“Could be,” Libby said.
“Well, call me when you get back – or not, if you want to go back to being a good girl.”
“I’ll have to give that some thought.”
“You do that.”
“Goodnight, Ashley.”
“Goodbye, Libby.”
Fifteen
EVER PUNCTUAL, QUINCEY Morris arrived at Strangefellows Bar and Grille at midnight precisely. He’d been mildly amused at Barry Love’s choice of meeting time. Of course, there was the widespread notion of midnight as the “witching hour,” when magic practitioners supposedly held their revels, although Barry Love probably knew better. Morris’s experience was that, when it came time to party down, most witches (of the “black” variety or otherwise) were more interested in the phase of the moon than a particular hour, as long as darkness had fallen – dancing naked in broad daylight can get you into trouble.
According to legend, witches and wizards had chosen midnight to gather because it was the hour when the dark powers (whatever they were supposed to be) were at their strongest – that myth went back to Shakespeare, if not earlier. Trouble was, the existence of time zones meant that it was always midnight somewhere. Morris had sometimes wondered if the dark powers kept moving west every hour, in order to keep their evil at maximum potency.
There was also the notion popular in some circles that 3:00 a.m. was the “devil’s hour,” being the exact opposite side of the clock from 3:00 p.m., the supposed time of Christ’s death. The problem with declaring three in the morning as the moment when demons came out to play (apart from the time zone issue again) was that nobody on Golgotha that fateful day was wearing a watch. The hour had been arbitrarily selected by the Catholic Church centuries later, as had the date of Christmas. Curious about the “devil’s hour,” Morris had dome some research, only to find that the designation had been invented out of whole cloth by a Hollywood scriptwriter, for some dumb movie about an exorcism gone wrong. Thus do legends begin, sometimes.
In Morris’s not inconsiderable experience, every hour was potentially the devil’s hour. Anyone who felt protected from the powers of Hell at some particular time of day was deluding himself.
In contrast to the dark cavern that Morris had been expecting, Strangefellows was well-lit and noisy, with most of the booths and tables occupied. Going by the haze of smoke that hovered over the big room, this was one of the many bars in the city ignoring the no-smoking ordinance. Morris scanned the room; the place seemed to be some kind of supernatural watering hole – neutral ground where different creatures could drink without fear of being eaten, sometimes literally – not unlike the establishment of the same name in the dark side of London.
He could discern the auras of four different witches scattered around the room – three white, and one black. A couple of guys sitting at the bar looked like ghouls, and Morris could not help but wonder what their preferred bar snack might be. Several diminutive figures sat around a circular table at the far side of the room, but Morris couldn’t tell if they were dwarves or trolls. You have to get close to tell the difference, and Morris had no interest in doing so.
Then he saw Barry Love, sitting in a corner booth and talking to a man in a black leather jacket. Not wanting to interrupt, Morris was about to look for a seat at the bar (away from the ghouls, whose bad breath is infamous) when Love looked up and waved him over.
As he drew closer, Morris saw that Love’s friend had droopy eyes that made him look like a basset hound. He had heavy eyebrows and thick brown hair to match, a fair amount of which was also sprouting from his ears. Morris stood near the edge of the booth, unsure what side Barry Love wanted him to sit on. Love looked at his drinking companion and said, “Larry, this is Quincey Morris, the guy I was telling you about.” He looked up at Morris. “Quincey, meet Larry Talbot.”
Talbot eased out of the booth and stood up to shake Morris’s hand. He was bigger than he’d looked sitting down, and Morris noticed that the palm of Talbot’s big hand was covered with a tuft of coarse hair.
“Pleased to meet you, Mister Morris,” Talbot said. “Barry’s told me a lot about you, although I’m pretty sure I heard your name a few times before tonight.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear,” Morris told him. “Just the good stuff. And call me Quincey, okay?”
“Sure, Quincey, thanks.” Talbot turned to Love. “I gotta get going – I’ll catch up with you later in the week, okay?”
Love said, “Sure – take care.” Talbot gave Morris a friendly nod, and lumbered off.
At a gesture from Barry Love, Morris sat in the place opposite him that the big man had vacated. Morris looked at Talbot’s departing back and said to Love, “Werewolf, isn’t he?”
Love gave him a crooked smile. “Guess you noticed the hairy palm. My Aunt Rita would have said that means he jerks off a lot – but then she also used to tell me that a girl could get pregnant from French kissing. Yeah, you’re right – he’s a lycanthrope.”
A waitress came to the table, and Morris ordered bourbon and water, which appeared before him with commendable dispatch.
“I had a bad experience with a werewolf near Boston, not long ago,” Morris said. “I’m pretty sure he’d been hired to kill me – and Libby.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that some lycos’ve been hiring out as hit men – or hit wolves, I guess. But that’s not their normal behavior – don’t judge the whole pack by the actions of a few rogues.”
“I wasn’t planning to,” Morris said. “So, did your furry friend have any info about my little problem?”
“No, he didn’t know anything about either afreets or the Seal of Solomon. But I guy I talked to earlier tonight did have one interesting fact – or he said it was a fact, anyway – about afreets.”
“I’m all ears.”
“He said he had it on good authority that they like lion hearts.”
Morris closed his eyes for a second. “Wait – you mean they were brave, like Richard the Lionheart? That’s not real helpful, podner.”
“No, pay attention,” Love said. “I didn’t tell you they’re like lionhearts. What I said was they like lion hearts. As food, man.”
“Afreets eat the hearts of lions? Shit, no wonder lions are almost extinct.”
“What my guy told me was that they don’t need food, since they’re spiritual beings, so my guess is they leave the lions alone, most of the time. But if they’re going to eat, seems like lion hearts are their snack of choice.”
“Not exactly something you can pick up at your local Stop & Shop, is it?” Morris said. “So afreets don’t have to eat lion hearts – they just like to. Weird.”
Love shrugged. “Humans don’t need chocolate – despite what a lady of my acquaintance tells me. But lots of us eat it, anyway.”
“Sure, but supernaturals are different from us. They’re more... primal.”
“I know what you mean,” Love said, “and I tend to agree. But there are exceptions. I once ran into a vampire called Jerry –”
“That sounds like the start of a limerick,” Morris said. “There once was a vampire named Jerry, whose meals were frequently scary.” That drew a laugh from Barry Love.
“Jerry...” Morris said, shaking his head. “What is the supernatural world coming to?”
“They aren’t all named ‘Vlad’ or ‘Anton,’ Quincey. You know that, same as I do. Anyway my point was, Jerry was a vamp, with the typical vamp liquid dietary needs. But he also liked apples, as a snack. Go figure.”
“You learn something new every day,” Morris said. “You said this Jerry liked apples. Past tense?”
“Yeah, I heard he went out to California, and got himself killed by some high school kid. Jerry always was a –” Love stopped speaking and looked at the entrance. “Somebody just came in who might be worth talking to,” he said. He waited a couple of seconds, then waved his arm in the direction of the door. “Here he comes. Scoot over, will you?”
Morris mo
ved over far enough to leave room for somebody to sit next to him. The man who approached the table stood about 5’5”, with a head that looked too large for his body and thin black hair that was plastered over his skull with too much dressing. He looked out at the world with brown eyes so hooded as to be only half-visible.
“Hi, Kaspar,” Barry Love said. “How’re you doing tonight?”
“I find that I am very well, thank you.” His voice was soft and velvety, like a cat’s purr. The shaded eyes glanced toward Morris, and the little man continued, “I do not believe, however, that I have the acquaintance of your friend here.”
“Kaspar, meet Quincey,” Love said. “Quincey, this is my old buddy Kaspar. With a ‘K.’” No last names this time, Morris noticed.
Kaspar turned toward him and sketched a slight bow. “A great pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir.” Wondering where the little man had picked up his archaic speech, Morris extended a hand. “Likewise, I’m sure.”
Kaspar’s arms remained at his sides. “I assure you that I mean you no offense, Mister... Quincey, but I never shake hands. The very idea is abhorrent to me.”
Morris withdrew his hand and settled for a friendly nod. “No problem,” he said. He’d met a few germaphobes before – assuming that was Kaspar’s quirk, and not something weirder. It was probably just as well – shake with a guy like Kaspar, and your first instinct would be to wipe your hand on your pants leg.
“Why don’t you join us for a few minutes?” Love said. After a moment’s hesitation, Kaspar replied, “It would be my pleasure.” He slid in next to Morris, who unconsciously moved as far to the right as he could, until his leg was touching the wall.
“What’re you drinking?” Love asked.
“I believe I will have an absinthe.”
Well, that figured. Absinthe has only been legal for sale in the U.S. since 2007, although the supposed hallucinogenic properties that once had it banned worldwide were largely mythical. The real reason it had been outlawed here was that the drink had been a favorite product of amateur distillers in the South, who often left in impurities that could kill you. Nowadays, consuming absinthe properly is a fussy, pretentious process; it fitted a guy like Kaspar like a custom-made suit.
Once the drink order was placed, Barry Love said to Kaspar, “I wanted a few minutes of your time. I was wondering whether you knew anything about afreets.”
Kaspar frowned, which seemed to involve most of the muscles of his face. “The fire djinn, you mean?” He shook his big head slowly. “Apart from what one may read in the Thousand and One Nights, I regret to say that I know nothing.”
“So,” Morris said, “I reckon that would mean you haven’t heard of anybody smuggling one into the country.”
Kaspar looked at him. “Alas, no. Although it should be acknowledged that such smuggling would be laughably easy. If one had an afreet confined inside a vessel, a jar or lamp or some such, one could without risk hand it over to a customs inspector for perusal. Unless the official knew the proper incantation, and had the courage – or the stupidity – to use it, the vessel would appear quite empty.”
Then the absinthe arrived, and Kaspar had to go through the whole ritual – the slotted spoon, the sugar cube, the ice water – all to make the emerald-green drink palatable.
Neither Morris nor Love interrupted this procedure, but once Kaspar had finished, and taken his first sip, Love said, “How about the Seal of Solomon? Heard anything about that?”
Kaspar moved his thin shoulders in an elaborate shrug. “If one refers to legend, the Great Seal was said to be of immense power over the spirit world, having been given to the King by the Creator Himself. It supposedly gave Solomon dominion over demons and djinn alike.”
After another swallow of the green liquor, Kaspar went on, “However, if one wishes to speak in contemporary terms, much is speculated, but little known for certain. It is widely believed that the Great Seal was broken into pieces millennia ago, the fragments scattered to the four winds.”
“What about something a little more recent?” Love said.
“Today?” Kaspar gave the most elegant snort that Morris had ever heard. “As one might imagine, there have been many ‘sightings’ throughout the Middle East, most proven bogus. A true fragment was said to be held by a Chicago museum – until recently, that is. There have also been persistent rumors that the Knights Templar possess one, but –”
“Wait a second,” Morris said. “The Knights Templar?”
The big head turned toward Morris again, its facial expression looking mildly offended. “That is what I said, yes.”
“The order of warrior-priests, started in the Middle Ages.”
“Yes, the very same.” Kaspar’s voice had taken on a supercilious tone.
“The ones that were destroyed by...” Morris tried to remember.
“Philip IV of France,” Love said, looking as perturbed as Morris felt. “Early thirteen hundreds, I think.”
“Right, that’s him,” Morris said. “He owed the Knights a pile of money, right? Rather than pay off, he had them framed for heresy and burned at the stake – damn near all of them. Wiped out the whole Order.”
The little man’s smile was so smug, Morris felt the urge to wipe it off – with his fist. “Perhaps one should say ‘supposedly wiped out,’” Kaspar said.
Morris and Love looked at each other. “So, what’re you saying, dude?” Love asked skeptically. “That the Templars are still around, and they’ve got a piece of Solomon’s Seal?”
They were treated to another of Kaspar’s frowns. “You know I dislike being called ‘dude,’ Barry.” Seeing the near-homicidal expression on Love’s face, he continued hastily, “But the answer to the first part of that question is ‘almost certainly,’ and the answer to the second is ‘that remains speculation.’”
“Why ‘almost certainly’?” Morris asked him. “Either you know for sure, or you don’t.”
“As you may have noticed,” Kaspar said, “I strive to express myself precisely. Since I have never – to my knowledge – personally met a member of the Knights Templar, I cannot attest to their existence with absolute certainty.”
“Then how can –” Barry Love began.
Kaspar stopped him with an upraised palm. “Several individuals whom I trust have attested to the very contemporary existence of the gentlemen you mention. Therefore, I am reasonably certain that the Knights Templar represent a very real presence in the world.”
“So, these fellas are still around, and they just might have gotten their hands on a piece of Solomon’s Seal,” Morris said. “That right?”
“Succinctly, albeit inelegantly put, Mister... Quincey.” Kaspar favored Morris with a ponderous nod. “That is exactly the meaning I have been attempting to convey.”
“Where can we find them?” Love asked him.
“Alas, that is information that I do not possess.”
Barry Love gave Kaspar a very direct look. “You wouldn’t be holding out on me, would you, old buddy?”
“I assure you, the thought would never occur to me.”
“That’s good,” Barry Love said, “because if I thought you were... Hey, did I tell you that I ran into Van Herder last week?”
Kaspar’s face had gone completely still. “No,” he said in a flat voice. Morris would have bet that the little man was incapable of a monosyllabic response to anything.
“Yeah, he’s still got that bar over in Jersey, as a front for his... other operations,” Love went on. “We had a couple of drinks, shot the shit for a while, just like old times. He asked me if I’d seen you lately. Said there’s something he wants to discuss with you, pretty badly.”
Kaspar’s eyes did not leave Barry Love’s face. In the same emotionless tone he asked “And?”
“I told him that I thought you’d moved out west – you know, for your health. I said the last I heard, you’d set up shop in Denver, or maybe it was Santa Fe.”
Kaspar produced another
slow nod. “Thank you.”
Love waved one hand dismissively. “No problem. I’m always willing to tell a few white lies – for my friends. We’re still friends, aren’t we, Kaspar?”
“Of course we are, Barry,” replied the little man, and Morris thought he detected a thin sheen of sweat on the oversize face. “Why ever would you think otherwise?”
“Well, sometimes I wonder –”
“I assure you, I spoke the truth when I said that have no idea how to get in touch with the Knights Templar – but I can refer you to a man who very probably does know.”
“Who’s that?”
“His name is David Kabov,” Kaspar said. “At least, that is the name he goes by these days. He is retired now, but I know for a fact that he did business with the Templars in years past. More than once.”
“David Kabov.” Barry Love said the name as if he were tasting it. “Where can we find him?”
“As I said, he is retired,” Kaspar said. He pulled a cocktail napkin toward him. “Do you have a pen?”
“I do,” Morris said, glad to be contributing to the conversation once again. He took a silver pen from his pocket and put it in front of the little man. He had once put out the eye of a vampire with that pen, but figured that information was more than Kaspar would wish to have, especially in his current agitated state.
Kaspar printed slowly on the napkin for a minute or so, pushed it across the table to Love, and handed back Morris’s pen, all without speaking.
Love picked up the napkin and squinted at it. “David Kabov,” he read aloud. “Sweetwater Village, #114, 3945 West Oakland Park, Fort Lauderdale, Florida, 33311.”
He looked up. “An old folk’s home?”
Kaspar gave him half a smile. “I believe the preferred term is ‘retirement community.’”
“Yeah, sure. How old is this guy Kabov, anyway?”
“He would be in his mid-seventies now, I believe.”
Morris put his pen away and asked, “What exactly did he retire from?”
“I am quite certain he would prefer to answer that question personally,” Kaspar said. “Assuming, of course, that he will speak with you at all.”
Morris and Chastain Investigations: Play With Fire & Midnight at the Oasis Page 26
