  “You might also add a request that they rush it,” I told her.

  She looked up at me. “You figure that’s likely to make any difference?”

  “Sure,” I said. “But then, I put out cookies and milk for Santa every Christmas Eve.”

  “Doesn’t everybody?”

  I went downstairs to see Rachel.

  Once I explained what I’d brought her, she held the plastic baggie up to the light and shook it gently.

  “So this is the famous – or should I say infamous – Slide,” she said.

  “Also known as ‘HG’, or ‘Hemogoblin-Plus.’”

  “Is that the base ingredient?” she asked. “Blood hemoglobin ?”

  “Beats the hell out of me,” I said. “All I know is that’s what the dealers call it.”

  “And a drug dealer would never lie about the contents of the shit he’s selling.”

  “Course not. Is an ounce gonna be enough for you to work with?”

  “I should think so.”

  “I’ve got a couple of spares, so let me know if you need more.” I nodded toward the baggie on her desk. “You going to be able to do anything with that?”

  “I have some tests in mind, as well as a couple of spells I want to try,” she said. “But with magic, as in life, results are not guaranteed.”

  “Yeah, I hate that about life – and about magic, too.”

  “Another neurotic heard from.”

  I gave her a hard look that I didn’t mean, and she knew it. “You saying I’m neurotic?”

  “Yes, but you’re in good company – most of the human race, I expect.”

  “Good to know I’m special,” I said.

  “You understand the difference between a neurotic and a psychotic, don’t you, Stan?”

  “Maybe.”

  “A psychotic thinks that two plus two equals five. Or maybe nine. A neurotic knows that two plus two is four – but can’t stand it.”

  “You know, I really can’t stand jokes like that,” I said with a smile.

  “Who said I was joking?”

  The sun was up by the time I left the building. Christine would already be home and at rest by now, so I decided to stop by Jerry’s Diner on the way home. I hadn’t been in there since the robbery attempt a few nights ago.

  No way was I going to drink any of Jerry’s notorious coffee at this hour, since I hoped to get in some sleep before sundown. But I found myself with a hankering for one of their ham and cheese omelets. I also wanted to see how Donna, the cashier, was doing.

  The possibility that she might not have come into work never occurred to me. Unless it was her day off, Donna would be there. She’s descended from a long line of coal miners and is tough as a three day-old bagel.

  When I walked in, she was behind the register.

  “Hey, Stan. Crushed any elves lately?”

  “Not since the other night, but the week’s not done yet. How you doing, Donna?”

  “You mean after all the excitement? Ah, I’m OK. Takes more than a couple of diffies with guns to shake me up.” Diffy is a term some people use when referring to elves.
Others consider it as bordering on an ethnic slur. Donna’s got lots of good qualities, but she’s never been what you’d call politically correct.

  “I’m glad you didn’t let it get you down,” I said.

  “Me?” She snorted. “Not hardly. But tell me – them little bastards aren’t back on the street, are they?”

  “Nope. They didn’t make bail, neither one of them. They’ll be in County until trial, which won’t be for three, maybe four months.”

  At arraignment, the judge had set bail for Thor and his buddy Car at $10,000 each. A bail bondsman could have got them released for ten percent of that, but neither elf could come up with the deposit. I guess if one of them had a thousand bucks to spare, he wouldn’t have had to stick up diners.

  “I was about to ask where’s Karl,” Donna said, “but then I realized…” She made a head gesture toward the nearest window and the sunlight streaming in through it.

  “Yeah, he’s home by now,” I said. “I had to stay a little later at work and talk to some people. Then I was heading home myself, but I realized that I’d probably sleep better with one of Jerry’s omelets in my stomach.”

  “I never can get to sleep on a full stomach, myself,” she said. “But if it works for you, enjoy.”

  So I had my omelet with ham, cheddar, and mushrooms, and liked it just fine. Then it was time to go home, so I went around back to where I’d parked my car – and found that I had somebody waiting for me.

  It was a couple of bodies, actually – two guys who were leaning against my car. That pissed me off, a little. I mean, the Lycan’s nothing special, but it’s mine, dammit, and I resented these two treating it like a fucking park bench.

  One was tall and broad in a blue suit, and the other one was average height and broad in a gray suit. The suits weren’t handmade, but they hadn’t been bought off the rack at JC Penney, either.

  “You’re Markowski, right?” gray suit said.

  That pissed me off some more. I try not to get all self-important, but I’m kind of fussy about respect. Other cops get to call me “Markowski”, and friends call me “Stan”. As far as I’m concerned, civilians can use “Detective”, “Sergeant”, or “officer” until I tell them different. I figured the chances of these two being cops were almost as good as the odds of us ever being friends.

  “You know who I am,” I said. “Congratulations. Who’re you?”

  “Just a couple of fans,” blue suit said, with a smile that was close to a nasty grin. They both pushed themselves off the car and slowly walked toward me.

  “If you want me to pose for pictures, I’m gonna have to say no.” I unbuttoned my sport coat and pushed it open, for quick access to the Beretta on my hip. “But I’ll give you guys an autograph, if you want.” These two weren’t vampires – not standing in the light of the morning sun like that. But a silver bullet will drop a human as quick as it will a vamp – and cold iron will, too.

  Blue suit’s laugh was as nasty as his smile. “Autograph – that’s pretty good. Dontcha think, Joey?”

  Gray suit, whose name appeared to be Joey, said, “You don’t need the gun, Sarge. We just want to talk a little.”

  Sarge. That’s three.

  “So, talk,” I said. “And stand there while we do it, your hands in plain sight.”

  They stopped walking forward. “No, problem, Sarge,” blue suit said.

  “OK,” I said. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Well, we hear you’ve got an interest in this new stuff that’s on the street,” Joey said.

  “What stuff is that?” I wanted to hear him say the name.

  “They call it by different names,” he said. “Some people call it HG, or so I–”

  That was when I heard the small sound from behind me. It was nothing much, probably the sound of loose gravel moving under somebody’s shoe, but it was enough to tell me that I was in serious trouble.

  I started to turn, very fast, my right hand pulling the Beretta from its holster. But I wasn’t fast enough to avoid the impact of something hard on the back of my skull, and the next thing I knew the ground rose up to smash me in the face. Then somebody’s knee, with the weight of a good-sized body behind it, came down on my spine. I would have screamed aloud if I’d been capable of any sound at all.

  I heard voices, coming as if from a long way off.

  “Get his wallet, and don’t forget the watch, too,” one of them said. “They said make it look like a robbery.”

  Rough hands went through my pockets. I was vaguely aware when they found and removed my wallet and unbuckled the watch from my wrist. Then I felt a tug as the Beretta came out of its holster.

  “Use his own gun,” a voice said. “And hurry the fuck up, before somebody comes.”

  I thought I heard the hammer go back on the Beretta, but I might have imagined it. But I didn’t imagine the sound of the shot that followed, or the two more shots that came almost immediately afterward. Shooting me three times did seem kind of excessive – overkill, even.

  Wait – I’m supposed to be dead. So why am I making dumb jokes? If this is what the afterlife’s like, it really sucks.

  I was still trying to figure it all out when the dim light in my head slowly narrowed to a pinpoint and then went out completely.

  The pain woke me up. Or maybe the pain had been there all along, patiently waiting for me to become aware of it. My head hurt, my nose throbbed, and my back felt like a company of Irish clog dancers had been using it for a practice stage.

  “I think he’s coming around,” somebody said. The voice was female, but not familiar.

  No sense making a liar out of her, so I opened my eyes – or tried to. The lids felt like they were stuck together with Super Glue. Finally I got them separated, but a second later I was closing them against the light. I tried again, opening my lids slowly to let the eyes adjust. After a few seconds, I was actually able to see my surroundings. The first thing I was able to make out was a pleasant-faced woman – mid-forties, black, very thin, wearing green hospital scrubs – standing at the foot of my bed.

  No, it wasn’t a bed. I was on one of those hospital gurneys with steel rails along the sides. Half of it had been raised, to put me in a seated, upright position. I saw that I was in one of the treatment bays in Mercy Hospital’s ER. I’d been here plenty of times – sometimes as a visitor, and other times, like now, as a reluctant guest.

  “Welcome back to the world, Stanley,” the woman in scrubs said. “Or do you prefer Stan?”

  “Stan’s fine,” I said. My voice sounded like I’d been gargling with drain cleaner. “Who’re you?”

  “I’m Nurse Jenkins,” she said. “You’re at Mercy Hospital. How are you feeling?”

  “Tell you the truth, I hurt like hell.”

  “Where’s your pain located?”

  “Back of my head’s pounding like a motherfu… uh, I mean it’s really pretty bad.”

  She gave me a gentle smile. “You can say ‘motherfucker’ if you want, Stan. I’ve heard the word before – in this job, I hear it quite frequently.”

  “Good to know.”

  “On a scale of one to ten, how bad would you say the head pain is?”

  “Hard to be objective, when you’re a tough guy like me,” I said. “But I’d give it about a six.”

  “OK,” she said, and made a note on the clipboard she was holding. “Do you have pain anywhere else?”

  I moved around a little, and winced. “My back hurts some, too. Not as bad as the head, though.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “About a four, I guess.”

  Another notation. “We’ll have that checked out. What’s the last thing you remember?”

  I thought for a few seconds. “Somebody with his knee in my back, going through my pockets. Oh, and shots. Three shots. Seems like none of them got me, though.”

  “No, you’re not exhibiting any gunshot injuries.” She looked at me for a moment. “You’re a police officer, is that right
?”

  “Uh-huh. Detective Sergeant Stanley Markowski, at your service,” I said. “Well, I could be at your service, if my head didn’t hurt so much.”

  She gave me another half-smile and wrote on the clipboard some more. “No retrograde amnesia,” she said. “That’s a good sign – probably means you’re not concussed.”

  She flipped through the papers on the clipboard and paused at one. “The head X-ray that was performed when you were brought in shows no damage to the skull. You’re a lucky man.”

  “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

  “Any dizziness?”

  “No.”

  “Ringing in the ears?”

  “No.”

  “Try not to blink for a second.” She produced a penlight and shined it in one of my eyes, then the other.

  “OK, good.” She turned the penlight off, then asked me, “What day is it?”

  “Um… Sunday . I think. At least, it was, last I remember.”

  “What’s your mother’s first name?”

  “Eleanor.”

  “Who’s President of the United States?”

  I told her, then added, “Don’t blame me, though – I didn’t vote for him.”

  She smiled at my feeble joke and said, “I’ll let Doctor Reynolds know you’re awake. He should be in to see you shortly.”

  Nurse Jenkins walked away, her tread muffled by what looked like expensive running shoes. She slid the privacy curtain open a few feet, slipped through the gap, and closed it behind her.

  I thought I was alone now. But then I remembered that Nurse Jenkins had said something like “He’s awake now.” Who had she been talking to? That was when I turned my head to the left, which hurt like hell, and saw Lieutenant McGuire sitting in the corner.

  He was sprawled in a low-slung armchair that had seen better days, holding a tattered copy of Reader’s Digest. As I watched, he tossed the magazine onto a table and stood up.

  “I just finished the ‘Increase Your Word Power’ quiz,” he said. “Only got seven out of ten.”

  “That’s better than I usually do.”

  “Do you know what a fucking ‘clowder’ is?”